In August of 1998, I visited once again with my relatives at the Pic River Ojibway First Nation Reserve in Ontario, Canada. I chose to plan my visit during their annual summer pow wow. Below is a three part article I wrote about my experiences at the Pic River Pow Wow, published in Anishinabek News in Ontario, and News From Indian Country in the States. I would like to thank Ken, Sharon, Carol, Doreen, Gloria, Kenny, and David, and their families (my family) for making it all possible. Mii-gwetch!

 

Metis-Ojibway Filmmaker's Journey Home
by
James M. Fortier

PART ONE

"The Seventh Fire"

It was utterly pitch black inside. Then, one by one we welcomed the red glow and warmth of the grandfathers as they entered. "Boozhoo Mishomis," echoed the voices around me. Six rocks, or "grandfather stones," were gently placed in the center of the lodge; in each of the four directions, East, South, West, and North; one stone for the Creator, "Kitchi-Manitou," and one for Mother Earth, Immediately the heat from the rocks penetrated my skin, warming me deep inside. Smoke from the sacred cedar placed on the stones drifted up from the center pit, quickly filling lodge and lungs alike. As I breathed in the purifying cedar smoke, a feeling of calm settled over me. During the first round of the sweat lodge I prayed for my late Metis-Ojibway father, and Anishinabe grandmother, and great-grandparents. After a lifetime of longing to know them, soon I would come to a profound understanding of who they were as Ojibway people, and I would experience a closeness to them never before imagined.

Ken Desmoulin Photo by James Fortier

As Ken Desmoulin, my cousin Sharon's husband, began to tap the drum and sing an Ojibway healing song, I thought of my five year-old son Jimmy and the special role he innocently played in the drama that was unfolding before me. Thousands of miles from my home in Northern California, I now missed him tremendously. How I wished he were with me as I returned to reclaim a piece of my past. But, this was a trip I had to make by myself. As a filmmaker and writer, the drama of the situation did not escape me. My son's birth in 1993 had set in motion the lifelong goals I harbored for nearly thirty years; dreams of returning to my birthplace in Nipigon, Ontario to meet my late father's 12 siblings, and to begin the process of learning more about our family's history and Ojibway heritage. Now, four years later, I sat in the sweat lodge with relatives and others from the Pic River First Nation Reserve. Although it was not my first sweat lodge, it was the first time in the lodge with relatives from Pic River, and it was the first time in an Anishinabe sweat lodge in the land of my birthplace. The sacredness and special meaning this held for me sustained me throughout the sweat. Ken's tireless efforts and devotion to bringing our traditional culture back to those Ojibway and other Native people finding their way home is a testament to the enduring ways of our people, and the healing power of Spirit in the Anishinabe world view. As the fourth and final door of the sweat began, I prayed for all my relations and thanked the Creator for the path he has laid before me as I continued my journey home. I looked into the glowing rocks and reflected on that journey; a journey marked with loss, tears, wonder, longing, sadness,, revelations, discoveries, excitement, laughter, joy, pride, fear, honor, and hope: hope for understanding, forgiveness and healing.

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In Hollywood, this is called a "flashback." Over the years I have replayed this particular scene in my head numerous times. It's September 27, 1963, a day that will forever change my life. It also happens to be my first birthday. As I drift back in time, the cool, early autumn air off Lake Superior enters through an open window near my crib. I hear my mother crying from the next room. The usual sound of children's' laughter is missing, replaced now by the sounds of sobbing and the quiet murmur of "grown-up" voices. "He was so young, poor Henriette, with all these mouths to feed," comes from one woman, a friend or relative perhaps. "And with no family here of her own, how will she manage," chimes in another. And finally, "She baked a cake for little Jimmy today, not much to celebrate now though." Instead of the celebratory sounds of a child's first birthday party, our small home in Nipigon is hushed by the tragedy of my father's untimely death. Struck by a tree while working in the bush, Walter, my dad, died instantly at the age of 24, leaving behind a young widow and five children, myself the youngest. This somber gathering of our family, and it was a very big family, marked the beginning of a long separation for us from our relatives in Canada. Shortly after my dad died, his mother, my grandma Doris Michano Fortier, also passed away at age 46, leaving behind 12 children. Her death made inevitable our separation; a separation of family, but also one of culture and heritage. Thirty years later, the birth of my son would rekindle the flame of longing, and trigger a voice inside me, telling me it was time to go home.

