It’s been a long haul to get this project up and running and I want to thank you all for your patience as we did a tremendous amount of behind the scenes work to create a new website and migrate all the archived content from the previous issues of Dawnland Voices 2.0!

The works you will find in this 2023 issue are varied and interesting.  We asked our community members and writers what Medicine means to them, and how it functions in their lives.  Medicine takes many forms for The People and includes teachings, encounters and life events as well as the support and intervention received for physical maladies.  It is a form of wisdom that can also bring us into a right, balanced relationship to The Mother.

I’ve found that poetry is good medicine in my life, as well as connection to my own ancestral lineage.  In this issue I have included a reprint of a sestina I wrote more than ten winters ago, about relationship to place and the transformation I experienced as a mixed blood Waponahki woman finding a place to belong.

We have plans to include expanded digital content as well as author profiles and interviews.

I am excited to move forward with these goals and that is where you come in.  If you have ideas on content to include please let us know!  We will be starting outreach for author profiles

this fall and would be delighted to include you as a New England Indigenous writer.

A reminder that we have moved to a once yearly publication format, so that gives you plenty of time to polish those poems and draft those essays!  This publication exists to support your work.  We want to share New England Indigenous writing with the world.  We are also looking for graphic art and new media for the site.

Meanwhile, Kci Woliwon for your interest and please enjoy this new issue. Should you have any feedback for us, please share to:   editordawnlandvoices@gmail.com

(Let’s work together)
Mawoluhkahtine!
-Mihku

Spirit churning wildly upon the ocean’s door
Can’t find no when or why for
Waves of life cuts to the core
Searching for the safest shore

Antiseptic sting on an open wound
Whimpering mind of a distressed loon
Crying out its sorrowful tunes
Longing for solitude of a darkened moon

So much to say yet words elude
Emotions stymied for a jolly good mood
Confusion professes an ominous attitude
Where to go and not intrude

Beaten body breaks the bar
Traveled roads to near and far
Stumbled and tumbled across the tar
Reliving each and every scar

Yet the quest remains to walk the path
Getting wet is part of the bath
One day this journey will make us laugh
Together our stories are only half

Down East Spring

Entering a new dawn is a sense of time not a place
It is a continuance of the spiritual journey to our inner space
Riding high on eagle wing
Alleluia the choirs sing
As birds chirp in the awaited Spring

The orange sun rises over the bay
Bringing forth god’s beautiful day
Soft winds sway the spruce trees to and fro
Tree buds begin to burst and show
As the crocus begins to grow

Over the bay a duck goes back and forth
As the geese travel south to north
Another day in Down East
Working together we can fill it with peace
And celebrate the daily feast

Just as the sun travels across the sky
Creating shadows as it passes by
Life’s journey touches many along our path
With each encounter we cry or laugh
While the Father guides us always with His loving staff

Blessed are we with each step we take
Blessed are we with each memory we make
No need for club or knife
Just hands reaching out to calm our neighbor’s strife
Sharing our love in the circle of life

May god always be with you to guide your journey, fill you with His merciful love, and bless you with peace Niyalic (Amen).

Down the Beach

Warmth gently blowing across your face
Nourishing the soul with memories of a special place
Waves and sand rustle and race
Your being is in a state of grace

Wind continues to lightly blow through your hair
As you nurture the past with loving care
Amazingly in the mind’s eye special people, places, and things reappear
Feeling the love forms a single tear

Barefoot in the sand you walk along
Playing in your head is your special life song
Beauty surrounds and seagulls caw where love belongs
Down the beach and nothing’s wrong

Hold on

I see the world as a Native man
That is what I know, that is what I am
Though slightly swayed by the world around
I cling to traditions my ancestors bound

I see the birds fly their course
Looking for nourishment in life’s own source
Hear the waves splash to and fro
And ancient melody we all should know

Striving to tend to my Mother Earth
Who cradled and cared from my birth
I still hold tight to the ways of the past
Tried and true built to last
They are there for me within my grasp

Home Eternal

Dancing on the clouds
covered with majestic shrouds
gold and pearls mingle at your feet
gliding to the feeling of a native heartbeat
Happiness ensues at the sacred reunion
passionately embracing long lost kin
A comfortable euphoria begins within and everyone’s
smiling

Comfort radiates throughout body and soul.
All that was part is now made whole
As the endless fields roll and roll.
The warmth of the Sun is a majestic glow
The flute and drum produce the heavenly sound
as each spirit is unvaryingly crowned
Harmony and Justice compose the ground
Love eternal abounds …. Home

Excerpt from Soup and Sermon

I see the water as a guiding spirit.  Water is a spirit that refreshes and renews my inner self.  Water reveals to me through its humble spirit as sense of belonging to something much greater than myself.  Realizing that I am a part of a great mystery that interacts and intertwines with other elements of the universe provides my life with meaning and substance.  The reliability of water’s motion as in the tides and the waves shows me the importance of consistency of maintaining a harmonious balance in life.   I see through flowing water the constant passing of time and the trials that lie in my path.  The path that I choose to journey though this world is filled with stretches of solitude and gentle flowing that can abruptly give way to turbulent rapids or a sudden drop like a waterfall.  Regardless of the encounter flowing water shows me that I must enjoy the quiet and beautiful stretches and endure the chaotic with an inner serenity.  The wisdom that water shares is a knowing that if my path is true, it will lead me to my destiny that is back to the Great Father.

Passamaquoddy leader gives historic speech to Maine State Legislature

Original pub. 2002
Updated September 12, 2018

Good Morning, I bring greetings from Sipayik. I had two choices this morning, my war club or my peace pipe, but I am here to make peace.

Thank you for inviting me here today. My name is Rick Doyle, my traditional title is Sakom, but I am now called Governor of the Passamaquoddy Tribe at Pleasant Point. The Passamaquoddy are proud members of the Wabanaki people. I am honored to be the guest of the Maine Legislature. This is a historic occasion and a historic opportunity for the Passamaquoddy people and the people of Maine. My hope is that this is the beginning of a new era of cooperation, trust, and partnership as we move forward and look to the future. While our past has been colored by distrust, we are willing to walk forward together in friendship to help raise the quality of life of my people and all the people of Maine.

My people have lived in Maine and parts of Canada for more than 500 generations. We were once the most predominant people in this area, living in harmony with Great Mother, receiving her bounty and protecting the watershed. We lived off the mountains, the water, the woods, and the land. We were fishermen in the summer and hunters in the winter. Great Mother provided for us and we were there to nurture, protect and preserve her bounty. We have a spiritual connection to the earth and have always viewed ourselves as caretakers of the land, river and Great Mother.

