Journey’s Home
The JOURNEYS HOME: Inspiring
Stories, Plus Tips & Strategies to
Find Your Family History featuring
Andrew McCarthy, Joyce Maynard,
Pico Iyer, Diane Johnson & The
National Geographic Travel Team
book excerpt is published with
permission. This excerpt is written
by Luxe Beat Magazine contributor,
Tiffany Thornton.
Secrets and Spirits
Caught between two strong women
with a mysterious past
by Tiffany Thornton
M
y grandmother was the
love of my life. She was my
confidant and my stability
in a rather tumultuous
childhood. My mother and
I were at odds, not seeing eye to eye
on much. My grandparents were my
safe haven. I spent years on and off
as a young girl and teenager living
with my grandparents in Toronto.
My father left when I was a baby and
got engaged to another woman while
married to my mom. The deception
created a deep heartache for my
mother, yet she did her best as a
single mom to provide for me, making
sure we always somehow celebrated
nature. Picnics in the park, hikes in
the nearby ravine. She really tried to
stretch the little money we had.
My mom eventually met someone
else, a cultured bohemian of sorts
who loved to drink a little too much.
When my sister came along, the heavy
drinking escalated. I came home from
school to police in the house and
punched holes in the walls several
times during those years. I begged
Mom to leave so we could be happy,
not fully cognizant of how afraid she
must have felt to embark on yet
another journey as a single mom with
two young children. I could only feel
my fear.
I always had a small bag packed so I
could run away when the next blowout
ensued. And I did, over and over again
to Gram’s house, which was quite the
walk for a girl of ten or so.
Growing up, I knew only threads of
my grandmother’s story: She was a
Native American, raised in a one-room
shack on an Indian reserve where she
went to the well for water. Her
mother was a heavy drinker, with a
temper she described as “being able
178
Inspiring Stories Plus
Tips Strategies to Find
Your Family History
to send steam up the chimney.” All
Gram ever knew about her father was
that he was white and thought to be
rman hi affair ith h r moth r
was brief. My great-grandmother then
married a Native American and had
four more children. She was a woman
I knew only from a few faded blackan
hit hoto ra h r
tin h r
tan dark skin and large round
features, with a look of determination
etched into her face.
Beyond that, my grandmother was
aloof when it came to discussing
her past. She would delve into it
tin y at tim
harin ri
excerpts of her life as a Mohawk
Indian on the Six Nations Reserve
near Brantford, Canada. Early on,
I was curious about the part of
my lineage that I was never really
exposed to. I wanted to know more
about our family’s mysterious, and
mystical, past.
On some level I was always aware
of little things that Gram had around
the house that were Indian. Paintings
of girls and loons in the water by an
Ojibwa artist lined the walls. The
shelves displayed a coyote sculpture,
a clay teepee, and dream catchers.
Braided sweetgrass, considered the
a r hair o
oth r arth
each room; it was braided into three
strands representing honesty, love,
and kindness. Sometimes Gram would
burn the tip and the sweet smell
would waft through the house.
Indians believe sweetgrass cleanses
all negativity and attracts the
good spirit.
Gram’s sister managed the Native
Canadian Centre in Toronto, and Gram
worked in the gift shop part-time. On
the odd occasion when Gram was
terse with us, she always muttered
a verse loudly in Mohawk, meaning
we were being naughty. At times
when the strong veneer would ebb
away, I would catch a glimpse of her
in her bedroom rocking one of the
younger grandchildren on her knee
and singing an old Mohawk tune. It
was the same song she sang to me.
I grew up my whole life wanting to
visit the reserve. Close family still
lived there on their own land. My
mother and her siblings spent several
summers there as kids, wading in the
Grand River. Everyone there except
my mother, it seemed, all had dark
hair om t y iff r nt rom my
fair-haired mother. Everyone, that is,
except for a boy who was blond and
described only as a “family friend.”
Mom had always wondered about
this boy. Whispers of family secrets
o
t r