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Sharon (Michano) Desmoulin Photo by James Fortier

As our caravan pulled onto the Pic River First Nation Reserve, I was struck by the cleanliness and upkeep of the small but well groomed houses which lined the streets. My Aunt Linda, who had not been back to the reserve since living there as a child thirty years earlier, lead the way into the Band Office and boldly announced, "We're looking for some of our relatives." With a sense of curiosity and suspicion, one of the office employees looked up and asked, "Who are your relatives?" Linda proudly answered, "The Michanos." Several of the women in the office shot glances towards one another before one of them replied, "Well, ya gotta be more specific, there's lots a Michanos 'round here eh." Linda tried in vain to explain the family connection, "My mother was Doris Michano Fortier, and her mother was Agnes Finlayson Michano, married to Robert Michano." Finally, the employee brought out the Band Enrollment to verify Linda's story. Sure enough, there was her name along with my other aunts and uncles. Linda mentioned her cousins, and a phone call was made. "Aye, Sharon, ya got some long lost relatives here lookin' for der roots, ya betta come down, eh."

Carol (Michano) Desmoulin Photo by Jame Fortier

It wasn't long before a classic rez truck pulled up and an Indian woman climbed out while her husband, presumably, remained behind the wheel. She approached us cautiously and veered towards Linda, perhaps because she looks so much like grandma Doris. They exchanged introductions and it quickly became apparent that indeed Linda and the woman, Sharon Michano Desmoulin, were first cousins. Slowly the Indian man ventured out of the truck and quietly approached, introducing himself as Ken Desmoulin, Sharon's husband. They invited us to their house a short distance away. Once there, they began calling other cousins and family members. Soon the yard was filled with cousins, spouses and their children. Before long we were on our way to see Ken's "camp.

Jim, Ken, and Sharon , 1996 Pic River

The humor and irony of our situation did not escape me as I momentarily thought to myself, "Great, I've traveled over two thousand miles to learn about my Ojibway heritage and here I am following a rather large Indian man, whom I just met for the first time, driving in a rez truck through the bush to god only knows where, with my wife and child in tow in a rental car not made for off road driving." Visions of newspaper headlines flashed through my mind "Displaced family looking for Indian roots still missing in bush!" Finally we approached a clearing and there stood a magnificent teepee, two sweat lodges, and several other structures I later learned were used for healing ceremonies. Sharon and Ken led us into the teepee where we smudged with sage. Ken began telling us of his life growing up on the reserve, the good times and the bad. He talked openly of his formative years down a path away from his Ojibway culture and identity, and the negative effects it had on him. I was reminded of the pain of my own father's family due to cultural loss, racism, and assimilation. Ken then explained how ten years earlier he began his return to his Ojibway culture, traditions, and ceremonies. He described his ten-year sobriety, and how his traditional Ojibway lifestyle had made it all possible. It quickly dawned on me that Ken and Sharon were living examples of what I had learned of the Anishinabe Seventh Fire, or Prophecy; a time when a new generation of Anishinabeg will seek out a traditional Ojibway lifestyle by learning, perhaps for the first time, their own Ojibway ceremonies, customs, language, and traditions.

It was the spring of 1998, the start of the pow wow season here in Northern California, Once again I began to feel the pull which has been present since my childhood. It is the lure of one's homeland, of one's birthplace, or as the Ojibway Elder who gave me my Anishinabe name once said, "It's the unmistakable, undeniable Ojibway longing to go home," a message resonating throughout the land of the Anishinabe and at the center of the Seventh Fire Prophecy.

 

PART TWO

"HOMECOMING"

As I took my place beside the Veterans who were preparing to dance in the pow wow's grand entry, I thought of the man whose Veteran's Flag I was asked to carry. Holding tobacco and an old Canadian flag, Ken, my cousin Sharon's husband, had said to me, "We would like you to carry your uncle Gilbert's flag during grand entry, will you do that for us?" The honor was not lost on me as I answered, "absolutely." Uncle Gilbert was one of my grandma's brothers, who served in World War Two. Like my grandma and great-grandmother, I never had the chance to meet him. Suddenly a sense of panic raced through me. Although I had been to many pow wows, I had never entered the sacred circle - I had never danced. Ken's brother Dave appeared at my side and introduced me to the Chief, Roy Michano, who asked, "So, Gilbert was your uncle?" "He was my father's uncle, my great uncle," I replied. "Good, good, then we are all set to begin," he responded and took his place for grand entry. I knew deep down that my father, grandmother, great-grandmother, and great uncle Gilbert were all watching over me as I prepared to enter the sacred circle for my first time.

