Aaniindi Ezhaayin? (Where are you Going?)
In the family tree, trauma’s roots run deep. After losing a family member to addiction, one young woman confronts the pain of her past and reconnects to her Indigenous identity.
Listen to this story:
The last time I talked to my Uncle Kelly, it wasn’t really him. I mean, it was him physically, but he was far away. I was waiting for a friend in front of the college campus where I am a student when I noticed someone with a red jacket walking across the street. He swore as he kicked a garbage can. I looked down at my phone to try to avoid eye contact. I didn’t realize it was him.
“Holy shit, Hannah!” he exclaimed.
I looked up.
“Uncle Kelly!” I replied.
He hugged me so tightly.
“Wow, you got chubby,” he joked.
I knew he was going to say that.
“Shush you,” I said back.
He looked so much smaller than I remembered him being.
In his hands, he had a Long & McQuade magazine.
“Can you keep this for me?” he asked.
“That’s yours, though. You keep it,” I told him.
For a moment, he really felt like my Uncle Kelly.
I was excited to tell him how much I’ve been playing music with my band — we share a deep love of music. But before we could continue, my friend Alanna (whom I’d been waiting for) walked up.
“Alanna, this is my Uncle Kelly.”
He awkwardly gave her a fist pump.
I started to feel nervous.
Uncle Kelly began pacing around. His eyes darted from side to side. He raised his hands to his face, shielding himself from something I couldn’t see.
I was so caught up in seeing him that I had forgotten about his reality. My uncle was in meth psychosis, and he was homeless.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he asked me if I could get rid of something for him.
“Don’t look at it, though,” he warned.
Placing his hand over mine, he dropped two small cardboard cut-outs of a spaceship in my palm, pieces you’d find in a Kinder Surprise. I nervously laughed as I stared down at them.
“I SAID DON’T LOOK AT THEM!” he yelled as he kicked another garbage can.
Alanna and I shot each other a look. It was time to go.
“Uncle, I need to go to class. You take care, okay?”
As we started to walk away, I locked eyes with him.
“Where do I go?” he asked.
I told him I didn’t know.
Before I saw my uncle that day, I had already decided this story would be about him. There were so many lost years between us because of his addiction, and I really missed him. I had been thinking about the effects of intergenerational trauma within my family, and how colonization has stripped away my family’s Indigenous culture. I was planning to pitch my story that day, a story about how persistent that trauma is — like a cockroach that’s lost his head but is still alive, still infesting every corner and crack of our home. How even after all these years, the symptom of that pain, the vicious cycle of addiction, continues to rear its ugly head.
I knew I wanted to write about my uncle because I understood him. I had been going down that path for years. Addiction makes you believe that you’re unworthy of love and deserving of punishment. It’s an insatiable desire to run away, to fill a void, to find anything to soothe the ache of being a human. A defective human.
Before I got sober, I convinced myself I was a functional addict; I kept a job and a roof over my head, yet I still felt completely empty and controlled by my drug use. Addiction finds a way to protect itself. It convinces you to believe you have it all together, until suddenly, your bank account is empty, and you turn to something cheaper and stronger. That’s what happened to my uncle.
As I walked back to class, ready to pitch this story about him, I had no time to process what had just happened. I felt surprised and happy that I had seen him but also so terribly guilty. That was my uncle. Had I abandoned him? Why didn’t I try to help him?
As I started to pitch to the class, I began to cry. All my memories of him came flooding back. This story I was pitching was about him and his addiction, but that’s just the thing. He’s not just his addiction. He’s so much more. He’s my uncle, my favourite uncle. He’s 19 years older than me and I’ve always looked up to him. He’s the person who made me want to play guitar — the person who encouraged me to sing. After seeing him on stage, I knew I wanted to be a musician and asked for a guitar that same year. He taught me to play my first chord. I remember pushing so hard on the fretboard, yet it still sounded like shit.
“Don’t worry, you just need to build up your calluses,” he’d told me.
He shaped my sense of humour.
My cousin Breann and I would have two front-row seats to his infamous puppet shows as kids. Breann is nine months older than me and another carbon copy of his sense of humour. We were the first babies in the family, and he loved to take care of us and make us laugh. I remember sitting on our old couch waiting for him to pick out which toys he’d choose for his puppet show, E.T.? Teddy Ruxpin?
That day, he picked out a doll and cut a small hole in her back. He then fed a plastic tube through to her mouth, lit a cigarette, and placed it between her lips. This was the 90s — even dolls smoked inside.