We believe that everything in nature is interconnected, the water, the land, the people, the plants and the animals. When we pick sweet grass, we do so blade by blade to honor the spirit of each blade. We then clean the sweet grass in the field so that the seeds may fall back into the field, where nature intended them to fall so that the field can continue.

It has always been so with our people.  We harvest only what we need from the land.  We view each animal and plant separately based on its environment and connection to nature and US.  In turn, we look to the land and Great Mother for signs of danger and injury and work to protect her.  In that way, all of creation can replenish itself.

From the beginning of European settlement, we held out the hand of friendship, first with the French, then the English and finally with the American colonists. We assisted French explorers who sought our knowledge of the area as well as our help with their new settlements. When the English arrived, we signed treaties with the understanding that we would share the land with them. We shared the land and Great Mother’s bounty with the new colonists. When the new colonists arrived, we were there when they needed us.

In the hopes of protecting some of our land base, we signed a treaty with the Commonwealth and later with the State of Maine. The U.S. Congress never ratified these treaties. These treaties gave us title to several islands, a 23,000-acre township and several smaller tracts of land, including 10 acres at Pleasant Point, which through our efforts was later increased. Despite the lack of federal protections, the tribe followed the tenets of this treaty even after the State of Maine was created in 1820.

Three years after the State of Maine was made a state, our people were given non-voting representation in the Maine Legislature. Through these representatives we were able to secure the establishment of the Passamaquoddy Trust Fund to finance emergency aid for the needy. The fund was financed from the proceeds of timber sales, grass and power rights on our land. Such aid was desperately needed to help our people who were in dire straits. Despite being on the rail lines, our people were not allowed to take advantage of the situation and remained reliant on hunting, fishing, trapping, basket making, and other traditional arts.  Interest from this fund was paid to the Indian Agents who were supposed to be looking out for our welfare. Instead, we were given the leftovers, thus beginning a long cycle of welfare dependency. Where was the State of Maine when we needed your help and protection? Again, we had been taken advantage of by those we trusted.

Later, in the 1960s, we discovered that part of our land was sold or leased without Federal consent. This discovery set off a legal battle that resulted in federal recognition for the Passamaquoddy and Penobscot peoples and a claim by the tribes to nearly two-thirds of the State of Maine. Despite legal victory after legal victory, we sought compromise with the state. The future of Maine as a whole was at stake. Government functions, businesses and people’s lives were held in the balance as long as this court case was being pursued. The result of that compromise was the Maine Indian Settlement Act, under which we operate now.

Unfortunately, the Settlement Act has not achieved its goal. It is a failed experiment, in my mind. We seek only to maintain and exercise our sovereignty to protect our way of life. The settlement gave us more authority over our internal matters and allowed us to keep our federal recognition. However, it also left open questions over jurisdiction. As called for in the Settlement Act, I would urge the Maine Tribal State Commission to review the Settlement Act and to suggest changes to help bring it into a new era and clarify the questions of jurisdiction that were left open.

These questions have led us to our current situation. We want to ensure that we have clean water. Plain and simple. The current court cases and arguments made by the paper companies are not about documents to us. It is about our right to clean water. It is about the health and safety of our people.

I am fighting for my people’s right to continue our traditions and way of life without fear of poisons or toxins in our water. We want to continue to be able to fish, swim, canoe, sustain ourselves and harvest our medicines. In sum, we ask that we be allowed to continue to practice our traditions and culture as we have for more than 500 generations. Polluters have been discharging toxins into the river that make the fish unsafe to eat, the water unsafe to swim in and that threaten the very vitality of the river itself.

It is my duty not only to my people, but also to Mother Earth to protect the river and the water. That is why we have fought so hard and vigorously on the issue of water quality. If I must be imprisoned to protect the river, then so be it. This is worth fighting for. Money and power are fleeting. Nature is forever. My people are forever. We will not back down. We will continue to fight for our right to clean water, no matter how long, and no matter what the cost.

We are encouraged by the Governor’s offer of negotiations to find a way to solve this matter outside of court. It has always been my hope that we could settle the problems between the Passamaquoddy, the state, and the other parties involved through negotiation. However, we must make it clear that our main goal is the preservation of the bays, rivers, streams, lakes and ponds in order to protect the health and safety of our people. We hope that these negotiations will open a new chapter in our relationship with the State of Maine. Despite the problems of the past, we seek cooperation and consensus. We see progress and a growing understanding of our concerns on this issue and others. Together, we can help to protect our state’s natural resources and the lifeblood of our culture: the river and its watershed. Together, we can begin to build the foundations for a new relationship between the Passamaquoddy and the people of Maine.

Throughout history, the Passamaquoddy have been there when the people and the United States needed us. Our people fought in many wars for the United States to protect our country, our land and our way of life. From the Revolutionary War to the present, my people have fought valiantly to protect our nation. This, despite the fact we were not granted the right to vote in Maine until 1954. This is the first time in 182 years that tribal leaders have addressed the Maine Legislature. We have always taken great pride in fighting for our nation to preserve its liberty. Even in today’s conflicts, our presence is noticed. The U.S. Marines in Afghanistan, through a friend of the tribes, have requested a Passamaquoddy flag to be flown by one of its pilots during a bombing mission against the Taliban and Al-Qaeda. We are proud to provide this symbol to our fighting forces overseas and are always prepared to provide whatever assistance is necessary to protect this great nation of ours against all attacks.

We look forward to this opportunity for a new relationship with great expectations. We enter these negotiations with Governor King and the paper companies with the hope that our waters will be protected. We do this despite the challenges of the past. Whenever we were asked, we came willingly to the aid of the State. We ask for your assistance now. Help us to protect our waters. Help us to grow economically. Help us to protect our traditions and culture. And, most importantly, let’s help each other to become better neighbors and partners.

The Author

Rick Doyle was born and raised in East Hartford, Connecticut, and summered in the Passamaquoddy community of Sipayik.  There he enjoyed the freedom of being raised by a community.  When he began his many academic pursuits, he moved home to his ancestral land in the place we now call Maine.  His love of education led him to achieve degrees in Community Health Education, Public Administration and Pastoral Studies.  This quiet Passamaquoddy man loved his people and served them as Sakom (chief), health promoter, and as an ordained deacon.   He advanced the economic, spiritual and physical well-being of the Passamaquoddy.  He fought for water rights.  He fought for sovereignty.  To use his own words, “sovereignty is a gift of the Creator so that we may determine our own destinies as unique people.”  He dedicated his life to the land, his people, his tribe.

