Article 3: Reconnection and Healing

Nicole McKenzie

“I felt like I was born into two worlds but accepted by neither. It is not an easy place to be,” I told my granddaughter, Dot, as we sat together by the warm fire in the den, sipping tea and enjoying some freshly baked blueberry bannock. One world was the glorified white, and the other, a not-so-mighty and marginalized Indigenous world. Oh, how I longed to pass for white throughout my childhood and into my early adult years. From birth, my whiteness was celebrated, but my Aboriginal identity, not at all. I learned to feel blessed because I have coloured eyes and lighter skin, which would help me survive during a time of persistent and blatant racism that flourished in our small northern Manitoba town.

“I felt ashamed because I desperately wanted to be accepted as white, and I knew I wasn’t fully presenting as that. Although there were times that white-passing privileged me, and I valued that part of my being.” I explained to Dot, as I lowered my head and gazed awkwardly at the floor. Other times, I was simply not white enough, and the memories of rejection and discomfort are intense.

As an adult, I still carried these memories and shame for a large part of my life. However, looking back, I knew it was not my fault that I felt and coped this way. The impacts of colonization had devastated my very being so much so that I internalized the racism. This internalization ultimately caused hurt to some of my very own people. It took a lot of hard work and reconnecting to my roots to forgive myself for that.

Now, my granddaughter was struggling with her identity, and I could see its effect on her confidence, her relationships, and her grades in school. I did not want her to deal with shame and embarrassment simply because of the color of her skin. Not being brown enough to be accepted by her Aboriginal peers and not white enough to be accepted by her non-Aboriginal peers had now become her reality. The weight caused by uncertainty about one’s racial identity can weigh as heavy as concrete. I knew that it was my job to try and lighten the load that was causing her to drown.

 I never received many traditional teachings from either of my parents growing up. My mother was a Metis woman who struggled with her own identity and was quite conscious of her appearance. My father was a colossal, dark-skinned Cree man. He tried his best to instill pride and confidence in me, but I felt not much of either, growing up.  This resonated deep within my soul. I do my best to make peace with the circumstances. Unfortunately, my father was caught up in the cycle of addiction. Although I try not to make excuses for his drinking, I am now aware of the link to colonization and the resulting traumas from which the addictions stem. I also am acutely aware that addiction runs deep in my extended family.

I decided to share with Dot, one childhood story that was hard for me to forget.

“Growing up bi-racial was not easy for me. ‘White Dora’ was what a group of girls called me on my reserve when I attended grade school. They harassed and bullied me for the entire sixth grade! I tried to ignore the taunts, but that must have upset them further. The next week, they were shoving snuff in my mouth. The pungent flavor instantly made me vomit. So, I decided to chew the snuff on my own as a way of stopping them from bullying me,” I shared.

“What is snuff?” Dot questioned as she scrunched her nose.

“It is moist tobacco that you put in your mouth, and then you spit it out once the flavour goes away. It was the filthiest habit I have ever had, but this was the only thing I could think of to get the girls to leave me alone,” I answered. 

I looked over at Dot, and her camouflage green eyes were as large as saucers.

“Did it work Kookom? Did they leave you alone? I sure hope they left you alone!” Dot exclaimed.

“Oh, it worked, alright. They left me alone and stopped calling me names,” I quipped.

I didn’t bother elaborating that doing this caused me to become addicted to the chewing tobacco, which I used to place in the pocket between my lip and bottom teeth for decades. The addiction lasted for thirty years. When I turned forty, my birthday present was a gray-white patch in my mouth. The sore was painless, so I decided to ignore it. That wasn’t a good idea.

The bullying stopped in grade six, but it started again in junior high school, which was in town, off-reserve. I spent a lot of my time in junior high and high school, further questioning my identity. I never felt accepted by many of my non-Aboriginal peers. I felt isolated and alone much of the time. I finally got brave in high school and chose to make myself vulnerable. I joined a basketball team in ninth grade. It was a sport that came natural to me. I felt I was in good company with four other Aboriginal girls on the team. Together as a team, we played well. My team was so excited to play in our first tournament, and although I knew we weren’t ranked at the top, we had a chance for a medal. I still remember the feeling of confusion and sadness as the rest of the “brown girls” and I sat on the bench, game after game. Finally, one parent mentioned to our principal that our coach was not switching out players, and some team members did not have a chance to play. We were immediately put on the court, and we played well. However, as soon as the principal left, we were back on the bench for the remainder of the games. It felt ugly, and it was humiliating. Again, it left me muddled, and I questioned my very being. I would have liked to believe our lack of skill had us left out of the games, but my intuition told me something different. That coach successfully crushed the minuscule part of the little confidence I had gained by finally being accepted, or so I had thought.