Not only did she smoke, but she also had a potty mouth, too. It’s no wonder I learned my first swear words from him.
“Momma bits,” I’d say.
I couldn’t quite pronounce the “ch” sound yet.
I grew up in my kokum and papa’s big old white house in Pine Falls, Manitoba. Two giant pine trees stood up front, hiding how chipped the paint was. Pine Falls is 120 km northeast of Winnipeg and was a bustling town until the paper mill shut down in 2009.
My kokum is Ojibwe and speaks Saulteaux, which is Plains Ojibwe (even though the name “kokum” is Cree), and my papa is Ukrainian. I remember feeling ashamed of being Indigenous before I understood why. As a kid, I would make sure to call my kokum “grandma” to my classmates. I’d often hear her switching to her “white voice” in public. My kokum is a residential school survivor, and I can see how much the colonizers stripped her of her Indigenous identity.
Like many Indigenous children, my kokum was taken from her family and placed in an Indian Residential Schools (IRSs) to assimilate her into Euro-Christian culture. These church-run schools aimed to erase Indigenous traditions, language, and ways of life in favour of Western beliefs. They couldn’t take everything from her though, she held onto her language. When I was kid, all my great Indigenous aunties and uncles would come over and play cards. I’d watch them throw their heads back, roaring with laughter, wondering what dirty things they were saying in Ojibwe.
She and my papa raised their four kids in a very strict household. My mom (Sharon) is the first born, then my Auntie Andrea, Uncle Kelly, and then finally my Uncle Micheal. My papa worked at the papermill for 37 years and retired in 1989. He was a recovering alcoholic, who quit drinking before he met my kokum. He could never sit still, except maybe when he wanted to watch WWE wrestling.
In public, my papa was the centre of attention. He’d play his harmonica almost anywhere and ask if you knew how to jig. Behind closed doors, he was angry. In those days, you didn’t talk about your feelings. You worked hard and didn’t complain. My Uncle Kelly got the worst of his anger though — tough love, as they say.
Papa died in 2008 from pancreatic cancer — just missing my high school graduation. Shortly after he passed, I dreamed I got an enormous gold-plated harmonica from him as a gift. I remember I always feared his temper but deeply admired the effortless confidence he had. I also respected the fact that he got sober when he did. I don’t think he ever got to the root of his pain, though.
This passed onto his children.
When I talked to my mom about her relationship with papa and kokum, she told me that they never showed her any affection. She told me that they had never once told her that they loved her.
“I always compared myself to other kids and would think, I wonder what’s that like,” she said.
My mom’s perspective confused me because my experience with them was so different. I was close with them, especially with my kokum. Every time I see my kokum, she greets me with a big kiss on the lips and an “I love you, my girl.”
My kokum taught me how to be independent and a hard worker. “Aaniindi ezhaayin?” she’d always ask me when I’d leave the house. She cared about my future. In some ways, she was living vicariously through me. She never graduated or learned how to drive. Her whole life was being a housewife and a mother.
After her last child, my Uncle Micheal, was born with Cerebral Palsy, my kokum and papa put all their care into raising him. We used to travel from Pine Falls to Winnipeg every weekend to see him at St. Amant. I spent so much time there from when I was a baby until I was 14 years old. My kokum felt a lot of guilt about having to bring him there, but my Uncle Micheal was no longer able to eat normally and had to have a feeding tube. My kokum could no longer care for him. I often wonder if that’s a big part of why she could not be emotionally available to her other children. Not being able to care for your child at home anymore must have been devastating. Micheal died at St. Amant in 2004 at the age of 25.
My mom told me that my Uncle Kelly started drinking and using drugs at a young age. When he was 16 years old, he and his best friend were drinking and driving and got into an accident. His best friend died beside him. My Uncle Kelly felt responsible for his death and was never able to let go of that guilt.
Kelly’s drug and alcohol use got worse as the years went by, and I saw less and less of him. My cousin Breann was the one that kept in touch with him the most. He’d often visit her and her children in downtown Winnipeg.
This past October, as Breann and I caught up, we reminisced about our Uncle Kelly before he was using hard drugs. “I just miss him so much,” Breann had said.
She’d try and get our uncle help and would bring him to the hospital to get treatment.
“He was a danger to himself and other people,” Breann told me.
She’d often let him come over to shower and give him something to eat, but when he tried to break into her back door once, she had to cut him out of her life. She had to protect her kids.