Nil yaq wocosen  (I am the wind)
pesni yali yai yut kcikuk  (meandering through the woods)

Nil yaq mip  (I am a leaf)
pesni yali mill ahmi  (drifting downward to the ground)

Nil yaq mahtogess  (I am a rabbit)
yali yut mill doq qi  (bounding playfully through the woods)

Nil yaq wastewiz  (I am a snowflake)
tan tapu tama tatali benehqi  (I can fall anywhere)

Nil yaq Dookiz  (I am a mouse)
Dasahqui yali kwask^wi wasteq  (running across the top of the snow)

Nil yaq miku  (I am a squirrel)
etoli biza bagie  (crawling inside)
welihpatek  (to the warmth)

Nil yaq muin  (I am a bear)
Atotkwassi puniw  (sleeping soundly through the winter)

~ Roger Paul

I Didn’t Know…

Maten ncicihtenewipon  (I didn’t know)

That the students I once had
had grown so much. They have matured and understood so
Much and can use what they were taught.

Maten ncicihtunewipon  (I didn’t know)

That the descendants of my own family are so strong and wise.
They are so much more intelligent and aware of life’s journeys and seem to have a good outlook on the world around them so much earlier than my generation did.

Maten ncicihtunewipon  (I didn’t know)

That skicinowi wasirok still had the ability to come together with people they have never met before and create such a wonderful community and create something beautiful from something that had not been there before. [/indent]

Maten ncicihtunewipon  (I didn’t know)

That those that surround me were young students who still play and have youthful fun and games. Although I can only see their ancestors within them, and their spirits are guided by the wise ones.

Tokec ncicihtan  (Now I know)

That is the future of our people, and their culture is in safe and capable hands.

-Roger Paul

Night Time Winter Walk

Atutci tkeyik, abeq ausaste wolmomqak

It is so cold, although it’s almost as though it is comforting.

Nali tahas aly psite yuktak na keti ckuyatit

I am so happy to have this whole group with me tonight.

Psi-te wen litahus eci wihqaceyik yut,

They are all so carefree and just having fun.

Mate wen kcicihtowen atoci sanaqahk

Yet they don’t realize just how easily it can become deadly.

Psite wen kis mace witapehtuwak

All of the individual people are now becoming a group

Naka wallessa ally woli sankewi taha al titit

And it is so good to see that they are forming a careful trust for one another

Bal takatol kisi nekauitutit elmi mace kihtit

I only hope that they can learn lessons here that they can carry forward with them.

 -Roger Paul

The Author

Roger Paul was born on the Motahkomikuk Indian reservation near Princeton, Maine.  He grew up speaking both Passamaquoddy and Maliseet language and began learning English around the age of five.  He holds a BA in Sociology from UMaine Presque Isle and a Masters in Linquistics from MIT.

Roger has dedicated himself to teaching our language to all who want to learn more about Waponahki Peoples of Turtle Island.  He worked with the Wabanaki Writers Project, as well as the Aroostook Band of MicMacs, Houlton Band of Maliseets, Tobique First Nation and as an adjunct at UMaine Orono, as well as co-founding the Passamaquoddy Language Courses at the University of Southern Maine.  Through his teaching and consulting work, Roger highlights the vital role of Waponahki Peoples in both Canadian and Maine communities where we are ever-present.  DV 2.0 is pleased to share his writing in our new issue.

https://umaine.edu/nativeamericanprograms/people/rogerpaul/

This body, I know better than a bird knows the
tree called home, perched in the leafy dreams and
summer madness that calls me to flight.

I have always dreamed I flew.
A purposeful seeking, I move over the canopy,
gaze at the tops of bark-skinned cousins, green hands waving below.
Their collected breath a sigh that carries me across unfamiliar terrain.

Always an alien visitor to the world,
I adore these shadow places none-the-less,
fear a lightening path burning like unholy resurrection,
the quickening, an elemental awe I cannot name.

Once, I heard my mother whisper to me, after she dropped her body,
deep in the low dark hours when sleep won’t come.
Her voice in my left ear, the most hesitant and mindful sound,
the way you speak to someone on a building’s edge or
a bridge above dangerous waters.

I woke alone in the dark, my pulse a steady throb in my throat.
Grief chokes like clay, traps this body so I must
struggle to move into my own future, my wings heavy with a
strange longing for the past that escaped me
day by day until I found myself in
this new place, this new life.

Now my hair glimmers silver, reborn to light.
I keep my wings in reserve, against the
dawn’s urging to take flight.

-Mihku Paul

When the Whale Spoke

Return

Last night I dreamed I heard the Earth groan;
felt her bone shift deep inside my skin.
I stood alone upon her shadowed spine
where ridges pronged with spruce emerge from stone.
Shimmering with iridescent spark,
a blade-edge moon hovered in the dark.

As a child I feared the stormy dark,
thinking I heard spirits howl and groan.
Outside my window lightning showed its spark,
electric motes cascading on my skin.
I lay in bed, my flesh felt turned to stone,
breathing deep to stretch my wrinkled spine

Hove up like some earthen spine,
Katahdin’s peaks and cliffs rise in the dark.
Bouldered arms and ribcage carved of stone
communing with the mighty White Pine’s groan,
Swaying with the wind against their skin;
anchored there beneath the moon’s bright spark

A fire, dying, still gives forth a spark
igniting fallow memory in my spine.
The flames contained within this trickster skin
burn brightly, chasing nightmares from the dark.
I hear a woman’s voice cry out and groan,
her restless heart bruising against stone.

The trail leads on past cedar, stream and stone.
Constellations light a distant spark.
The bear, Muin, lets out a growling groan,
stiffens midnight hair along his spine.
We two are travelers wandering the dark,
called to origin, trapped within our skin.

Muin and I cannot discard our skin
or change our muscled heart for one of stone.
He teaches me to welcome velvet dark,
guided by the moon’s shape-shifted spark.
We traverse Katahdin’s rocky spine.
I hear again the mountain’s echoed groan.

My confused skin immersed in brilliant spark,
a steady warmth flowed gently up my spine.
Katahdin’s song rose up from granite stone,
as sweet music replaced her beckoning groan.

The Author

Mihku Paul is the Executive Editor for Dawnland Voices 2.0.  She is a Wolastoqey writer, visual artist and activist.  Her most recent work can be found in Whitman on Walls!, and From Root to Seed: Black, Brown and Indigenous Poets write the Northeast.  Mihku lives on an urban homestead in Portland, Maine where she tends her garden, raises hens and teaches traditional Indigenous agriculture techniques.  Mihku is working on two manuscripts, Nebi and The Courtship of Proteus and at the 2023 Belfast Poetry Festival she will debut a collaborative work of experimental film and spoken word, Putep qotatokot-te elewestaq (The Whale Spoke) with an original soundtrack.

i.