As we circled the arena four times a sense of pride began to mix with the nervous tension that had taken hold of me. My heart was in a good place though, so I put my trust in the Creator and continued. The wind picked up and I thought to myself, "Is that the Spirits from the west assisting me with a nice breeze, or is that old Nanaboozhoo trying to fowl things up and embarrass me and my family?" Finally, I managed to secure the flag and prepared to raise it. Suddenly, Dave appeared at my side whispering, "Is that how you guys in the States do it?" I Iooked at the flag and to my horror discovered that I nearly began to raise uncle Gib's flag upside-down. With the potential crisis averted, I proudly watched the flag rise. Later, we all shared a good laugh at you know who's expense, reminding me again of the Ojibway sense of humor and forgiveness. Earlier that day, I had the opportunity to meet more of my relatives at the Pic River Ojibway Pow wow. Before leaving California, I anticipated an eventful trip with memorable experiences, but nothing prepared me for the hospitality, and the warm welcome that was coming my way.

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Pic River Chief, Roy Michano, Photo by James Fortier

As we pulled off of the main highway and onto the reserve, we quickly passed the clarion sign proclaiming, "The Ojibways of Pic River First Nation." We followed the signs leading down to the Pic River where most of the reserve had set up camp. My youngest aunt, Sandra, and her daughter had followed me up from Nipigon. The Michano family is a large one, but we soon found Ken, Sharon and their families. They were expecting us and greeted us with open arms. Sandra disappeared with her cousins, Sharon, Carol, Gloria and Doreen, as they had much to catch up on. Meanwhile, I was quickly introduced to more cousins, cousins of cousins, the spouses of cousins, their in-laws, and so on. Quickly the surnames I've been puzzling over in my genealogy records were popping up before me in a dazzling reality; "Michano," "Desmoulin," "Finlayson," "Fisher," "Starr," "Echum," "O' Nabigon," "Gagnon," "Benoit," "Goodchild," and more. At last, the names that were once only words on paper began to take form before my eyes.

"You're Walter's son?" came the inquiry. "Yes, his youngest, did you know him?" I replied. "I knew Doris, and Agnes and her sisters, big family, lots of girls. Walter died cutting pulp in the bush, eh?" continued the Elder, a woman perhaps in her seventies. "Yes, that was my father," I responded. "I knew Doris Michano real good, she married that Ed Fortier, that Frenchman, eh," she went on. I nodded yes. "She lost her Indian Status then you know, that's what the government did in those days...only to the Indian women though," she continued. I took a seat beside her and pulled out some family photos from the 1920s.

She held the photos gently in her aged hands and spoke. "Oh my, yes, that is Agnes and her sister Louise. Agnes married Robert Michano, and Louise, she was the shy one," she continued. She paused, looking intently at the photo. Her delicate finger slid across the photo to two other women. "This is my mother," she said, tapping softly on the photo. "This is my mother, her name was Claudia Goodchild...she was a good friend of Agnes Michano," she went on. She quietly retreated in her own thoughts and memories, then handed me the photo saying "Mii-gwetch."

Kenny Lees, Photo by James Fortier

My cousin Kenny Lees, my Great Aunt Mary's son from Marathon, was also camping with Ken and Sharon. We made our way out to the pow wow grounds and sat near other family members. The pow wow grounds are at the southern end of the Pic River Reserve, just a few hundred yards from where the river flows into Lake Superior. I paused for a moment to take in the view. I couldn't help picturing what it must have been like there 150 years ago. Just a few yards outside of the pow wow grounds once stood the original Hudson's Bay Co. Pic River Post, and nearby laid the remains of the old post cemetery where our ancestors are buried. Nothing remains of the cemetery now, but later I ventured out on my own and laid down some tobacco for those who came before us.

