Little Drum

Fostering the strength and resiliency of Indigenous people worldwide…

Class #9 Transitions

Class #9 Transitions.

Class #2

June 23, 2013

Today’s class was an early Sunday morning hot yoga class at Moksha here in Victoria, BC. I arrived early and had about 15 minutes on my mat before class started. It was a fantastic opportunity to totally let myself unwind and when class started I felt like I had just woken up again. It was an intense workout and my trembling legs and arms regularly reminded me of how long I’ve been away from my mat, the long bike ride I had with my son yesterday. I was also reminded of how much I love the feeling of sweat dripping off my nose and how beautiful my skin looks in the glow of enhanced blood flow and prespiration.

Near the end of class, we were asked to pause and take a moment to notice what we might be seeing or what we want to see through new eyes. I realized that it had been a long time since I paused and looked around at how truly blessed my life was…and that it was time to look at my life with new eyes.

In the busyness of raising twins, running my own business and preparing for the launch of my new book, my life is full and I have not been pausing and reflecting as often as I would like to be. Part of the reasoning for this commitment and blog. What I have come to know is that when I do not pause, reflect and offer gratitude, I get grumpy, less flexible and less open to receiving opportunities.

Today I decided to see my life through new eyes. To take time and reflect on how extraordinarily blessed I am. Blessed to be healthy, in a loving relationship, mother to healthy and beautiful twins, blessed that both my parents and my sister are alive and healthy, blessed… oh how I could go on and on. Choosing to focus on gratitude and speaking kind words of gratitude help define me. Tonight as I lay in bed, I will close my eyes and say a prayer of thanks for oh so much!

I left class remembering that I have a responsibility to those who have gone before me and those who are yet to come, but I can choose how I honour that responsibility. I see this responsibility today through new eyes.

I encourage you to consider what or who you might want to see through new eyes.






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Resiliency: an Indigenous perpsective

Human resiliency is like a willow tree branch.  It can bend to make the ribs of a sweat lodge or bend to create a full circle to create a dream catcher.  When we bend that willow tree branch and then release it, it bounces back to almost it’s original shape, but not quite.  It is changed forever. We as humans are the same. When life deals us challenging times, we bend like that willow tree branch and are changed forever.


Indigenous worldviews and the importance we place on relationships naturally compliments fostering resiliency in children. Resiliency requires a concentrated focus on positive and nurturing relationships with family, caregivers and community members. It also requires a focus on fostering relationships with all aspects of the child’s world.

It is through these relationships that children will develop and strengthen their sense of self and security in their world, thus strengthening their resiliency and ability to adapt, grow and change throughout childhood and the rest of their lives.

To learn more check out new educational resource: The Ripple Effect of Resiliency: Strategies for Fostering Resiliency with Indigenous Children.

Serenity and powerful reminders amongst the chaos of the Pacific National Exhibition (PNE)

A few days ago, I was with my family at the PNE (Provincial National Exhibition) in Vancouver, BC.  Well, it was us and thousands of people enjoying this fun and exhilarating Fair. I am not really much of rides person, it is not so much the heights or the thrills that scare me, but rather the human element…who put this ride together, how tired were they, were they paying attention, what had they smoked or drank and did they put the right screw in the right place? So as a result of not known the answers to these questions and the inability to convince my family not to ride, I was sitting on the bench while my family rode the oldest wooden roller coaster in North America.  I was inundated with the stimulation of all my senses. All around me thrill seekers were screaming on the rides with the drop of the Hellevator creating the loudest screams. The scents of french fries, mini donuts, fried onions, and pretty much anything  unhealthy could be smelt.  The sun was as equally blinding as some of the outfits people were wearing and in amongst all this joyous chaos a Dragon Fly circled me and landed beside me on the bench. All of a sudden, quiet and peace surrounded me, I was reminded of my Grandma and her teachings of the Dragon Fly.

Below is the chapter from Hope, Faith & Empathy that shares Grandma Tilly’s teachings of the Dragon Fly and so much more.

Hope you enjoy it and if you want to read more, you can order your copy at

With respect,


Chapter 4

Gatekeepers to the Dream World

“Tomorrow, after we done fish’n, we gonna go home. We got ‘nough for the winter ‘n’ it’s not our way to be greedy. Just take what we need ‘n’ what we gonna share: noth’n more ‘n’ noth’n less.” She pointed at me with her fire stoker. “You ‘member that Tilly. This whole world gett’n so greedy, but not you, you only gonna take what you need ‘n’ what you gonna share.”


One day when I was ten, Grandma Tilly showed up unexpectedly for dinner, driving all the way from her farm just outside of Regina to our house in Kamloops. She told my parents that night that she had come to take me fishing. “It’s time to teach ‘lil Tilly how to prepare for the winter. Best time for fishing all summer is this new moon, so we’re gonna pack up ‘n spend ‘while up at the lake.”

Every morning since, we’d been getting up very early and fishing until Grandma Tilly felt we had caught our share for the day. Then we’d head back to our camp, get the fire going and prepare the fish to be smoked. Grandma Tilly had her special recipe for the brine, including wild onions that she harvested every fall and preserved specially for her brine. As a result, the fish would only sit in the brine for a couple of hours before we hung them over the fire to be smoked for the day. The fish would be a treat throughout the winter, and as Grandma Tilly got older and couldn’t hunt anymore, she would often trade her fish for deer or moose meat.

Part of preparing the fish to go in the brine included cutting their heads off. I would scrape and gut them and she would cut their heads off and put them in the containers for freezing. “Oh your Daddy and Auntie Pauline, they gonna be so happy with all the heads we got. Gonna be able to make us up some of my famous fish head soup,” Grandma Tilly said to me, smiling. I gave her a bit of a smile, but as I remembered the smell of that soup I thought, “I’m going to make sure I am out of the house when that’s cooking.”

