Idle No More

by Simahoyo

My family is broken. At first I thought it was because of the insane circumstances of my adoption. Then, I thought it was the loss of her parents so early in my mother's life. Now, I sensed something else hidden away. Two things about my mother. She is the undisputed Queen of guilt. Everything is her fault–even stupid things I did long after I left home. She is also a great Keeper of Secrets. This felt like a big one.

I really don't know why Mom had invited me to dinner. There was nothing special I knew about. Dad was off trying to find Ed Snowden. The meal was take out from her favorite Canadian pub, the one that turns Steven Harper's picture to the wall when she walks in. She was fidgeting, which is her biggest tell. I was mentally rehearsing how to get out of whatever she didn't want to tell me.

"Darling, I'm getting a special award from the government."

She didn't have to tell me which government. Dad has tried all my life to get Mom to change her citizenship. But Mom is Canadian through and through. "That's wonderful. When will that take place?"

"In two weeks. It's a strange situation for me. I'm proud to given this honor, however...It's being presented in person, by Steven Harper."

My head ached immediately. "Oh no. Mom, what are you going to do?"

She smiled in a way that made me extremely nervous. "Oh, I wouldn't miss it. It's televised."

Now my stomach was getting upset. She seemed a little too happy about this. "So, Mom, you are telling me that despite all your donations to Jack Layton and the NDP, and the fact the according to Aunt Sophie, you were the only teen in your school with a poster of Pierre Trudeau on your wall, that you are looking forward to meeting Steven Harper."

"Oh yes. Even though I was told there will be no thank you speech allowed."

I'm afraid I gave a sigh of relief. "I can imagine that would disappoint you. What is going through that slightly evil mind of yours?"

She laughed. "Aren't you glad you don't have to worry about inheriting that from me? It's just nurture you need to watch out for."

I sighed again. This was going to be one of those nights. Maybe a change of subject was in order. "What do you plan to wear?"

"Something I haven't worn in so many years...It's in the attic. Come on up."

I followed her up past the labeled boxes, old trunks, and assorted left overs from our lives. There wasn't a speck of dust. This told me Mom had been up here fairly frequently. Dust and clutter were her sworn enemies. I followed her to a corner that held items from her pre-us life. I could tell by the labels and the printing on the boxes. All of it was in French.

Mom plunged her hands into a grocery box, flipping the top up. She reached in, carefully removing a fringed leather vest, made of brain-tanned deer hide which was so soft it almost flowed through her fingers. She held it up for me and I saw the complex quillwork forming vines and flowers. She turned the vest so I could see the back. I was surprised to see a white infinity sign. I raised my eyebrows in a question.

"There is something else, darling." Mom dipped into the box again, and removed a finger woven sash in the most gorgeous pattern of colors. I have never seen one so long.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Mother"? I know I was being rude, but something was going on. My family is broken. At first I thought it was because of the insane circumstances of my adoption. Then, I thought it was the loss of her parents so early in my mother's life. Now, I sensed something else hidden away. Two things about my mother. She is the undisputed Queen of guilt. Everything is her fault–even stupid things I did long after I left home. She is also a great Keeper of Secrets. This felt like a big one.

"Do you know what culture these come from?"

"I believe they are from the Métis culture from Western Canada. An amalgamation of French and Cree language and customs."

"Yes. These are mine, made by my Grandmother. Your Aunt Sophie has her own." She reached into the box again, taking out a book. She handed it to me. I knew it was special, so I handled it carefully. As I turned it over, I saw it was in a language I didn't know."

"Is this Métis language?"

"Michif is the name of the language. It's the book I learned from."

I tried and failed to hide my surprise. "Mom, are you Métis?"

She looked down, then back at me. "Yes, I am. And you have no idea how relieved I am to finally tell you."

"It's not something to be ashamed of. Not like being the daughter of a Mob Boss."

"That's not what it was like when I was young. Maura, you are young enough not to have that tightening in your stomach whenever people get too close to certain things. It was bad. We changed the spelling of our last name. We moved across the country. My grandfather was afraid people might discover who we were."

I reached out to hold her hand. Had so little time passed from a time of terrible racial prejudice?

I was beginning to suspect that this was it. The key to whatever made my family the way it is. I felt that inappropriate excitement when I think I am on the right track. I carefully schooled my features.

She let go of my hand to dip into the box once again. Out came one of those old fashioned family albums popular when Mom was a baby. The pages were black, and tiny, white, glue on triangles held the corners of pictures. I was fascinated. The photos were black and white, mostly of two little girls, obviously Mom and Aunt Sophie. Mom looked adventurous–ready to take on the world. Sophie was impish. I liked them both. My grandmother was a beauty, for that time. Black hair in a French roll, brown eyes wise beyond her years. She wasn't afraid of showing off her legs either.

My Grandfather had dark, curly hair, straight nose, dark eyes–which I knew had been green by looking into Mom's eyes. He had a military haircut. I had heard he served in World War Two.

I turned a page to an earlier generation. My great-grand-parents were typical Twenties young people. He was dashing, with his hat at a rakish angle. His suit was worn as if he owned the world, and his celluloid collar was stiff and high. She was a subdued flapper, hair cut short, skirt cut shorter. In the next picture, the clothing was Depression Era, and stair step kids were lined up in front of them. I smiled. There was something about this family that I liked. Mom reached over and turned the next page to me. My jaw dropped. Imagine being an American and opening a family album to find someone like Ameila Earhart in it. I couldn't quite believe my eyes.

"Louis Riel? He's your Great-great-grandfather?"

"And your fourth Great-grandfather."

"But, he's a national hero. He has a holiday. Why would this be a secret?"