Standing near the spot where the old Hudson's Bay Co. Post once stood. I took out a picture of my great-great-great-grandfather John Finlayson, who was half Scottish and half Oji-Cree from the Red River Settlement. He was the Hudson's Bay Co. Pic River Postmaster. Next to him is his Oji-Cree wife Angelique Geshagesic, their son Nick Finlayson, his Ojibway wife Jane Soulier, and their 11 children, including my great-grandmother Agnes at age four. Standing on the location believed to be where the Pic Post once stood, I thought about the lives of John and Nick Finlayson, and it dawned on me that the old photo might have been taken right on that very spot. I picked up some loose dirt, rubbed it in my palms, thought about my ancestors buried nearby, and for the first time began to understand the real meaning of my Ojibway heritage. It's not just about wild rice, sweat lodges, birch bark canoes, or even pow wows. It's about the land, it's about the earth itself as a link spiritually and physically from one generation of Anishinabeg to the next, and to the next, and so on forever. I placed that dirt in a paper bag and returned to camp..

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With a slight misty drizzle just coming to an end, numerous camp fires spreading smoke across the pow wow grounds, and early risers emerging from their slumber, the stage was set for a quiet conversation with Ken. It wasn't long before his enthusiasm for all things Anishinabe began to pour from his heart. Once again I was captivated by his selflessness, his hope for our people, his faith in our Anishinabe ceremonies and the potential therein for healing, forgiveness, and renewal. I was dazzled by his goals to bring family and friends from the reservation and beyond together in harmony, in an effort to heal the centuries-old wounds of racism, oppression, and assimilation. He spoke of self-reliance, self-determination, self-worth, and self-esteem as the building blocks for the future of Ojibway people. All this, underscored with a humility and self-depreciation that characterizes Ken so profoundly. "I am but a vessel to carry the creators message, his truth, his ability to heal. It is the Creator and the individual that move the spirit of healing and make that healing possible. I am just a weak man, no more, no less, trying to live close to the creator, close to Mother Earth, in order to be a better Anishinabe man."

Alone, out on the river front, it was a solitary moment during a weekend filled with the laughing of children, the echo of the emcee, the jangling of jingle dresses, the mummer of voices from friends and relatives, and the eternal beat of the drum. I have always believed that this path I'm on is not one that I have necessarily chosen, but rather one that I was born to walk. An Elder recently told me "You don't go looking for things, they come to you. You must be patient, but if it is meant for you, it will come to you." Soon, I would experience the truth behind those words.

 

PART THREE

"Full Circle"

Gloria (Michano) Courchene, Photo by James Fortier
"Would James Fortier please come to the emcee booth," came the announcement over the loudspeakers. Walking slowly, I could see my cousin Sharon, her husband Ken and sister Carol all gathered together waiting for me. Ken handed me some tobacco and welcomed me. Sharon held the microphone and began to speak to the hundreds of Pic River First Nation community and family members present. "Boozhoo, my name is Sharon Desmoulin, many of you know me already. This is a special day for our family, for this young man standing next to me. He has made a special effort to travel from California to be here with us this weekend." Sharon turned her attention to me and continued, " I would like to introduce my cousin, his name is Jim Fortier, his grandmother was Doris Michano, who was my aunt, his great-grandmother was Agnes Finlayson Michano, who was my grandma. I would like to thank you Jim for bringing our family together again in this special way after so many years apart." Sharon handed me the microphone. I was calm as I began to speak. "Boozhoo, and thank you Sharon and Ken for opening your home to me, and for sharing your lives with me." I turned to the crowd and continued. "I just want to tell you all that I am very honored that you have not only allowed me to come into your community to participate in this pow wow, but that you have done so with a gracious and open heart. I first came here two years ago and met my cousins Sharon, and Carol, their sisters, and their families. They warmly welcomed me into their home and opened up their lives to me, telling me much about what life is like here. We kept in touch over the past two years, and so now here I am again. I came here hoping to learn more about our people and our history, and I want to thank you for giving me so much more than that." I paused to control my emotions and continued, "Not only will I go away with a greater understanding of what it means to be Anishinabe, but I feel in my heart that I have come closer than ever before to the father, grandmother, and great-grandparents I never had the chance to know. And for that I thank my cousins and all of you who have been so kind to me. Mii-gwetch!"

