Keep Writing

Boozhoo, beautiful wordsmith contributors to this issue of TCJ Student! From northern Minnesota I say hello using the greeting that acknowledges and honors Nanaboozhoo, that wise and foolish Ojibwe spirit hero whose adventures, exploits, and spiritual journey are at the heart of traditional learning and teaching. And I address you by the Ojibwe word Anishinaabe that translates into English to include all tribes and Indigenous people, who the Creator placed on Earth to live good lives and to care for the past, the present, and the generations to come. Our existence as Native people is both an obligation and a sacred trust: we are taught that our diverse abilities are gifts from the Creator. As Anishinaabeg, we try every day to do what we can to contribute to the world as we continue the story that is our existence. And that is what you who have contributed to the TCJ Student writing contest have done with your writing—contributed in meaningful ways to our story and destiny—and why I continue to feel so deeply moved at the experience of reading and rereading your work. Through your writing you are part of the community of Anishinaabeg who are doing our best to teach in the same ways as our grandparents, their grandparents, and countless generations before. The diversity of topics and writing styles in this issue reflects the experiences and stories of the many tribes represented, interwoven and tied by our common thread of Indigeneity. In my mind’s eye is the loomed beadwork belt I made for my mother when she was younger than I am now that hangs next to my late father’s eagle feather on the wall next to her couch. My mother is in her nineties and spends a lot of her time on the couch watching the birds outside the window and considering her long life and its meanings. Occasionally she runs her fingers over the design of flowers, leaves, and vines, feeling their smooth coolness and heft, revisiting—reading, actually—what she has experienced and learned, stories interwoven over a lifetime.

Each piece in this collection stands alone as your own story, an individual interpretation and sharing of feelings, experiences, and expression. At the same time, the thread of tribal history, culture, and tradition mesmerizes the reader as it weaves and connects. As your curator, the person whose difficult task it was to judge your submissions, reading your work was a powerful and profoundly appreciated invitation into a collective entity made up of all of us as a people in fiction, nonfiction, and poetry.

And there is such richness in your writing: tentative steps toward perhaps love as a relationship grows in a library, in a description of a grandmother’s hands, an awkward encounter of affection unreturned, and in the poetic and universal “No word is more inadequate than love to illustrate the concept it implies.” There is grief in the loss of elders and of young relatives gone too early. There is anger, certainly, and the quest for understanding and peace. An appreciation for a full life, written by a proud sports mom who laces humor into her overscheduled life and “wouldn’t have it any other way.” Throughout the collection a sense of place, of descriptions of terrain and homeland so vivid they can be seen as they are read, and of connections between generations so tender the heart aches, create a timelessness for me as I read. Together they weave a powerful and profound picture of a collective entity made up of all of us as a people in fiction, nonfiction and poetry.

Some years ago I met Joy Harjo and, although I had only had a poem or two published, read with her when she was here in Duluth as a visiting author. We sat together at dinner, where she talked with me as a fellow writer (a peer!) and asked about my work. She was supportive and encouraging, and signed my book “Linda – keep writing! Joy Harjo.” I have met her several times since: she has always mentioned my work and congratulated me.

I hope that you will feel encouraged and inspired by seeing your own work in print. As Joy Harjo said to me, keep writing. We all walk our own paths as writers: some have writing partners, or writing groups, some (like me) are solitary. I like to attend monthly readings at a coffeehouse in the neighborhood where I grew up: it is not fancy, but the coffee is good and the owners attract quite a variety of people. We don’t all read at every session, but we always listen intently to each other, applaud and sometimes whistle, and comment positively. “I’d like to hear that again sometime,” a man said once as I left the stage, which was one of the best compliments I’d ever received.

Keep writing, simple words that imply so much. Know that there is value and something important in what you write. It is true, too, in the scribblings of the shy person sitting at a table in the back of the coffee shop by himself, covering his writing with one hand as he shares his soul with the pencil and paper. Give him a nod.

As a Native person who will link ancestors to descendants, continue to honor the trust, know that you are loved and that your writing and your life are significant and precious to us.

The belt I made for my mother so long ago is draped on a peg by the kitchen doorway, next to my father-iban’s eagle feather. From that place of honor, they look through the front room window to the outside and far beyond. As our lives unfold and proceed they watch, rejoicing as the story continues.

Migwech, thank you for your work and for the opportunity to read it. And keep writing.

Linda LeGarde Grover (Ojibwe) is the author of numerous awardwinning books, including the recent A Song Over Miskwaa Rapids.