Laws of Matriarch

We’ve moved five times since September 2018 🤕 I got a new job and was really looking forward to starting a peaceful life up north 😂  But our office wasn’t ready, so we ended up in temporary housing and a hotel in October.  In November, we moved in with my mom, but it was hard for her to have my grandson there with us. Plus, I was missing work, and my little one needed a better daycare that could handle his hours and wouldn’t keep sending him home just because he wasn’t fully potty trained at 3 years old. Then, in December, my girl had a stroke in Vancouver. On top of that, all four of my grandkids were struggling with their own challenges. I made a quick trip to Vancouver to see Kaila at Saint Paul’s Hospital, then came back for family court to sort things out for my grandson. I’ve finally got primary parental responsibilities for him now. In January, we moved to Smithers into a two-bedroom place 🙏🏽. There’s not much housing in Smithers, so I thought maybe this was a sign...

My daughters Eagle fan will be kept at the Parents Legal Center in Smithers BC. Kaila's Eagle Fan In a world where magic intertwines with hardship, there was an eagle fan, a powerful symbol of faith and courage, gifted to Kaila Morrison by her dear friend, Keefer Foote, during the Sun Dance in Montana, led by the wise medicine man, Melvin Graybear. Kaila, a proud member of the Fireweed clan, grew up amidst the vibrant energy of Vancouver and in the embrace of Gitanmaax with her GG, Chief Woo Sim'Lax'Ha. From her earliest days, she carried a spirited heart, effortlessly making connections with friends of all ages and lighting up their lives like the sun breaking through the clouds. At the tender age of seven, Kaila embarked on a remarkable journey, joining a group of Sun Dancers traveling to Montana. With determination etched into her very being, she sought the support of her Mother and the dancers, gathering the strength to participate in the sacred dance—a powerful act of...

Vision of Sasquatch I had a dream where I was heading to my friend’s place for dinner. She told me that eight Sasquatch would be there, and I said I thought I knew them. When I arrived, I saw my niece in her room, tucked away in a corner of a big, open space. Clothes were scattered everywhere, a clear sign of the struggle we all face. Our community is hurting; we are starving and living in poverty. The sadness hangs in the air like a thick fog, weighing down our spirits as we fight against each day. Outside, I saw the Sasquatch, and to my shock, they were preparing to sacrifice one of their own to feed us. It was a horrifying sight; I watched as they pulled meat from the unfortunate creature. My heart sank at the thought of taking part in this meal, knowing how desperate our situation is. Then, a young Sasquatch came into the room to play with the kids, bringing a moment of lightness amid our heaviness. My friend was grateful for the meat and made soup from it. I felt torn about not ...

Sunday Morning Dream ❤️ In my dream, I found myself in a mystical realm that felt like ‘heaven’, a place where the air shimmered with warmth and light, a familiar embrace that wrapped around me like a beloved blanket. Here, I was guiding a group of new ‘angels’ in the art of healing, much like I do in the world I know. I crafted a schedule and gathered workers to share their wisdom with these fresh spirits, teaching them how to nurture and mend the wounds of the heart and soul. The angels were innocent, unaware of their true nature, like babies just learning to walk. It wasn’t about rank or hierarchy; it felt more like stepping into a sacred role where the currency was love, not money, and the responsibilities were boundless. As my time in this radiant place came to a close, a wave of sorrow washed over me, anchored by the turmoil I felt on earth. My heart ached, tears streaming down my cheeks, but I didn’t feel a sense of loss in leaving. It was more like moving to a space just next d...

Content Warning: Potentially Disturbing content  I was just a little kid, still using a bottle and sleeping in a crib. My mom and dad would throw dinners and parties with my aunties and uncles. But as the night went on, things would always take a turn. When the fun was over and the drinks flowed too much, fights would break out.  It got really scary. There was blood everywhere, and my dad just kept going. One time, he hit my mom in the head hard enough to knock her out cold. I didn't know if she was dead or alive, but I remember her being taken to the hospital more than once, where they brought her back. After that, one of my siblings brought me into the room. When my dad drank, he became a different person—angry and violent. He turned into a monster, and nothing seemed to fix it. In Canada, they don’t give enough help to Indigenous people who struggle with PTSD or the effects of what happened in Indian Residential Schools. I have a few blurry memories from that time, but not...

