Orange ribbons flapping on the car mirrors. Indigenous drumming over the speakers. The scenery changes slowly from yellow, flat plains to towering green trees and, finally, the mountains. Our spiritual journey is upon us. I feel it is spiritual. Prayer, smudging and ceremonies. Teaching and sharing as we meet people. They see us in our orange shirts. Tears are shed along the way, but we are supporting each other.

We come not only with the Sacred Bundle and gifts; we come with our own personal stories of residential schools. That is a bond, and the thing that has brought us together. I am hearing from others who, like me, were drawn to going on this trip. It was not an “if ” or “might go” type of feeling; it was a must-go. We were each called together for this pilgrimage. We each have our gifts to share. Sweetgrass is stronger when braided together. So is this group of grandmothers and mothers on a spiritual journey to the mountains.

Little Ones at each site. (Photo: Vivian Ketchum)

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• Knee-jerk reactions to unmarked graves won’t further reconciliation
• 8 common claims of residential school deniers and how to shut them down

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THE GRAMMAS ARE COMING, I SILENTLY TOLD THE LITTLE ONES.

LIFT UP YOUR SMUDGE BOWLS TO THE WEST.

Lift up your prayers to the east. We are giving the Sacred Bundle to the Chief today. I dreamed of a mother crying for her child. Couldn’t shake the dream. It kept replaying in my sleep. I am sharing my story with another residential school survivor. She is over 80 years old. A knowledge-keeper of language. I am being comforted. It feels so right. Healing.

A DOZEN INDIGENOUS WOMEN FROM SIMILAR BACKGROUNDS.

We travel together for a week, journeying toward a spiritual purpose. To show support for a grieving community. There are no arguments or scrabbles about who is the boss. Instead we each use our individual gifts. Each barrier was overcome with a group effort. When one was weak, another took over. We achieved our purpose and finished our journey.

I think Manitoba needs an Indigenous woman Chief. We get things done. Endless black pavement. Leading home. I get to go home. I get to see my family. I get to see the sunset one more time. People know my name. I get to…

WHEN THE WHISPERS BEGAN

Skipping rope

Double dutch

Dandelions

Into a chain.

Yellow buttercup flower 

Under the chin.

Do you like butter?

The smell of the grass

Mixed with the smell of

a sewer nearby.

The shiny swing

With its long chains

The chains of the swing

That pinched the palms

Of your hands

Beehive-shaped

Monkey bars

Always too scared to

Go to the top

My feet and hands 

Were too small.

The group of trees

With its sticky sap

The green hedge with

Its thorny bushes

It went around the building

That basement window

With that odd mirror

it twisted your image

If you danced in

Front of it.

The grey stairwell that

Kids knew to avoid

Strange things 

Happened up

Those stairs

In that office

Sounds picturesque

Ideal

But it was my prison

As a child

Where I learned

Where the whispering

Began.

 

—Vivian Ketchum

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Vivian Ketchum is a member of Wauzhushk Onigum First Nation, living in Winnipeg.

This story first appeared in Broadview’s Oct/Nov 2021 issue with the title “Survivors’ Journey.”

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