Struggling with my identity led to risky behaviour in my high school years. I did whatever I could to be accepted, even if that meant engaging in underage drinking and drug use. I finally met a group of Metis girls at school who I felt I could identify with and an Aboriginal boyfriend who I felt attracted to, even though he would make stinging comments about how white my skin was. It did not take them long to introduce me to beer and marijuana. One fall afternoon, one of my new friends, my boyfriend, and I skipped class and did not return to school after the lunch break. We decided to go and hang out at my friend’s house because she said she was going to get us high. I had no idea what that even meant, but she promised me that it would be fun. Once we arrived at her home, she pulled out a small bag of marijuana. We spent the rest of the afternoon smoking the two joints that she had rolled. I enjoyed the sense of relaxation and euphoria that accompanied the high. I felt like I had escaped all the problems that life had handed me, especially the shame I was carrying due to the uncertainty about my roots and my identity as a young Indigneous woman.

Not long after, I experimented with hard liquor and other drugs. Beer was replaced with vodka because it was not as fragrant. In addition to marijuana, I started to ingest hallucinogens such as mescaline and LSD. My grades quickly plummeted, and my relationship with my parents became chaotic. I was out of control, and I knew that this was not how I wanted to live my life. I fell into a steady pattern of substance abuse for two years, and I was admitted into a traditional healing lodge for eight weeks. The lodge was located six hours away from my home and it offered a holistic treatment program. The treatment incorporated traditional teachings and healing practices that involved not just the physical, emotional and mental aspects, but most importantly, the spiritual dimension of healing and wellness. I spent much of my time with one particular Elder who started the process of reconnection with my culture. For the first time in my life, I felt alive.

I refuse to let my granddaughter share the same self-sabotaging behaviours that I fell into, I thought to myself. “Tell me what bothers you the most Dot.” I wait silently and patiently as the tears begin to roll down her cheeks.

“Some of the kids in my school call me half-breed, and that is what hurts me the most. It makes me feel confused and angry.”

I looked at her quivering lip, and it crushed my heart that my granddaughter was reliving much of the same hurt that I had experienced as a young girl. I pulled her to my chest and hugged her tight. So tight that I could feel the beating of her heart, like a drum, it brought me comfort and peace.

It was by listening to the beat of the drum while sitting alongside the river, years ago, that I knew I was going to be okay. It solidified in that instant who I was and what I needed to do. I was two months pregnant with Dot’s mother and alone. Unbeknownst to me, a ceremony was taking place and the singing and drums could be heard for miles. I felt an immediate reconnection to my ancestors and to the miraculous gift that was growing in my womb. For the second time in my life, I felt alive, comforted, and so at peace that a euphoric sense of calmness passed through my entire body.

“Dot, I think it is time for you to learn more about our culture and the ways of our people,” I explained.

“Okay, Kookom, I’m ready this time,” she replied.

“I know that this has not been something that has interested you too much in the past, but I am asking you to open your heart and your mind. Connect to the roots of your ancestors. I can promise you this, things will only get better for you, my sweet granddaughter,” I concluded.

I explained to Dot the importance of reconnecting with her culture through praying, smudging, and attending ceremonies, and how that helped me get back to a better way of life. I am not sure what I would have done if I had not done that so many moons ago.

Last year, the gray-white patch that appeared in my mouth began to bleed and show signs of malignancy. It was a terrifying time as I grappled with handling the uncertainty accompanying such a diagnosis. I explored all treatment options and decided on using the conventional treatment plan that included surgery and radiation. I also pursued a traditional treatment plan, which involved a medicine man. At our first meeting, I brought two meters of red, black, yellow, and white cotton cloth, as well as tobacco, a monetary offering, and a gift. He placed the fabric around my mouth and made several attempts to pull out the sickness. The pulling was helping to draw the disease out of my mouth, he explained. After pulling, the cloth along with the sickness was thrown into the fire burning beside him. He mixed up some Indian medicine consisting of different roots and plants that I would have to drink for a long time. He told me that I would be okay, but I had to trust, and I had to believe that the healing practices would work. My decision to combine traditional treatment with a western approach came naturally, even though my decision was not supported and flat-out discouraged by my oncologist. He laughed when I brought up the topic and scoffed at my questions about Indian medicine as “gibberish.” I almost felt persuaded to believe him; after all, he was a doctor, but my intuition told me that I was on the right path.