The fire crackles, the ice cracks.

Our half-truths step forward,

As our history comes back.

I was harder then,

Then I am now.

Notice my shield, its iridescent glow,

The rainbow shimmer deep, down low,

Blending, becoming,

Full blood love.

The things we could not change

Have brought us here

To this not-so-secret door.

A forgiveness door that would not open before.

Behind the long roads and spaces in between

The light years we have become,

My brothers and sisters, our sweet devotion,

Distilled from this strange emotion.

We are as full blood life, a sum of fateful hearts joined,

Birds in flight that always belonged.

We learn as we grow that all is not what we see,

And many stories combine to create the legacy.

 ii.

From the edge of the stand,

Elm leaves fall like golden rain.

My Indian sister tells me how to pronounce words in our native tongue,

And I remember our mother’s voice.

My children are white and middle aged.

These words sparkle like sand, I think,

And the tide comes in.

Still, I say the words out loud.

We will talk about where our grandfather was born.

Maybe we will talk about the Indian School where he was forbidden

To speak our native tongue.

We will say the words again,

And laugh at ourselves.

And like the ocean will kiss the shore,

We will say the words again,

And we will never forget.

 iii.

 As I sit looking at my father’s empty shoes,

I think we all make choices,

We did not want to choose.

All our stories held in place,

By just this resemblance in my face.

The stones now cast, the black cat walked past,

The art of absence, the blank stare,

The years of our lives we did not share.

Your children have come to say goodbye,

To gather together,

To let go of why.

No longer able to braid the thread,

We will share our memories of you instead.

We knew you, each of us at one time

And now we hold the key,

With each new season,

A new identity, mixed in memory.

Gathered from imperfect youth,

And wildfires raging inside our heads,

Those fires now glowing embers in the sand,

As Destiny asks for it all on demand.

But even a grain of sand can grow into something beautiful we know,

As Above, So Below.

Now like an ocean song in a favorite shell,

You have become part of the story

This grandmother will tell.

I bring a child, a stranger, threads of this, my genesis,

A dream unfolding, truly blessed,

Related by blood, and our old photographs.

It rushes up as the history comes back.

Your fabric weaving down through the years, behind the tears,

The fire crackles, the ice cracks,

The truth still here in the ash and glass.

The Author

Crystal Dawn Draffen is a mixed blood Wolastoqey writer who was raised in Albany, New York. She is a 1987 graduate of SUNY Albany, with a BA in English.

Her very first publication was Sin Nombre (American Poetry anthology 1982). Abducted from her Indigenous mother at 26 months, she had no knowledge of her own heritage until she found her mother at the age of eighteen. Crystal enjoys genealogical research, gardening and walks in the woods. Halloween is a favorite holiday and she is an expert costumer.

Her work can be found in the anthology In The Veins (Blue Hand Books) edited by Patricia Busby.  Crystal lives and writes in Lanesborough, MA, close to the nature that she loves, with her husband Eric, 2 rescue felines and her cadoodle dog, Dharma.  She is currently working on a memoir of her young life as a lost cub, and how she came to know her mother.  This is her first publication in Dawnland Voices 2.0.

https://www.blueindiansbooks.com/

]]> https://dawnlandvoices.org/victoria-akins/ Wed, 11 Oct 2023 17:52:45 +0000 https://dawnlandvoices.org/?p=2903 Read More]]> I am from…

I am from Cape Cod ~ Otis Air Force Base and telephone lines
fish farmer granddaughter,
Ma, Pa, Bessie

I am from my backyard
tall pines, spring fed streams
a forest of woods and imagination

I am from stories and songs ~
Gluskabeh, Black Beauty,
The Little Engine That Could, and Puff the Magic Dragon

I am from Celtic lands
I am from ocean shores
I am from mountains and rivers, moss covered granite, and streams
I am from the Dawnland, from the place of descending rocks

I am from the days of drugs, sex, and rock and roll,
I am from the nights of darkness, Stardust, and meteorite showers

I am from sled dogs running
glaciers melting
whitewater flowing
mountain laurel blooming
love waiting

I am from the NiteDawn
I am from Rainbow moments

I am from the womb

-Victoria Akins

What Were You Thinking, Woman?

memories – emotions in the air
discordant buzzing like a fly
harshness, caws of the black bird
What Were You Thinking, Woman?
spring fragrances, flowers, butterfly
no, not for the autumn wanderer

recollections fill the wanderer
leaves, grass, crisp brown cool air
luna moth stayed and died, no monarch butterfly
fanciful flit, summer’s done, fly
self returns to winter’s woman
songbirds leave, hummers are gone, not the black bird

sentinel perch for the black bird
caws warnings of the roadside wanderer
caws that knock knock on the wall of woman
but ignored, a decrescendo silents the air
while on winter’s sun-warmed window buzzes a fly
no silent fragrances, flowers, or butterfly

caterpillar coffin coiffures a butterfly
compost scraps feed the black bird
maggots dine from death to fly
hardened soles support the wanderer
night chills nip at starlit air
in night time darkness is the woman

through the seasons is the woman
flycatcher swallows butterfly
feathered dreams float on air
swallows eggs lunches black bird
another passing for the wanderer
time to leave, walk run fly

teaching the wingless to fly
the grasping of a handless woman
with self returning to the wanderer
fragrances, flowers, butterfly
sleeping on the wing of black bird
drifting through lofts of air

lofts of air uplifting those that fly
the caws of blackbird, the cries of woman
dust from a butterfly wing, the soul of the wander

The Author

Victoria Akins is a Penobscot mother, grandmother and wife. She is also a former Whitewater Guide and Dog Musher on Wabanaki rivers and homelands. Victoria is in her 38th year as a teacher in the Penobscot community school. Her passions are being outdoors and teaching middle-school writing to the children in her community.

In 2007, she worked with Roger Paul, Gkisedtanamoogk, Paul Frost and Melanie Rourke to form the Wabanaki Writers Project, which combined writing in outdoor settings of Wabanaki homelands with Experiential Ed along with cultural activities and teachings to build a community of writers with Wabanaki youth. WWP published three volumes of work as Hear our Words, See our Thoughts.

For Petra Sofie Pedersen 1887 – 1937

A rattling started in my mind
as I danced in a virtual circle of women
spread from Minnesota down to Illinois.
A remembered photograph
tints you gaunt, a cloche shadowing p
vacant eyes – two surviving
girls beside you, their mouths tight
like yours, sadness shrouding light.

An immigrant at twenty-one
from Norway to Ellis Island,
you joined Grandfather Kristian.
From 1910 to 1917. Three children
died in rapid succession.
In a time of loneliness, an approaching
Great War and the Spanish flu,
you came apart – had to be sent
back to Norway.

