Blackfoot Elder links woman to ancestors

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She was to become the greatest connection I ever had to my Blackfoot ancestors, to my grandmother, my great-grandmother.

On a cold foggy morning I went to interview Beatrice Poor Eagle, whose Blackfoot name translated means "at home stay women." She is an 80-year-old Elder from the Siksika Nation near Calgary.

Poor Eagle greeted my mother, Audrey Crane, with a warm smile and a kiss.

My mother acted as my interpreter, since Poor Eagle felt more comfortable speaking Blackfoot.

Only a touch of white framed her dark hair, which hung in braids to her neck, then looped up and tied around the back. Bobby pins keeping her hair in place reflected her neat appearance. She wore a simple floral dress with a sweater, and on her feet she wore plain buckskin moccasins.

Her eyes were the most prominent feature, and even though she said she couldn't see very well, her eyes held kindness, humility, and wisdom unlike anyone I had every met.

After visiting for a while my mother told her why we were there. Poor Eagle was very straightforward with my mother and me, and told us there were some things that were so sacred she would not speak about them.

When I gave her some tobacco, she held my hands and said, "Thank you, my girl, thank you." Her eyes filled with such happiness and gratefulness that my face went red. I never met anyone so sincere.

Poor Eagle's mother, who died when she was just a newborn baby, didn't have an English name; her named translated meant "calling from behind in the woods." Poor Eagle was raised by Chief Crowfoot's daughter, Little Woman, and by my great-grandmother, Mary Big Snake.

Poor Eagle grew up in a tent and would move from Bassano to the Cluny coal mines as the seasons changed. She remembers a time when there were only five people

on the whole reserve that drank alcohol.

"Those were happy times; we had a lot of fun. The Blackfoot owned a lot of horses and cattle then; even the young people would be helping. I used to ride in an old-fashioned wooden saddle."

On ration day, Thursdays, the Blackfoot would get seven pounds of meat each.

"Times were good then. They would give everyone sweaters, stockings and toques. Then once a month we would get flour, baking powder, lard, syrup, jam, sugar, tobacco and matches."

In 1919, at the age of six, her life drastically changed. She was sent to a boarding school, where she was known as number 19.

"It was terribly hard, I really cried. I was so lonely for my grandparents. Some of the nuns were very mean, some were very kind, but if you were caught speaking your language, you couldn't go home. Anything sacred to us, the nun's called Satan's work," she said.

When I asked what she felt about modern times she said: "Things are terrible today. You must raise your children right, with hard work."

As she spoke her hands moved gracefully through the air, her fingers as nimble as a young woman's.

Her late husband Joe would teach the boys how to work with cattle and horses and she would teach the girls how to bead, tan hides and dry meat.

Her advice for other women was both humble and wise.

"I have no advice because each person must live their own life."

Her tone changed to deep worry when I brought up self-government.

"The band council never even talked to the old people about self-government. The elders on this reserve are very unsure of the youth in the future. What is going to happen to them?"

While I listened to Poor Eagle, I saw that her simple answers held more wisdom than many of our Native leaders. I felt an incredible sadness as she said: "Things will never be the same. A lot of the old ceremonies won't come back because they died

with the old people." But her next comment gave me some hope.

"Some of the traditions are being revived, such as powwows. Some of the old ways are coming back here,"she said with a gleam of pride in her eyes.

Poor Eagle told us a funny story about her adventure at the Banff museum.

"I saw two men standing in the distance. I waved to them, bu they took no notice, I then called, 'Where are you from?' When the two men didn't answer me, I

noticed there were statues.

"I can't hear or see very well," she explained. I'm afraid to go out because I

might walk into a cow!"

My mother showed Poor Eagle a picture of my grandparents, Earl Calf Child and Ann Mary Calf Child.

As she looked at the picture she called my grandmother "my sister." She moaned in loneliness as she looked at the picture. My grandmother Ann Mary passed away when my mother was three years old, so my mother and I had no memory of her.

Poor Eagle knew both my grandmother and my great-grandmother intimately.

She was our memory; through her I could feel my grandmother. I knew she existed.

I left her house feeling accepted and cared for.

"Come back whenever you want," she said in farewell.

I felt so loved and comfortable with her that I didn't want to go back to the insensitive city. I had never felt that safe before.

On the way home my mother barely talked. I knew that she longed to go back

to those old days and that she felt very lonely.

I had to return to the city, even though I felt sad for a few days. I knew that I could go on with this sometimes difficult life. I accepted the fact that I couldn't go back

in time; neither could I change it.

That visit made me think of the Elders, like Beatrice Poor Eagle, who possess

the kindness, wisdom and honesty our ancestors had. They have had the strength to live through the residential schools and deal with the bigotry.

Most of all, our elders have had the strength to survive and the dignity not to be resentful.