I was grateful she had brought the modern convenience of a cooler and ice for freezing, otherwise I’d have to resort to eating fish head soup with her. Apparently there is a lot to be enjoyed from digging the meat out of a fish’s head and even more so from extracting and sucking on an eyeball, but I was fine going through life without that experience.

We were sitting around the fire when she announced: “Tomorrow, after we done fish’n, we gonna go home. We got ‘nough for the winter ‘n’ it’s not our way to be greedy. Just take what we need ‘n’ what we gonna share: noth’n more ‘n’ noth’n less.” She pointed at me with her fire stoker. “You ‘member that Tilly. This whole world gett’n so greedy, but not you. You only gonna take what you need ‘n’ what you gonna share. You hear me?”

I nodded yes, knowing there was absolutely no other response to give her. It wasn’t very often she spoke to me in this forceful way, but when she did I knew I better sit still and listen!


The next morning we got up early. The sun was just beginning to come up over the blue-grey mountains creating stunning reflections on the lake, the loons had begun to sing and frogs were croaking. With it being summer vacation, I would normally still be tucked into my bed for a few hours yet. But having this chance to spend time with Grandma Tilly was totally worth getting up before the sun. She had just put her line back in the lake after reeling in her seventh fish. I was still waiting for my first one—not my first fish, my first bite!

I started to whine, as ten-year-olds do when they feel they are being wrongly done by. “Why are you catching all the…” I didn’t get to finish my question before she raised her hand, silencing me. I looked over the side of the boat, I should have known better than to complain to Grandma Tilly.

“Did you ‘member to do everythin’ I been teach’n you?” she asked me. As she did so, she raised her eyebrows at me and pursed her lips. I realized just how unimpressed she was with me.

I knew better than to answer her without seriously thinking about her question, so I turned around on the small bench and faced the front of the boat. I watched as the bow broke through the water, leaving gentle ripples in its wake. We had been going fishing every morning for the last week, and I replayed in my mind the fishing preparations. Then I thought about this morning, trying to remember what I forgot—I woke up, got dressed, rinsed my mouth, washed my face, packed up our gear, got in the boat. I reran the morning over and over again but couldn’t figure out what I had forgotten. I stared at my rod, wishing so badly it would bend towards the water.

I heard Grandma Tilly rub her wooden match on the side of the boat. Without turning around I knew she was lighting her pipe. The light breeze brought the smell of her homegrown tobacco wafting towards me.

“That’s it, that’s it, Grandma Tilly!” I turned quickly to face her and as a result, rocked the boat.

“What’s it?” She puffed on her pipe. When she exhaled she used her hand to bring the smoke up over her head, like she was smudging.

I humbly told her. “I forgot to make my tobacco offering before we got in the boat.” I was quiet for a moment, mad at myself for forgetting something so important. “That’s why I’m not getting any bites or catching any fish.”

“Yes, my girl. You forgot to make your offering. You figured that one out quick, Tilly…you must be my granddaughter.” She laughed and then continued with a more serious tone. “No offering, no fish. Simple law o’ nature. ‘Member we make the offering as a form of gratitude. Need to be grateful before we ask an animal to give up its life so we can eat.”

I didn’t wait for her to tell me what I needed to do. I began reeling my line in. I felt embarrassed, like I had let Grandma Tilly down.

“Sorry Grandma…” Before I could finish she shook her head quickly.

“No need for apologiz’n, Tilly. This is a good less’n for you ‘n’ I have a hunch you’ll ‘memember to make your tobacco offerin’s from now on. I think we got what we need for the winter. Let’s head back to camp ‘n’ get these fish smoked so we can head home.” She smacked her lips together a couple times. “Gotta crav’n for that fish head soup.”

As we pulled into the dock and I got ready to tie up the boat, a dragonfly circled around my head. I knew better than to swat at it.

“Oh my, Tilly. You gonna have to pay real good ‘ttention to your dreams tonight. That dragonfly’s come to remind you of that—we call ‘em gatekeepers to the dream world.”

I sat on the dock, put my feet in the boat and waited patiently for the dragonfly to leave. Grandma Tilly’s head moved as she followed the quick movements of the dragonfly and asked me: “You ‘member what I told you ‘bout dreams?”

“Sure I do,” I said proudly. “The dreams I have when I first fall asleep are about my past, and they’ll help me learn from my past so I don’t make the same mistakes. The ones in middle of my sleep help me solve whatever problems I have right now, and the dreams I have just before I wake up, those dreams are about the future and they help me get ready for my future.” As she smiled at me, I felt relieved that I hadn’t let her down again

“You been using those two ears real well, Tilly. I’m gonna be curious tomorrow to hear ‘bout the dreams you have tonight.”

We sat there quietly watching the dragonfly until it finally flew away. Grandma Tilly motioned towards the rope with her head. “Tie us up now so we can get to smok’n these fish and get on back home.”

Who were the teacher’s who positively influenced you?

The change is in the air and my children are beginning to talk more and more about going back to school and we are starting to ponder the idea of routine…regular bedtime, packing lunches, up early, etc.  This brings to mind my school experiences, both positive and not so positive and of course the teacher’s who were so instrumental in those experiences.  Below is one of the chapters from Hope, Faith & Empathy in which Tilly describes her experience of a teacher who had a profound impact on her life…in more ways than one.

If you like this chapter and would like to purchase a copy of Hope, Faith & Empathy visit   or Amazon

Mrs. Murphy


             “Oh no, you have Mrs. Murphy for homeroom,” she said. The horror on Anna’s face, my best friend’s older sister, frightened me. Who was this Mrs. Murphy? And why was she to be feared?

