Lying in bed, in that delicious zone between sleep and wakefulness, ’Teri heard the birds start singing. Even before she opened her eyes, she smiled. She was looking forward to today. She pretty much looked forward to every day. 

She lay there a few more moments, checking in with her body and how it was doing: she inhaled deeply — no issue there. Wiggled toes, flexed ankles and rotated wrists. All good. Looooong stretch. Yes! 

She stood up, slowly but confidently, and stepped into the small adjoining bathroom to do her morning routine. Brush hair, zap teeth, wash face. She let out a sigh of pleasure, as she did each and every time, when the warm facecloth met her skin. It’s the little things, you know? 

Standing in front of her closet, she selected the pretty linen frock she’d made last spring. She glanced at the artwork on the nearby wall. 

“No means no, yes means yes, wherever we go, whatever we drink, however we dress!” it proclaimed in tiny letters across the top. 

It was a collage she’d made in the 1990s. The letters had been transferred by hand, using a long-gone technology, onto a photograph of herself and some girlfriends all dolled up to go out dancing. She’d also glued on some pictures she’d cut out from a fashion magazine. Hard to believe that was now more than a century ago. 

She could hardly remember what it felt like to worry if her skirt was too short. Not because she was too old for short skirts, but because people these days could wear whatever they wanted, including nothing at all, and nobody accused you of “asking for it.” 

She went outside via her studio to properly greet the day. She lit her little offering of tobacco and quietly recited the Thanksgiving Address. Ohenton Kariwatekwen this was called in her mother’s mother tongue. Her own mother tongue was English, but in the last decade or so she’d managed to learn enough Kanien’kéha to hold a decent conversation with the youth. It had once again become their mother tongue. 

Thinking about how early she got up made her think about how the twenty year-old version of herself would never have believed that she’d reach a point in her life when she actually enjoyed rising before the sun. She remembered a moment from back then, laughing with a friend who was telling the story of being rudely awakened by the telephone: “Who calls at 7 a.m.?! 7 a.m. is the time I am least likely to be awake!” Now 7 a.m. was pretty much midday to ’Teri. And disturbing telephones were a thing of the past. 

It amazed her, all the people she had been over her lifetime: the devoutly Catholic little girl, the anti-nuclear activist teenager, the party-animal twenty-something, the devoted mother, the internationally acclaimed sculptor. And then everything really changed and she — like most people — became the person she was meant to be. This person. 

She walked around the longhouse to the chicken coop and gathered the two dozen eggs she needed to make breakfast. She was on cooking duty this morning, and she looked forward to using the outdoor kitchen. Another housemate had already picked some fennel and tomatoes from the garden, and put it on the table. She was going to make a vegetable scramble melt. 

She loved her home, which she shared with 11 other people of various ages and relations. The household was loosely based on the revived Haudenosaunee practice of extended families living together. At 130, ’Teri was the oldest. Next in age was her sister, Carlene, who shared a suite with her life-partner. Their daughter, Onekwentara, and her three grandkids occupied another set of rooms. Second cousin (once removed) Emma with her two adult grandchildren (second cousins twice removed? She was losing track!) also resided there. And though ’Teri’s sons didn’t live with her, one of their granddaughters, Wahonsanoron did. Wahonsanoron was ’Teri’s favourite. 

She sang to herself as she started chopping. 

Everything counts 

In large amounts…. 

Soon her apprentice, Onekwentara’s 6-year-old, joined her. After sharing a quick, sweet hug, ’Teri sent the little one inside to get cheese from the icebox and tortillas from the pantry. These days, adults and children were paired in teaching relationships. ’Teri loved it; she still had a lot to offer a fresh mind. And it was so different from the constant pressure of parenting in the bad old days! 

She recalled the anxiety of trying to balance society’s expectations with the desires of the child. For example, her son, despite being very bright, hated school. She fought almost every morning just to get him out the door until that fateful year when the schools were shut down. Oh, the peace she had experienced each morning after that! And when they reopened in the fall on a new model of only going half the time, his marks soared. Of course, she had still cared about academic achievement back then. 

Nowadays, only kids who loved school went to school. Those who didn’t could stay home and learn from the adults around them: from basic reading, writing and math to advanced coding, media theory, and subatomic physics, the people in this and neighbouring longhouses had a lot of knowledge to share. Teaching the youth was part of the adults’ weekly duties in exchange for membership in the community. 

Gradually, the other housemates assembled at the table and the meal was shared with appreciation.  

