Mamaskatch: A Cree Coming of Age by Darrel J. McLeod

Author:Darrel J. McLeod [McLeod, Darrel J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: LGBTQ, Identity, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Indigenous, biography, Cree, First Nations, Cultural; Ethnic & Regional, Darrel McLeod, Family
ISBN: 9781771622011
Google: 1b9qDwAAQBAJ
Publisher: Douglas & McIntyre
Published: 2018-09-15T21:00:10.135329+00:00

Indian Princesses

The day mother found Greggie’s letter, I had run home upbeat and excited, not at all prepared for the scene that awaited me. I planned to practise trumpet for the upcoming Kiwanis Festival before the other kids got home. As usual, I was going to blast out the melodies over and over until I got them right.

Mother was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, holding an envelope in one hand and some papers in the other. Scattered on the step behind her were a few photo strips—black and white, the type we loved to get taken in the booth at the Edmonton bus depot, four for a quarter. I went over and picked one up. My older brother Greg and my uncle Danny were huddled together, smiling. They wore glossy lipstick, puffy wigs and low-cut blouses. Oh. Oh, she had found the letter.

My heart sank. Two weeks earlier, I had opened a letter from Greggie and then hidden it among the folds of the shirts in my improvised clothes closet. I dreaded Mother’s reaction, worrying she might have some kind of a nervous breakdown or escape into days of rowdy drinking and partying.

“Ooooh. You found it, Ma. I was gonna give it to you. I was just waiting for the right time.”

Taking it from her, I reread the first line of the letter. The flourishes of Greggie’s handwriting made me smile, despite the content. “My name is Trina now, Mom. I hope you can love me for who I am. I will always love you.”

“It’s okay—I had to find out somehow,” Mother mumbled. “Didn’t think it would be like this, though. Can’t believe it. Jus’ can’t. Sosquats.”

“I know, Mom.” I held back tears.

“He was just here at Christmas. I thought something was different, but he was dressed normal,” Mother said. “Now he’s tellin’ us he’s got chochos—he’s takin’ hormones to grow them.”

She rested her forehead in the palms of her hands and rocked back and forth. I sat beside her and took one of her strong hands in mine.

“Cheezus, he’s only nineteen,” she said, then paused and looked me in the eye. “We havta a-ssept him, Son. It don’t matter. We can’t discard him.”

I gathered up the envelope and pictures and returned them to my closet.

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