Powwow drum, 1998 Pic River Photo by James Fortier
As I hugged Sharon, Carol, Gloria, and Doreen, and shook hands with Ken and David, the emcee announced loudly, "This is a very special day for this young man who has found his Ojibway family, he has traveled very far to be here and his family has asked for this special honor song for him. Northern Drum, take it away." As I headed the dance around the sacred circle, and with tears streaming down my cheeks, I danced for my father, for grandma Doris, for my family. As we circled the arena once the emcee continued, "The family requesting this honor song has asked that all members of the Fortier, Michano and Finlayson families please join in behind the dance to show their support of this very special event. "I looked behind me and saw many, many people joining in. Soon there were very few people left on the perimeter of the arena to watch. Words cannot fully express the pride and joy that filled my heart at the sight before me. With the tears finally subsiding, I held my head high as we continued the fourth and final dance around the sacred circle. As I passed by the Anishinabek Nation Flag I could feel my father, grandmother and great-grandparents there in the circle by my side, Afterwards, dancers in full regalia approached me, shook my hand, thanked me, and welcomed me home. As I walked among the crowd of people, smiling faces and well wishers greeted me at every turn. Elders motioned me to approach them and began telling me how they are related to my grandmother and great-grandmother. It was more than I ever dreamed possible. It was a powerful sense of belonging, of being "home," at last.

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Doreen (Michano) McKay, Photo by James Fortier
Off in the distance I could see the ominous dark clouds getting closer, and it wasn't long before the Thunder Beings were nearly upon me. Up ahead a familiar sign by the highway grew bigger as I raced towards it.. "Coldwell Rd." I screeched to a halt, backed up and pulled off the highway and into what was once the small timber town of Coldwell, the birthplace of my father. The rain had yet to fall from the darkening skies overhead, so I grabbed my tobacco pouch and some sage and climbed out of the rental car. The area had long since overgrown with weeds and young saplings. I discovered several abandoned houses; shacks really, windows broken, roofs caving in. Entering one cautiously, I thought to myself, "My father was born in an old shack like this one, perhaps this very one." I lit some sage, took out my tobacco pouch, and silently prayed and thanked the Creator for all that he gave me this past weekend. I thought of my grandma Doris giving birth to my father in that place, and of my great-grandmother Agnes assisting her without a doctor. I thanked them for their strength and sacrifices and slowly turned to make my way outside. As I stepped out, the Thunder Beings roared above me, as if carrying the spirits of Doris and Agnes from the west to greet me there in the land of our birthplace, the land of the Ojibway. I starred up at the clouds and just as a tear began to roll down my cheek, a torrent of rain suddenly poured from above. I could not help but believe that in those rain drops were the tears of my grandparents, my father, uncle Gib, and all the ancestors who came before me. I stood there for a moment, letting the rain fall on me. As the rain subsided I dashed to the car and sped away. Leaving Pic River behind, I thought of my son, Jimmy. Although far removed physically and by blood, he nonetheless carries with him a piece of my past, of my Ojibway heritage. More importantly, perhaps, he will carry our past, my grandmother's legacy, into the future, to the next generation.

 

EPILOGUE

It was a beautiful, warm and sunny Northern California day. All the telltale signs indicated a fogless evening and clear sunset. As dusk approached I grabbed my tobacco pouch, some sage, and the tattered paper bag I had brought all the way from Pic River. I drove out of the coastal canyons and headed for the beach nearby. With all I needed in hand, I walked towards a large rock near the water's edge and sat down. The sun was dropping fast and soon would dip below the western horizon. The majestic Pacific was unusually calm that evening. I took out my sage, a special gift from Ken Desmoulin. He had once brought the sage, including the roots, all the way from the Canadian prairie, replanted it in his camp at Pic River, and proudly boasted that he had the only prairie sage growing on the north shore of Lake Superior. I lit the sage and smudged hoping to clear my thoughts and bring only goodness into my heart before continuing. I watched the smoke rising upward to the Creator and thought of the path this sage had taken.

Originally from one part of Canada, it was uprooted, replanted, took root again, and is now helping to heal Anishinabe people in a time of renewal and rebirth. The symbolism could not escape me. Finally, here it is thousands of miles from it's birthplace, at the western door, and still healing and marking a renewal of sorts. I pulled out my tobacco pouch and stood up. Taking a pinch I offered it the four directions. I thanked the Creator and sprinkled the tobacco over the calm waves splashing at my feet. Next, I pulled out the tattered paper bag and reached inside for a handful of earth; the same earth I had picked up near the final resting place of our ancestors at Pic River. I held a small portion of the earth in my hand and prayed for my family, my relatives, my father, grandmother, great-grandparents, and all my relations. I slowly sprinkled the earth across the western waters of the Pacific Ocean. I sat back down and watched the waves take the earth back out to sea. Slowly, the setting sun dipped below the horizon and life seemed very good to me at that moment.

Mii-gwetch!

The End

Some of the Michano/Desmoulin Children, our next generation of Anishinabeg.

 

 

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