365 jingles now sing for you,
sing for your children.
This medicine dress I wear calls
your bones to grasp some peace,
to know your grandchildren
thrive in decent contentment.
Our voices rise with these jingles
singing and praying remembrances,
praying healing. The 366^th jingle
over my heart sings loudest
for all our bones
as we dance against death.

Ghazal for Spring

Another April blooms so green I long to dance.
A heaviness in my chest swells – life-long wish to dance.

I have listened to them all – teachers, therapists, and priests
give this advice: Fill your own cup or bid so-long to the dance.

Babies, degrees and causes once filled this hollow in my chest.
Were they substitutes displacing this heart-strong desire to dance?

Poet Kunitz called this yearning a need for touch.
Love completes or crucifies warned Gibran. Dance anyway.

Levertov learned to close her door to one she thought “The Eternal.”
It’s hard to shake a weight that does not want to dance.

When elders named me Walking-in-the-Rain, perhaps they knew
I could be just reasonably content, so come, let’s dance.

Woodland Medicine

For Carol Hunt Bemis

These days I walk on asphalt roads,
not one to risk solitary
paths around this house,
until my sister walked with me one day.

“I hate this hard road,” she said
“Let’s go into the woods this way.”

Remember the feel of crinkly leaf cushions,
reading our smuggled comic books,
backs snuggled to tree trunks
warmed by sun, light dappled through thickets
of ocher and garnet,
vermilion against pine, lavender on russet?

“Do you come here often?” she asks,
heading into the deepening path.

Remember how years and years ago,
we raced through woods and rocky path
down to our pond—sunny, mother mud-water
catching our hot, flailing child-bodies?
Remember our diving board bellyflops,
how that big, lolling snapper kept us captive
far out on that rickety raft?

“Do you come here often?” she asks again, and I say
“No, it’s too remote, not safe, and dark.”

But on that spring day, we walked again through woods
alive with airy May apples and scattered trillium,
diving, gold-orange orioles, startled by
motor-like sounds of all the frog voices.

-Alice Azure

The Author

Alice Azure has published five books; four collections of poetry and one memoir.  She studied Urban & Regional Planning at the University of Iowa, as well as Sociology, Psychology and History at Augusta College in Rock Island IL.  Alice is of Mi’Kmaq descent and after years of research, a visit to Canada and alliances with Metis groups in Nova Scotia she found her homing place.  She has been granted recognition of aboriginal status as an Acadian descendant in Nova Scotia by the Association des Acadiens Metis-Sourquois (salt water people), who are located in Saulnierville, Digby County, Nova Scotia.

She is a member of the St. Louis Poetry Center, and her work is widely recognized for, among other things, it’s careful, spare language and conceptual complexity.  In 2015 she was recognized by the Wordcraft Circle of Native Writers and Storytellers.

     Issue 10 is special as it marks the very first writing contest for Dawnland Voices 2.0. Entries from our contest winners, Passamaquoddy writer Nolan Altvater (prose) and  Mi’kmaq writer Mui’n Sewell Sattler (poetry), are excellent examples of the impressive work being produced by young Indigenous writers.

     Nolan’s essay, focused on tools of diplomacy, offers a historical framing that functions as a brief and accessible tutorial on cultural world view and ways of being that translate to contemporary policy development and illuminate the need to be mindful of our past in order to strengthen cultural continuity in the present day. Nolan weaves background on Waponaki ways of being with commentary on present issues affecting us all today.  What another writer described as “two-eyed seeing.”  She notes, “With awesome literary clarity . .  he merges the power, intellect, order and significance of wampum and birch bark carvings into wikhikon, today’s form of Waponaki writing. Most significantly, he sees the use of wikhikon as a framework for healing relationships between Maine’s educational and tribal stakeholders that can bring about a political will for positive change.” 

     Mui’n writes with a beautifully constrained language that is at times visceral and displays a quiet power. “Dew on our lips . . .  and moss shrouding our skin” acknowledges our common origins as part of the whole of creation and the deep yearning and struggle for survival in the tempest of so-called American history. Mui’n looks squarely at the brutal truth of history, yet offers hope in her awareness of Indigenous experience in the here and now. She uses varied cadences and the deft, appropriate use of descriptive language to create poems that are lean and impactful, bringing it home to her embodied Indigenous identity. 

      Congratulations to both winners, and to all the writers who submitted for this issue! We are pleased to highlight some youth writers new to Dawnland Voices 2.0 as well: Cassidy Anderson (Coquille/Oneida), Madeline Hutchins (Mohegan), Gillian Joseph (Ihanktonwan/Mdewakantonwan Dakota), Katt LaSarte (Coeur d’Alene) and Sage Neptune ( Penobscot).  Finally, we include here a couple of poems from two of us elder Indigenous writers who have been watching and nurturing young writers, and who supported this year’s prize.

     May you find hope, strength and awareness in this issue.  It was a true pleasure putting it together. 

Kci Wolwon!

Mihku Paul, Editor

A Snail Primer         

by Mihku Paul

Carry your home on your back
Do not hurry.
Reach toward new sensory experiences.
Sacrifice moisture to move your body forward.
Leave a trace of your passing.
Explore new surroundings whenever possible.
Travel aligned in relevant time.
Seal yourself in when necessary.
Wait for more hospitable circumstances.
Ingest all nourishment slowly.
Live as you are meant to live.
Live.
Live.

Address to an Orb

By Alice Azure

I was not afraid of you, but something was not right. At first, I thought my eyes might be to blame.  I asked my eye doctor if there was a scientific reason for me to see such a dense, black circle on my bedroom wall, like a large pancake.  She had no answer.  It took me awhile to realize that you might be an orb out of sorts.  

Past orbs I have seen were of a wonderful translucence.  One time, during the end of a ceremony when the sun was beginning to set over Legend Lake, there appeared scads of airy, shiny balls of different sizes resting on top of the evergreen trees that lined the lake.  Like the delicate shimmering of soap bubbles, I thought.  

Another time, friends showed me photographs of gauzy, milky spheres hovering around in the basement or floating in their living room—no larger than a child’s small ball. I just assumed my friends were especially gifted to host such spiritual beings.

I asked a friend about your heavy presence in my bedroom. She wondered if perhaps you were weighed down with too much grief from all the death and isolation going on in our current lives.  Thinking about my own frame of mind, how negative I have become.  I am old, my body bothered. Strength declines.  Resources dwindle. Gone, gone, gone.