“Nia:wen for cooking, Ionterihwa’nikónhrhens! Your food is always so tasty!” said the 15-year-old. They had used her full name, as was the old (and renewed) Kanienkehaka way. She secretly found her name a little too long. 

When the meal was over, another elder-child team cleaned up. Her young apprentice went on to her next activity and ’Teri moved inside. It was time to call Wahonsanoron, who was currently on tour with her band. 

She re-entered their home through one of the large side doors. She was now on one end of the long, central antechamber that served as indoor/winter kitchen and living space for this longhouse. She selected a comfy chair and pulled her communication device out of its carrier, setting it into the slot on the chair designed just for that purpose. She tapped, swiped, and gesticulated until she was connected to her granddaughter. 

Booooop! 

A beautiful, brown woman with long curly, dark-brown hair appeared on the screen. 

“Hey, Doda! How’s it going?” 

“Ioieneratie! It’s a beautiful day in the village. I’m just trying to decide how to spend it. How are you?” 

“Great! Doda, I need a gown.” 

“A gown! Whatever for, your highness?” She teased her lovingly. 

“For my fiftieth birthday. I’m celebrating, baby! Will you make it for me?” 

They both knew that ’Teri would say yes. They chatted for a while about design details and party planning, then disconnected. 

She thought back to her own fiftieth birthday. How old she thought she was then! At that point she had figured that she only had thirty good years left. Was she ever glad she’d been wrong. 

With her belly and heart full, she set off for her studio, wondering what project she should tackle today. She had a long list. These were different from her duties, some daily, some weekly which, in addition to her turn cooking, included: a turn in the garden, a turn in the garderie, and one age- and knowledge-appropriate maintenance task. Last week she’d repaired the washing machine. These were her commitments to the community in exchange for the food, shelter and support she received living there. 

The projects were creative activities that truly brought her joy. Sometimes they also brought her goods and services as she bartered them. Her specialty was clothing construction. It was one of ’Teri’s gifts. She could pretty much just look at a person and know how to adjust a sewing pattern to fit them perfectly. And she had an incredible collection of sewing patterns! From ribbon shirts to — yes — ball gowns. 

She didn’t have a party for her fiftieth. Or any celebration. Throughout her forties, she had noted that the other semicentennials she knew marked the occasion by flying off to Las Vegas or Paris with friends or lovers. ’Teri had thought she would do something equally luxurious, but when the time came she did nothing. Zip. She didn’t even go out for dinner, which was, like, the minimum celebration she could imagine for such a milestone! 

No, during the time that ’Teri should have been planning her own fabulous party, she had been depressed. Not fully, can’t-get-out-of-bed depressed. But a series of unhappy, unprecedented events that year had kept her from feeling celebratory. First, there was a global pandemic. Her kids were elated when the schools were closed. “I can’t believe my luck!” said her son. And then the bars closed, and she got scared. Not even a blizzard closed down the bars in her city! Nobody was travelling to Vegas or anywhere. Millions lost their jobs. Even more (most of them Black and Brown people) died from the disease. 

Then came the gut-wrenching Black Lives Matter protests. Those lasted for weeks. ’Teri and her partner attended many, despite their fear of the virus. She remembered the pride she felt when she saw her partner’s sign “YOU’VE FUCKED WITH THE LAST GENERATION.” And the words proved to be true. Thank the Creator. 

She had been to plenty of demonstrations in her life. Non au degel, No More Stolen Sisters, Idle No More, the women’s march, the climate change strike. A couple she’d even co-organized. 

But that year, there were more than all the previous years put together. The BLM protests were followed by the LandBack demos, then MeToo riots, Occupy occupations and more climate change strikes. People had had enough. Collectively, they were called the “fed-uprising.” Honestly, the name fit. 

But out of the anger, sadness and exhaustion came deep, lasting change. People worked on many different fronts–practical, political, legal and symbolic– simultaneously. 

As a sculptor, ’Teri understood the power of representation. When the statues of genocidal maniacs and other monuments to colonialism started coming down, she was the most hopeful she’d ever been. The narrative was shifting. 

The statues that weren’t destroyed by riots were placed inside human rights museums. Lest we forget. 

But sometimes she did forget. And it was wonderful. She forgot the mental anguish that accompanied that time. She forgot the sting of tears, the suddenly clogged nose, and the choked voice that accompanied grief. 

Is it true that those who forget history are doomed to repeat it? She looked up and saw her little apprentice, wearing nothing, skipping in the sunshine, looking for all the world like an advertisement for the good life. 

She hoped not. 

Tiohtià:ke 2021