Laws of Matriarch

I often bring up the term "trolls." You might be wondering, what exactly is a troll? Well, trolls are those who stir up hate and create distractions within our communities, including among Indigenous people. For instance, imagine a woman speaking out about human trafficking. A troll might chime in with something like, “If those people weren’t doing drugs, this wouldn’t happen.” Suddenly, the focus shifts, and everyone ends up arguing with the troll for days or even months, losing sight of the real issue—keeping our children safe. These trolls spread negativity among our people, making us weaker when we should be coming together. My advice? Respect one another and stick to our traditional laws as best as we can. We’ve always held a rule that no one should speak ill of another house or the choices they make. If you want to stand up for something, you can do it without spreading hate. Let’s uplift each other instead. Together, we can make a stronger stand without getting sidetr...

Hey everyone, It’s been a bit since I last shared about my grandbabies, so here’s an update from the shadows of my memory. Last December, my granddaughter D ended up in the hospital. Some of you might remember her—she was taken by her stepfather and never came back. The Ministry took her away when she was just a few months old, right after my son passed. I had barely begun to grieve when I agreed to let her stepfather take her to visit his family for a week. I thought it would give me a little break, but he never brought her back. He cut me off and, after getting parental rights, he took me to court. We fought for ten long years, and in December 2015, I lost all parental rights.  Then in December 2018, the Ministry got involved again after D tried to take her own life. I went back to court and finally managed to gain exclusive parental responsibilities, but the system has caused so much harm and abuse to my grandchildren, all while protecting someone who shouldn’t have been trusted...

Trigger Warning: Potentially Disturbing Content The other day, I ran into my cousin Richard. He was sharing his dreams and talking about forgiveness and love. I didn’t mind—he’s family, and I do love my cousins. Then he mentioned that his dad’s stone feast is coming up in a few months, and that’s when my mind took a turn back to my childhood trauma. When I was little, my mom would take me to stay with my cousins and aunties while she went out to bingo or parties. One day, my uncle Fred offered to stay home and look after me. I was only about 5 or 6, still speaking Gitxsan. That was the day he hurt me in the worst way. Yes, this is Richard’s dad, the same man who talks about love. When my mom came back to pick me up, I tried to tell her what happened. I remember struggling to find the right words in Gitxsan to explain that I was raped. He hurt me many times after that—I lost track of how often. Sometimes, I would be lying down with his kids and a whole bunch of other kids, and he would ...

Content Warning: My memories are few, and those that linger are often weighed down by heaviness. The forest was my sanctuary in those lonely times. After the cannery and fishing seasons wrapped up, Cassiar felt deserted. Families would gather their belongings and head to Prince Rupert or return to the reserves. I would find solace among the trees, sometimes for hours on end. Occasionally, I’d glance back at our house, hoping to see someone return. There were moments of luck when I’d spot a familiar face, either a neighbor or a family member. But too often, my parents would stumble back home, intoxicated and embroiled in arguments. My father's rage would erupt, and my mother would bear the brunt of his violence. I remember one instance when my mom returned sober, perhaps delayed from work. We visited a neighbor’s house, where she had a beer. My heart sank when I heard footsteps signaling my dad's arrival. Mom instructed me to tell him we were next door. I entered to fin...

WARNING: Potentially Disturbing Content As a Gitxsan woman, I carry the weight of my childhood trauma, and I know I’m not alone in this. Although I’ve faced many challenges, I’ve also found moments of peace and happiness that have helped me survive. I lived with my biological parents until I was 10 years old, which is not the norm for Indigenous children, then or now. By the time I was 5, most kids around me were being taken away to Indian Residential Schools (IRS). I was the first in my family for generations to stay home.  Think about that for a moment. A child should never have to feel the pain of being torn away from their parents. While sometimes separation is unavoidable, and that’s tragic, it’s not the same as what Indigenous people have endured. The genocide of our people in Canada and the USA is a deep, painful reality that can’t be compared to a simple separation. It breaks my heart for the children who are affected. I carry the scars of this trauma with me. I have PTSD a...

Sitting here at McDonald's in Smithers, BC, I find myself reflecting on the years that have passed and all that I’ve faced.  In the spirit of our people, I think of how many of us carry heavy burdens, enduring struggles that often go unheard. We are like the silent rivers that flow beneath the surface—powerful and deep, but rarely seen. When someone opens up about their life, it’s crucial to hold that space for them, to be that safe haven where they can share their truth without fear. In our world, it seems acceptable for us Indigenous folks to go through tough times, and there’s an unspoken expectation to wear a mask and pretend everything is fine. Meanwhile, those with privilege often receive attention for their struggles—whether it’s missing resources like clean water, food, daycare, or facing prejudice. Our cries often fade into the background, like whispers in the wind. Recently, I attended a gathering called The Art of Leadership for Women. It was a beautiful experience, fill...