I do not know who you might have been in my life, whether you are one spirit or a collective. But yes, yes, yes.  I should be more thankful for so much love in my life—recall good memories about funny jokes, happy times by the sea, children thriving, family get-togethers in the Maine woods, poems that stir my heart, all the rest.  Perhaps if I smudged more with Sweet Grass, we both would lighten up.  Your flatness might become more rounded, your essence might twinkle again, be able to float out of the bedroom window or come back to visit—might come back and delight me again with your radiant presence.    

*****

Mihku Paul is a Maliseet writer and visual artist who was born and raised in Maine. Her mother’s family is from Kingsclear First Nation, N.B. Canada.   She studied Human Development and Communication as an undergraduate, earning her BA in 1993. She is a 2010 graduate of the Stonecoast MFA program. In 2009, Mihku was given a one-woman show at the Abbe Museum in Bar Harbor, Maine.  Look Twice:  The Waponaki in Image and Verse, contained her original art and panels of her poetry combined with archival images of Waponaki people.  This exhibit was also shown at the Glickman Library (University of Southern Maine). Her work can be found in many anthologies such as Stolen Island Review, Dawnland Voices, Port City Poems, POEISIS (international), Enough!  Poems of Protest and Resistance (Maine Literary Award-Best Anthology 2020), Wait – Poems from the Pandemic and others.  Reversing Falls – Book 1, contains her first poem in translation (Amerindia). Her first book, 20th Century PowWow Playland, is available on Amazon.  Mihku lives and works in Portland, Maine.

Oral history supports that Wabanaki people have inhabited what is now New England and the Canadian Maritimes since time immemorial. Throughout this existence, and still to this day, we survived by following the teachings of Gluskabe, adapting to the natural environment by creating many tools relevant to our ontologies and epistemologies–our ways of knowing and being. These tools are not just handheld or physical objects but take the form of both the oral and written word, as well as images or pictures. Furthermore, as an oral culture, we never had an alphabet or a term for written forms of our language before colonization. What we did have is what I term as tools of image making, or “visual accompaniments to speech” (Walker, 1990). Two such image making tools that the Wabanaki people have used throughout time (in the Passamaquoddy language) are wapap, wampum, and wikhikonal, birch bark carvings. Today, in Maine’s political climate, these tools have theoretically converged together and taken the form of the latter–wikhikon, or anything written. This essay first discusses the current status of a policy wikhikon, The Wabanaki Studies Law (LD 291) and the need to take action to improve its implementation. It then offers a framework to take such action by exploring the concepts and protocols behind Wabanaki Diplomacy and its tools, along with their transformations throughout colonization and the power that they have today to positively change the political and educational environment. Furthermore, it highlights the intellectual tradition of the Wabanaki to use the tools of colonization for sovereignty and self-determination.

The Wabanaki Studies Law (WSL) requires all Maine K-12 schools to educate youth about the Wabanaki people of Maine; our history, political systems, cultural systems, territories, and economic systems. It was sponsored by former Penobscot Tribal Representative Donna Loring, passing in 2001, and went into full effect in 2004. In order to ensure implementation of the law, The Wabanaki Studies Commission (WSC), which was a tribal and state entity, was created and provided support for schools to develop educational resources. The commission submitted a report in 2003 that analyzed the law and outlined steps for implementation for stakeholders. However, in 2005, the commission fell through due to a lack of funding, allowing numerous barriers of implementation to exist. In response to these issues, Rebecca Sockbeson, Penobscot Scholar and Professor of Education Policy, published her article “Maine Indigenous Education Left Behind” in the Journal of American Indian Education (2019). In this article, Sockbeson provides background and context of the law, an overview of Wabanaki History, her experience as a Penobscot mother and researcher, additional barriers beyond funding, and clear pathways for implementation of the law. Sockbeson further submitted a Libra professorship report for the University of Maine that told of her experiences working with the university and specific action steps for the institution to take for better implementation. This leads us to today, 20 years later after the bill passed with the WSC still un-reinstated, none of the recommendations being fully met, and barriers of implementation still in place.

In order to take action, I suggest for all stakeholders, including the Maine DOE, Universities, and the tribes, to center Wabanaki Diplomacy and use the concepts and protocols of its tools, of wampum and wikhikon. In fact, I believe that this policy, being supported by Wabanaki citizens, was created to follow the procedures of Wabanaki Diplomacy, but is in a political and educational system with differing values. However, that is not suggesting that Wabanaki Diplomacy cannot be centered in Maine’s political and educational system. There are multiple examples of the successful centering of Wabanaki Diplomacy in Maine’s political climate, as seen in the policy stories of LD 2418 (law prohibiting the use of offensive names) and LD 944 (An Act to Ban Native American Mascots in All Public Schools). Along with the lack of implementation of the WSL, other current issues, such as the appropriation and degradation of Wabanaki land and resources, can also be successful in centering Wabanaki Diplomacy and work towards sustainable solutions. To provide a framework for this process, we will explore the concepts and protocols within Wabanaki Diplomacy and the tools that we used to keep it ongoing. We will begin with the story of wampum and the pedagogical, philosophical, and diplomatic teachings it gives us today while contextualizing it in regard to the WSL. We will then discuss what happened to wampum and how its energy still lives in Wabanaki social and political thinking today.

Wampum consists of blue and white beads made from quahog shells that are strung together on individual strands or weaved into belts of intricate patterns and designs. It is suggested that “the coastal Indians were the first to make and use wampum” (Haas, 2007), which includes the Wabanaki Nations. For the Wabanaki, at a glance, wampum is the “foundation for maintaining our civil and political customs” (Francis, 2016) and “are symbolic of the stories from the past” (Soctomah, 2019). The story of wampum begins with our creation stories; the stories that make us who we are, reflect our values, and give us an understanding of the world. These stories are also a form of resistance, or a “strategy for protecting and preserving identity” (Soctomah, 2007) and our homelands. Craig Womack suggests that “politics, land, and story are deeply intertwined entities”, thus our stories, what interconnects us to the land, are also “connected with law (Soctomah, 2007). This would suggest that Native identity is a form of resistance, as our stories will always be our ways of survivance. They gift us the “possibility of order and significance” and the power to push “back against the tyrannies” by “responding with intelligence and invention when we are confronted with situations” (Soctomah, 2007). This is where wampum found its place as a tool to transform the energy from our stories into a physical object in order to maintain peace and diplomacy in face of the tyrannies that occurred in the spaces we share.