The next day was the first day of grade eight and, of course, my first homeroom with Mrs. Murphy. She wasn’t a very popular teacher. I think it was because she expected the best from her students and didn’t tolerate typical high school antics in her classroom. She didn’t seem so scary to me. I actually thought she was kind of funny.

She introduced us to Harry, a small goldfish who lived in a round circular bowl. She informed us that each of us would have our weekly turn of feeding Harry and that his life was in our hands. She’d had more than one floating goldfish in her history as a teacher, and she made it clear that she did not want Harry to be added to that list. We all had our weeks where it was our responsibility to feed him. For those who sometimes forgot, there was always someone in the class to remind them that we didn’t want a floating Harry.

When we came back from Thanksgiving long weekend, Harry was now swimming in a larger bowl. When we came back from Christmas he was in a larger bowl again, and after spring break we came to find Harry living in his very own aquarium. Few of us had noticed the changes in bowls until the aquarium, and even fewer had noticed that Harry had grown. After all, we were in grade eight and too busy noticing each other.

On that first day back after spring break, Mrs. Murphy began telling us that goldfish grew as big as their environment would allow. So if a goldfish lived in a small bowl they would always remain small; when put in a bigger bowl they would grow until they fit that bowl to the maximum. She walked over to Harry’s new aquarium and asked us to have a good look and see if we noticed anything different. Mrs. Murphy paused as she watched each of us ooh and ahh over Harry as if we were seeing him for the first time.

“He’s bigger,” said one classmate.

“He must have taken ‘roids over the break, ‘cuz he got really big really fast,” said one of the jocks in our class.

Mrs. Murphy laughed at this response and said, “Actually, Harry did not take steroids over spring break,” with a smile and giggle in her voice. “Class, every time we moved him into a bigger bowl, he grew. Most of you just never noticed.”

She told us that each of us were exactly like Harry. We will grow into whatever size goldfish bowl we allow ourselves to create. She clarified by saying, “Each of you will have experiences in your lives that will expand your goldfish bowl, and a few of you will search out experiences in life to either consciously or unconsciously expand your goldfish bowl. The more risks you take to grow and learn, to try new things and have new experiences, the bigger your goldfish bowl will be.”

Consciously? What did that mean? I really didn’t know what Mrs. Murphy was talking about, but the same sense of excitement and thrill of anticipation was pulsing through my body as being up to bat with bases loaded.  I knew one day I would have to ask her what she meant by ‘consciously,’ but not today. Not in front of the class.

Two years later, I had Mrs. Murphy for grade ten English. One day a couple friends and I shared a joint at lunch. It just so happened that my first class after lunch was English. Mrs. Murphy instantly knew that I was high. I could tell by how she looked at me. I tried to avoid her eyes, but they did meet at one point and she closed her eyes and shook her head. I was sure it was in disgust.

Once she had given the class the work for the afternoon, she came over to my desk. “Oh crap” was about all I could think as I slithered down into my seat. She wasn’t having any of that.  Instead she motioned with her hand to the hallway. I got up and went out to the hall, followed by the sneers and giggles of my classmates. I leaned against a locker, looked down at the linoleum floor and put my hands in my pockets. I was trying to act cool, like she didn’t scare me. Truth was, I was terrified. I liked Mrs. Murphy, a lot, and was afraid I had disappointed her.

“Look at me, Tilly.”

I slowly raised my head to meet her gaze.

“Oh, Tilly, why’d you do this?” she asked.

The tone of disappointment was all too familiar to me. I had heard it in many voices before, but in Mrs. Murphy’s it felt even more shameful and humiliating. Did she really want to know why I had come to class stoned?  I could give her a whole long list of reasons.

Better not.

Instead, I simply shrugged my shoulders. She took a deep breath and exhaled as she leaned beside me on the locker. I kept waiting for her to say something more, to send me to the principal’s office, or even worse…the counsellor’s office. But she stayed quiet.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed her head and shoulder were resting on the locker and her eyes were closed. Shit, I wished she would say something. Maybe it was my paranoia, but that silence was freaking me out. After what seemed like hours, Mrs. Murphy finally turned her head to look at me.

“Tilly,” she said, and I sheepishly turned my head in her direction, but barely raised my eyes to meet hers. “Now I really should be sending you down to Mr. Peterson’s office, but I’m not going to.”

I had not realized I had been holding my breath until it escaped from my lungs.

She continued. “I know that you have a lot going on. I see it in that faraway look you have and how your grades have dropped. But that doesn’t make it okay to be doing drugs.” She stood up straighter, no longer leaning against the locker. “I’m worried about you, Tilly.”

Worried about me? She was worried about me? No one even seemed to notice me lately, let alone be worried. My eyes filled with tears and it felt like someone had just sat on my chest, making it difficult to breathe.

Mrs. Murphy gently touched my arm. “Listen, I’ve been teaching for a long time, and I know when I have a special student in my class. You’re one of them. So please, do not go wasting your future by doing drugs or whatever else you are up to these days, Tilly. That path can lead you into serious trouble.” She paused as if I needed a moment to process the many ways that serious trouble could take me.

“I know you are going to make the world a better place. I see that in you. I see so much in you. You are a good person, Tilly, but somehow you need to find a way to see all that good in yourself. You need to believe it. Lots of people can tell you how precious and gifted you are, but until you truly believe it, their words will only be words.” She pulled a tissue out of her sleeve and handed it to me. “It’s clean.” I hadn’t realized tears were still rolling down my cheeks.

“As I said, I am not going to send you to Mr. Peterson’s or even let anyone know about this, but I want you to check out the Indian Student room. I think it would be a good place for you to hang out at lunch, instead of where you have been spending your lunch breaks.”

