Ciqәne

Ciqәne

Ciqәne sat cross-legged as he gazed into the fire flaming before him. The dancing shadows it cast around him in the darkness reminded him of his inexpressible grief at the loss of his grandmother. Thoughts of her brought tears to his eye, that never managed to spill over. The lump in his throat did not change the stern expression on his chiseled brown face. His eyes closed and he saw her dancing again. Her legs had long lost the lithe of youth, yet with soft footsteps, she moved to the rhythm of songs from times past. Songs that only she heard as she mumbled the song’s words in a language that only she was able to speak or understand.  

Her village had dwindled one person at a time, until there were six elderly couples remaining. His grandfather had been tall and strong, even in old age, and was always telling the younger ones to learn as much in school as they could. When Ciqәne would go with his mom to visit the village, these school children would interpret for him and his grandfather. When Grandfather would take a group to teach how to fish or track, he always had some hard questions to ask. When Ciqәne would answer he ‘did not know’, his grandfather would say: ‘What you don’t know would fill a whole new world’ and chuckle to himself. 

Gradually, these children had moved out of the village to go to school or to find good paying jobs. No one wanted to worry about the elders being at risk of health or life issues. These busy relatives had been the ones to force the final migration of the tribal remnants away from their homeland, culture and proud heritage. They took all connections with them. There was no one to leave contact information with.  When his grandfather died, his mom had told Grandma she could not stay there alone. She had insisted it was better that she come live in safety. The village had simply died when the last elders left and no one from subsequent generations came to replace them. His mom had passed by once and sadly reported that nearby non-Native American townspeople with homes and businesses had moved in like weeds into a vacant lot. No one was there or willing to come back and fight for the government given land title.

Grandma had come to live with them. There were times without warning, Grandma, would be inspired by something she saw or a distant memory to start dancing, a faraway look in her eyes. Being very young he thought this was great fun and would mimic her movements. He would cuddle up next to her when she grew tired of her dancing efforts and sat down. He would hug her tightly. She would look into his eyes and smile, saying his. It had always made him feel like he was the most important person in the world. Sometimes, it was as if she saw someone else there, but he could not ask her, who it was. He had not learned the tribal language, never having lived around people who spoke it. She spoke little English and spent much of her time crafting blankets, sitting by the fire. She hardly spoke at all. The words she needed were unavailable making her mute. There was nothing to be gained by it.

When he was older and it became important to him, he sought for connection to his heritage. It was too late. He found it was only Grandma who spoke the tribal language fluently. His mother knew only a few words, remembered from early childhood. That was before she went to the small one room missionary school house, then later on to the distant public schools. Her older brother had died and her older sister had run away and was thought to be dead or at least dead to her family. The village was empty, without any means to even contact anyone to let Grandma to talk, who knew how to converse with her. There were only useless phrases in research book written by professors at universities far away. She still smiled when he hugged her and was happiest when he came home and took her for walks in parks. He always went through and picked up the trash beforehand. If he forgot, Grandma would spend their time together gathering the litter.

Ciqәne had chosen Environmental Science as his major, he felt compelled to preserve the land as it might have been for his forefathers, before the land was ‘discovered’. He was frustrated that not many people were sincerely concerned about this unrenewable resource. Trash, garbage, waste and pollution were a part of everyday life. Somehow, he felt close to his grandma when he worked on finding waste management solutions. This was deeply satisfying work, even if it meant that he had to pick up trash himself.

His mother had called him at his university graduate student apartment early in the morning, one day last week. She softly let him know Grandma had died and he should come home for memorial services that weekend. He suddenly felt hollow. That was it; the last thread was broken. There was nothing left, to anchor him to a family history tradition or people. Although he had the mark of his tribe with his name, Ciqәne: a racoon. His grandma had given him the name. Why she had given it or what it had meant to her, even his mom said she had never asked. Now, she was gone and with her enough answers to questions he did not know, to fill a whole new world.

He stared at the dancing flames a few minutes more. He sighed, scooted backwards to lift himself onto the armchair, removed the headband holding back shoulder length black straight hair and placed it beside the framed picture of Grandma. beside him on the small table.  Standing, he flipped the light switch on and turned off the gas burning ceramic log in the fireplace. He stretched and shuffled off to bed.