This was the case in the event of the Great Council Fire, which is where the wampum laws and Wabanaki Confederacy originated (Mitchell, 1990). The Great Council Fire was a part of the Great Law of Peace which was made in response to “cycles of revenge and killing” in the Northeast (Soctomah, 2007). The Passamaquoddy records of this event were kept in wampum belts, with Sopiel Selmo as the potoouswin, the wampum keeper. Upon the death of Selmo and the appropriation of our wampum, these records were lost. However, Passamaquoddy historian and linguist David Francis, working with Robert Leavitt from the University of New Brunswick, has kept the energy of this story alive by translating and transcribing an oral recounting from Lewis Mitchell. This work is published under the title of Wapapi Akonutomakonol: The Wampum Records. This story of The Wampum Records teaches us valuable lessons that can be used in the geopolitical and educational spaces in what is called the state of Maine and can help inform public policy, holistically bringing positive social changes in the physical universe.

The first lesson that the records teach us is within the Wabanaki’s protocol and ceremony of wampum. Gathering in council is a “crucial element of the Wabanaki confederacy” which was also reflected at the Great Council Fire. Here at the fire, the leaders of the Nations all came together under a single roof, symbolizing familial relations, and first sat in seven days of silence, assuring to take the time to think before they spoke and acknowledge the past warfare and blood that was spilled between them. This was called “Cikte Wikuwam” or the “Wigwam is Silent.” They then came together, and “opened up the wigwam” now calling it “Msi Tahk Wen Tolwestu” or “Every One of Them Talks” (Francis, 1990). When they came together, they did so around Kci Sqot, The Great Fire, where they were all the same height and had an equal voice. This teaches us today to gather as equals across communities and give everyone an equal voice in decision making, which takes time and relationship building and thinking before speaking. In regard to the WSL, this protocol of gathering is exactly what’s missing with the WSC being non-reinstated, allowing barriers of implementation to exist as the WSC serves as the “heart of the law” (Sockbeson, 2019). Thus, we can see that wampum starts to give us a framework for the implementation of the law by taking the action of gathering.

Another teaching in regard to the WSL comes from the use and symbols of the blue and white beads that are weaved together to produce an element of meaning of wampum belts. With the blue color symbolizing war and “reminds us of the survival of some but the genocide of thousands” and the white beads symbolizing peace and “lay(s) the path for the continuance of our culture” (Haas, 2007), we are reminded to acknowledge and find balance between the ugly knowledge, such as genocide, and beautiful knowledge, such as basket weaving, in order to produce meaning and shape the physical universe. In other words, if the WSL was strung into wampum, it would be made of both colors. This reminds us to teach both of these elements in Maine’s schools in order to mobilize truth and heal our relationships. This was emphasized by elders on the WSC, but argued by non-native committee members, which is evidence of settler moves to innocence (Tuck and Yang, 2012). We believe that all of creation is made in this duality and can be balanced in order to achieve harmony and peace, which is seen in the symbolic nature of our wampum. This is another teaching of wampum that lives with us today in all of our lives, despite the belts being stolen from us.

Linda Tuhiwai Smith suggests that in the 18th and 19th centuries “Indigenous…forms of knowledge…technologies and codes of social life…were regarded as ‘new’ discoveries by western science…These discoveries were commodified as property belonging to the cultural archive and body of knowledge of the west” which were then reproduced through this system. She further suggests that this was also an era of “collecting” artifacts, such as wampum, for the sake of “preservation” and that Indigenous people might rather call stealing. This is such the case for Wabanaki wampum belts, as David Francis, Passamaquoddy historian and linguist, tells us that “they were sold to a New York Museum” and to “Please return to the owner!” (2016). Along with the so-called “collecting”, settlers also misunderstood our ways of governance and perceived the act of giving wampum as a symbol of their “protection” and a pledge to their colonial laws, rather than a bond of alliance among equals (Brooks, 2019). In addition, they also mistook it for currency and, in some cases, would forcefully impose mortgages on Indigenous leaders and their land, demanding the payment to be made in wampum (Brooks, 2019). However, what is especially compelling about these examples, is that the settlers would reject this payment of wampum and force the mortgage into an English written deed. This highlights the connection between wampum and wikhikon and our forced assimilation into a written and political system that was used against us.

However, over time Indigenous leaders have adopted writing for their own creative and unique uses and began to “empower themselves with the very tools of colonization that have been used against them” (Grande, 2004). This suggests an epistemological shift, or a shift in our ways of knowing and being, showing our intellectual tradition of adaptation. Since time immemorial, we have survived using this intellect within the constantly changing environment around us, creating and using tools in a sustainable way that honored all of our relations. However, upon contact and the effects of settler colonialism, this survival shifted to what Gerald Vizenor calls “survivance” or the active sense of presence and the continuation of native stories. Concisely, we used our intellect to create a shift in our ways of knowing and being in the face of colonization in order to continue our stories and resist colonialism; as m we are still here. This is shown in the concept and process of the Passamaquoddy term wikhikon.

As an oral culture, we have always believed that “our words have an alchemy that is capable of creating form” (Mitchell, 2018), which is symbolized by both wampum and wikhikon. Wikhikon originally referred to birch bark carvings but now denotes anything written, as seen in the Passamaquoddy dictionary. This highlights the Wabanaki’s practice of viewing image and word as interconnected, which Lisa Brooks points out contrasts European tradition that separates the two (2008). This is also the case for wampum with the ceremonial belts being referred to as kolusuwakon, or “speech.” We further see this interconnection from a linguistic analysis, as the term wikhikon is formed from the unprefixed verb stem wikh-, which denotes writing, drawing, and photographing. This verb stem is paired with the inanimate suffix -ikon which is a suffix commonly used for tools, such as tomhikon; cutting tool. Thus, we can view wikhikon as a “written tool” including both image and word. This analysis is in light of Lisa Brook’s definition of the Abenaki term for writing, awikhigan, as a “tool for image making, for writing, for transmitting an image or idea from one mind to another, over waterways, over time” (2008).

This is the case for my experience of writing this wikhikon. I am taking the images or ideas transmitted to me from my ancestors from their images or writing, along with the writings from Wabanaki and Indigenous scholars, and weaving a wikhikon of my own. It’s an ongoing process that creates both physical and internal landscapes, which is not suggesting the two are separate beings. Furthermore, Muscogee scholar Craig Womack, which Brooks also draws from, suggests that “The idea behind ceremonial chant is that language…will actually cause a change in the physical universe” and that “this element exists in contemporary Native writing” (1999). Therefore, the space of this paper is created by the energy of the actions and words from my relations across time and space, further traveling beyond the margins into the physical universe, or maybe even within you as you read along, evoking action, which can lead to change. From this we can begin to see a specific process of Wabanaki writing in which Lisa Brooks explains is highlighted by our languages revolving around activities and energy in motion; until an wikhikon “has taken shape as an instrument, the process is ongoing. Even when it is complete, that instrument can cause a whole new wave of activity to occur” (2008). I further add that this “energy” refers to the actions aligned with survivance, or a force that works towards the future and continued survival of the Wabanaki people. We use our intellect to convert that energy into many forms, such as public policies.
From this perspective, we can now see that the story of the WSL exemplifies the concepts, process, and power of the wikhikon. Concisely, that in order to reach its full potential and produce practical and political change, a specific process is needed to complete it. Furthermore, the energy behind the bill intends to “function as an educational policy grounded in anti-racism and decolonization” and thus works towards the future and continued survival of Wabanaki people, which is the energy that I suggest is involved in Wabanaki writing or image making. This analysis of the WSL as a wikhikon further informs the policy and the push for action. In convergence with the protocol and process of Wabanaki Diplomacy, which is seen in the use of our wampum belts and its many symbols, we have an undeniable framework to take the needed actions in order to implement the policy; to complete the wikhikon.

