One Story, One Song by Richard Wagamese

Author:Richard Wagamese [Wagamese, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Kamloops Region (B.C.), Native American Studies, Medicine Wheels, Social Science, Canadian, Ojibwa Indians, Indic, General, Native Americans, Biography & Autobiography, Literary, Literary Criticism, Asian, Ethnic Studies, BIO026000, Ojibwa Philosophy, Indian Authors
ISBN: 1553655060
Publisher: Douglas & McIntyre
Published: 2010-01-02T05:00:00+00:00

Families

TOLSTOY WROTE THAT all happy families are alike, but each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. I’m not familiar with the details of Russian family life in the 1800s, but I know that Count Leo was on to something. I’ve been around for over half a century now. I’ve spent time in hundreds of homes and witnessed thousands of interactions between people bound by blood. I’ve been in homes where silence rules and anger simmers under everything. I’ve visited families whose simple, abundant love for each other fills me with awe. Good or bad, they’ve all taught me something.

At our home in the mountains, my family consists of Debra and me, Molly the dog and a host of friends. My extended family is huge now. As a good friend puts it, I have a big chosen family.

I was separated from my Native family as a toddler. For years, I had no idea where I came from or who my people were. When I reconnected with them twenty-four years later, we had to get to know each other again. Each of us had experienced a lot of pain in our lives, and a lot of broken trust. We bore all of that back into the mix, so our time together was often pretty glum.

Life with my adopted family was horrendous. As staunch, strict Presbyterians, they knew nothing about Native history, spirituality, tradition or culture. They knew nothing of the abuse I’d already suffered. Their efforts to make me fit their ideal filled me with anger and resentment, and I ran away as soon as I could.

When I married my first wife, I was introduced to an extraordinary family of people who genuinely cared about each other. They accepted me as one of them, and for a time I felt as though I actually belonged somewhere. When my marriage ended because of my alcoholism, I mourned the loss of that family as deeply as I mourned the loss of my wife.

I’ve visited homes that had great fist-sized holes in the walls. I’ve also had friends and lovers whose family homes were obsessively ordered and immaculate. In those homes, I was never sure where to place my feet, and the conversation was as stiff as the plastic on the sofa. Recently, Deb and I sat on our deck talking with a good friend. He’s South African by birth. He’s not someone you’d categorize as conflicted if you saw him on the street. He’s trim and fit with an open face and an engaging manner. He’s terrifically funny, whip-smart, open-minded, adventurous, opinionated and engaged with the world. When he told us his story of growing up, I was dumbfounded.

Our friend described a great gulf between brothers created by extraordinary differences in their worldviews and their approach to living. He told us about physical, mental, emotional and spiritual damage that had created gaps seemingly impossible to bridge. Maybe it was the shadow of apartheid he grew up in, or maybe it was just

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