Dawnland Voices: An Anthology of Indigenous Writing from New England

Ellen Nicholas

205 Ellen Nicholas (b. 1987) Ellen Nicholas grew up in Sipayik. She received her ba in interdisciplinary fine arts at the University of Maine–Machias, and now teaches grades k-8 at the Beatrice Rafferty School at Sipayik Pleasant Point. She wrote the two poems below as companion pieces for her senior art exhibit at the University of Maine. The Heart of Sipayik The Broccoli Tree, the heart of Sipayik, stretches out between the local red brick school, and the homes that dot the overshadowed land. It soaks in the light from the sun which peeks blindingly between boiling clouds that sweep across the dawning sky. The tree trunk surpasses the tallest building before it splits in two. Its limbs twist themselves into an embrace, with their mourning, while the leafless branches reach across the sky with gnarled fingers, searching the land for others. Red-cheeked children run and play in the schoolyard, fenced in by wire. A man mowing his lawn waves his hat at a crow that hops by, uncaring, on one leg. Vehicles drive in circles around the small reservation, blaring radios, kicking up clouds of dust. The tree sways but not one sees. Ignore the growling car engines, the lawnmower’s hum, the squeals of children’s laughter, the cawing curses of a hungry crow, and Listen. 206 passamaquoddy Hear the tree sigh as the wind pushes by. Hear the creaking of its old limbs as the branches brush against each other in a caress— Mourning until the day leaves bud and sprout to dance in a rustle of back and forth, back and forth. To the heartbeat of the land. (2010) Sipayik Reservation 1974 A crisp breeze whispers across the blank canvas of the morning sky. It rustles at the few remaining leaves on the giant broccoli-shaped tree that overlooks Pleasant Point. A few leaves shake free and fall to the ground in a twirling frenzy. The tree is the lone survivor. Once hundreds covered the land, but their roots and trunks were ripped from the earth to make way for state-paid houses. The leaves crunch and crumble as a group of young kids with dark hair and light brown skin trample through the un-raked path. Their talking shoes quickly flap open and close, revealing holey white socks. A grey-and-black striped cat slinks around the tree, keeping its distance from the shivering, smiling kids. Its muscles flex whenever the soft padding of the cat’s paws encounter jagged rocks hidden beneath the decaying foliage. Down the road, coal smoke curls up from the exhaust pipe of a black Ford Falcon. As it drives down the dirt road the muffler backfires with a loud pop. The cat darts into the tall grass and disappears into an expanse of weeds and bushes in an overgrown cemetery that lies to the side of the monumental tree. The black car pulls into a yard of a small, red-shingled house. Salt-andpepper stubble covers the driver’s square jaw that tightens as he frowns. Getting out of the vehicle, he slams the car door. He shakes his head as he walks to the small house. The screen door of the house swings open and shut with a squeak. “Goddamn Kirk,” the driver announces. Three children sit around a table eating cereal. They stop and stare at the large man with their mouths opened and spoons suspended in the air. Ellen Nicholas 207 A woman wipes a dinner plate in a circular motion with a faded blue dishtowel. Her black hair, wrapped loosely around hair curlers, shakes with her movement. “What is it, Harrison?” she asks calmly as Harrison takes off his coat and moves to sit at the table. The woman goes on her tiptoes to put the dish away in the top cupboard shelf. “Goddamn Kirk siphoned my gas again,” says Harrison, “I filled it up last night, and I find it this morning goddamned empty!” Two of the older children, a boy and a girl, exchange glances and smirk as they leave the table. They put on their jackets and swing their book bags over their shoulders. The younger girl waves to her siblings as she goes into the kitchen to get her father a bowl and a spoon. The teenagers call out good-byes in Passamaquoddy, “Upc-cic!” with a giggle in their changing voices as they sprint out...