Out of the Ashes

“Fire is the most beautiful weapon of them all. It shines with all its glory; maybe that’s why I am so attracted to it? The warmth along with the welcoming feel it gives, but as you slowly approach…it snarls and bites.”
~ Äiméleä-Grace Barnett

My upward gaze was fixated on the swirls of grey filament cascading around me. Kissing the autumn winds, were the singed journals penned over time, by my daughter Shayla. 
Her words were being offered on a fire that showered us with flames, leaping out from the crevices of wood, they escaped heavenward…no longer bound to the pages she once filled. 

Six years after her passing, I knew it was time to release more of the grips of bereavement, coiled around my heart. 

As with anything connected to her in the eternal life, I was placed on a quest, in order to fulfill my wishes to see my daughter’s journals burned ceremonially. 

Over the past year, I have attended a series of events at Victoria Native Friendship Center. Each one was focussed on the convoluted legacy of the Residential schools and the optimism of finding reconciliation. 

It was at one of the events, I spoke to Barbara Strachan, a retired public librarian who assists at Victoria Native Friendship Center. She connected me to Glenn Patterson, who would drum at each gathering. 

After speaking with Glenn, he agreed to watch over the burning of the journals. A date was chosen and I prayed my vehicle that had recent repairs would make one last trip. My hopes were soon dashed when the car that had been my ‘home on wheels’ gave out an audible bang, then whimpered to a crawl until it finally stalled. I made a call to a local towing company to come and collect “Sheba.” I also contacted my friend Jenn, who was kind enough to say she would take me out to Tsartlip First Nation reserve, to fulfill my promise of having Shayla’s journals burned. As I began cleaning out my Oldsmobile, a woman pulled up in her red and white mini car. She assessed the situation of me pulled over on a winding, perilous stretch of road and after introducing herself; Kim began to direct traffic and encouraged others to slow down. This allowed me to focus on the task at hand, of cleaning out what was left to remove. As I took out the Betty Boop mats, once belonging to my daughter, I decided to offer them to Kim. She smiled and shaking her head, pointed to the mats in her own mini…the very same I was holding in my hand. I knew then, it was time to also let them go. Soon after, the tow truck company began to hook my Oldsmobile upward, for removal. A wave of emotion overcame me as a deluge of memories came forth to me; of how this car had been my shelter…always one step away from living on the streets, ol’ Sheba had been faithful to me. I thought of all the prayers said over the steering wheel and in the back seat, before I tucked in for the night. I shed a few tears and then it was time to move on. Jenn had arrived and after thanking Kim for her caring about a stranger on the side of the road, we hugged and I hopped into the passenger seat of my friend’s vehicle. 

Often the best laid plans, have been turned upside down, to fulfill the ones our Creator has in store for us. 

Jenn had not prepared to be a part of something uniquely connected to my daughter, but as we gathered around the towering blaze with Glenn presiding over our assembly, several others joined in to see me release 21 journals. An elder came and drummed, another threw something onto the burning pile that made the flames dance. 
My mind drifted back to the night before, when I had re-read the prose written by my babygirl. In doing so, as her mother, I reconnected with the tears she had spilled onto pages, while her bodacious laughter leapt off the stories; she was now sharing with me. I reflected over my daughter’s future goals, her desire for children and those she passionately loved, even when it came at a cost to her. When I finally arrived at the point of her last words, only three days before she died, I thought of how her lasting gift of insight has touched endless lives. Before closing the pages, I discovered a piece of peacock feather. The multi-hued colours struck a chord, as often I called Shayla my rainbow child. 

The crackling of the fire brought me back to my current surroundings

Towards the end of the burning, I took a paper heart that I had bought at Ten Thousand Villages and tossed it onto the fire, which spat out at me wisps of grey smoke. Tucked inside was a letter to Shayla, in heaven. Knowing my connection with her was never detached, what I wrote was of light. I also gave thanks for my faith and the joyous opportunity to take part in something coupled with her Aboriginal roots. 

Afterwards, a young man asked me: “How does your heart feel?”

I smiled and replied: “It’s still full, while the bag carrying her journals is a lot lighter!”

This month, I had a chance to thank Glenn again in person, as I was attending the program Speaking Our Truth: A Journey of Reconciliation. It was the last event being presented at the Victoria Native Friendship Centre with the Greater Victoria Public Library four-part series on Reconciliation: Opening the Door to Conversations. 

Over the year, I have heard heart-wrenching, first-hand accounts from victims and survivors. The wedge placed into our countries affiliation with its Indigenous people, has seen further suffering in misguided understanding of the residential schools and the layering affect of generations, who were deeply affected in negative ways. 

