This place looks like the halls of a school, but instead of lockers on each side, lining the walls, there are dozens of pieces of artwork behind glass. Some are paintings, some are drawings, and some are photographs. Some are of animals, some of people, and some are beautiful illustrations of Lake Superior. I wonder who did all these? They look expensive, not that I can steal them. I wouldn’t know the first thing about selling artwork. I follow my dad down the large hallway toward the red double doors. He stops in front of them and faces me.
“Is my punishment going to be drawing animals and taking pictures of trees and pretending I’m artistic?” I ask. “Because I’m not.”
“This isn’t boot camp. This is like a tribal council meeting, to determine the difficulty level for your rehabilitation,” he says, while holding back a smile.
“I had to dress up like this for a lame meeting?” I ask.
“Yes. First impressions are very important to our people,” he says.
“Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”
“Now, remember, as you enter, make sure you’re standing tall and proud. They sense fear, like wolves,” he says.
“I think it’s sharks who smell fear?” I ask.
“Then just swim in there like you own the ocean, okay?”
“Whatever,” I say, and reach for the handle on one of the double doors.
“As you enter, say ‘booni-wiisinig!’ loudly, got it?” he says.
“What does it mean?”
“It means … umm … I am here for the sacred meeting,” he says.
He stands back as I open the door, which makes a loud creak. Great, now I’m grabbing everyone’s attention.
I push the door open, but to add excitement to my entrance, my dad kicks the other door wide open and pushes me forward, sending me a few feet into the room. The doors swing back, slamming shut behind me, leaving my dad in the hall. The drumming music abruptly stops.
I immediately feel the flames of humiliation engulf me. NO ONE IS DRESSED LIKE ME! There are dozens of people in here, and they have all stopped what they were doing and are looking at me like I set my body on fire. I see their eyes widening in disbelief as their jaws slowly drop. They are all dressed like everyday people, in jeans, shirts, and jackets. It just looks like your average gathering of people. And they’re not even all Native American. At least I don’t think they are. I see some white people and some Black people. I guess they can be Native American too, but some are as white as Wendy. What’s going on here?
I whip my head back and see my dad through the tiny glass window slits. He gives me a thumbs-up. I want to murder him. I turn back to the crowd, not knowing what to do.
“Umm … booni-wiisinig,” I say loudly, but not so proudly.
The entire room bursts into laughter.
The laughing gets louder. Some people have even collapsed at the sight of me, holding their stomachs, tears flowing. My dad finally enters and puts his hand on my shoulder. Not for comfort, but to hold himself up while he gets all his laughter out.
“Why would you do this to me?” I ask him.
“I had to make sure.”
“Make sure what?” I ask.
“That you still have a sense of humor,” he says. “Out with it. Laugh.”
“What could possibly be funny about this? I look like a racist mascot!”
The crowd laughs. How do they find this funny?
“Brothers and sisters, friends and neighbors, I give you my son, Benjamin Waterfalls!” he shouts to the hysterical crowd.
“What did I say to them just now?” I ask.
“Stop eating, you people!” he says.
The crowd wipes their tears away and applauds. I don’t get it. Why are they all clapping? I didn’t do anything besides stumble in like a clown and stare at them. Interestingly enough, they all did stop eating—momentarily.
“Love the costume, bro, you’re hilarious,” one teenage girl says to me, and gives my dad a welcoming hug.
She’s not in a costume. She’s in a leather jacket and cargo pants.
I look at my dad. “This isn’t traditional Native American wear, is it?”
“The ‘Made in China’ tag didn’t give it away, huh?” he replies, which causes both of them to laugh again.
I reach back behind my neck and feel the tag. One yank, and it’s in my hand, and sure enough, it reads MADE IN CHINA.
“Or the fact that all those beads on your vest are plastic?” the teenage girl says.
“And who are you?” I ask.
“I’m Opichi Kenosha. It means Robin. You can call me either one,” she says, and now gives me a hug.
“Um, okay … Hi, Either One,” I say.
She laughs. “I met you when you were still in diapers. We’re family. It’s good to see you all grown up,” Robin says. “I got to head out. Got a gig down in Duluth. Have a fun trip,” she says to me and leaves the room.
There was my shot at getting back to Duluth. I could have begged her for a ride. And what did she mean, “have a fun trip”? I’m stuck here. She’s the one leaving … But it makes sense when she opens the exit door, because I get a glimpse of the back of her jacket. It reads LIFE’S A TRIP. I don’t know how we’re related, but I bet I looked less ridiculous in diapers than I do now.
