The eye is led wide, along the utility line that runs beside the winding driveway, off towards the tiny white faces of the Rocky Mountains in the distance. It is immaculately frigid, the long landscape swaddled in dry, thigh deep powder, the low midday sun bleaching the snow blinding. In the open, swirls of stinging wind have whipped drifts that bury the barbed wire fences, the ghosts of hoodoos haunting their fragile sculpture. Down low, soft vulval valleys of cozy conifers and bare branches shelter cold blue shadows. The coyote, the rabbit; the hawk, the grouse; all seem quiet. Still. Even the tight air harbours ice crystals suspended, sparkling in the low sun like the dust of diamonds.

It is Christmas time, during a boyhood visit to my uncle’s ranch near Rocky Mountain House. By then, I had already established firmly among friends that I preferred to play an Indian than a cowboy. And yet my naive fascination was forever altered that winter by a trip with my uncle to town. A pair of Natives were leaning against the Hudson’s Bay Store on Main Street as we walked passed. “Just holding the building up,” grinned one, winking at me when I stole a timid look. I was ten years old, and as my first ever interaction with a real live Indian, how could I help but be affected by my uncle’s sharp dismissal, his yanking of my upstretched hand more quickly along. And yet I was not untouched by this stranger’s humour and friendliness. His dark eyes, though kind, seemed so deep; so foreign. So sad. He was not like the romanticized underdogs I had rooted for in Hollywood movies. Right here, I felt, in this landscape I had already come to love, was its human manifestation. Here were people truly of this place.

Twenty years later, while working in Edmonton’s inner city, I would get to know a man named Samuel Shirt, a fifty-three year old Cree elder from Saddle Lake. Every Wednesday evening for the eight years before this interview, Sam and his wife Shirley had hosted a traditional healing circle at the Bissell Centre. Serving much like an A.A. meeting, the circle included a strong Native cultural component. It incorporated powerful indigenous rituals like the smudge– cleansing oneself with the smoke of burning sweetgrass or other sacred herbs– and the ceremonial smoking of tobacco in a traditional pipe. Together, Sam and Shirley helped hundreds of people reestablish both their spiritual roots and their sobriety. A recovering alcoholic himself, Sam knew the despair of the street. Although his heart-warming laughter was incredibly infectious, our short conversation, in a quiet Southside café in 2001, revealed much about what made his own twinkling eyes so deep.

When were you born?

Hmm. I like that history. I was born in the reserve [Saddle Lake]. I was born in the wintertime. I remember my grandmother telling me that it was a cold night, that she kept the fire going. She said, ‘I didn’t have no knife to cut the lifeline, so I used my teeth.’ But I kinda doubt that [laughs]. For me, though, I was always proud of that, that I wasn’t born in a hospital. That it was all– I don’t know– natural. I guess that’s what I see about life– It’s natural. A natural thing.

How many in your family?

Three boys. I was the oldest. My mom had seven babies, but four of them died. I’m not really sure how– crib death, whatever. One was two years old– my sister. I just seen her when I was small, and then all of a sudden she was gone. I remember one day finding one of her little shoes and wondering, ‘Where is she?’ Of course my parents got kind of quiet. I don’t know– my mother lost a lot of kids.

Where did you go to school?

At first I went to day school, on the reserve, and then I went to residential school. The day school was run by the United Church, the residential school by Catholics.

How old were you when you went to residential school?

I guess I was going on ten. It was out of the reserve, near St. Paul. It was the first time I was away from my family. Actually, I used to see my cousins come home with new clothes every year– like ‘Cowboy Kings’.

Cowboy Kings?

Yeah, Cowboy Kings. They were a type of jeans. I thought, maybe if we go to school there, we’ll get some Cowboy Kings. Before my brothers and I left, I went to my dad and said, ‘We’re leaving now.’ And he never said nothing. That was the last time I seen him alive. Three weeks later, he died. It was very– detrimental I think is the word. For years I carried around the guilt of that, as though I had made him feel that way.

By going to school?

Yeah.

But that wasn’t your choice, was it?

Going to school? Oh yeah, it was my choice. And I think that that’s the reason. He didn’t want me to go there. Because he had been there. When he went there, he was just a small guy. In fact he went through right up to the highest grade, grade eight. And he ended up being pretty well a jack-of-all trades, my dad– mechanic, trapper, farm worker, all like that. But the thing is that both my parents were from residential school. So there was a lot of dysfunction in the family– between the two.

