Rememberings By KiiskeeN'tum (She Who Remembers) from a post to NativeWeb www.nativetech.org on February 18, 1998

As a young child, when my six brothers and I would get into scuffles, my Grandmother would sit us down in a Circle and tell a story. I must admit that on occasion, we would stage a fight, just to get to the story!

She was old, in her sixties when I was born. She was small, not reaching five feet. She usually wore leather, but sometimes pants and flannel shirts of indeterminate origin that looked as old as the hills. Her face was so lined that the lines looked like river beds running down her sun-tanned cheeks.

She almost always would greet Grandfather Sun with her Pipe. She would pull me from my nice warm bed to go with her. Not being a morning person, I would complain about how come us Indians couldn't be like white folks (no disrespect intended to my non Indian relatives) and start the day later? She would laugh, take my hand and keep walking, telling me that one day, when I had grandchildren of my own I would begin to understand the importance of things.

She wore faded old moccasins that always seemed in need of repair, but she was never still enough for me to do that, once I was old enough to learn how. Her voice was quiet, low, and sounded like a gentle brook, until she got angry and then she sounded like the Thunder! I didn't like to make her angry.

As we sat in the Circle, we were not allowed to speak, once she began her stories. Her voice would rise and fall, taking on different intonations, of the young warrior, (sometimes it was a young girl), the old man, his wife, others in the community. She would sometimes forget her English or become frustrated with it, as it does not convey the multiplicity of meanings that she wished to share. Near the end of the story, she would walk around the circle of children and gently place each of our hands in the hand of the next, counterclockwise, and gently squeeze until we were sure of a firm clasp.

As her story ended, she would pull us all into standing position, and we would have a wonderful group hug. Occasionally, she would get her hand Drum, quietly singing a song, and lead us into a dance, with the circle ever growing smaller, until she was at the center of a group hug, and we dissolved into fits of laughing and tickling. If neighbours were around, as they often were, they might join in, one by one. Or just watch in quiet enjoyment.

I am now a grandmother, many many times. She was right, of course, and now I begin to catch a glimmer of the importance of things, even what 'things' might truly be. As long as we allow the uniqueness to be divisive rather than special, we remain divided.
Differences, like words can divide us, or unite us. We can choose to honour the things that we share, that are similar. We can also choose to honour the diversity and different-ness of our souls, spirits, families, communities and nations in ways that build, with greater strength. As long as we remain conflicted and divided, change is more difficult to achieve, healing more difficult to find and sustain. The destruction continues. The most important concept is that we CHOOSE.

My Grandmother believed that once we again joined hands, to work together for common goals, 'of one mind' according to the Iroquois Constitution (which out there on the web, just search it out), that there would be a day when we would accomplish miracles of healing and rebuilding, Mother Earth, our four Sacred Directions, our families, our children's futures, down to the seventh generation, and, just as importantly, within our selves.
I am only just beginning to understand the wisdom of her words, which were passed down to her from her ancestors, back to the time of the beginning.

Aho!
Respectfully,

KiiskeeN’tum – She Who Remembers