At five thirty on a February Sunday
morning the phone rang. I knew who it was and what it was about.
“Lo siento,”
said my mother. Encouraging words came out of her mouth as my cousins
sobbed on the other end. Language as they know it was non-existent:
gasps of air, sniffles, and cries came out. “Esa casa esta en caos,”
said my mother. Chaos. The main source of love and peace in that house,
my aunt Lucero, had passed on to the next world. Through years of
turmoil and strife, my aunt had been the balm to life’s
lacerations.
I remember sitting in my aunt’s living
room talking with her. I would listen to her stories about raising five
children on her own, the good times, the bad times, and the even harder
times. A devout Catholic, she talked of how God helped her out, how
faith pushed her to keep fighting life’s
fight. She shared a story with me about learning to walk after
sustaining an injury to her leg: “half a block turned into a
block, a block turned into two, and pretty soon I was walking half the
town again.” That type of strength carried her and her family for
decades. We shared thoughts about relationships, spirituality, and
life. After hours of conversation that included laughter, tears of joy
and sadness, and a little lecturing on her part, I was left with the
lessons that are with me today.
Years ago I read Into the Daylight: A Wholistic
Approach to Healing by Calvin Morriseau.
I was starting to look at things in a different way, questioning patriarchy,
giving up alcohol, and attending sweat lodge ceremonies. One line in
the book really hit me. Morriseau writes of
riding in a car with an Anishinaabe Elder and
asking him what herbs and medicines women used specifically.
“Young man, women are the medicine,” said the Elder.
My life has witnessed women close to me fight
the odds and prevail; four women in particular who are mothers to me.
My prime example is my biological mother. My father left when I was two
and a half years old. I have literally seen him a couple of times since
then. With no emotional or financial support from his end, my mom
raised me on her own. Memories of her waking
me up at 6 a.m. every morning to take me to daycare; her sitting at the
dining table every month doing the budget for the following thirty
days; her passed out on the couch after working twelve hour shifts; her
studying after work to become a health care aid so as to earn more
money for us; her preparing meals for me and tucking me in bed every
night; her taking me to the movies as a surprise; her taking me to
Wonderland and Disney World; her visiting me every day when I was in
the hospital.
My second mom, my neighbour
senora Gabriela, who adopted
me in her life as she had suffered a miscarriage around the time that I
moved into our building, has also been fundamental in my life. When I
was sick and my mom would go to work, she would take care of me. I
remember having chicken pox and seeing her walk in with a plate of
chicken and rice that she had prepared for me. I would watch Days of
Our Lives with her, play with her, cook with her, and be a source of
healing for her as she was for me. Responsible for cleaning fourteen
rooms a day at a downtown hotel, she would contribute to the rent and
groceries, do all the cooking and cleaning, have a relationship with
her husband and her son, oftentimes being the buffer or peacemaker
between the two of them, and take care of me, the new addition to the
family. Simultaneously, I was able to experience the nuclear family
setting and the single parent household. It is women in my experience
who have been the strength in both.
My third mom is my aunt Adrianna. A visionary
from a young age, she left her small town to live in the big city.
Working as a secretary, a cleaner and other odd jobs, she managed to
see much of the world as a single woman: Hawaii, Europe, the Caribbean, and several places in the Americas. With a fiery temper and a
lust for drama, patriarchy cowers at her feet. “My dream has
always been to travel the world,” she told me. She’s done
pretty damn well. I am now following her example.
My fourth mom Jackie is someone who has
entered my life in recent years. She is the librarian at First Nations
House and my love for books made us connect quickly. I remember not
being able to afford a textbook for one of my Aboriginal Studies
classes and Jackie asked former director of FNH Anita Benedict if I could
get help with getting a copy of the text. Always going out of her way
to help out students, Jackie has been described as “the matriarch
of FNH” by my little sister Katy. Jackie is not only a crucial
part to my success at school, but she also teaches me life lessons as
well: the importance of giving, forgiving, and walking with spirit.
Women are the medicine!
This is
dedicated to my aunt Lucero Montenegro (1931-2007) who taught me that love is work and to
never give up on it.
