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