How did she know I was Indian? Before I could ask her, she continued on. “And I need you to promise me something, Tilly.” I looked up to meet her eyes, “Promise me you will never come to my class under the influence of drugs, or anything else, ever again.”

I didn’t have to think about it. “I promise.”

“Now you go back into that classroom, and hold your head high,” she said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Murphy,” I humbly muttered and began to reach for the door.

Before I could open the door, she gave me a quick hug. “You’re welcome, Tilly.” I was too surprised to hug her back.

As I opened the door, I felt all my classmates’ eyes on me. Everyone knew Mrs. Murphy’s reputation, and I think some of my friends were scared for me. I wanted to shrink, but Mrs. Murphy’s words echoed in my head: “hold your head high.” I sat down into my desk, wishing I was invisible, and I promised myself that I would not disappoint Mrs. Murphy.                                I never did go back to her class stoned or drunk, but I did check out the Indian Student room as she suggested. It became a safe place for me to hang out, somewhere I felt like I fit in and could be myself.

Over the next few years, school continued to be hard for me. The drinking didn’t stop. Actually it increased, and so did the challenges in school.


About four years later, after upgrading and receiving my grade twelve equivalent, I was sitting in a chemistry class at Cariboo College when I heard a familiar voice a few rows behind me. I turned around to see the smiling face and warm eyes of Mrs. Murphy.

On the break I made my way up to her, and before I knew what I was doing, I gave her a big hug. “Mrs. Murphy, it’s so good to see you.”

“It’s really good to see you too, Tilly.”

I couldn’t help myself; my curiosity got the best of me. I asked her, “What are you doing here in chem class? I thought you retired.”

She smiled at me. “Oh, Tilly, you are as precious as ever. You always were so full of questions. Yes, I retired, but I’m not dead.” She giggled and continued. “My husband, George, isn’t as healthy as he used to be, and we want to do some more travelling. We still have so many places in the world we want to see and experience, but the doctors told us we cannot travel unless he is accompanied by a nurse. So I have come back to school to do my pre-nursing courses, and in September I start nursing school.”

I leaned against a desk. “Wow,” was all I could get out.

“I can’t remember you ever being lost for words, Tilly.” We both laughed. She was right.

“That’s amazing, Mrs. Murphy. You could write a Sunday night Hallmark movie about that.” I smiled at her, absolutely in awe of her.

“Well, I don’t know about that, Tilly. What I have come to realize since retirement is that I want to be happy and have a life of good memories and good times. So this is all part of continuing to make sure that is what I have.”

As I took in what she had just said, I looked at the blackboard. All the chemistry equations somehow seemed less intimidating.

“What are you taking this class for?” Mrs. Murphy asked.

“In January, I start psychiatric nursing school down in New Westminster.” She raised her eyebrows. “I know, hard to believe, eh?”

She told me that it wasn’t so hard to believe and that she always knew I was smart. “You just had so much going on that got in your way. And you often got in your own way, too.” She looked over at me and smiled. “I am glad to see you’ve made some changes.” We were both quiet for a few moments. I wasn’t sure what she was thinking about, but I was remembering our talk in the hallway all those years ago. I didn’t know it then, the word dignity, but that is how she treated me that day—with dignity.

Mrs. Murphy was the one who eased us back to reality. “You know, Tilly, I don’t live far from you. If you’d like a ride to class, I’d love a carpool partner.”

“Uh, umm, sure, thanks. That would be great.” Even though I was a bit hesitant at first, I loved the idea of not having to ride the bus.

The following Thursday morning I waited out on our stairs for her. The loud roar of a sports engine came up the cul de sac, and into view came a beautiful candy apple red Mustang.  The top was down and the driver…the one and only Mrs. Murphy. My mouth fell open. I don’t know what I had expected her to drive, but not this!

“Come on, Tilly,” she yelled. “She’s even more beautiful on the inside!” Her whole face lit up with joy. This was a whole new side of Mrs. Murphy.

She reached across the front seat and opened the door for me. I slid in and she said, “Tilly meet Thelma, Thelma meet Tilly.”

“You named your car?”I asked.

“Sure I did. I bought her brand new after my first year of teaching, and I’ve been the only driver, ever. Not even my son or husband has driven her.”

I could feel the warm leather on my back. I fastened the buckle around my waist, and we were off with the top down and the wind blowing in our hair.

After a few blocks, Mrs. Murphy asked me, “So what do you think, Tilly?”

“I love this car, Mrs. Murphy. Way better than the bus.”

“Yes, I bet it is, but if we are going to continue carpooling like this, you need to call me Gayle, not Mrs. Murphy.”

I had never known her first name. Gayle.  She didn’t seem like a Gayle to me.

“Okay, but it’ll be a bit weird at first.” She nodded in agreement.

“Hey Mrs., or um, Gayle, do you remember what you told us about Harry? How goldfish are just like us—the more risks we take, the more we grow and the bigger our bowl will be?”

“Sure I remember, Tilly.”

I was quiet for a few moments, and the wind blowing through my hair gave me a rare feeling of optimism. “I hope I have a really big bowl someday.”

“You don’t have to wait until some day. Your courage to go back and get your GED, come to college and go off to nursing school…I’d say your bowl is pretty big.”

I wasn’t sure of that, not yet anyways, but I was willing to trust her and believe in her perception of me.

