Mamalilikulla
with my son Daniel
spring 1992

Long after we stumbled on it
paddling our sea kayaks
out in Johnstone Strait
it was still showing up
in my dreams
a fog-shrouded island
the village long abandoned
totem poles rotting on the ground
a place of memory
of power

I'd read they had a potlatch
in nineteen twenty-one
when Canada was still
stealing children
still working to uproot
the native languages
cultural traditions

They sent out the police
to shut it down
arrest the people gathered there
after all we can't have folks
just giving wealth away
it's unchristian
not to say uncivilized

Today it's different
the people have reclaimed
their name kwakwaka'wakw
are working to restore
what was destroyed
the potlatch has come back
the carving skills
cedar canoes
dances and songs
and with them
native pride

One year in Seattle
at the spring folklife festival
I saw the great canoes
carved from a single cedar trunk
prows that rose above my head
the native carvers demonstrating
their art, their skill
and me being a singer
I asked about the paddling songs
the answer came
swift as a paddle stroke
those songs I leave back home
back in my village