reconnectingcrwr

[reconnectingcrwr]

Reconnecting: Second Entry

It was February 2001. I remember that plane ride home. I had just flown from Toronto to Winnipeg. The Winnipeg airport was rushing with people, and I hurried out the sliding doors into the piercing cold. It was snowing and my eyelashes froze, but growing up in Ontario I knew how to handle cold winters.

I rented a car and drove to the hotel I was staying at downtown. The hotel was nice, but I couldn’t think of anything except for what the next day was going to be like. Once I got up to my room, I unpacked a couple things and then called my parents. They were back in Ontario and were expecting me to call. I remember the call went well, but they were both anxious about the next day. They had known this was going to happen, but still they seemed to be so upset about it. I guess that’s normal.

It took me some time to get to sleep that night. I had so much anxiety in the anticipation that I just laid there, waiting for the next day to come sooner. I wondered what they would say, how they would act, and what they were going to think of me. 

I remember waking up that morning. The snow was blowing outside and the light from it was beautiful. Once I got to the building where everyone was waiting, I suddenly felt a weight lift off my shoulders. I was there. It was happening.

Everything changed when I walked in that room. I was home. There they were, my parents, and my siblings: my family. 

It was there again; our laughs filled the room, ringing the same pitch and tone. We all looked so similar it almost felt unreal. We talked for hours. Being there felt so comfortable.

In those first moments, nobody cried. In that moment we were just happy to be together again. We talked about our lives, and how we all just spent those years apart thinking about finding each other. I told them about my adoptive parents. How they were caring, and kind people, and how I grew up in a good home. I wanted them to know that I had always wanted to find them. I spent my whole life wanting to tell them this and finally there they were, waiting to listen.

We spent the whole day together laughing. That night we went out to one of the bars. Going out that night was a good thing. We went out and laughed and finally the tears came. We could finally be vulnerable in that way, and it was a revelation I hadn’t uncovered until that moment. 

[reconnectingcrwr]

Reconnecting: Third Entry

The late May air filled our lungs as we walked through the field behind my uncle’s house. We were in Dog Creek, just outside of Winnipeg. My wife and I had been living in the city for about a year or so; and our newborn was able to grow up in Winnipeg surrounded by culture and family. Being close to home was important to both of us.

I was so happy to be there. Some of my cousins came for the ride out to visit and they waited at the house for us. Whenever we came out to Dog Creek, or if other family members were driving out, people loved coming for the drive. It was always nice to bring them with us, or to drive out with them, to visit our uncle.

We kept walking through the field until we got to the tree line. I was holding our baby, and my wife was walking beside me. The field behind my uncle’s house is a special place for my family and me. It’s there where we run our Sundance ceremonies every year and so much of our family make time every year to be with us. We have many other ceremonies there too, like the one we had this day. We had driven out there to do a placenta burying ceremony.

We walked through the birch trees and stopped at one. We placed down tobacco in the tall overgrown grass in front of the tree as an offering and tied cloth around its base. It was there that we buried the placenta. That particular ceremony was to connect our baby to her home. 

Once the ceremony was done, we walked slowly back to the house. Our baby was laughing and smiling; we did the same.

We walked across the field, and through the small path through trees to the house. Out front, two kids were playing with the outdoor cats that lived there. There were kittens walking around, treading through the mud underneath the steps. Another kid ran out of the front door, and down the steps, holding a small plastic bowl of milk. 

We went up the steps and walked into the living room. Two of my cousins sat on the couch to my right and were watching the TV when we walked in. My mom was making coffee in the kitchen and sitting with my uncle and auntie. I walked through to the kitchen and my mom asked to hold the baby. She looked up at her and smiled this big smile.

“That’s your Koko,” I said. She looked at me, then back up to my mom.

We sat around the table for a while, laughing and talking.

[reconnectingcrwr]

Reconnecting: First Entry

I was eight years old, sitting on a small bed, looking out the small window to my right. Suburban streets were lit brightly by the summer’s late afternoon sun. The adults were downstairs. I traced the lines on the quilt beneath me. I remember how the light shone through the window. I remember covering my eyes with my hair. I remember trying to remember. 

My backpack sat in the corner, and a few of my belongings were placed around the room, and in the dresser to my left. I found it to be so strange; I was in a place with familiar objects, in a room I was told was my own, but it wasn’t home.

Home was being with my brothers and sisters. Home was my cousins running through the backyard, while my aunties and uncles sat in the kitchen and the living room together. Home was the laughter, and the love. 

The adults in the new place didn’t laugh much. They seemed nice, but I didn’t feel like talking.

I could hear them talking to each other from the room I was in. I hopped down from the bed and walked over to the door, that sat directly across from the window. I pressed my ear to the door. Their voices were faint, but I was able to piece together what they were saying.

“I’m happy he’s here,” the woman said. 

“I am too,” replied the man, seemingly not paying too much attention to what the woman was saying.

“I’m just so happy that he’s in a good home now.”

I remember leaning against that door, hearing the words “I’m just so happy,” repeated over and over. But what I remember most was when the woman started talking in a quiet voice. Her words became muffled, and I heard just a few words.

“… I’m just so happy we saved him…”

I remember sitting there; alone, in a quiet room, in a quiet house, on a quiet street. My eyes welled, and I knew what I had to do. 

I hurried over to the corner and grabbed my backpack. I threw it on the neatly made bed and ran over to the dresser. I grabbed my clothes, and the little things from home that were lying around the room. I packed them quickly. Everything fit in my bag, and I zipped it up. I put on the backpack and did the buckle up in the front. 

Leaving the room, I began to walk down the hallway. I walked past the bathroom and took a quick glance at myself in the mirror. This was it. I was going home. I walked quickly down the carpeted stairs and out the front door. The adults didn’t even notice I had left.

I walked down the driveway and looked around. The houses were unfamiliar, and it looked nothing like home. I decided to turn right. Determined, I walked down the quiet street and just kept walking. Along the way, I saw families returning home after long days at work and school. I had been walking for a while, and still, nothing looked familiar. I sat down on the sidewalk and leaned back on my backpack. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t find home. I got up and turned around.