©Monique Gray Smith

Let’s start to talk about the resiliency of Tuberculosis Hospital survivors

When we look at our history as Indigenous people in the country of Canada, there are so many elements to that history that have required of us to be extraordinary resilient.  Indian Residential Schools have been an area of much needed profiling and awareness raising, few have spoken of the high rates of children who contracted TB in these schools and subsequently ended up in one of the many TB Hospitals across Canada.  It is estimated that there were as many as 8,000 students died for every 100,000 who contracted TB.   The hospitals caused an interruption in attachment to family, isolation, and loneliness that have and continue to impact the lives and relationships of the survivors of the TB hospitals. This chapter from Hope, Faith & Empathy opens the door to begin dialogue about TB…this is a story of one man and his unique experience in the TB hospital and it’s impact on his life.

Chapter 22


“Now there’s so many of us trying to find our way back to our families. Culture and ceremony, that’s what has kept me alive—even when I wasn’t sure I wanted to be alive.”


I wasn’t sure when I had fallen asleep. It had been about all I could do to roll my sweatshirt into a makeshift pillow…and I was out. I had been so exhausted, the kind of exhaustion where every bone in your body aches and no matter how you try, it’s just not possible to keep your eyes open.

My work that week, in an isolated and remote First Nation community, had been immensely gratifying, humbling and intense. It was a week of listening to heart-wrenching stories of trauma—the kinds of stories that made me wonder how the person sharing was even alive, let alone a functioning member of their community. Every time I worked in one of our communities, I was awed by the power of the human spirit as I was privileged to witness powerful breakthroughs of resiliency.

It wasn’t a hard jar as the ferry docked at its next stop, but enough to stir me from my deep sleep. I half opened my eyes, but the sun shining through the window was almost blinding and provided me with a good excuse to close my eyes again. The gentle rocking of the ferry and the warm glow of sun on my face eased me back to sleep.

“Um, excuse me, Miss?” A man’s voice woke me. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or not. I opened my eyes to check it out.

“The ferry is pretty full, so I’m wondering if I can have this seat.” He motioned to the seat that I had my legs curled up on.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I quickly brought my feet and legs down to the floor and used my hand to wipe the seat where they had been.

“Not to worry,” he said as he placed his suitcase under the seat in front of him. It was one of those older style suitcases, no rolling wheels or extending handle. He put a small cooler and thermos by his feet. With his thumb and forefinger he grasped his pants and pulled them up towards his waist as he sat down. “There’s usually lots of empty seats on this ferry. Now that the road has been built, hardly anyone rides it anymore. But me, I like the tranquility of the ride and being out on the ocean.” He reached across his body with his left hand, extending it to me. “Pardon my rudeness, my name is Saul.”

I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Saul. My name’s Tilly.”

“Pleasure is all mine, Tilly.”

I smiled. Normally a response like this would give me the eeby jeebies and I would find some excuse to remove myself from further conversation. But there was something about this man that drew me to him instead of repelling me. He had the face of a little boy and a dimple in his chin. His hair was black, with only a few grey wisps around his temple and was all combed back and held in place with a succulent amount of Brylcreem. His red cowboy shirt was unbuttoned at the neck exposing a necklace with a gold cross, and he had a cigarette pack in his chest pocket. His sleeves were rolled up to just below his elbows, revealing hairless arms and a variety of tattoos—not the professional tattoos that are so popular today, but rather the tattoos that are done by a friend or while in jail or serving in the Navy. He wore grey polyester pants and sported freshly polished black cowboy boots.

“Where you from, Tilly?” he asked. I knew what he meant. Not where do I live, but rather, much deeper. That question really means: what community are you from, who is your family, what Nation are you from, who are your people.

“Long version or short version?” I asked him, now feeling fully awake and revitalized from my nap.

“Mmm, well now I’m intrigued. Let’s go with the long version.” He smiled at me and raised his eyebrows. His eyes danced.

“Oh geez, where do I begin?” I turned my body towards him, leaning against the window and began. “I’m mixed heritage.”

“Seems we all mixed heritage these days, Tilly. Not many of us Aboriginal people who are just from one or two Nations or don’t have some white blood somewhere in their family genes. But go on, tell me more about your family.”

“On my Mom’s side, I’m Cree from Saskatchewan. I don’t know what community I’m from because my Mom was removed from her parents at birth and placed in an orphanage. My Dad’s family is of Lakota ancestry and moved to Canada in the mid 1930’s, when my Grandma was little.” As I shared with him, he held my gaze.

“Did your Mom grow up in the orphanage?” he asked.

“No, she was only there until she was three. A friend of my Grandma and Grandpa’s worked at the orphanage and knew my grandparents were considering adoption, so she told them about this little girl with dark curly hair and who she felt they just had to meet. So they took a trip down to the orphanage…not anticipating coming home with this little girl, but they did. They came home with my Mom.”

“Did your grandparents already have kids?”

“Yeah, they had my Aunt who was about five then, but they both came from large farming families and they wanted to have a large family too.”

“And were they Indian?”

“No, they were English and German. She was raised in primarily a German community and was the only Indian.” I wasn’t sure why I was telling him all of this, but it was like I couldn’t stop myself and…it felt good. “My Mom told me once that one of the best days of her life was the day a Chinese family moved to town and opened a restaurant. She was so happy to no longer be the only person who had dark skin in her town.” I turned and looked out the window for a moment. The wild west coast scenery slowly passed before my eyes: the rocks, shaped from the tides for generations, the cedar trees and their boughs so thick I couldn’t see past the forest entrance. I wondered what lived in there…beyond what we knew. We methodically rolled up and down as the small, passenger-only ferry cut through the waves.

I turned back to him. “You know, Saul, I have no idea why I’m telling you all this.”

He smiled and tipped his head towards me. “Yeah, I know. Everyone tells me I shoulda been a counsellor instead of an accountant. I learned to listen to my Grandpa on the fishing boat, alongside the river and out hunting. There was no option but to listen. Oh yeah, and spending my teen years in the TB hospital surrounded by women, I’m sure that helped too.” He chuckled to himself. “Surrounded by women, yep, that’ll teach any man to be a good listener.”

