January 14, 2004 Features ¢ the other press © Where Have All My Huckleberries Gone? In cedar dugout canoes, with wind, rain, and hail blowing in my face, I hoped to gather the strength and discipline of my ancestors. Nicola Campbell UByssey VANCOUVER (CUP)—I am an urban hunter-gatherer and I am shopping at an organic grocery store. I silently step from ceramic tile to ceramic tile looking for the organic muesli with the most dried berries. I settle for blueberry-almond. From the cereal aisle I venture onward, searching for fresh, new greens. In a moment of contemplation, I remember one of the most important teachings I ever received from my elders—that of balanc- ing the traditional First Nations lifestyle in which I was raised with the convenient lifestyle of the dominant soci- ety. I grew up in a small town in the southern interior of British Columbia. I am proud to say that I am of Nlakapamx and Nsilx ancestry. During the winter, I went to a public elementary school, unlike my mother’s and grandparents’ generations who attended Indian Residential School. During the summer months, my entire family would pack up tents and cool- ers, and travel throughout our traditional territo- ry to gather traditional food. In the spring we gathered wild celery, wild rhubarb, wild potatoes, bitterroot, and tree sap. When the wild rose bushes bloomed, we knew the sockeye would soon be filling the rivers and my family would travel to the Fraser River to fish with traditional dip nets. Later in the summer, we gathered saska- toon berries, chokecherries, soapberries, then travelled to the highest mountains to gather black huckleberries. My cousins and I would pile blankets into the box of the truck and lie there for the duration of the trip, telling stories and giggling until we fell asleep. Amidst trees, bushes, and grasses that grew higher than our heads, my cousins and I would gather wildflowers and Indian paintbrush, glow- ing bright red and orange. Unsuccessfully we would tug on tall, brilliantly pink fireweed. Then, crawling through the grass, we would wonder and fantasize about the fairies who wore the lady slippers. Surrounded by loud infectious laughter and the gentle rhythm of the language spoken by my elders, I sat near my mother with a pail tied around my waist and gathered handfuls of shiny, black huckleberries. “Ting, ting, ting,” they fell into my bucket, rolling around, taunting me with their sweetness. But my ever-watchful mother would say, “Don’t eat the berries that are filling your bucket!” Tart, tangy, and sweet, I could never resist and would stuff handful after handful into my mouth every time her back was turned. Afterward, I would always have the telltale signs: purple lips, purple tongue, purple cheeks, fingers, and palms. During the winter months, the hunter-gather became the midnight freezer-raider. Slowly, bag by bag, my mother’s precious winter preserves of huckleberries would diminish, savoured by my thievish mouth. Her voice hollering, “Nicola, where are my huckleberries?” echoes through my mind as clearly as it echoed through the house each and every winter when she discovered her precious huckleberry pancake rations gone. Today, that phrase reverberates back to me with a dozen different meanings. Where have my huckleberries gone? Or better yet, what have they become? I am standing by the purple grapes in the grocery’s pro- duce section. I bite into a grape and sweet juices flood my senses. I hate buying bland grapes, they have to be sweet and tasty before they receive any appreciation. My friend professed to me her great love for frozen grapes. Her sens- es have not been intoxicated by the overwhelming melody of flavour found in ice cold, sweet and tangy black huckleberries, not the red huckleberries that so many West Coasters are fond of—black huckleberries. There is nothing that compares to them, not in my world anyway. That’s when I realize I am not only a hunter and gatherer of food, I am a hunter and gatherer of life expe- riences. My first love was raised like me. The two of us would spend endless days in the mountains, driving, or hiking. At home, we would have the senseless arguments that young people have, but in the mountains we would resolve them. In the spring, we gathered fresh, new greens. In the summer we helped his mother and aunties preserve sockeye salmon and berries. In the fall, we went hunting for deer and moose. In the winter we went ice fishing. But of course, things change. We moved to the city for his education. When all the jars of salmon were gone and there were no more huckleberries to be found, I began my journey of hunting and gathering alone. In cedar dugout canoes, with wind, rain, and hail blowing in my face, I hoped to gather the strength and discipline of my ancestors. My elders said balance is nec- essary to survive. I came to understand that although tra- ditional ceremonies and prayers strengthen the spirit, they don’t bring me forward into the dominant society. You have to work, and work hard in both worlds for that. But loneliness always seems to have the upper hand over common sense and self-discipline. Standing on the beach in the pouring rain, I taught my girlfriends the “Looking for a good man dance.” Laughing, we envisioned situations where we could prac- http://www.otherpress.ca tise our hunting prowess. But First Nations men are hunter-gatherers at heart as well. Late one night I realized this when one sang Indian love songs to me from out on the street. My theory was affirmed again when I discov- ered I was one of many—like the berries in the bottom of my bucket—girlfriends of this man, my new love. When listening to the radio, my newest lover thought the notches on his guitar, marking his passionate endeavours, were cruel. His guitar was far too precious. And when he professed my perfection, his insignificance, and said the timing was off and went east in pursuit of his goals, I knew it to be true. He was a hunter-gatherer too. I came to the conclusion that it was time to pursue my gathering elsewhere: gathering life and work experiences, gathering dreams, goals, and set aside the search for a love that just wasn’t happening. Now I am doing things that I never would have experienced had I stayed in my hometown and continued my life on the Indian reservation where I grew up. In places like university I further my education: on the water I participate in traditional cedar dugout war canoe racing, a Coast Salish sport that is not from my own territory, and a sport that most of you are most likely not familiar with. I work out at the gym becoming physically fit, becoming aware of my health and diet. I have my own home, which is my safe place, my haven. I accumulate material belongings like my car, which transports me anywhere—from the Northern tip of Vancouver Island to the University of British Columbia, to my second home in Stolo Territory, to my home in the Nicola Valley where I grew up, and even farther to my aunty’s home in Batoche, Saskatchewan. I have accu- mulated clothing that never seems to stay in style, a stereo, and of course my love, music. Someone some- where said those things were important. At university I gather knowledge, at+b=c, however I never made it through math, and now as I sit here and write this, youll know that the gift of the spoken and written word is what has become important to me. Where is the balance between academic educa- tion and traditional education? Where is the balance between the city with all of its pavement, tall build- ings, and smog, and the mountains, filled with the sweet, enveloping scent of pine, fir boughs, and Labrador tea? In a place where my existence is as clear as the colour and intricate patterns on the ground beneath my feet. Here in this city it would be so easy for me to become confused about my identity. The city becomes more real than the community where I lived throughout my childhood. And the community of my childhood remains more real than the city and all of its pavement, buildings, and millions of people. The one thing that I know for sure is, regardless of where I am, regardless of what foods I eat, regardless of whom I am talking to, I am an Aboriginal woman. I am my aunty’s niece, and I have lots of wonderful aunties (who, by the way, keep me in line). I am my mom’s daughter, and I have two beautiful moms. I am Interior Salish, Nlakapamx (Thompson) and Nsilx (Okanagan) on my mother’s side, and I grew up in the Nicola Valley. On my father’s side, I am Métis, and all that I know about being Métis is what my father’s family has told me. Back at the grocer’s, | remember the shock of an early morning bath in ice-cold mountain water while refilling my recyclable water container. With overwhelming clari- ty I realize that balance between traditional and contem- porary, bad and good, new and old, exists nowhere else but inside. Page 17