Coming Home. The HalfBreed Ball.
By Cindy Gaudet
I begin by giving thanks to Maria Campbell for being the woman she is. Her gracious
and wise leadership continue to inspire a deeper knowing of who we are and where
we come from. It was in the spring 2013 in Ottawa that she mentioned her creative
role in organizing a HalfBreed Ball as part of the Native American Indigenous
Studies Association (NAISA) conference being held in Saskatoon. First thought that
came to my mind when I heard the word HalfBreed was how bold! I took a deep
breath, and silently gave thanks. It felt like we were being given permission to feel
confident as a people and to make it known.
Since I was registered to attend the NAISA conference, my impulse was to help out.
As she needed servers, I began my hunt for our traditional clothes. Value Village was
my first stop. I picked up a few pieces and with Maria’s guidance began to assemble
my dress for what would seem like a momentous occasion. Discovering what and
how my grammas and aunties would have dressed in the early 19th century was my
first learning. This would have included the generation of my grandmother, Auxille
Lepine and her mother, Margaret Boucher. I obsessed for months on the outfit,
wanting it to be perfect but more importantly, wanting to accurately represent the
generations of women.
As the unknown can sometimes take heed on life plans, my mom became very ill two
weeks before the event. Diagnosed with aggressive cancer, my every day activities
changed and I immediately flew home from Ottawa to be with her and family. She
became my priority and my daily prayer. Despite her physical weakness, she sewed
the pearl-like buttons on my blouse. When she offered her mother’s broach to wear,
I knew that this event was not only to satisfy my love of a good party but also to
honor the vitality and resilience of generations of women that came before me. Even
a major sickness was not going to stop mom from participating (through me). My
nieces helped to shop for final accessories. While one sister gathered the blue
vibrant die and sewing tools, another sister dyed my blouse and another lent me her
shawl. For a week before the event, this is all I could talk about... the Halfbreed Ball!
I shared with anyone who would listen. With every whisper or animated voice that I
spoke of the upcoming Ball, I couldn’t help but smile. Yet as the day neared, I
struggled with being at the hospital and leaving mom’s bedside to be at the event.
She insisted that I was going to the Ball.
On the day itself I could barely wait to get to the hall. I arrived earlier than
requested and was immediately put to work in the kitchen. Preparing the food with
the other women was nourishing in so many ways, gestures of kindness, laughter
and sharing. Then it was time to get dressed. As we gathered in the changing rooms
to prepare, I sensed something different within. Dressing in traditional clothes, I
experienced humility. My body trembled and eyes filled with tears. This is not
something that I thought I would ever experience. But yet, there it was, the blood
memory that the grandmothers speak of. As I looked in the mirror, I saw history
looking back at me. I texted my eldest sister, “Feeling emotional as I dress in my
HalfBreed outfit. Thinking of mom, memere. What women.” She replied, “Yes and
they are all a piece of you. Dance for them. You are walking with seven generations”.
This walk was not being done in isolation. The spirit of family, community,
generosity and hospitality was ever so present.
The energy in the women’s dressings rooms was buzzing with both excitement and
nervousness. We helped each other fine-tune our outfits: adjust, tuck and pull. We
braided prayers in every hair strand. One young sister sang as she braided my hair.
Together we peeled away layers of shame that had accumulated over generations.
Together we celebrated. Together we danced to live fiddle music, sang and
graciously served our guests, both non and Indigenous peoples from various places
in the world. Like our guests, I must admit that the idea of eating beaver, buffalo
tongue, muskrat and rabbit seemed extreme. Because how many of my generation
sat down to eat traditional food? Yet for our grandparents generations sometimes
that was all there was to eat. And yes, I did taste the buffalo tongue and rabbit but I
could not bring myself to eat beaver tail.
Upon reflection, I realize that sometimes as a young woman it is a difficult to come
home to murky politics that loiters the spirit of Metis society. Coming home to a
story and song triumphs that which has been forgotten. A way of life, which at times
feels distant, was revitalized within me at the HalfBreed Ball. I know that the
timeless echo of this experience will continue to awaken things that I did not know.
© Cindy Gaudet