Happy to have the focus off of myself, I said, “TB hospital, do you mean tuberculosis?”

“Yep,” he responded. “And that story, well, that story requires a cup of coffee.” He leaned forward and picked up his thermos. “I have another mug in my cooler. Would you like a cup? Already doctored up with cream and sugar…well not really cream, evaporated milk, better than cream.”

“Sure, I’d love a coffee.”

He poured a cup and handed it to me, then poured himself a cup. “I have salmon sandwiches too, if you’re hungry. Caught and canned it myself. Would you like one?” he asked.

“No thanks, Saul.”

Again, he reached into the cooler, pulling out a salmon sandwich. As he unwrapped it, he said, “I have to back up a few years before the TB hospital, or it won’t make any sense.”

The smell of salmon wafting between us, he took a bite of his sandwich and sat back a bit in his seat. After he finished chewing, he said, “Late summer days like this always remind me of the first time I rode this ferry.” I noticed his jaw clench and his eyes became a bit narrower. He continued. “My life changed that day.” He turned to me. “I know that sounds a bit dramatic, but it’s true, Tilly. When I think of my life, I put it into two categories: Before Residential School and After Residential School. And that first ferry ride, that’s the day that divides the two. That’s when it all changed.” He took another bite of his sandwich, chewed for a bit and had a sip of his coffee. I could tell this story was not one to be rushed. I pulled my knees in a bit closer to my chest and held my coffee cup with both hands. I was content to sip my coffee and wait.

“See that space there between those two small islands?” He pointed out the window. “That’s where my Grandpa’s boat was that morning. He was out on the bow and waved as we passed. He stayed out there on the bow watching us. I’m not sure how long he stood there. That was the last time I saw him, alive anyways. I can still see him standing there, Tilly, as if it was yesterday.”

“What us kids didn’t know when we got on the ferry, and what our parents didn’t know as they said goodbye to us that morning was that when we reached Vancouver, all five of us would be sent to different schools.” He took another sip of his coffee. “You know, that morning as we stood waiting for the ferry, well, that was the last time that my whole family was ever together.” His eyes filled and he was quiet again. It was like he was reliving those last moments on the ferry dock.

“That was forty-six years ago, Tilly,” he said, in a strained voice. “Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder how my life, how all our lives would be different if we hadn’t had to get on that ferry. But I can’t think of it for long—makes me crazy with rage. And that don’t do anyone any good. So I focus on what I can change. Me, my attitude, my actions…that’s about all I have control over.”

His honesty moved me. My eyes stung, salty tears invading them. I clenched my teeth together to try and push the tears away, but slowly they rolled down my face.

“Forty-six years…an awful long time to not be together as a family.” He cleared his throat and used the back of his hand to wipe the tears from his eyes. He continued. “Sure, I see some of my brothers and sisters every now and then. A few of them have moved back home to the reserve, but most of them, they live in the city. I’m not sure what they’d do if they came back home. I’m not even sure they’d call this home anymore. They’ve all created their own sense of community there in the city and it works for them.” He crossed his right leg over his left, looking down as he folded the wax paper that had previously held his sandwich. Flip by flip the wax paper was folded into smaller squares. I waited.

“People are just starting to talk about those schools, and all the horrible things that happened there.” He looked at me and then past me out the window. He told me how in his language the word for “child” has many meanings and that one of them is “purpose for living.” “You can imagine then, Tilly, what happens to a community if all the purposes for living are taken away one day. I think that the most painful part of those schools is what they did to my family.” Saul went on to tell me how he had a whole new perspective on the impacts of Residential Schools when he had his own children and again when he became a grandparent.

“I guess in some ways, Tilly, I was lucky. I didn’t go to Residential School until I was ten, so I had a lot of time with my Grandpa and my Dad. They taught me of our ways, our ceremonies, our songs, how to navigate and fish these waters.” He nodded his head towards the window. “My Mom, well, she was…there really aren’t any words in English that describe her. She was my everything. She was the most beautiful woman. And smart, holy, was she smart! But she was never the same after we were sent to school. Like the happiness in her heart died, but she kept on living.”

He reached into his cooler and pulled out a Tupperware container. He opened the lid and handed the container to me. Homemade cookies. “You gotta have one. They are my wife’s secret recipe.”

I helped myself and took a bite. It was chewy and chocolate. “Delicious.”

“I know, eh? So where was I? Oh yeah, like I could forget.” He smiled at me. “Family. You can’t live with them and you can’t live without them.” He chuckled. “Therein lies the problem, Tilly. I think the government set up those schools ‘cuz they were scared of us and our family structures—how powerful we were. And how powerful we still are, Tilly. That’s what we gotta focus on.”

“Mmm,” I agreed.

We were both quiet, his sharing made me think of my Mom’s birth family. So many unanswered questions, just one of them being how, or if, Residential Schools had impacted them. My Mom had been trying to find her birth family for over ten years. During one of her many calls to Social Services in Regina, the Social Worker indicated she had my Mom’s birth Father’s Status Number and name of the Band he was registered with. Since then, she had met road block after road block. I admired so many things about my Mom, and one of them was her tenacity. I knew that one day she would find them. Until then, all I could do was support her, listen and be empathic to the inner turmoil and immense sense of loss she experienced as a result of not knowing her birth family. I was reminded of this turmoil a few weeks before when we were at the Kamloops Pow Wow and she turned to me and said, “You know Tilly, I could be sitting beside my cousin or maybe even my sister and not even know it.” That comment had run through my mind so many times over the past weeks. I felt helpless in easing her pain, her loss and her sense of not knowing where and who she belonged with.

