Facing Historical Trauma Today
With the weather warming, the sun staying out longer, and the joys of warmer weather boosting moral, I am finally able to write this post. I won't front completely; this is probably one of two of the hardest things I will write about this year. I will forever remain transparent in my writing, and I will never censor the truth even if it's hard to bare.
Mini and Braided Four Medicine both in Smoke
It's when I hear Kevin Gates come on. It's this weather I knew he'd be running around in. It's his truck. It's prints of four wheelers, dirt bikes in the mud. It's the restaurants we last ate in as a family. It's our every picture that carries his memories. It's the pictures I didn't take or didn't save. It's his baby girl.
I can't put it into words the pain that comes from loss, from tragedy. My optimism tells me time will heal everything, but experience forces me to hold back tears. My optimism forgets that it's even real, that he is actually gone from this earth, but harsh reality forces me to let the tears fall. I don't place blame or guilt on anyone for James "Jimmy" Frederick Shelifoe's life, but I know personally, it is directly from historical trauma. Jimmy, my very close cousin, like a brother, passed away August 27th, 2016 when traveling with the KBIC Fire Fighters to a fire out west. He and his crew never made it. Jimmy and his friend another firefighter, A.J. Swartz, passed away in the crash. Jimmy loved those fire trips. It brings a smile through my tear filled face, as I write because I can hear his voice telling those stories. I can see his handsome face now filled with excitement as he shared those journeys with us. The boys on that bus, fighting those fires needed that sense of community. Jimmy needed the friendship, mentorship, and culture that were on those trips. As did most of the people who took those pack test, went to weekly workouts, and fought those fires. He was a part of something, the sense of belonging is what he got, more than just a paycheck. I know he loved those too though!
I can't put it into words the pain that comes from loss, from tragedy. My optimism tells me time will heal everything, but experience forces me to hold back tears. My optimism forgets that it's even real, that he is actually gone from this earth, but harsh reality forces me to let the tears fall. I don't place blame or guilt on anyone for James "Jimmy" Frederick Shelifoe's life, but I know personally, it is directly from historical trauma. Jimmy, my very close cousin, like a brother, passed away August 27th, 2016 when traveling with the KBIC Fire Fighters to a fire out west. He and his crew never made it. Jimmy and his friend another firefighter, A.J. Swartz, passed away in the crash. Jimmy loved those fire trips. It brings a smile through my tear filled face, as I write because I can hear his voice telling those stories. I can see his handsome face now filled with excitement as he shared those journeys with us. The boys on that bus, fighting those fires needed that sense of community. Jimmy needed the friendship, mentorship, and culture that were on those trips. As did most of the people who took those pack test, went to weekly workouts, and fought those fires. He was a part of something, the sense of belonging is what he got, more than just a paycheck. I know he loved those too though!
"See you later brother" in Ojibwe
My awareness doesn't let a minute go by where I don't think about him or the other firefighters in that crash. I know the men in those trucks were all there for a reason. Their reasons may have varied, but I know those fires were quick and not easy at all money, they did it for their families. The firefighters who took those roles weren't perfect. I know Jimmy wasn't. We all aren't but, I praise the crew managers and the program for helping the boys stay out of the streets or jail or remaining static which is just as bad, and giving them a chance at success, being a part of a bigger picture. I don't justify anyone's actions at all! All I know is the young men on those trips were in pain, to begin with, it is hard to leave your issues behind. I repeat again, I believe in accountability and will not justify anyone's actions.
Historical Trauma is real. Why is there drugs in our community? Why are our fathers in prison? Why is the only way out of abuse and oppression, the way we learned as children, the quick and easy way out! Why do you find stability the way we saw our grandparents cope, through substance abuse? The oppression our native community and families have faced for generations. Segregation, genocide, loss of culture, continual deprivation and forcible removal from family and communities are all unresolved and become a sort of "baggage" continuously being acted out and is recreated in contemporary native culture. The firefighters carried that extra baggage on each and every trip. It's the extra 20 pounds in their backpacks, in their boots, and carried on their shoulders. I carry mine in my purse. Those 20 pounds came from hardship my grandparents faced in boarding schools and growing up Indian in a world where they were pushed out and didn't belong. Those 20 pounds are the abuse that was passed on from my grandpa to my aunts and uncles, his kids. It's the suicide of my Grandma that left nine brothers and sisters to fend on their own. It's the heartbreak and hurt my mom's generation carried on to mine. It didn't start with my grandparents, but that's as far back as I can see, as far back as I witnessed in my lifetime. We were born heavy, carrying the weight of a village and passed on our ancestors.
Historical Trauma is real. Why is there drugs in our community? Why are our fathers in prison? Why is the only way out of abuse and oppression, the way we learned as children, the quick and easy way out! Why do you find stability the way we saw our grandparents cope, through substance abuse? The oppression our native community and families have faced for generations. Segregation, genocide, loss of culture, continual deprivation and forcible removal from family and communities are all unresolved and become a sort of "baggage" continuously being acted out and is recreated in contemporary native culture. The firefighters carried that extra baggage on each and every trip. It's the extra 20 pounds in their backpacks, in their boots, and carried on their shoulders. I carry mine in my purse. Those 20 pounds came from hardship my grandparents faced in boarding schools and growing up Indian in a world where they were pushed out and didn't belong. Those 20 pounds are the abuse that was passed on from my grandpa to my aunts and uncles, his kids. It's the suicide of my Grandma that left nine brothers and sisters to fend on their own. It's the heartbreak and hurt my mom's generation carried on to mine. It didn't start with my grandparents, but that's as far back as I can see, as far back as I witnessed in my lifetime. We were born heavy, carrying the weight of a village and passed on our ancestors.
