Luxe Beat Magazine APRIL 2015 | Page 179

Book Excerpt through grass that reached above my n nti na y am to an unmarked stone. It was my greatgrandmother’s grave site. We stood side by side as the sun beat down. I a na y tan in on th an h r Gram was born and raised, sharing her history. I remember not wanting the day to end as we drove away with the sun setting behind us. Before I knew it, things resumed the way they always had. The subject of Gram’s past was not something you ant to tir t a n to ar Indian jewelry, ask about a word in Mohawk, or wear moccasins. But beyond that it could get uncomfortable. My grandmother feigned disinterest when my mother started learning Native drumming on her own. She did the same when my mother began digging around for old photos of her family, wanting to learn more about her family as part of a study she was doing with a Native group in town. My mother had always ha an affinity ith that i o herself: the Mohawk blood that she would boast about to her friends. Yet my mom did not have the support or encouragement to foster that part of herself. A palpable tension always lingered between her and Gram, my moth r y arnin to n h r a in the past and connect to it. I felt split between the two pivotal people in my life, my Gram whom I adored and my mother the truth seeker who always drew me in with her passion. They were yin and yang, and I was smack dab in the middle, left questioning my loyalty. When mom was diagnosed with cancer in her early 50s, we all knew she was not going anywhere. She had too m h ht in h r h ant to map out her destiny and have a chance to work through her anger, much of which came from the fact that she t h n r t in ith h r ami y But a second round of cancer proved to be more furious than even her tenacious spirit. Though never taking away her beauty, it began to ravage her body. During this time my mom yearned for her mother to comfort her. But Gram was not one to be overly demonstrative. Mom’s illness stirred a painful internal process within Gram, not good for someone who had been diagnosed with heart problems years before. During this time, my mother befriended a Native cousin of hers. Together they burned white sage, a Native tradition known as “smudging,” meant to purify the mind, body, and spirit and purge bad energy. My mother embraced her knowledge of medicinal plants and the healing ways of the Great Spirit, grasping onto her tribal past. As her body weakened and just a few months before she died, her cousin casually asked her how she felt about having a brother she had never really gotten to know. When Gram was a teenager, she had a son—her r t orn ith a ity oy h to my mother. Gram was sent away to give birth, and soon after gave the baby up to her aunt to raise on the reserve. The child, who had nonNative features of fair skin, blond hair, and blue eyes, was never to know the truth about who his parents were, nor was my mother. This was the mysterious “family friend” of her childhood—her half brother. He died of cancer when he was in his late 50s. My mother loved my grandfather, who she had been told was her father. But my mom began to wonder: Was her biological father actually that city boy with whom Gram had been enamored long ago? (He drowned in 1954 during Hurricane Hazel.) This, she believed, was the secret and source of all the family deception she had always known. My mother wanted me to confront Gram with her revelation. She wanted me to confront Gram with what she believed were all the lies and deceptions, almost as if it were some sort of redemption. I was again caught in the middle, as I loved them both. My family wanted me to be ang ry, to right the wrongs before it was to late, and to honor my mother’s dying wish. Yet even among the anxieties and expectations that had somehow fallen on my shoulders, I found I could not do it. I felt deep empathy for my mother and the brother she never knew. But I also loved my grandmother, who made me warm when the world appeared cold. Neither I nor anyone else mentioned our discovery to Gram. My mother passed away, and a deep ache settled in my grandmother. Her stoic eyes began to lose the shine that they had once emitted. As I had feared, her heart was heavy with the burden. Five months later she ff r a ma i h art attack. In the hospital Gram was calm and collected, even when faced with the certainty that thi a th na hour. She chatted away with family and even chuckled a bit. Finally, she asked to be alone and if I could bring her some sweetgrass. I raced back to her place, gathered up a braid, and wrapped a silver and turquoise necklace around it. She was asleep when I brought it to her. A nurse later told me that ram ha o n ri y in th hours of the morning before her heart na y a o t an ha n th sweetgrass. She said to the nurse, “Do you know what this is? It’s sweetgrass. It helps you get to the other side.” She clutched it tightly. The white girl with the Mohawk spirit ha na y r t rn hom I felt a sense of calm in my grief an a tran a mo t ni nti a empowerment. I walked back from the hospital, about a mile and a half, to Gram and Gramp’s house as tears stung my eyes. When I arrived, I knew hat n to n Th r in ram room on her dresser was her favorite pair of silver, native earrings. I put them on without any trepidation; it was as though I was being guided. I stared at my r tion in th mirror ith th intricate feather earrings dangling. They felt like mine now. Nova Scotia–based journalist and r an rit r Tiffany Thornton loves watching the written word evolve. She covers music, travel, and theater for a number of publications. Her website: spinthemap.com. Connections As a child, I remember the braided t ra that a h room o my grandmother’s house in Toronto. Native Americans consider it the sacred hair of Mother Earth. They believe it cleanses all negativity and attracts the good spirit. Now, I always keep some in my house too. And like Gram, I sometimes burn the tip and let the sweet smoke envelop me. It helps to connect me to the native roots that I am still uncovering. Tiffany Thornton 179