It was like Saul was reading my mind. “Now there’s so many of us trying to find our way back to our families. Culture and ceremony, that’s what has kept me alive—even when I wasn’t sure I wanted to be alive.”

Again, we sat quietly for a while, each processing in our own unique way. It was Saul who spoke first. “I guess lots of people would consider me lucky having only spent three years at that school.”

“What do you mean, you spent three years away from home at school? Didn’t you come home for holidays or summer vacation?” I asked.

“I came home for Christmas the first year, but after that the school said it cost too much money to get me home and back again. And my family, well, they just didn’t have the money to bring all of us kids home. I suppose because I was the oldest, maybe they thought out of all the kids I was the one who could handle not coming home. I honestly don’t know, Tilly, but they were three extremely long years.”

“I bet they were, Saul. What happened after the three years?” I asked.

He rubbed his chin with his hand. “I need a smoke before I go into that story, Tilly. You want to come up on deck with me and get some fresh air? You can see so much more up there that you can’t see sitting here.” He stood up. “Come on.” He motioned with his hand for me to get up. So I did and out on the deck we went.

After a few puffs on his cigarette, Saul told me he had contracted tuberculosis near the end of his third year at school and had to go to the TB hospital in Vancouver. He shared how lonely it was lying in a hospital bed day after day. “Lots of people ask me if I got bored. Sure, at times I did, but it wasn’t the boredom that haunted me, it was how alone I was. And how much I missed my family.”

He went on to tell me he would pass the time by counting the tiles in the panelling on the roof or the number of intersecting corners in the room or how he figured out how many beds were in the hospital. Saul shared how one day he had asked a nurse if she knew how many beds were in the hospital. She didn’t know and was quite shocked that he did. Asking him how he knew, he told her how he had figured it out.

The nurse, Ruth, took a special liking to Saul and spent many hours after her shifts with him. She would bring in her son’s math and calculus textbooks and Saul would devour them. His natural gift with numbers was evident. The content of the textbooks were easy for him to understand and the problems seemed even easier for him to solve. He told me how those books and problems helped him pass the days, weeks and months.

As Saul got better and was able to get up and about, Ruth convinced him to study for the grade twelve exams. She organized for him to go to her son’s high school and write them. When he was eighteen, Saul graduated from high school without having ever attended a day.

“That nurse, Ruth, she saw my gift—my gift of being able to sort through numbers and have them make sense. She’s the reason I am an accountant today. Other than my family, she was the first person who ever believed in me, challenged me and supported me. My wife and me, we named our oldest daughter after her. Ruth.”

Before I knew it we were docking in Prince Rupert, and it was time for Saul and me to say goodbye. The ride had taken just over three hours, but felt like only moments and yet also a lifetime. We gathered up our belongings and exited the ferry, walked along the dock and up the stairs to the road.

“My daughter’s pick’n me up and we’re heading over to a gathering at the Friendship Centre. Wanna join us, Tilly?”

“I’d love to, Saul, but I have to get to the airport to get my flight home. So I guess we need to say goodbye,” I said.

“Let’s say ‘see ya’, since there’s no such word as goodbye in our language. Way too final.” He smiled at me. “Sure am glad I decided to take the ferry today. Wouldn’t have met you if I’d taken the sea plane.” Looking at his feet and suddenly seeming weighed down, he said, “I don’t usually talk about all that stuff, Tilly. It’s in the past and that’s usually where I like it to stay. But today, today it actually felt good to talk. Well, maybe good isn’t the right word.” He looked up from his feet and smiled at me. “It was, it was healing to talk about them.” He stepped forward and hugged me.

“You take good care of yourself, Tilly. Help your Mom. Keep after her to look for her family. One day you’ll find them. I really believe that.” A honk of a car horn startled both of us.

“Well, there’s my ride. Look forward to our paths cross’n again one day, Tilly.” With that he squeezed my cheek, picked up his cooler and suitcase and headed towards the car.

I threw my backpack over my shoulder and started to make my way out to the airport, hoping to have time to give my Mom a call before my flight home to Victoria.

Prologue for Hope, Faith & Empathy

This is the intro to my new book Hope, Faith & Empathy. To purchase go on line at



Hope, Faith & Empathy will take you on a journey, a journey that is loosely based on my life’s story as an Indigenous woman, of individuals who showed up at a pivotal time in my life to guide and teach me and of characters who came to me as I wrote. These characters I believe are gifts from the Ancestors.

Hope, Faith & Empathy includes parts of our collective Indigenous history, and I am hopeful that readers will have a greater sense of the history and how it ripples into the current circumstances facing our people. The mere fact that Indigenous peoples exist in Canada is a miracle unto itself. The fact that we are thriving in the multitude of ways that we are is pure inspiration.

I offer much gratitude to you for sharing your time in reading this book and sincerely hope that you find whatever you may be seeking as you join Tilly on her journey and meet the characters that come into her life.

It is my hope that while reading you will encounter yourself, your strength and your own resiliency. Perhaps, even just a little, you will have a greater sense of hope…for whatever your dreams, ambitions and heart’s desires may be.

Our Children Remember

This entry is a portion of the Chapter called Our Children Remember from the new book Hope, Faith & Empathy available at  Hope you enjoy it!


One day, about five years ago, when my twins were not quite three, I took advantage of one of their rare afternoon naps to get some housework done. I was washing the dishes when I faintly heard the Women’s Warrior song. In my sleep-deprived state, I thought it was me singing; after all, no one else in our house knew the song that was softly filling the rooms. However, I soon realized that it wasn’t me singing. It was the voice of a child. I turned off the tap and dried my hands, then followed the melodic voice down the hall towards my twins’ room. As I got closer, I realized it was my daughter singing. She was lying on her back, nestled under her comforter with her hands in the air. I stood in the doorway—watching and listening. She used the back of her right hand like a drumstick, gently beating the palm of her left hand in perfect beat, like that of a heart. Her little voice had turned the “y” sound of the song into a “w” sound, “Wah, wah, wahoo, wah, wah wahoo….”

