River

Ozhaawashkwaa, my name, is mine because of the rippling emerald currents in the river near our home. They flow that way, uprooting the green weed roots in a rush of torrential flood, each spring. Just like they did when I came to this world. The river, a green transition of winter into spring, also carried away my mother and father that spring, leaving me to inherit this life alone. And inherit it I have done. The trees branch out for me each time I pass in the forest. The leaves curl upwards and wave when I am present amidst their foliage. The clouds part when I am sad and reflect the sun’s warmth down upon me when I am cold.

Ozhaawashkwaa, my name, is mine because they gave it to me. But now I have a new name. Now I am James Henry Wilson. I didn’t choose this name. It was chosen for me, a gift they said, when they took me from my home. Took me from my natural place on this earth. Now, James Henry Wilson is the one who goes to school and tries to make friends with the other kids, none who are brown like me, none who were named because of the swift flowing currents, none who inherited this world alone. Now, James Henry Wilson studies diligently in the attic of a new family, a white family, a family who prays at the dinner table and cherishes the warmth of the hearth instead of a fire and who do not like it when the rabbits are caught in the traps I set in the yard. I am not comfortable here as James Henry but it is what the Wilson family wants. I do not have a choice.

I do not need to be someone else. I was already someone. Why did they choose to make me someone I am not? This is a strange community. The people are not like back home. The people here say they are caring for my best interests. I don’t think they really know what my best interests are. If they did, they wouldn’t tell me to stop when I speak my way. They do not like it when I do that. When I use the words I was given. Like my name. Ozhaawashkwaa. They do not like me to be myself, really. They want a good son, even if he is a brown son. They want me to adapt to their ways, to their beliefs, and to their ideals for the future. Me, I would like to go home. I know that ideal grows further and further away from me each passing year, however.

I tried to go back, twice. I tried to return home. I was foolish, though. The first time, I left in the middle of the night, thinking they wouldn’t be able to find me until at least the morning. But somehow I startled the horses, and then Mr. Wilson – he wants me to call him father, but I know my only real father is somewhere down the river, not him – came running after me. He saw my tracks in the mud and found me. The second time, I thought I was smarter. I made it to the river before anyone noticed I was gone. But it seems I picked up too many traits here in this foreign place. I acted more like James Henry Wilson than Ozhaawashkwaa. I was caught again, a day later, cold and shivering. Mr. Wilson hit me really hard that time. I could feel his hand on my backside for days. After that, they didn’t allow me out of the house on my own like I used to able to do. I had to go with the other Wilson children to school, and they had to watch out for me.

To say I am sad is to acknowledge too much power to this place. I am not sad. I am simply wanting something else. I have patience, though. It is not something you can learn here in this place. It is something the river teaches you, and that is what I remember the elders teaching me. Have patience. You will find your time and your place and you will come home. Except they said it to me in our way, and thus the Wilson family and the experts from the school did not know what they were saying as they picked me up. I didn’t cry, for I believe them: I will find my time and my way. I have something they do not. I know what the river brings every year, in the deepest of the emerald movements. It brings renewal. I will be that renewal to my home some day. Just not tomorrow. I have to go to school.