Furthermore, the needed action has already been put forth from both the WSC in their Final Report and in Rebecca Sockbeson’s article and Libra Report that I mentioned in the beginning of this story. Some of this action is currently taking place through the Wabanaki Studies Committee, not to be mistaken as the commission which consisted of tribal members appointed by the leaders of each Nation, which I have had the opportunity to become involved in. The Portland School System has also been advocates of the law and taking the time to build relationships with Wabanaki communities, with particular effort being put in by Social Studies teacher Fiona Hopper. However, until action is taken from the “major” stakeholders, such as the Department of Education and The University of Maine, the process of the bill remains incomplete, as the wikhikon is a process in which “we are all engaged in” (Brooks, 2008).

This needed action, put forth by Sockbeson, includes: 1. Reinstating the WSC with State funding and University support, 2. Hire an Indigenous Scholar in the College of Education, 3. Develop a Compulsory Course required for education majors on teaching Wabanaki Studies, and 4. Revise Licensure requirements/testing measurements to ensure Maine teachers demonstrate a readiness to comply with the law. This action would create National and historical precedents in the state of Maine, as “there are very few, if any, compulsory courses across the nation” (Sockbeson, 2019). Furthermore, the State of Maine is in a good position to take this action with the recent work done by the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, the Ban on Native Mascots, and the recent signage project at the university of Maine, all examples of successful Wabanaki Diplomatic protocols. In addition, they even have a model to build off of from the University of Alberta, where Sockbeson is a Professor, that includes a compulsory course called Aboriginal Education and the Context for Professional Development.

In order to take action, I again suggest that all stakeholders, including the Maine DOE, Universities, and the tribes, to center Wabanaki Diplomacy and use the concepts and protocols of its tools, as seen in the uses of wampum and the wikhikon. Taking such a framework will be of significant help in the removal of barriers of the law and thus provide better implementation of the law across the state of Maine and complete the process of the wikhikon. The completion of this wikhikon will not only work towards the healing of Wabanaki Citizens, but healing of the relationship we have with non-native communities and the relationship both of us share with the land. Without the mobilization of truth, which the WSL advocates, there is no healing. Until protocol of the wikhikon is complete through Wabanaki Diplomacy, the call for anti-racist conviction as Political will towards decolonization continues.

Works Cited

Applying Indigenous Research Methods: Storying with Peoples and
Communities. (2019). United Kingdom: Taylor & Francis.

Brooks, L. (2018). Our Beloved Kin: A New History of King Philip’s War. New Haven; London: Yale University Press.

Brooks, L. (2008). The Common Pot: The Recovery of Native Space in the Northeast. University of Minnesota Press.

Francis, D. A., & Schaumann, K. (2016). Sunrise at Sipayik: A Passamaquoddy tribal and personal oral history.

Grande, Sandy. Red Pedagogy: Native American Social and Political Thought. United Kingdom, Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 2004.

Haas, Angela M. “Wampum as Hypertext: An American Indian Intellectual Tradition of Multimedia Theory and Practice.” Studies in American Indian Literatures, vol. 19 no. 4, 2007, p. 77-100.

Mitchell, L., Leavitt, R., Francis, D. A., Speck, F. G., Walker, W., & Micmac-Maliseet Institute. (1990). Wapapi akonutomakonol =: The Wampum records : Wabanaki traditional laws. Fredericton: Micmac-Maliseet Institute, University of New Brunswick.

Smith, L. T. (2013). Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. United Kingdom: Zed Books.

Sockbeson, R. (2019). Maine Indigenous Education Left Behind: A Call for Anti-Racist Conviction as Political Will Toward Decolonization. Journal of American Indian Education, 58(3), 105-129.

Womack, C. S. (1999). Red on red: Native American literary separatism. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Nolan Altvater is a Passamaquoddy citizen from Sipayik who is a rising graduate student at the Harvard Graduate School of Education. Nolan’s academic work involves weaving Wabanaki knowledge into education policy implementation and development, specifically regarding the implementation of the Wabanaki Studies Law. His passions are to help in developing an understanding of the Wabanaki and their ways of being and knowing to create spaces for Wabanaki youth at academic institutions while working towards the mobilization of truth, healing, repatriation, and indigenous futurities. In his undergraduate career, he was a part of the Wabanaki Youth and Science Program, an honorable mention for the Udall scholarship, and a University of Maine McGillicuddy Humanities Center Fellow. Outside of the classroom, he is a Wabanaki REACH board member, photographer, video journalist for sunlight media collective, and produces indigenous knowledge videos with Wabanaki community members for indigenous youth.

With dew on our lips
And moss shrouding our skin
We bear the burden
Forced upon our quaking backs
With our tears of sand
And shivering voices of volcanic ash
We remember
Everything we touch feels like salt
Making itself at home
In our already putrid wounds
Because of our bitter dreams
We pretend we are still human
Because of our foolish hope
We imagine that the embers
Left in our souls
Won’t burn us from the inside out
Before the earth in our lungs
Suffocates us
Into eternal slumber

Mi’kma’ki

I claw
Away at my face
My throat
My chest
I dig
Past
Muscle and sinew
When I think
I’ve reached bone
I discover clay
Clay as red
As the truth

What to Do When the Night is Watching:

• Turn on a flashlight
• Light a candle
• Stand under a streetlight
• Close your eyes and dream; you can always see inside your head
• Strike a match
• Tame a firefly
• Swallow a star
• Avoid the dark
• Replace your eyes, say, with the ones of a cat; that way you won’t have to remember

Mui’n Sewell Sattler is a member of the Listuguj Mi’gmaq Government (in the Gaspé region of Québec), with matrilineal ties to Garden River Anishinaabe First Nation. Born and raised in rural Saskatchewan, she currently lives in downtown Vancouver, BC.