How did she know this song? 

A chill ran through my body as I watched her, my eyes wide taking in the preciousness of what was unfolding in front of me. 

Although I had sung it almost daily while I was pregnant with them and many, many times over the last two and a half years since they had been born, I had never intentionally taught her this song. 

Quietly, I leaned against the doorframe and closed my eyes, her voice and the drum beat of her little hands easing me into a peaceful state, erasing the stressors of my day. My daughter and I were connecting beyond our physical selves, beyond the two of us. It felt like the air danced around and within us, removing negativity and hurts and filling it with strength and courage. I felt the power and healing of this song so profoundly.

I was reminded of that beautiful summer with Mabel and the workshops we facilitated, how she so taught me so much that summer: ceremonies, this song and others…and so much more. Mabel’s words came back to me. “This song is a women’s warrior song, a song of great strength, beauty and power. As women, we have incredible power because we are the givers of life. Being a warrior doesn’t mean we have to fight or force our opinion, beliefs or ideas in an aggressive way. This song talks about our strength and importance of speaking our truth, living an honest and respectful life and honouring the beauty within each and every one of us.”

I am not sure how long I stood in my daughter’s doorway, each breath full of the preciousness of this moment in time. Mabel also taught me that our children remember: they remember the traumas and painful experiences of their Ancestors, but they also remember their ceremonies, languages, customs, and stories. She was right.

This song I was listening to my daughter sing had been sung for generations upon generations, and now I knew it would continue to be sung by future generations, thanks in part to my daughter.


Tears are Medicine

This is a segment from a chapter in my soon to be released book, Hope, Faith & Empathy.  It is from the chapter called Tears are Medicine.

Tilly, the main character, is just finishing a counselling session with Bea who is also a wise elder and guides Tilly in far more than her recovery from alcoholism.  This sharing from Bea happens just as a session is coming to end.  Enjoy!  And if you want to read more, please go on line to purchase the book Mail out in July 2012.


“You need to give everyone you spend time with a present, everyone.” She had instructed me.

“Everyone? A present? How is that possible Bea?” I asked, confused.

“Yep.” She shook her head up and down dramatically. “Everyone Tilly. I want you to be fully present with each person you spend time with. Give ‘em your full attention, look ‘em in the eyes and let ‘em know you are listen’n. People just need to be seen ‘n’ heard Tilly. ‘N you know what?” I moved my head sideways and she said in response. “It takes li’l effort for us to really see some’n or to list’n to’em. You know what it’s like to be listened to and then what it also feels like when some’un prettend’n they listen’n. So your homework is to see ‘n listen to each person.”

“What about like when the Cashier at the Grocery store starts chatt’n me up?” I asked.

“Everyone Tilly, you never know who has a story or teach’n for you or whose day you could bright’n or light’n. So yes, even the Cashier at the Grocery store.”

©Monique Gray Smith

Why Hope, Faith & Empathy?

On June 11th, 2008 the Prime Minister of Canada offered a public apology for the atrocities that occurred in Indian Residential Schools.  It followed on the heels of the Australian Prime Minister’s Apology for Forgotten Australians on November 16, 2009.  Both of these apologies and public acknowledgments opened a door for the world to better understand our history as Indigenous people, its continued ripple effect and our desire to create a new legacy for our children and future generations. These apologies have also served to foster a greater sense of empathy towards Indigenous peoples and supported the breakdown of cultural divides and misunderstandings.

The soon to be released Hope, Faith & Empathy is a timely book that bridges the gap between Indigenous and non-Indigenous cultures and appeals to readers from all walks of life.  Hope, Faith & Empathy is a moving and inspiring story of a mixed heritage Indigenous woman (Cree, Lakota and Scottish) and the people she meets along her healing journey from teenage alcoholism to successful business woman, International speaker and mother of twins.

The tradition of teaching and healing through storytelling comes alive in this modern-day story that is rich with Indigenous wisdom, humour and thought-provoking teachings.  It provides insight into the Indigenous worldview and unique ways of being, knowing, seeing and learning in the world.  Through the resiliency of the characters and embedded within the stories they tell, are metaphors for life that are relevant to all who are interested in creating a more caring, civil and empathic society. It draws readers into a first-hand experience of Indigenous peoples and their inspiring spirit and tenacity to overcome the wounds of Residential School abuse, colonization, historical oppression and forced assimilation. Hope, Faith & Empathy gently provokes readers to look at their beliefs and move beyond any negative stereotypes of Indigenous peoples and communities they may have.

Why the words Hope, Faith & Empathy as the title of the book?  Hope that children of this generation and future generations do not have a childhood they have to recover from.  Faith that we will learn from our history and work together in creating a future that recognizes the gifts of all children, families, nations and races.  Empathy that we will be able to foster and witness greater empathy between the relations of Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples.  It begins with each of us.  Empathy is the bridge connecting hope and faith.

Hope, Faith & Empathy is an entertaining, engaging and inspiring story to read and learn from.  It can also be used as a formal educational tool to raise levels of cultural competency, cultural safety and understanding of Indigenous peoples.

Please visit to read excerpts from Hope, Faith & Empathy and to purchase your copies.  Purchases can also be made by emailing


About the Author: Monique Gray Smith is an Indigenous woman, a Mother, Writer, International Speaker and Consultant focusing on the Strength and Resiliency of Indigenous Peoples Worldwide.


©Little Drum Consulting     


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