Dawnland Voices: An Anthology of Indigenous Writing from New England

Carol Dana

243 history is required to be taught in public schools in Maine has begun to give Native people a strong, clear voice, a voice that they never had. The state of Maine is slowly learning from these voices. An honest, truthful, and inclusive educational system needs to emerge from the dark ages and into the light of full knowledge. Native history must be a required subject, not only in public elementary schools but also in colleges across this country. It needs to be part of the core requirement, not just a token program of Native studies or help for Native nations. It is time our story is told and the educational system unlocks that one-way gate and allows us to take our rightful place in the history of this continent. It is the right thing to do, and I guarantee the results will be amazingly powerful and healing. (2009) Carol Dana (b. 1952) Born and raised on Indian Island, Carol Dana has six children and nine grandchildren . In 2008 she earned her ma in education at the University of Maine. She has devoted years to Penobscot language revitalization, working with linguist Frank Siebert on the Penobscot dictionary project during the 1980s and teaching Penobscot at the Indian Island School during the 1990s. At present she is the cultural historical preservation officer for the Penobscot Nation, where she has helped to produce several workbooks, videos, and other cultural materials. The following poems first appeared in her chapbook When No One Is Looking. Penobscot Home Nation Penobscot home nation is in the minds and hearts of the people When he talks them old time tales of hunting, mysteries, wendigo, and little people, I know I am home. 244 penobscot When she’s making medicine for someone in need, When every act is done in that spirit, You forget there was ever such a thing as greed. When sun warms your body through the heart of the land And smiles play on our children’s faces You can see the work of Gluscabe’s hand . . . We’re Like the Moss on the Rock We’re like the moss on the rock. A little clump, hanging on for life at Panampsk.¹³ Will we forever be erased? No, it is here our footsteps we must trace Back to the source. Why must we die to live, live to die. Would you want to kill us if we reclaimed our land, brought our many husbands, wives and knives? Caribou Lake Winter¹⁴ Megalibu run, snowflake fly,¹⁵ Forever changing, cold, dry. In sun we walked a long way We wanted to drop in our tracks When every move must count Life depends on it Impeccable warrior Don’t speak Shaman’s power Carol Dana 245 Runs deep Kthadin, Pamola, Atahando¹⁶ Attean, Susep, Nicola¹⁷ Were people on the move Who laughed, loved, cried and died Over eons of time We’re forever grateful to be from Molasses Molly, Swasson, Susep Francis, Neptune, and Dani.¹⁸ Here our tree roots grow Strong and deep. [Untitled] Mother of three didn’t know wouldn’t show the beginning of discontent. In her housework sometimes she wondered where he went. Mother of four knew the pain, when it was with his old lady he had lain; Her maternal wounds had hardly healed when he asked for his pleasure she should yield. Quickly he left her bed. To hers he went. He expected and waited for consent. Mother of five wasn’t sure she could keep hope and love alive. “I don’t care,” said her posture, looks and clothes. The next baby had a sickness which spoke to her of the preciousness of life. The sorrow made room for the depth of joy that comes once you know strife. Mother of six so haggard yet wise Mother of six could never surmise the trial and outcome of one year wanting to be as free as her partner and as undisturbed. She walked the coals of questions about the 246 penobscot splitting of a family, a baby or not, an other woman. The absence of a heart, being, and spirit that once lent so much strength. (Which led to the linking of a spirit much greater.) The crossing of a bridge in so many ways. Mother of six didn’t like going through fire Mother of six has seen the folly of desire. [Untitled] Pensive in her rocking chair stiff and straight...