You cannot let someone who knows absolutely nothing about your culture and medicines make a decision that will affect whether you will live or die. So pray and seek guidance from the Creator.

That was the best decision I had ever made. I went home that afternoon and smudged and prayed. That evening, I had a dream. In my dream, I was healthy and alive. My extended family and I were sitting in a circle in the dream, and I remember a celebration. It was like a big birthday celebration. There was a feast, a lot of singing, and family members and friends honouring my wellness and life.

I replayed that dream repeatedly in my head, especially since the prognosis given to me was dire. The sickness had entrenched deep into the pocket of my mouth and had invaded the surrounding areas. The surgeon initially felt that he would not be able to treat it all. That was the scariest moment of my life, but I kept my beliefs close. I knew that the Creator was by my side, helping and protecting me. The Indian medicines from the medicine man and the ceremonies all aided my recovery. The following year, all the signs and symptoms of the disease in my mouth disappeared and I have been in remission since.

It was because of this sickness that Dot had stayed with me for a few months, a little over a year ago. She helped cook and clean for me while I recovered from the surgery and radiation. Her mother, Dodie, was fighting the same demons that I fought so many years ago, and it was natural that Dot moved in with me until her mother got well again. I loved having her company, and I could not have made it through the recovery process without her by my side.

“Kookom, will you allow me to stay with you longer?” Dot asked as she snuggled into my lap, the one place that was always a source of comfort for her as a small child.

“Absolutely! I was hoping you would join me for supper. I made your favourite: moose stew and rice pudding for dessert. Come, miciso!” I exclaimed as I rubbed her arm and got up from the sofa.

“Actually, Kookom, what I meant is, I want to live with you again. I can help you with the chores around the house, and you can pass down your teachings to me. I want to learn. I want to learn about the different medicines and ceremonies, and I want to hear all the stories! I was serious when I said I was ready. I do not want to feel this sadness anymore,” she explained.

I sat back down on the sofa, and my heart instantly exploded with pride and love. I did not think she would want to come back so soon, as Dot had not been back at her own home for that long. Dot’s mother, Dodie, was still recovering from the years of alcohol abuse that she had put her body through and she needed to go back to the healing lodge. A moment of weakness had set her back, and she had just recently confided that she wanted to get well again.

“I think that is the greatest idea I have heard in a very long time. I would love nothing more than if you would come and stay with me. This will give your mother more time to get well again. It will also give us time to get you back on track and feeling good about yourself,” I replied.

I was incredibly grateful that Dot was embracing her culture and the opportunity to learn. I could not have been more proud of the young lady before me.

How did I get so lucky to be blessed with such a beautiful, caring, and kind granddaughter? I wondered. But I already knew the answer to that question. The Creator had gifted us this miracle twelve years ago. Dot was my first and only grandchild, and I loved her more than life itself.  

I took the last sip of my tea and walked over to the bookshelf and grabbed the smudging dish, along with some sage.

“Let’s not waste any time, shall we. Smudging with sage will deflect negative thoughts and energies. Let us give thanks, and ask the Creator for guidance and peace, Dot.”

After we smudged and prayed, I asked Dot to share how she felt.

“For the first time in my life, I feel so alive, and so at peace Kookom. I don’t know how to explain it,” she shared.

“I understand. You do not have to explain any further,” I quipped. At that moment, I knew, without a doubt, that she was going to be just fine.

Author’s Bio: Nicole McKenzie is an Aboriginal woman of Cree and European descent and a member of the Opaskwayak Cree Nation. Her major is Aboriginal and Northern Studies in the Bachelor of Arts Program at University College of the North. After graduation, Nicole will continue her studies in the Bachelor of Social Work Program at the University of Manitoba. Her areas of interest in future studies include a focus on the effects of colonization on Indigenous people in Canada, particularly in the areas of addiction and child separation. When not studying, Nicole can be found in her most cherished role as an Aunty to her nephew and nieces. Her other love is being outdoors, camping with family, and fishing on some of the most magnificent lakes our region has to offer.

Instructor Remarks: In this short story “Reconnection and Healing,” Nicole McKenzie revisits the difficult subject of personal identity, the struggle of a mixed-race child to be accepted in the community. The story also touches on other themes that include addiction and wellness, focusing on the importance of Indigenous methods in the treatment of ailments. The author submitted this work, a creative non-fiction, in the ENG.1002 course in the fall term of 2020. This particular article is Nicole’s second published work in the MFTN journal. This is testament to the student’s creativity and resourcefulness—Dr. Joseph Atoyebi.