As Breann and I were visiting, it felt like we were talking about our uncle as if he were dead. He felt like a person that was completely out of reach. We both wondered where he was and what he was doing. I wondered if I’d run into him again soon, and so did Breann. We both hoped that he was doing okay wherever he was.
On December 26, 2023, I drove to Pine Falls with my boyfriend Fabio to celebrate Christmas with my kokum and our family. The house was completely full. There was barely anywhere to sit. Usually, it’s my kokum who is busy in the kitchen, but now that she’s older, she rests while the rest of the family does the work. My mom and dad were peeling potatoes at the kitchen table. It was funny to see them hanging out. They’ve never been married and broke up when I was a baby.
Christmas is one of a handful of times I see my dad in a year. He’s incredibly smart, painfully awkward, and literally can’t wait to go home. He gave me a self-conscious hug and clumsily kissed me on the side of the head. “Merry Christmas,” he said.
I watched as my nephew and all my little cousins ran around the house. My family has many babies, and I thought about how my Uncle Kelly hadn’t met many of them. I thought about the loneliness he must have been feeling. Christmas is the time to be with your family. By surprise, my uncle Kelly’s daughter and her mom, Renee, came by for dinner. I hadn’t seen them in forever — his daughter looked so grown up.
“You’re so pretty!” I told her.
She blushed.
“Have you seen Kelly lately?” her mom, Renee, asked me.
“I did a while back near my school,” I replied. I didn’t want to get too much into it.
“I thought I saw him on the street too yesterday; I was driving, though, so I didn’t stop,” Renee replied.
It had been a long time since I had talked to Renee, but I saw on Facebook that she had been attending Sweat Lodge ceremonies in Libau, Manitoba. Without thinking, I asked, “Can you take me to a sweat sometime?”
“Of course, they’re on the first and second-last Sunday of every month,” Renee told me.
“Okay, let me know the next time, and I’ll come with you,” I replied.
After returning to Winnipeg that night, I lay beside Fabio wide awake. I opened my phone and started to read up on Indigenous teachings. I’d been craving that connection to my Indigenous identity for a long time, and I knew it’d be a huge part of my healing. A wave of peace fell over me as I drifted off to sleep, excited about the possibility of going to the Sweat Lodge.
The following morning, I woke up to a text from my sister Bailie: “Uncle Kelly passed away.”
That whole day, while we were all celebrating Christmas, none of us knew that he was gone.
Nothing prepares you for that type of grief. It felt like I was in rushing water, crashing against rocks, reaching out and desperately trying to find something to hold onto. Just when I felt like the water was giving me a break, it sucked me under, and I was entirely powerless again.
“Noo, Uncle Kelly, noooo, please,” I wailed out loud from somewhere deep and suffocating. I didn’t recognize the sound coming out of me. I just kept seeing his eyes. “Where do I go?” Over and over again. Crashing against the rocks. Pulled under again.
For days, I couldn’t stop thinking about his body. He was in a morgue somewhere, just lying there. I wanted desperately to be with him. I didn’t want him to be alone. I spent the next few weeks preparing for his funeral, writing his obituary, and creating a slideshow. I drove to my cousin Breann’s place and picked up seven family photo albums. They sat near the door for a week before I could pick one up to look through it.
When I was ready, I opened the first book — so many memories of my beautiful family. My kokum had written little descriptions and thought bubbles under many pictures. She filled it with birthdays and trips to St. Amant. Everyone was there, from when they were babies until they were adults. Some pictures were so old that many were completely stuck to the pages. Those photographs, just like life, felt fragile and precious. I didn’t want to risk ruining any of them. Somehow, I thought that If I ripped a photo, I would lose that memory forever. I stared at my uncle as a baby and wanted to hold him so badly. The look of innocence and wonder still in his eyes, how much promise there was for his future. I gathered as many photos of him as I could.
On the day of the funeral, Fabio and I drove to the Anglican Church in Sagkeeng First Nation, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the hymn “How Great Thou Art.”
I kind of like that hymn, I thought to myself.
When we arrived, I went to the back of the church to drop off food and greet my family. I had such tunnel vision that I didn’t notice my uncle’s open casket along the wall. I watched as everyone lined up to say their goodbyes. My Auntie Andrea took it the hardest. They were the closest growing up. My uncle was not only her brother but also her best friend. I stood beside her, and we held each other. I told her I was scared.
“It’s okay, you can touch him,” she said as she grabbed his hands.
I put my hand on his chest and told him I loved him. I made sure to look at his hands. The same ones I watched play guitar for so many years.
