BY GLORIA O’KOYE
I am currently a teacher in Nemaska, Eeyou Isstchee, Quebec for this school year, teaching creative arts for grade 7-9s. My transition from Toronto to here has been a roller coaster, and I was confused by all the strong mixed emotions. It wasn’t until I flipped the first few pages of ‘Going Home, The Untold Story of The Nemaska Eenouch’ by Susan Marshall with George Wapachee, that I finally started to understand…
A place called home
Away from home
A place made to be called home
After being forced out
From the place that was called home
A place where elders found life
To a place that their ears cringed
At motor vehicles
Evicted by electric hydro company
A battle that seemed endless
For the Cree people
A place deep in the bushes
Filled with lifestyles that were present
Since the very beginning
A place where children begged their families to stay,
When that plane came to enter Old Nemaska,
To the residential place
Filled with assaults and endless hunger for days
A place that birth mistrust, even amongst the closest of kin
A place where metal rulers met the tender skin
When tears were overflowing with memories
That brought smiles to frowns on the kids
A place called home
Far away from home
A place filled with delicacies like beaver, moose & geese
To expensive imports
To one school
A close
Yet circular housing of separated relatives,
The remnants of colonial influence
Spread into heads
Stirring bad aftertaste
Whenever traditions
Could be used passed on
Such as the ceremony of smudging
A place that hides way too many stories
So outspoken like a rooster early in the morning
Yet the rage hungers like animals awoken during hibernation
For not having satisfaction of being full during autumn
A rage that plagues like the thick blanket of snow
Covering the peaceful lake that reveals the name it means
‘Land of Plenty of Fish’
A place that deserves the love
And should receive more love…
But often is forgotten within the blizzards
A place called home
Away from home
Beside the Champion Lake
A place that was forced to be born
More stories to tell
Among the young and the old.
Don’t know how long
Will the duration of this stay last
Before the feet on this land departs back
Into a city where memories of home stands
But the stories of the people of these land
Will be written and read