So he had a rough time there and was confused by your choice?

I think he was disappointed. Very disappointed. But long ago, when the kids wanted something, you gave it to them. You let them figure it out for themselves. So it was a choice. And I found out. But it has taken me a long time– even today I’m affected by what happened at residential school. Especially the racist part, with the nuns and the priests. Sometimes I get this… especially if it’s coming and I sort of… if I forget where I’m at…. It’s just frustrating. It angers me. Sometimes I still see it. It shouldn’t be that way. But then even us, with residential school, if there was a Dene– back then they were called Chippewyans– we were racist ourselves! [laughs] Amongst each other! Geez, it’s a sick world, eh?

But the thing was, we didn’t get taught anything. Not really. And the way I found this out was in grade six– I spent half the year at school in town, in St. Paul– my step-father and mother took us out. And man, we were so far behind! I had a hard time catching up. All we did was learn English– whatever English we learned. No arithmetic. Basically, it was very poor education. Very poor. When I went to town, I had no idea what they were doing. Multiplication… division… subtra– whatever. Even the English, the history, the social studies. They even had homework! We never had homework in residential school. You just went to school, sat there all day, fooled around, whatever. Maybe you’d do a little bit, but basically it was nothing.

But one thing we were taught– was to pray. Every day, day and night. The minute we got up we prayed. Supper, dinner, after supper we prayed. It was enough to drive you nuts.

I don’t get the feeling that you found residential school really traumatic though, was it?

Oh yeah. But I guess in such a way that you’d say I maybe– I don’t know. Buried it. There was sexual abuse in there. Sexual touching, same thing. We were treated very badly. ‘Maudit, sauvage,’ the nuns always used to say. I used to wonder, ‘These people that are God’s people, these priests and these nuns,’ I used to wonder. ‘What kind of God do they follow to be so darn mean?’ You know? So damn mean. There was Sister Bertha– she was a Metis woman– she used to speak Cree to us. Then there was the last priest while I was there; he was good to us. But the rest…. It was nothing for them to strap you with one of those belts– you know those belts for turning the thrashers? Very thick and heavy. You’ d get busted veins on your wrist, that’s how hard they would strap you. Then they used to pull your ears till you’d get all scabby. Instead of combing our hair they used to just cut it all off. And they’d give you maybe two pieces of toilet paper, and if there was anything in your shorts you’d have to wear them on your head. You know, it was kind of a shameful thing? Degrading. So, you know, if you ever ended up in jail– it was kind of like a residential school! But it was a little different; at least in jail you got your smokes, you’re maybe a little freer. At least nobody’s racist in there! [laughs] And there were hungry times, too. The boys used to go in the middle of the night and steal the bread downstairs; they used to bring it up to the rest of us to share. The meals were never really enough. Back home, we used to snare rabbits, sometimes we’d get a prairie chicken. I like the wild meat. We were growing boys. We had a lot of energy, but they never gave us what we needed.

So how did you get out of there then?

My step-father came, and somehow they got us out of there. Then I went through a lot of changes. They were living in town, in St. Paul. I guess we were living on welfare [shrugs, chuckles]. My step-father drank a lot. So of course there was a lot of family violence– well not violence, but a lot of fighting, yelling, arguing. You always felt kind of apprehensive– you can’t sleep when they come back– you know, talking loud, partying. It was very dysfunctional. The sad case is that that’s still  a problem for us Natives today. Not knowing how to raise kids. We lost that family connection, especially from residential schools. I see kids in the city and they’re basically raising themselves. Joining street gangs… it’s sad.

Did you get into trouble as a kid?

In St. Paul I did. Yeah. Because of the young… European, Western I guess you’d call them– white– white kids. Racists. They’d call you all kinds of names because you were Native. Of course I’d stick up for my brothers, and I got into quite a bit of trouble with that.

With the law, too?

Yeah. Later on. When you really have nothing– no education, very limited education, and the people you work with are saying ‘f’ every second word, and they’re all going out drinking every night after work…

This was in St. Paul?

Well actually, I seen my uncle one time. He was driving this beautiful brand new truck. And he had a woman around his arm. And he was drinking. It looked so…

Romantic?

