A SURVIVOR
BY NOLAN JAMES BRIDEN
The night was light with the iridescent flakes of snow. The earth stood out in the forefront of the Rocky Mountains. Her breathing was labored as she swept through the thick snow. On her way across the Res she could feel the stars of life as she exhaled into the wintery night sky. Her clothes were made in the fashion of her era. Her skin was earth's dark red that cut in the sharp features of her Pukini blood. The 1950s were tough as she walked into the blizzard’s weather. Her feet touched the same ground that her mother, father, grandmothers-grandfathers did, since Napi first made humans. This cold season found a rose unable to make her destination. She fell into a snowdrift and lost consciousness. Her belly was big with the life it held.
Two winos found my grandma and carried her to the hospital on our reservation in Browning, Montana. The story describes how my Grandma Rosie awoke to the doctor telling her she'd be okay. Having previously lost her twins, Johnny and Joseph, she was too scared to ask about her baby. The doctor left and quickly returned asked her if she'd like to meet her son. She named my father Joseph. My grandma told my dad, "After how you was born, I knew you'd always be okay." Words that he in turn told me. I think of those two relatives that found my grandma, and even in their state of drinking, they still had the compassion, the love to carry their relative to the hospital — not just walk by her. A truth that human beings can still be spiritual beings, no matter what.
The life expectancy for Indian men of my dad's generation was around the age of thirty — tops. Alcohol, drugs, jail-prison, and deaths bed were the most likely outcomes. Disconnected from ancestral ways, an Indian man living in a white world was forced to assimilate in the world that perpetuated assimilation. It was outlawed to practice tribal customs and to live as the first ones did. "We were taught to be anything but Indian. When I was a little boy, my sister Janice used to braid my hair in the way the old Blackfeet wore it." My dad’s words resonate in me as I think of those times, and the heartache from losing so much of one’s identity. My generation was so far removed from experiencing those times, and yet, the effects still ripple out. It makes me think of the barriers we face, some more than others, some less, and how the connection to the earth, spirit, and creator are still alive. Despite all the stimulations of the world, we've survived to tell our stories and connect to those ancient ideas.
"We been trying to get hold of you. I had a heart attack last week. They put 2 valves in my heart." My dad's words still echo around my head, spilling out to fill my cell, I get lost in thought. You see, my dad is my best friend, my hero in so many ways. And there's a lot to unpack. In that moment his words struck my conscious, all those bags emptied out and the one thing that centered my world was that I was hearing his voice. One of the hardest lessons I've learned over these years of incarceration is the impact of losing a loved one most dear. All the could of’s, would of's, and should of's that are left in the between. Not really here, nor there, just hovering around unsettled. Trying to bridge the gap of incarceration can seem daunting at times. And the fundamental part of family that has held my family together through so much of life is love. Love is something that not even mile-high-into-the-sky cement can come between. I think of my aunties, my uncles, and how they too have fought the oppressors and survived.
As I have struggled to put a tie on this writing piece, I find myself having reoccurring waves of grief. It's said that grief is not linear, and I find that to be true for me. I grieve what has happened and what has not happened. I grieve the heartache that echoes through the generations of my family. I grieve the horrible mistakes that I have made and now keep me from my loved ones out there in the world. Grievous mistakes that knot me to this captivity. I grieve and I am still alive. | NJB
Grief is not linear. Writing is not a straight path. The twists and turns may bring your grief (and your joy) to collide with mine. This is magic.
thank you for reading and supporting the pony.