flying down the highway

Flying down the highway, 120 kliks an hour, 4 kids in the third row seat, watching videos, eating French fries. We went over the same bridge where my cousin took a swan dive, running from his problems, running from his life. His son Charlie, all of 17, followed his example, hung himself in his garage, running from what I don’t know.
Charlie was about 12, I remember the look on his face at his dad’s funeral, remember wanting to do something, but what could I do? Haunted by the choice his father made, he went and made the same mistake. Rusty—what gramps called him, because of his reddish hair when he was born—stopped the family van in the middle of the bridge, popped the hood open, acted like he was checking something, but then jumped over the wall.
He grew up without a father, he was a Rose City police officer that was gunned down during a robbery attempt. He grew up wondering, wishing things had been different, but then he turned around and left his 3 children without a father. My father was his hero, the big brother he never had. Rusty was a hero to me—first college graduate in the family. Worked for the Dept. of Justice. His ex-wife left him and the 3 kids all alone, leaving everyone behind so she could be with her lesbian lover. Or we were told. Who knows what the story really was.
I visited him and the kids right after it happened, he seemed pretty stressed, but the kids seemed fine. Charlie, the oldest, had dark brown hair and eyes, so I always liked him the most out of all the cousin’s kids.
A brown face in an “otherwise” family picture—just like me—until my siblings came along, of course. I saw them at a couple of pow wows that year, Rusty worked for an Indian Center in Fitzgerald while finishing school at McHenry State, and his ex was part Indian.
They met at the center somehow, one day—just half a mile north of Garfield High. Lots of Indians have gone through those doors. A few of my cousins also went to school there and a couple of our great uncles worked there as well. Lots of connections there. The football stadium? Named after my great uncle. The athletic director when we were schoolkids? My other great uncle.
Rusty had moved to Lake City, his ex took off, but he eventually met someone else—I think I went to the wedding? Can’t even remember now. He met her at his church. He became a deacon--I don’t even know what that is. That was where they had the funeral, after the State Police finally fished him out of the river. The kid’s mom moved back to Fitzgerald/Mt. Elliott---and started a whole new life.
His involvement in the Indian community, him going to college—that all paved the way for me to do the same. I never realized that before. Rusty was always joking, always smiling. A lot like our Uncle. And a lot like Charlie. He never said anything to anyone before he killed himself.
My aunt buried her husband, her son and her grandson. The first couldn’t be avoided, but the last two---those were by choice. Sometimes the hardest path is the simplest. Live your life, raise your children, earn a living, etc . . . Sounds easy, doesn’t it? I had no idea that it was the most difficult thing to actually have to do day-in day-out. Nobody gets an award for doing all the “simple things,” but those things are what define as people, as human beings.
Life isn’t easy. It just is. There’s no good, no bad to it. We can decide that something is good or bad for us, our family, our community, the ecosystem, but it isn’t inherently one way or the other by itself. We put labels on everything. We also expect to live a life of action-packed fun, mistaking what we see on television or at the movies for real life. Our displeasure with life in general or our own lives in particular can come about because of our misunderstanding. Dealing with what is—good or bad, and doing what needs to be done can be mundane and painful. But how we approach any of these things says everything about who and what we are.
I went to Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario to pick up my cousin’s four kids and drive them down to Sarnia, to their friends, who will be watching the kids during winter break. Mom and dad are doing a workshop in North Battleford, Saskatchewan—a little ways north of Saskatoon. We’ve had some good discussions with MskoGiizhik concerning our community, spirituality, the next generation and our responsibility to all the preceding.
MskoGiizhik is a distant cousin of Beth’s on his mother’s side, and his dad is originally from Turtle Mountain, North Dakota. He grew up in Canada, spending most of his time in Alberta with people who were Plains Cree. He does a lot of work with the Northern and Swampy (eastern branch—in Quebec) Cree. The workshops they do deal with Native spirituality, taking a traditional, holistic approach to many of the issues facing Natives throughout Canada and the U.S.
We discuss many things, but taking things from the theoretical level to practical is of great importance. He tries to live his culture and his ideals everyday. Some days are easier than others and they have the same issues we all face, but he keeps plugging away. First and foremost is his commitment to his family and his culture.
I’ve tried making sense of Rusty’s death and now Charlie’s as well (Charlie died about 16 months ago). I guess I still am. Everyday can be a struggle, trying to live your life in a good way and to stay connected with the things that are truly important. I expect life to be a certain way and I expect things from people that aren’t always possible. Balancing the spiritual with the material in this modern world can seem impossible as well. But the little ones, riding along with me, my children and MskoGiizhik’s----they are the reason for our continued struggle. Our communities are far from perfect and we battle with ourselves as much as anything on the outside, but the struggle is a good one. And one that is worth the effort. There is so much at stake for all of us. There are times we all just want to give up or give in, but that is just selfishness, cowardliness. We are far from perfect, and our lives become more and more complicated, but we can choose a better way. We can choose to live this life and to take a different path, for ourselves and for those that follow in our footsteps.