The speaker at this event, Author Monique Gray Smith, was interviewed by University of Victoria's Chancellor Shelagh Rogers. Monique is a woman of Cree, Lakota and Scottish descent, whose warmth and rich spirit shines through in her weaving of storytelling. Locally based in Victoria, Monique delved into the stratum of Indigenous people and the need to repair a frayed relationship with Canada. She shared an insightful moment when she expressed turning the word Reconciliation into ReconciliACTION, which drew applause. 

Source: FVPL

While speaking of the healing needed to create restoration, one particular story Monique told, resonated within me. Someone had grumbled about how long did all this need to reconcile carry on? The author asked how old they were. The person replied in their late forties. Monique then pointed out had they been born a different race such as Indigenous, they too could have ended up being raised in one of those residential schools. Her point was to say that the atrocities did not happen so long ago, as it was only in 1996, did the last federally operated school close. Twenty-one years has passed with divisions being made, finger pointing and an attitude that we all just need to move on. 

As an abuse survivor, I can speak on my own experiences of wanting justice; that no amount of monetary value can be placed on my suffering.

Found pinned onto a Bulletin board at The Victoria Native Friendship Centre...I took one of these for myself

Monique brought forth valid points which made me think of my own daughter, who was part Métis and yearned to know more about her own Aboriginal ancestry, despite me making every effort to connect her with her heritage, Shayla’s biological father set us upon a chase with no leads. This never deterred her and every chance she had to take part in customary practices, my daughter would. 

Throughout her stories Monique shared with a full house of attendees, her latest publication: Speaking Our Truth: A Journey of Reconciliation, which was released this autumn. 

Sometime after the event, which lingered with me, I found a painting on a card by Maxine Noel - Ioyan Mani, Sioux Artist. It is titled: “Not Forgotten” 

This is description on the back with a partial quote from the artist:

Our mothers and daughters, our sisters and aunties and grandmothers. Our women are our heart and our spirit, always honoured, never forgotten. I am Dakota Sioux, a woman and mother, and an artist. These are inseparable facets of who I am and how I live in the world. That world, the world we all live and move in, is a place of great and terrible beauty, of wonder, and of tragedy. In this painting I speak to that wonder and beauty and tragedy.
Finally, the floating figures throughout the painting are the spirits and the presence of the missing and murdered women. 

Missing but never lost. Always present, always remembered.


 ~ Maxine Noel/Ioyan Mani

Also on the back is: Part of proceeds from the sale of this image will be donated to the Native Women’s Association of Canada and their…
“Sister’s In Spirit” Project. For more information, visit: www.nwac.ca

I have taken part in the Stolen Sister’s march in solidarity. There are incredulous spending of Government funds which are hindering those who need answers and support. I am appalled by cutbacks along the Highway of Tears, related to Greyhound Service, where safety is being tossed away in order to save dollars yet other places are pouring money into construction…instead of human lives. 

Recently, the city of Victoria, where I reside was bestowed an award. 

Victoria has been given an award for most wasteful municipal spending at the Canadian Taxpayers Federation’s (CTF) Teddy Awards. The award was handed out over spending on construction of the Johnson Street Bridge, also known as “Blue Bridge.”According to CTF, the bridge was supposed to cost $63 million. Because of problems with the quality of steel being used to repair the 93-year-old bridge, the price tag has risen to $105 million. The bridge is expected to be finished in 2018, three years behind schedule.
~ Source: Global News 

It is the advocate in me that is aghast by the sheer lack of common sense and waste of tax payer’s money, over a single structure that is deemed more worth, than those whose streets are lined with broken souls.

Since December 12^th, 2011, I have had to readjust my living arrangements numerous times and create work for myself in order to beat the system and not be a burden on it. I have navigated endless channels of Government assistance and yet only accessed short-term WCB and EI Sickness benefits. When my means of shelter- my car, was removed, I learned to tap into my resourcefulness as a house and pet sitter, in order to have a place to stay. All the while, it was blind faith that has led me out of darkened paths. Despite my work injuries and Arthritis, I push myself forward knowing the discoveries I’ve made, are due to the gifts of my words along the way. I believe in the simple, ordinary aspects of this journey that allow me to live beyond my losses and in doing so, I celebrate being a woman in a time when our voices are rising in UNITY & TRUTH.   

~ Tarana Burke: #MeToo  On one side, it's a bold declarative statement that 'I'm not ashamed' and 'I'm not alone.' On the other side, it's a statement from survivor to survivor that says 'I see you, I hear you, I understand you and I'm here for you or I get it. 

Now, out of the ashes, these passages shared will rise up and find a place to settle in…just as my daughter’s words were re-gifted back to the heavens, the impact left behind capture both the wonder and tragedy of our fallen world. 

By TL Alton