Dawnland Voices: An Anthology of Indigenous Writing from New England

Dawna Meader

183 with the certitude of knowing what is truly at stake. The human, social aspects of community are, after all, an integral part of the environment. The proponents’ efforts to bring lng to Split Rock are advanced through the values of material culture; sadly enough, this elevates individual rights over collective rights and operates by assumptions—growth is good, development is good, bigger is always better—that erode sovereignty and undermine cultural lifeways. Absent a powerful watch over the quality of democracy in the entire energy cycle for lng, Nulankeyutmonen Nkitahkomikon (We Take Care of Our Land) seeks a just transition to clean renewable energy sources and responsible use of technology, which can sustain economic development practices. Without first addressing the critical needs of an entire habitat, how could anybody adequately formulate a plan to grow the economy? We can each move to the front of this just transition by creating a new bridge that realigns visions for renewable energy with socially responsible energy policies and technology. Dawna Meader (b. 1959) Meader’s father was Passamaquoddy; however, she writes, “Native influence was removed from my life when I was six and my parents were divorced, and found again when I moved to Indian Township in the 1990s.” She enjoys learning about her ancestors and her tribe’s history and has always loved poetry and creative writing. The following poems appear in print here for the first time. Gordon Island The eerie silence of a sacred place Speaks of atrocities to our race. A place of sorrow, a place of loss, Marked with mounds, and a lonely white cross. 184 passamaquoddy To our people, it means so much more Than a lonely cross upon the shore. It stands to remember those who hate, And a time they tried to obliterate. Our ancestors’ suffering was not in vain, For here today we still remain. The pain and suffering, the grief and tears Are things not forgotten through the years. They’re in our songs, in our prayers. They’ve been peeled from us like tainted layers. So, step upon the sacred shore Celebrate and cry no more. We’ve overcome such trials thus far With dignity and pride; it’s how we are. We may have forgiven the horror so wrong, But we’ll never forget. Our memory is strong. Seasons The seasons are changing around us . . . inside us. Like the changing leaves vibrant with color, so are my feelings ever deepening. A gentle breeze called your love blows on me, from the west, and like the leaves, I let go, and I swirl and twirl through the air until I finally land with my feet on the ground. Dawna Meader 185 Then, like a breeze, your love comes along and sweeps me up again swirling, spiraling, over and over again a constant cycle a continuous circle as is life. Dream of the Hunter’s Dance I was not there, yet I could see a magnificent sight to behold. A hunter, a man, a warrior, powerful yet silent and bold. I watched as he lifted his face and closed his eyes to the sun. I felt his concentration. With Nature he was one. He cocked his head to listen, then crouched and took his stance. Breathlessly, I watched him as he began to dance. The feelings came upon me in tumbling, rolling waves. Primitive, raw, yet sacred, a sensuous Indian brave. I felt I was intruding in his private, sacred place. Although he couldn’t see me, my eyes couldn’t leave his face. Soft sounds came from his throat as to his prey he called. A soft answering grunt came back in no time at all. He poised to shoot his arrow, 186 made eye contact with the buck. The deer just stood there frozen . . . completely out of luck. He walked to where it lay, fell down upon his knees. Arms spread wide he thanked the Earth, the Sky, the Trees. He didn’t know he touched me as no other had ever done. I felt my soul drift toward him and join with him as one. Susie Mitchell Sutton (b. 1963) Susie was born in Eastport, Maine, and is Passamaquoddy/Iroquois. She has two sons whom she loves and adores, Peter and Tony, and considers herself “very lucky to have a husband like Butch.” She dedicates this story, her first publication, “to her mom, Tuffy, and her sister...