During the service, they played the slideshow I made. I watched my mom and Auntie Andrea hold my kokum as she cried.
After the funeral service, the priest asked the family to come up and say a goodbye prayer. We all placed one hand on his casket. I closed my eyes and asked my uncle to give me a sign he’s safe wherever he is.
“How Great Thou Art” started playing on the speakers.
After the service, my kokum and I went outside to share a smoke. My kokum held onto my arm as I guided her down the ramp, careful not to slip. She’s so tiny now. Her arthritis has made her just under five feet tall. As we sat there together, we reminisced about my uncle. She was glad I had included pictures of my Uncle Micheal in the slideshow, too.
“Why do babies have to grow up? When they’re old, we can’t protect them anymore,” she said.
I sat there listening to her, thinking about how she had now buried both of her sons.
On February 4, 2024, I drove out with Renee to my first Sweat Lodge in Libau. It was so foggy outside that I could barely see the cars ahead. “Fitting,” I thought to myself. I had much anxiety about what was to come: Was I wearing the right thing? Did I bring what I needed? Would the heat be too much for me? Would I be accepted?
“Don’t worry, I’ll teach you what you need to know,” Renee assured me.
Renee was dressed in a beautiful light blue dress and had a medicine pouch around her neck.
In the car, she told me about her journey, her path on the Red Road.
The Red Road represents a committed path to living with respect for oneself, others, and the environment, while also staying away from harmful addictions and behaviours.
“For me, walking this Red Road isn’t just attending ceremonies ritualistically; it’s a way of life for me every day. Anything can be my church, so to speak because it’s not a religion. It’s spirituality,” she told me.
As we pulled up to the grounds, I see everyone standing around the fire. I’m quiet, not because I’m shy, but because I don’t feel like I need to perform. I just want to be still and listen.
“Time is nothing but an illusion,” I hear a woman named Kelcie say. She has beautiful long blonde hair.
Renee introduces me to the Sweat Lodge runner, Matt.
“He’s in training,” Renee tells me.
Before the ceremony, Renee brings me to the Sun Dance grounds around the back. “During the Sun Dance ceremony, we deprive ourselves of food and water for four days and four nights, a fasting period while dancing and praying,” she tells me.
“It doesn’t look like much now, but it’s filled with lush green trees in the summer,” she adds.
Even though the leaves are gone, the space feels full. The energy is welling up within me.
“The Sweat Lodge represents our Mother Earth and our own mothers who carried us in their wombs,” Renee tells me.
We walk clockwise into the lodge and crawl on our hands and knees.
“This is to signify that we are humble before her,” Renee tells me.
I find a spot behind Renee.
“She’s a newcomer,” she tells the rest of the group.
“Just tap on me if you need anything, okay?” Kelcie reassures me.
The Skabbe (male helper) prepares the fire and brings in the heated rocks, called the Nookomis and Nimishoomis (Grandmothers and Grandfathers.)
Renee sprinkles cedar on them as they sparkle. I breathe in the medicine as the door closes. The purpose is “to bless and acknowledge them as they give of themselves in order to heal and cleanse ourselves,” she tells me.
Within the first five minutes, I start to panic.
It isn’t just the heat; it’s everything. There is nowhere to run away to, nowhere to hide. The pain is too deep within me; I have been holding onto it so tightly.
“If you’re struggling, ask the Creator for help,” Matt says to the group.
And so, I do.
Still, I feel so much anxiety in my chest.
“Are you doing okay,” Matt asks in the sweltering darkness.
“I’m okay,” my voice begins to break, and I start crying uncontrollably.
My head falls into Kelcie’s back as she and Renee hold me. I rock back and forth, asking the Creator to please, please take this pain away. I feel so undeserving in this moment.
“This love is unconditional,” he says. “It doesn’t matter where you are on your Red Road; even when you fall off, it’s all a part of your journey,” he says.
My body soaked and face covered in snot, I catch my breath. I focus on the singing voices and the heartbeat of the drum. I start to feel the energy flow through me. I start to understand that there’s a duality in life, that all the pain in this moment is also filled with love. It’s filled with the intention to transform it into something new.
I close my eyes and see my uncle as a child, walking toward a small door, vast rays of light passing through the frame. I focus on the pain and send it toward that light.
Uncle Kelly looks back at me with a grin as he walks through the door, the light disappearing behind him as it closes shut.
This time, I know where he is going.
He is going home.
As the door of the Sweat Lodge opens, I breathe a sigh of relief as I feel the ground beneath me, safe within the mother’s womb.
