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Baamaapii Nookomis

Soda and Waub

Another powerful and revered matriarch has left this world. My dear grandmother Aileen Rice died last month, a week shy of her 87th birthday. I have struggled since her death to put into words just how monumental and important she was to her family, her community, and countless others who she touched in some way. She was a passionate advocate for Anishinaabeg everywhere, lobbying for language and tradition in spaces where authorities tried to erase culture. She fought for equal access to education for Indigenous children. She was a woman of strong faith who incorporated Anishinaabe beliefs into Christian teachings as a minister. She embodied resilience and spirit by enduring some of life’s most brutal hardships and rising up to empower everyone around her.

It’s impossible to capture in mere paragraphs the widespread impact of my grandma’s legendary life and esteemed legacy. I want to write something much more comprehensive about her renowned accomplishments and family story sometime in the future. Losing her less than a year after my grannie died has been very hard, but reflecting fondly on the amazing lives of my grandmothers has been a silver lining to the often dark clouds of the grieving process. So I’ll share just a little bit now, because I want to acknowledge and honour her in every way I can.

My grandma was affectionately known as “Auntie Soda” to generations of people from Wasauksing, Parry Sound, and well beyond. She was born on the land and was proud to live the Anishinaabe way. One of 11 children altogether, she spoke only Anishinaabemowin throughout her childhood and carried her people’s stories and teachings from an early age. She would later regale us, her grandchildren, with these treasured details of our heritage and the generations of family lines that we could draw deep into Anishinaabe territory. It was an honour to learn these stories from her.

There’s so much about her vibrant life to take pride in, especially being a part of the strong family she led. She and my grandfather married young and had five children by their late 20s. When he died in a tragic boating mishap, she was left to raise them all on her own. The oldest was seven years old and the youngest was two months. The threat of apprehension loomed constantly. Her kids – including my father – could have been taken to residential school or placed in the child welfare system. Breaking up Indigenous families and erasing culture was official Canadian policy. But somehow, she was able to resist that at every turn, and kept them all together at home.

When that threat dissipated, she took her place as an ardent advocate for equal education opportunities for Indigenous children. She became the first Anishinaabe person to serve on the nearby town’s school board. She then adopted two more children from a relative, bringing the total to seven she raised by herself. All of her kids went on to post-secondary education beginning in the 1970s, when Indigenous people were rarely considered for or seen in universities and colleges in Canada. My grandma blazed a trail that made it much less difficult for me and my cousins and peers in Wasauksing to follow.

These are just a few basic and brief highlights. There’s so much more she lived through, like losing a daughter to homicide and never seeing justice for her. She lost many more relatives to tragedy. She saw her beloved Ojibwe language gradually fade from our community. She endured her homeland in the depths of despair and abuse, but she never gave up hope that it could one day heal. All the while, she never let any of her losses or hardships define her, and she never took any shit from anyone.

My grandma is gone now, but her story is still being written. Her spirit continues to thrive in all of us who are proud to be Anishinaabe. And I’ll share more of her remarkable journey as soon as I can. Baamaapii Nookomis. Gizaagin.

Weweni sago

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Weweni sago. It’s a phrase in Anishinaabemowin that can mean “take care.”

A few weeks before his first birthday, I bounced my son in my arms, trying hard to savour the moment while chasing harsh memories from my mind. A family celebration was looming and that should have been my focus, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how he and his mother almost died the day he was born.

They both fully recovered and now thrive in the most beautiful ways. But for some reason, I kept replaying that traumatic moment and those precarious first days. I didn’t know why I thought that way and it really troubled me. I cradled him close with determined care in my arms and immense love in my heart, while fear and anxiety lingered in my head.

There was no reason to be afraid or anxious. We were blessed with happiness and health as a new family. And while his birth was physically devastating for both him and his mother, I felt like it was “only” emotionally traumatic for me, and that I should have gotten over it by then. Their strength and resilience inspired me every day. Why couldn’t I embrace the wonder, beauty and power of this life and stop the trembling in my fingers?

This internal tension peaked when I couldn’t really bring myself to speak during those bizarre new episodes. I found myself unable to express exactly what I was feeling, which was something I had never experienced. My wife Sarah – ever kind, supportive and loving – noticed, and we tried to talk some of it out.

Together we identified a persistent grief from those moments in the hospital that I had never really addressed. I kept thinking about what my life would be like without them, even though they were tangible, real, beacons of love and might right in front of me. All this time later with no real reason to worry, I knew those were irrational thoughts.

Then she reminded me about what else happened in the last year. My grandmother – one of my life’s pillars – had died in the spring. So did my uncle, the man who made me a rock n’ roll fan. There was great loss in her family too. Her great-grandmother and family matriarch also died in the spring. It was a heavy year of loss. And another person very close to me also experienced serious trauma, but I won’t explain out of respect for their privacy.

While those tragedies had compounded in a short time, I realized there were even more in my past that I still hadn’t emotionally resolved. A few years ago, two cousins of mine died in the same week – one of an overdose, and the other of suicide.

My aunt, who was a storytelling and traditional mentor to me, died suddenly a year before that. There were many more deaths and victims of violence close to me. A lot of my serious grief goes back to the loss of one of my best friends in a car accident when I was 16.

