I Am First Light of the Rising Sun

by Lauren Voeltz

Josie Weiss

Dedicated to All Those Lost at the Residential Schools

Three of us arrived at the schoolhouse: Zagaanakwad, Storm Clouds, Makadewigwane, Black Feathers, and I, Waaseyaa, First Light of the Rising Sun—three strong Anishinaabe girls at the end of childhood.

Fifteen others like us, First Nations peoples, watched us come in—fifteen pairs of brown eyes wide and pleading. Unlike us, their hair was chopped and their clothing salt-white. Unlike us, they had glassy eyes cast in shadows, highlighting gaunt cheeks.

“bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk!”—James Joyce, on the sound of thunder.

One woman approached us cautiously, and told us her name: Mary. Did it mean anything? She smiled through clenched teeth. We watched her thin lips and rigid body move through the dusty room.

A man stood beside her, his gray hair a garland. Our eyes squinted, and our fingers trembled; he was so large. We were deer destined for arrowheads, frozen, awaiting our pain.

The man spat and mumbled under his breath.

The foreign words echoed in my head. Meaningless, but we still sensed unease. Their sidelong glances said enough—they meant to tame us. To suck out poison and stop the snake before it strikes.

They stripped us. We shivered in the darkness. The man forced clothes over our bodies. They grasped our braided hair in their fists, bringing up a blade. We cried out as they sawed.

“Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul. And sings the tune without the words. And never stops at all.” — Emily Dickinson

They gave us names: Sarah, Haggar, and Naomi; branding us like the white men their cattle. We said our real names in our heads. Let our ancestors’ prayers tumble around our hearts, though never letting them leave our lips. In quiet moments, all our lips were moving. We did not surrender every part. Over the weeks, we recounted the flowery fields and dances led by drums, and under sheets we reminisced in secret. We retold each other the tales of asabikeshiinh, the spider, and the Gookooko’oo, the great owl.

We missed our ancestor’s instructions in their stories. The ladies here said: Listen. Do as I say. Don’t question. We heard: we’ve captured the sun, so live in the dark, and die to yourself.

We learned to submit until the swells within us ceased rising. Better to sink into ourselves. Better to bury our light inside.

We were there for three months when Zagaanakwad caught an illness, sprang a fever and then died.

After the first year, the number of slaps grew like cancer. In the second, bruises graced our necks and arms. Darkness never left us alone—disease, depression, and death were constant beggars at the door. In the third year, we got our moons. Several months later, Makadewigwane, Black Feathers, bore a child. Neither survived the ordeal.

“…blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly…” — Paul McCartney

I emerged from that place another year later, as a sooty moth with tattered powderless wings. Running through the fields to my escape.

I will rise from these ashes. No one has permission to change my real name. I will always be Waaseyaa, First Light of the Rising Sun. I will always be Anishinaabe.

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Lauren Voeltz grew up on the Leech Lake Reservation and is a descendant of the Ste. Sault Marie Ojibway Tribe in Michigan. She enjoys drinking coffee, reading, and solving a variety of puzzles. You can find her work at Youth Imagination, TL;DR and elsewhere. Follow her @mattnwife