a story of these moccasins
The story of these moccasins has been building and bubbling for many generations now. And telling their story is only their story at this point in time- for at a different point in time their meaning and story will be different. When you make something by hand you stitch and you bead a story into them. There’s the story of how they’re made, and who helped to teach you, there’s the story of the deer or moose or elk that eventually become your warmth, the story of laughter, humility, and community in making them, and then there’s the story of your beadwork.
Elder Joyce shared that at one time, the beadwork on your moccasins would share where you came from, and hence, who you are. By looking at someone's moccasins you would know where their people came from. So let me share a little story of these moccasins:
The story of my moccasins can’t be shared in coherent and quick timelines . The story of these mocs spans generations of love and loss and a personal form of diaspora . The story of these mocs does not have a beginning or an end- and if there is a climax there is no resolution. The story of these mocs is time as it is taught to me by elders- circular and living in so many places of the present, past and future. They are our family then and our family now. I learned to share this knowledge with our young people but in order to do so I need to go far back into this body of our family
dodem muskwa. kitchi sipi, mattawa sipi, and Matawasi`bi ani`cena`bi- mouth of the river people
Dad wanted walleye, partridge, and hare on his mocs. He knows our land in a lived way- in an intimate way that I do not yet know- or at least have not known in this lifetime. I’m the first generation to be removed from our homeland- and I feel the loss deep in my spirit. He grew up eating partridge and hare- trapped and hunted by his older brothers on their homelands and spent enough time on the river fishing for walleye. So did our ancestors.
There is no online Algonquin dictionary, which is the only way I can access my language. This brings forward a sense of dread and panic- the language of our ancestors stolen and lost. I settle for Ojibwe and the online dictionary tells me that walleye is "Ogaa” or “Walleye”- I know it means so much more than walleye but the dictionary doesn’t share anything further. It can’t.
I live among kisiskâciwanisîpiy- river that moves at a swift walking pace- and we come from Kitchi Sipi- great river and also mattawa sipi, river whose walls echo it’s current- all of these rivers have made me who I am- they have raised me. They have raised me in the present and in the past and i bring that with me into the future
There are so many lakes where we come from. Lakes for all our relatives. which is maybe why I drive 4 hours in the summer to swim in lakes- this body remembers
These mocs hold all that water and all those stories and all those memories. Even memories I have yet to remember.
they connect me to home and root me to water
Sipi tells you where I am from, where I have been, and where i am
Muskwa. I remember the first time I saw muskwa
It was a sacred experience and i was so overwhelmed with beauty and gratitude that I cried
I have dreamt of makwa so many times and they always take care of me in my dreams. Learning we are from bear clan was something my spirit always knew and needed to be reminded of
When driving to make moccasins I notice all the streets in the small town are named after waterways in Ontario. Superior street, Eerie street, Huron street, St. Lawrence street- The blue signage and narrow and condensed residential streets remind me of the small lake town on the shores of lake Huron we visited when I was only 19 . No, I do not know their real names.
I learn that the town of Devon has a naming policy that states “ All development areas and road names will reflect the traditional use of bodies of water in Canada". But of course none of these names are traditional. I wonder what these streets would be called if named after the water in their own backyard and how it might inspire humans to befriend those waterways- “take a left on river that moves at a swift walking pace drive."
Being here- learning to make moccasins from a beautiful Cree-Metis Elder among streets named after the waterways of my people brings forth another wave of place dysphoria. And after the dysphoria- gratitude. Gratitude for the knowledge, and the sun aiding the beadwork, and the help in learning a skill all our people once knew. All of us together as women.
So i bead makwa onto my mocs acknowledging the bear whose been our teacher, companion, and the leader of our family for generations. I bead muskwa to connect to land, nokom, cousins, aunts, uncles, and ancestors. and then I bead the waters that lead me, the waters that lead us- and the the fish for dad that I haven’t yet eaten and the partridge from back home i’ve seen my cousin hunt and reach forward and back and into the present and the past and the future again and again and again.
On a tuesday at work I begin to share with our young people what I have learned. And they too pick up a needle and some beads and begin that medicine work- and their young hands- weaving in and out on wool and felt begin to remember. And so we move forward and backward together again and again and again.