I hadn’t even considered how that grief could accumulate, like stubborn black soot in a stovepipe. Up until then, I thought I had grieved enough at each funeral. The ceremonies around death in our culture make time and space for this very important process.

A fire burns for four days of mourning to make way for a relieving celebration at the end when the spirit leaves this realm to find their way to the spirit world. It’s a beautiful practice that helps the family and community heal from the loss. But when so many of them happen in a relatively short time, maybe it’s harder to fully expunge that sadness.

It’s no secret now that tragedies strike First Nations much more frequently than other communities. A long list of human calamities plague reserves: disease, suicide, violence, abuse, and so on. These are well documented, and the immense weight of these ongoing losses is devastating. A friend recently wrote that being Indigenous in Canada is to be in a perpetual state of grief.

And with all kinds of media constantly feeding reminders of these disproportionate tragedies to First Nations, it’s almost like they become a self-fulfilling prophecy of doom. It’s easy to convince yourself that grief and suffering are ingrained in Indigenous identity, and that sadness is permanently fused to our DNA.

All these troublesome thoughts and feelings swamped my mind as soon as it idled. It felt like gravity quadrupled as soon as my focus shifted from my family, my job, or other activities that kept me occupied. Grief was dragging me down, and although it hadn’t taken a major toll on my professional life or my home life yet, it was only a matter of time before it became truly burdensome and I wouldn’t be able to function or focus on work or the happiness that flourished in my home.

Thankfully, my wife saw this become more serious as I became a little withdrawn. My silent sorrow hinted at inner emotional turmoil she’d never seen in me up to that point. She suggested I seek out and speak with a grief counsellor. She helped me find one here in Sudbury who was Anishinaabe and could help me look at my situation through a cultural lens and get me back on a positive path.

I was open and willing to receive this help. Throughout my life, I’ve always considered myself the one others go to when they’re grieving or down. I’ve always believed that I’m emotionally and spiritually strong. I grew up going to ceremonies, which built a strong cultural foundation that created a powerful link to my family, community, and Anishinaabe identity.

But I wasn’t strong enough to handle this on my own, and I was too apprehensive to discuss it with family and friends. I didn’t believe my personal issues were as serious as what other people were living through. I needed an outside perspective to ground me once again.

So I went to the Shkagamik-Kwe Health Centre for help. Without going into the details of the discussion, the person I sat with was able to bring me back to centre. She helped lift a massive weight off me. I understood what had happened to me. And I realized that unresolved grief can have serious consequences. I’m very thankful for this person’s guidance, and to my life partner for leading me to her.

I’ve never suffered seriously from anxiety, depression, or any other mental illness, although I do my best to advocate for people who do. Through this all, I’ve learned that grief isn’t fleeting. It doesn’t disappear when the fire goes out at the end of a funeral ceremony. Sometimes it tucks itself away, hiding behind those fulfilling moments of relief and celebration when family and friends come together in death. It’s an infectious mould that propagates as the years go on and the death toll rises. It has to be acknowledged and confronted, or it never goes away.

I share this for the sake of transparency and to encourage discussion. As a journalist, I write regularly about the grief and loss of others. As an author, I often adorn my own emotional hardships with the mask of fiction. But I believe it’s important for someone like me to be candid about these very real difficulties. It’s helping me, and hopefully writing this will support others in getting help as well.

Weweni sago.

A grandmother’s everlasting embrace

Waub and Grannie
My very beloved grandmother Ruth Shipman died on June 9, 2017. She embodied everything wonderful about the richness of life, and nearly a month later, it’s still hard to believe and accept that she’s gone. But she lived a very impressive and inspiring 92 years, and I’m extremely proud to be part of her legacy as her grandson. I look back on my life with her with great fondness, adoration, and love.

She was a constant presence throughout my childhood, teaching me to be kind, patient, and creative as she helped raise me. Our time together back then was always filled with all kinds of fun activities. She always encouraged me and my brothers and cousins to engage in pretty much anything that enriched our lives. She was a very passionate storyteller, and often made up vivid stories on the spot to entertain us. She inspired me to let my imagination take me anywhere, and I credit her with leading me to the journey that I’m on today.

I was motivated to succeed in school and in my professional life just to tell her about my accomplishments. I took so much pride in the faith and belief she had in me. She held me up in so many ways, and I became a confident and passionate person because of her influence. She was a huge CBC fan, and being able to tell her that I was hired by CBC to be a reporter was one of the proudest and best moments of my life.

She was a nurse who was committed to healthy living. She was hospitalized for years when she was young because of tuberculosis, and she survived that to emerge as a true force for living in a good way. I really thought she was invincible, which is what makes her death pretty hard to accept. But I can honour her by making sure I live as long as possible as well.

It’s pretty mind-boggling to know that a person who is one quarter of who I am is physically gone. But I feel her with me and in me, and I know that she will always be there. And I see her in my son, and I take great comfort and pride in knowing that he will carry her with him throughout his life as well. I’m very grateful that they were able to share moments in this world together. I can’t wait to tell him all about her.

I love you, Grannie. Rest well.

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