Yeah! Romantic. Attractive. I thought, ‘I think that’s what I want to be.’ So the first chance, I started working. Well– I got kicked out of the house when I was fifteen.

How come?

Cause my mom and stepfather and I were fighting, and I grabbed the old man. [chuckles].

Was he physical with your mother?

I wasn’t sure. But I was so tired of it, the yelling, the screaming, day after day. Seemed like that was all they did. And I just got tired of it. It was kind of sad to leave my brothers in that situation, but in another way I was glad to get out. I think especially my second brother; it kind of did some damage to him. Because I left. My mother…  well she did used to try and buy us nice clothes, fancy clothes. That’s where the arguments used to come between my step-father and my mother, over the money. I guess he thought we should be buying food! [laughs] I went from there to an aunt’s place. Then the old man started coming over there and raising hell, so I moved to the reserve and started working.

And that’s when you first started drinking?

Well actually, the first time I got drunk was on wine when I was twelve. With my cousins. But yeah, I started working then with my uncle.

The one you had looked up to when–

No a different one. Pickin’ rocks, pickin’ roots– I made over three hundred dollars in a week– lots of money. So the first thing I did was go find my dad’s brother. His name was Peter. ‘So you wanna go and drink?’ Of course he didn’t. Finally I showed him the money and asked him again, ‘You wanna drink?’ So eventually he kind of looked at me and said, ‘You really wanna drink?’

‘Yeah.’

So, we went to this place were they used to allow Natives to drink, cause they  weren’t allowed then. We bought this long-necked beer, I remember– Bohemian made [laughs]. Of course I opened bottle after bottle and was drinkin’ like [motions quickly]– next thing I know I’m throwing up. He said, ‘Take it easy! Drink slow!’ [pause] I remember drinking but I don’t remember after that. [laughs]

You know, the thing is, the drinking got attention I never really had. ‘Cause of my parents… I was the one taking care… I was the father. I was the mother. I was the kind of clown, too, the one who made everybody laugh. Problem was I was also the scapegoat. So these were the dysfunctions. But I didn’t know they were dysfunctions until later, later, later. I drank for thirty-five years. Sometimes I’d end up behind bars because of my drinking or whatever. Well not really. Because of myself, really. The drinking just escalated things. My anger. Like they say, ‘Us Indians, when we drink, we turn into white men!’ [laughs] I heard a white fella say, ‘We turn into Indians!’ [laughs hard] Whatever. [laughing] Anyhow, with the drinking nothing really changes. The whole thing starts getting worse.

What was it that really turned you? What was the ugliest thing you remember from those days?

Well the last stages of my drinking, I started getting paranoid about people. So that’s when I started carrying a knife. Eventually I used it. But the thing is, my victim didn’t die– so I was lucky, eh?

What happened exactly?

Well, you see… what happened was…. Well it went into a total rage. [pause] You see, this person was starting to get jealous of the lady I was with. And I didn’t like that. Matter of fact, as this started happening, I started drinking away from her. You know, like, saying that I was going to go to town to drink? Thing was, I didn’t even have money to go to town! [laughs] When you’re drinking, nothing’s impossible. But I remember her going by the door there, laughing with him. Then I blacked out. It wasn’t the drinking, either. It was the rage. By this time with the drinking, it was usually pure straight– whiskey. Beer wasn’t enough to get that feeling. I remember my brother saying to someone in the Fort [Saskatchewan Jail], ‘When he starts drinkin’ and takin’ those pills, you just don’t know what he’s gonna do!’ That kind of hurt to hear, but he was right. Thing is, you think it will make you forget– but you don’t. You remember. And so you just want to die. [long pause]