Jimmy's Mom, Brother and Sisters.
My work has never meant more to me until that very moment we found out. I remember it like yesterday; it was the day of my Aunty's, Jimmy's mom's wedding. Jimmy was so tore up that he wasn't able to attend. The wild fires can happen at anytime. His last text message to the beautiful bride to be, I remember being in the room when she tried to compose herself to read it out loud. I will cherish, that I was able to hear it.
The news of Jimmy broke our souls, the wedding reception was just about to start, when the cops pulled in. A medicine bundle I created just weeks before, was only a prototype, but I needed it. Those medicines hung around my neck with hope and faith. I also knew others needed it more than me that day. I gave it to my best friend, my cousin, my pretty much sister who had just lost her other half. The simple necklace one-of-a-kind, hand-harvested, hand-cut, and sealed, held the Ojibwe People’s, my cultures medicines: Tobacco, Sage, Sweetgrass, and Cedar. The tangible strength that came from that necklace was powerful. When our strength and hope was shattered and gone, it hung around my cousin's neck as a reminder that we were damaged and in pain, but we could also heal.
The news of Jimmy broke our souls, the wedding reception was just about to start, when the cops pulled in. A medicine bundle I created just weeks before, was only a prototype, but I needed it. Those medicines hung around my neck with hope and faith. I also knew others needed it more than me that day. I gave it to my best friend, my cousin, my pretty much sister who had just lost her other half. The simple necklace one-of-a-kind, hand-harvested, hand-cut, and sealed, held the Ojibwe People’s, my cultures medicines: Tobacco, Sage, Sweetgrass, and Cedar. The tangible strength that came from that necklace was powerful. When our strength and hope was shattered and gone, it hung around my cousin's neck as a reminder that we were damaged and in pain, but we could also heal.
Jimmy's Mother and Daughter, Ciara Mae
Standing holding each other as the police confirmed our worst nightmares, I didn't want to heal. It didn't seem like an option. I gave up everything. Every day after was a blur. I stopped in my tracks. It was the pain my family suffered that hurt just as much as losing Jimmy. We already faced so much, it felt like one more beating we couldn't take. One more punch, one more hit to the face, and we added one more pound to our bags, our boots, our shoulders. We may have lost hope briefly and may still lose it at times, but having that necklace reflects the possibility of hope.
I want to make that sense of hope for others in need, to help with another individual’s spiritual path, and to help one’s wellbeing just as a rosary or medicine man’s scared pouch would. It is more than beauty and adornment; it’s medicinal. My process now has meaning, and I found that meaning through Jimmy, those Firefighters, my family, and community. We need this.
I want to make that sense of hope for others in need, to help with another individual’s spiritual path, and to help one’s wellbeing just as a rosary or medicine man’s scared pouch would. It is more than beauty and adornment; it’s medicinal. My process now has meaning, and I found that meaning through Jimmy, those Firefighters, my family, and community. We need this.
Although ceremonies differ from First Nation to First Nation, basic beliefs remain similar. Our medicine bundles carry sacred knowledge and contain ingredients to spiritual well-being. These powerful religious objects represent faith in a tangible way and transcend into modernity through cultural exchange and societal development. Traditional Healing is the restoring of balance to the mind, body, spirit and emotions. There needs to be harmony and balance in us just as there is in all of Creation. When you start on a healing journey, you are making a commitment to help yourself, your family and your community. Great respect is shown for the plants that are used in this specific healing. The "Four Medicines Medallion" is an embellishment that contributes to the physical act of finding faith in a time when cultural identities are becoming blurry. A worn reminder that hope exist. The unique medicine pouch is a bicultural composite of an exchange and revamped further to a multifaceted object set into today’s medicinal context. There is a need for cultural support in our new contemporary setting, and this pendant defines that. I want my work to be available to all, no matter the budget and can be used how ever they need at the time.
My sorority sister shared a similar story when I joined, but I changed it up a little.
The baggage we carry, the added tonnage, the extra weight carried on our shoulders may add up but measure the woman I am now. My height, times width, times length and you'll discover that my strength is enough to unbalance the Earth. My size is beyond three-dimensional. The pounds of pride I now carry. You know these shoulders can manage it, and no amount of pressure can damage it. You better damn well know that I am cultural heavy. Ethnically, Fat. My pride and self are so damn hefty I wear a triple X just in being Native.
I have overcome trauma, countered racism with bravery, been the mother of invention, survived oppressors ill intentions. We will succeed against all the odds, take control and take charge. We can heal.
The baggage we carry, the added tonnage, the extra weight carried on our shoulders may add up but measure the woman I am now. My height, times width, times length and you'll discover that my strength is enough to unbalance the Earth. My size is beyond three-dimensional. The pounds of pride I now carry. You know these shoulders can manage it, and no amount of pressure can damage it. You better damn well know that I am cultural heavy. Ethnically, Fat. My pride and self are so damn hefty I wear a triple X just in being Native.
I have overcome trauma, countered racism with bravery, been the mother of invention, survived oppressors ill intentions. We will succeed against all the odds, take control and take charge. We can heal.
In Memory of James Frederick Shelifoe Junior
Fallen But Not Forgotten
Heros Live Forever
Hold and appreciate your loved ones and be aware of everyones baggage. I already have been hearing personal stories from my customers, who are seeking hope. I hope you find the strength you deserve in my work! Chi-Miigwetch for the amazing support thus far!!
Until next,
Tashina Lee Emery
Until next,
Tashina Lee Emery