Echoes of Gitxsan Spirit When I was just a little one, between the ages of three and six, I would hear the sweet sounds of the Gitxsan language drifting through the air in the Hall at Gitwangak. But strangely, it always fell silent when the Indian Agent came around. Those moments felt heavy, as if the very walls held our stories, yet we had to hide them like precious treasures. Even after the laws changed, life carried on the same for the Indian Agents. It reminds me of how things are today, when the RCMP still come to charge our people for practicing our traditions and honoring our culture on our unceded lands. During the Christian celebrations, our gatherings would transform into secret Potlatches—what we called Bit’latzch—though outsiders would refer to them as “feasts,” a term more palatable to their ears. I remember winter nights filled with warmth and laughter, where one tribe would serve soup, and a Santa would visit, though gifts were scarce and only given to some. My cou...

In the realm of dreams, I found myself adorned with the spirit of the shapeshifter, a sacred gift passed through the blood of my ancestors. My kin and I danced in the shadows, akin to the werewolves of legend, but the weight of our destiny hung heavy upon my heart. Fear gripped me, for the act of taking life felt like a dark cloud overshadowing my spirit. I ached to protect, not to harm, and the thought of facing the wrath of the unseen forces filled me with dread. In this vision, I beheld my family, faces blurred by the mists of time, transforming before my eyes, their primal instincts awakened as they hunted in the night. We roamed a land that felt both familiar and foreign—a resort where the spirits of humans wandered along winding trails, blissfully unaware of the danger that lurked in the shadows. My purpose was clear; I was called to strike down a soul who had strayed too far from the safety of the crowd. But the memory of my actions remains elusive, shrouded in a veil of uncert...

My dad used to share a story from his time at Indian Residential School. He told it to me a few times, and it always stuck with me. At night, he would sneak away to gamble. The Cree folks would play bone games a few miles away, and he loved to go watch and join in. One night, as he was sneaking out, he spotted an elder friend coming down the path, heading home. As they got closer, my dad realized his friend wasn’t wearing any clothes. He couldn’t help but burst out laughing and asked, “Bad night?” His friend just replied, “Yep, bad night,” and kept on walking, completely unfazed. From my dad's story, it didn’t seem so terrible at the time. But deep down, I knew it was a different story. The Edmonton Residential School was a harsh place, and kids were often sent far away from their homes and families. It was hard for them, even if they tried to find some humor in the darkness.

Caution: Content May Be Sensitive I found myself dreaming of my father’s house on the Gitwangak Reserve, a place whose memories often haunted me with echoes of domestic strife and sorrowful pasts. My biological father endured a decade in Indian Residential School, and the impact of those years left deep marks on our family. Two vivid recollections from our life on the rez have lingered in my mind, shaping my existence in ways I cannot seem to escape. Memory One: Picture this: Throughout history, our Gitxsan community has faced discrimination from outsiders. In the past, we had to manually deal with sewage until proper plumbing was finally installed. The plumbers treated us with disdain, making us wait while our toilets overflowed. I could feel the stress radiating from my parents due to this mistreatment. My brothers were expected to handle the aftermath, but the task was overwhelming. In a moment of frustration, my father constructed an outhouse as a solution to our ongoing stru...

Once upon a time, in the lush and vibrant lands of the Gitxsan, there flowed a river that sparkled like diamonds under the sun. This river was no ordinary water; it had a spirit of its own, a gentle yet powerful presence that carried stories of our ancestors. Before the world changed, our people crafted beautiful canoes from the trees, each one a work of art filled with the heartbeat of the forest. When it was time to journey, we would gather by the riverbank, and with a rhythmic bang on the canoe's side, we would call upon the water spirit to guide us. And just like that, the canoe would glide across the river, as if the water itself was eager to carry us to our destination. This is what my father and stepfather taught me, stories passed down like precious gifts. They spoke of the deep connection we have with the water, how it holds the essence of life and spirit. We believe that everything around us—the trees, the stones, and of course, the water—has its own spirit, each one weav...

I learned a lot from my grandfather and my parents just by watching them every day. We didn’t talk much about spirituality; we just lived it. Spirituality runs deep in our upbringing; it’s something that flows through our blood and is passed down by our ancestors who have gone before us. Our beliefs aren’t fancy or dramatic—there's no fire and lightning, just the spirit. We used to respect all of life, knowing that spirits are present in everything, including ourselves. God is within us and beside us; every thought we have is a prayer. I should mention that medicine can be used for harm too. Thoughts filled with hatred can be prayers as well. Some people who mix their medicine with bad intentions are called Hel'dow'gwit, or witchcraft. Over the past 50 years, many Gitxsan have changed and evolved. Sweat lodges, which were once only for hunting preparation, are now spaces for prayers and healing. Traditional gatherings have transformed into Healing Circles where we talk abou...