I blamed it on drinking, but it wasn’t. At rehab, I thought they were just going to teach me how to drink! [laughs] I thought if I toked up, it wasn’t important. But really, everything ended there, a month and a half later, after doing some time. That is where they sent me. And I’ll tell you, it was a real eye opener. I remember there was this little girl they had there, about four or five years old. She used to tell us stories– about how she felt. About how she seen her mother and father, about how it affected her, how it made her feel. I guess I started getting in touch with my emotions. One day I started talking, and my feelings were coming up. I started choking up– I wanted to cry. ‘I better sit down,’ I thought, so I sat down. I sat right at the door. When the meeting was over, I just left that room in a hurry. And of course three counselors raced after me. And they finally cornered me in this sort of waiting room. I couldn’t run anymore, so…. One of them, with empathy– with great concern– one of the lady counselors there, putting her hand on my shoulder, asked, ‘What’s happening?’ And of course, all the emotions came out. I tell you, that’s the first time I ever cried– in a long time. The way I cried, even my nose was running. I was so tired. So wiped out. She asked me, she said, ‘Do you remember what you said?’ I said, ‘No.’ She said, ‘The first thing you said was “God forgive me.”’ And I’m glad she told me that, because it made great sense. So these are the things I was… well, getting in touch with my emotional self. Becoming human. It helped me become who I am today. Coming from a violent person to a, to a different kind of person– you know it’s amazing what the person can do.

So was it then, through the experience in rehab, that you first really identified yourself as a spiritual person?

I was always spiritual. It was there, it’s just that now, it really– blossomed. Where also you, you really get to know what your goal is. You’re more connected. Where before, you just use it when you need it. Like you say, ‘Hey– hey, God! If you help me outta this, I’ll do this or I’ll do that.’ All those promises, all those deals I made, I don’t think I ever kept them. This time, I remember tears coming down my eyes, praying, praying– giving my life to the Creator– God, whatever. Because I couldn’t run it anymore. And then the most incredible thing happened. It was like a warm blanket just covered me up. I was so warm. And for the first time, I slept peacefully. Alcohol and drugs make your sleep so restless. But that time, the next morning, I was like a young man. I just jumped out of that bed, I was so full of life, laughing. That’s what they call a ‘spiritual awakening’. And that’s where for me, life changed. And rehab solidified that; it gave me the skills to deal with life. I never knew these skills. And I had to relearn a lot of things.

Then I started remembering the old– what the old people used to say. And I started seeking them out. Their teachings, their learning. The traditional cultural stuff started coming. Blossoming. That’s a lifetime learning. You never stop learning. It’s helped me tremendously. And a lot of these people I work with now– there’s a relationship between the client and the counselor. Because you’ve been there. That’s how I can be most effective. Trying to help each other, eh? Cause that interaction includes the Creator and everything.

So how does one become an ‘elder’? Do you have a license or what?

No [chuckles]. I don’t refer to myself as an ‘elder’. Other people call me that. The way I was taught is that I’m a servant. A servant to the people, because you’re the custodian of the sacred pipe, the sage, you’re the keeper of all these things. So you see that they’re used right.

Actually, one day, the Old Man [Raven, Sam’s elder] gave me a pipe and told me, ‘This is how they use it.’ And I had it– oooh– maybe three years. And one day this person told me, he says, ‘You don’t know what you have!’ And I said, ‘Sure I do!’ [laughs] I walked out of there, kind of upset. I was walking down the road there, and all of a sudden I seen this eagle. I was looking at it, and then I seen this fox, just jumping there! He didn’t notice me or nothing. Finally when it did see me, boy, it just started running across that field! [laughs] And that eagle, you know, he flew up, and he made a circle. Then it went south. Then I realized– this person is right. He was right. So I went back, and I gave this person tobacco. And I said, ‘You’re right.’ Really– that’s when I started learning.

Thank you so much, Sam. But just one last question. Through all this learning of your own, what do you consider the most important thing to pass on to younger generations?

[long pause] That we have to take care of our environment. If we don’t look after our environment, our resources– especially our water; our land; our trees, our plants; we’re not gonna have nothing.

 ***

At first, I found Samuel’s last answer strange. He had spoken so frankly and sincerely about his own difficult past, till now revealing nothing at all about concern for the Environment. Then I began to recollect again the landscape of my uncle’s ranch. I remembered his cattle huddled in the frosty fog of their own breath; the countless round bales dotting the flat white of the snow into the distance; the mechanical heads of pumpjacks bobbing in perpetual motion. To my innocent eyes, the land had seemed wide open, wild and free. But this living land had already been greatly changed by the white man’s hand. As I began uncomfortably to wonder when, and how, my uncle’s expansive half-section may have been claimed for ranching, the connection between Sam’s own life and his concern about violation of the land seemed disturbingly clear.

“I don’t get so angry anymore,” Samuel continued as we got up to leave.

“But this is what makes me sad.”