Maki - Let the drums be your heart: new native voices

New Native Voices

Edited by Joel T. Maki

This collection copyright 1996 by Joel T. Maki

96 97 98 99 00 5 4 3 2 1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from CANCOPY (Canadian Reprography Collective), Toronto, Ontario.

Douglas & Mclntyre
1615 Venables Street
Vancouver, British Columbia
V5L 2H1

Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

Main entry under title:

Let the drums be your heart

ISBN 1-55054-527-2
1. Canadian literature (English)Indian authors.* 2. Canadianliterature (English)20th century.* 3. Native peoplesCanadaLiterary collections.* I. Maki, Joel T., 1958
PS8235.I6L47 1996 C810.8O897 C96-910457-X
PR9194.5.I5L47 1996

Cover painting: Columbus Decelebration Series: The Crucifixion 1991 by
Luke Simon. Used with the permission of the artist
Cover and text design by Michael Solomon
Typeset by Brenda and Neil West, BN Typographies West
Printed and bound in Canada by Metropole Litho Inc.
Printed on acid-free paper

All characters in the short stories and poems in this book are entirely fictional.
Any resemblance they may bear to real persons and experiences is illusory. All opinions expressed herein are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the position of the Native Writers Development Project.

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the assistance of the Canada Council and of the British Columbia Ministry of Tourism, Small Business and Culture.

I wanted to stay at a writers retreat, but I couldnt find a ride

I wanted to join the Writers Union, but I didnt have the membership fee

I wanted to send out manuscripts, but I couldnt afford the postage

I wanted to type my poems, but I had no ribbon

I wanted to read my poetry, but the people were deaf

I wanted to send out my poems, but they got homesick, so they stay here with me

and we tire of each other

David Groulx

Reluctant believer

even when you are asleep

they enter your comfortable silence.

Pointing in all directions

and telling you to follow

making you listen to your own heart words.

from Reluctant Believer by Mike Couchie

Last year at a Native Writing Workshop I listened to an instructor tell a story about the power of words. He explained how long ago, when great and terrible snowstorms and cold spells fell upon the land, people in many communities faced death and extinction by starvation and cold as both food and fuel were consumed.

He told of how the survivors might have made the distinction between who was to live and who was to die by dividing the remaining food among them. The first to go would be the weak and the elderly, and then the other adults, with the food being passed on to the children. Sometimes whole tribes would die out. Others barely survived, eating whatever was on hand, even the bark of trees and lichen off the rocks.

Sometimes circumstances were so terrible that a people were forced to decide which individual child would live or die. But eventually, the bitter cold and snow would go away, and food and fuel could be found. Many would die during these terrible winters, but many would survive. Always among the survivors would be the storytellers and historians, ensuring that individual cultures, languages, legends and customs would survive. And so they have, even to this day.

The Native Writers Development Project is very proud to present to you the works of more than forty new and emerging Native writers and storytellers from across Canada. The many voices contained in this collection speak (and sometimes cry out) from the shadows and reflections of the past, present and future.

It is my hope that by sharing these written words with you that I bring honour and comfort to the spirits of our ancestors, and to the warriors of both past and present (male and female, young and old) who continue the struggle of keeping our traditions, customs and voices alive and well.

I would like to thank a lot of people and organizations for making the production of this anthology possible. Thanks go to all the Native newspapers and radio/TV stations for providing more than just advertising space, and to the many writers across Canada who entrusted me with their works.

Last but not least I would like to thank the entire Douglas & Mclntyre staff, who play no small part in making this project the success that it is.

On behalf of the Native Writers Development Project and myselfChi Meegwitch.

Joel Maki, Project Manager

David Groulx

In the cold October water I stood

up to my thighs

the waves bounced against my back

as I held my tobacco to the skies

The smoke rose to a cold Autumn moon

as over my body bare

the water splashed droplets

into my long black hair

It was there, in that place

I knew Id belong

as I stood in the cold dark water

singing my sacred song

Mike Couchie

Reluctant believer

not willing to stand

not willing to see.

Why did you follow the faded voices?

Why did you take notice of those lights?

Talking to Eagles. Talking to Bears.

These are not tricks for entertainment.

These are not tricks for personal power.

These are not tricks for making followers.

Reluctant believer

even when you are asleep

they enter your comfortable silence

Pointing in all directions

and telling you to follow

making you listen to your own heart words.

Reluctant believer, they see you

standing with all your relatives.

Reluctant believer, they see you

standing under that cedar tree.

Shawn Johnston

Crashthe ground

Cold, upon my tired face

Dark, midst twilights longing glare

My mind, it slides

Round the spiral, soft

Within the writhing ring of trees, I see

They dance, swift, serene

Round the blazing wildfire, shadows

To the beat of a tainted drum

Through the cries of a hollow voice

Past the stares of the man in the moon

When all is forgotten

Entranced by a rhythm

Danced the shadows

And I am free

Peter Cole

On a warm june night

when the cicadas and crickets were electric

when the frogs leaped out of their own voices

he walked out of the bar

breathed in the cedars and the earth

lit up a smoke

they followed him the drunk white boys

with their fists and their foul breath

as he shuffled as he waddled

into the dark alley behind the mission city bar

we don V like your attitude they said or your face

or the way your lips move when you talk

you look like one of them indian fellows

salish prince hey boy

shadows cut his face in two

as he looked up at the thorns