Darrel J. McLeod - Mamaskatch: A Cree Coming of Age

Darrel J. M c Leod

A Cree Coming of Age

Copyright 2018 Darrel J. McLeod

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright, .

Douglas and McIntyre (2013) Ltd.

P.O. Box 219, Madeira Park, BC, V0N 2H0

www.douglas-mcintyre.com

All photos are from the authors collection.

Edited by Barbara Pulling

Jacket design by Anna Comfort OKeeffe

Text design by Mary White

Printed and bound in Canada

Printed on paper made from 100% post-consumer waste

Douglas and McIntyre (2013) Ltd. acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country. We also gratefully acknowledge financial support from the Government of Canada and from the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

McLeod, Darrel, 1957, author

Mamaskatch : a Cree coming of age / Darrel J. McLeod.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-77162-200-4 (hardcover).--ISBN 978-1-77162-201-1 (HTML)

1. McLeod, Darrel, 1957-. 2. McLeod, Darrel, 1957- --Family. 3. Cree Indians--Biography. 4. Native men--Canada--Identity. 5. Smith (Alta.)--Biography. I. Title.

E99.C88M346 2018305.897353071231092C2018-901790-2

C2018-901791-0

This book is dedicated to all my relations,
including those in the spirit world,
and to those who have chosen to walk alongside me
for so many years, in particular Milan.

Freedom is what we do with what is done to us.Jean-Paul Sartre

I am suspended in purgatorythat no mans land between full sleep and wakefulnesswhen I hear her voice: Darrel! I need to talk to you. Come down now. Puh-leeze...

One oclock in the morning on a Monday, a school day ahead. All of the records have played through and my mother, Bertha Dora, has turned on the transistor radio in the kitchen. My nostrils twitch from the fumes of a freshly lit cigarette, and the smell of stale beer hangs in the air. Great. Provincial exams today.

I catch snippets of the radio announcement: Janis Joplin heroin overdose. A driving rhythm on the bass guitar contrasts with Janiss shrill and throaty voice as she exhorts someone she loves to rip out another piece of her heart.

Come n turn the records over, Son, Mother yells. I love this womans voice, but theyre sayin she died.

I know what will happen next if I dont go. She will pound the broom handle on the first of the twelve stairs up to our bedroom, causing another restless night for my little sisters and brother. But I wait a few minutes more, hoping she will pass out or get distracted, and I pray the kids will sleep through it. They hate listening to me when Im trying to get them ready for school: Gaylene and Holly, brush your hair. Travis, brush your teeth and put on your good clothes; you cant wear those raggedy jeans and old runners to school. Gaylene, put the Cream of Wheat on, and be sure to stir it this time. Its even worse when theyre tired too.

Then the agonizing starts. Oh my God, oh my GodI was wrong to talk Mother into bringing them out of the foster home. They were better off there, with the Milots. Three years we were apart: 1967 to 1970. But now its too latewe cant send them back, and theyve already seen so much. Gaylene and Holly cried every night of their first two weeks here, scared by the drunkenness and loud voices of partying strangers. They dont know it was because of me Mother got them back, that I hounded and nagged her to take me for a visit, to go to court so they could live with us here in Athabasca. Well, it worked, and now here we all are in this shack behind the pool hall.

Darrel! Come here. Please, Son. I need to talk to you.

Damn, she isnt giving up. Her voice, which is usually a lilting alto, squeaks when she tries to force volume. I think of Tituba from The Crucible, which we studied recently in my Grade Nine drama class. Yes this is like a playthink of it as a playa cyclical drama with the scenes taking place in our living room or kitchen, with new characters every weekend. Last week it was Eddie MullinsMother called him Dad, then launched into a long explanation after seeing the puzzled looks on our faces. The props are altered in each scene, along with the costumes. Like that buckskin jacket that I love. Fantastic plots and intrigueslike last night at eight oclock, Uncle Andy on all fours thinking he was an astronaut crawling on the moon after a successful Apollo mission. The play even has special effects: overwhelming new odours, a blue haze, the darkness of a power failure, the occasional flash of lightning and cats shrieking nearby.

Mothers cigarette smoke is getting to me. Her hoarse voice wails in unison with Janis Joplins, pleading earnestly with the Lord to buy her a Mercedes Benz. I doubt if Mother has even seen a Mercedes or a PorscheI know I havent. Somehow it doesnt matter. She loves this song and tries to outsing Janis. Mothers rasp is almost as dramatic, but she cant get the volume. Will she turn off the radio, get out the guitar and try it on her own?

I sneeze, pull off the covers, roll out of bed and pull up my loose underwear. Grab a shirt, a pair of pants and socks to protect against the cold floor. My round thirteen-year-old face in the scratched hallway mirrorthick black hair sticking out every which way and faint purple bags under my eyes. I spit into my hands, slick my hair down and rub my eyes with closed fists. Where will her stories and songs take us tonight, and how many hours will pass before I can go back to bed? I trudge downstairs, turn off the radio and flip the records.

Johnny Horton comes on first. Whispering Pines. Oh boy, thatll make her cry, but I dont dare change it. I take my place in the kitchen chair opposite her. Mother lights yet another Rothmans tailor-made cigarette and sets it down in the clear glass ashtray. The bright red spark gradually burns up the tobacco to make a long grey ash that holds together until she picks it up. Then she starts.

That priest, Father Jal, came to see us a couple of months after your dad died, you know, just after you were born. It was a Saturday evening and you kids were asleep. We were staying with your great-grandfather, Mosom Powder, in his trapping cabin near Spurfield. There was nowhere else to go. No widows pension in those days, Son. One afternoon, there was a knock on the door. I opened it, and there he stood. He was in Spurfield to celbrate mass the next day and said he wanted to see if we were okay. I was so impressed that he would come to console us, to pray for me, and for youthe new baby. I asked him to come in. He smiled and asked how we were doing, but before I could answer he stepped in closer. I thought he was going to prayput his hands on your forehead or on mine. But a strange look came over him, and he turned toward me, put his back to you. I thought he was raising his arm to make the sign of the crossto bless us and the cabin, but instead, he opened his hand wide, and he fondled my breast. With the other hand he started feeling me up.