My dad had been holding my jacket. I grab it and put it back on. I can’t hide the whole outfit, or my Skittles-painted face, but I can at least avoid the cold draft in here. I zip it up, and a whole crowd of people approach us.
I watch them all hug my dad first. They speak Ojibwe to him, and it trips me out that he answers back. I keep hearing the word boozhoo. I used to know that one. I think it means “hello,” but I blocked it out of my mind when my dad started drinking because it sounds like booze. I hated the word after that. I forgot it on purpose. Now it’s being tossed around by everyone. After a few women hug me and squeeze my cheeks, telling me how cute I am, I see an opening and walk toward the table full of snacks. Being humiliated sure works up an appetite.
I grab a Rice Krispies treat and eat it while picking up two brownies and a root beer. I make sure no one is looking and slip a few extra Rice Krispies treats into my coat pocket for later.
“You don’t have to steal them. They’re free,” a voice says from behind me.
I turn around. It’s the girl from the bookstore. She’s dressed in a long yellow coat, black jeans, and heavy boots. She’s still wearing the lightning bolt mask tightly fitted over her face.
“Well, if it isn’t Captain Native America,” I say. “Are you following me?”
“You sound paranoid. But most thieves are, aren’t they?” she says.
I should return fire with a quick and witty comeback, but instead I watch her. She picks up a Rice Krispies treat and takes a bite. Her teeth are as white as clouds. Whatever the issue is with her face, her teeth look healthy. And why am I staring at her lips? I move my eyes upward.
“Seriously, though, why are you wearing that mask?” I ask.
“We all wear masks, Benjamin. Even you,” she says, and takes another bite.
“Oh, all this paint on my face? No. This was my dad’s prank. Wait. How do you know my name?” I ask.
“Aren’t you Big Bad Business Benny?” she asks.
“Wow. Word spreads fast around here. And yeah, I’m supposed to have a meeting to determine how rotten of a person I am. It’s probably a scam, though.”
“A scam? You sound paranoid and skeptical.”
“I just want to get this all over with so I can go back home and resume my life,” I say.
“Your life is that awesome, huh?” she asks.
“It is what it is.”
“It is what it is? Wow. So profound. You come up with that all by yourself?” she asks.
“It’s the truth. Sometimes life kicks butt. And sometimes life kicks you in the butt. Oh, no, I’m sounding like my dad.”
“Your dad. Tommy. He’s a really good guy,” she says.
I laugh. “Well, you must not know him very well.”
“Because he left you and your mother?”
“Jeez. Does everyone know everyone’s business around here?” I ask.
“The Grand Parents are small places. Everyone is family around here,” she says.
“The Grand Parents?”
“Yeah. Grandma Marais and Grandpa Portage,” she says.
“Ah, got it. Nice that you got wordplay this far north.”
“We got it all up here. Word is, we even got a thief now.”
“Hopefully for not very long. I plan on leaving as soon as I can,” I say.
“Well, there’s one thing you can’t steal … Time. You’ll be here for as long as it takes.” She turns and starts to walk off.
“Wait. Can I at least know your name? Since everyone already knows mine,” I say.
She sighs. “I am Niimi Waatese.”
“Wow. You can’t get more Ojibwe than that, can you?” I ask. “What does that mean?”
“She is dancing, there is lightning.” She does a quick little dance move, then slams her hands together like a quick little lightning strike and walks off again, this time disappearing into the mingling crowd.
Niimi Waatese. Her name is a sentence. That’s kind of cool. And the other girl I met was named Robin. I wonder why? Was a robin around when she was born? Did she enter the world crying so beautifully it sounded like the singing of a bird? Is she destined to fly? How do Native Americans get their names? I really don’t know much about my own people. My friends back in Duluth have boring white names like Bryan and David. Benjamin is not very Native sounding either, but at least I have my last name. Waterfalls. That always felt Native to me. Niimi is lightning and I’m a waterfall. And a bird just hugged me. This is an interesting night already.
Why does Niimi wear that mask? I shouldn’t care. I’m not here to make friends, especially not ones that wear masks. I just need to meet with this council, pretend to listen to what they say, and get this boot camp thing underway. Pretending to be rehabilitated is almost as good as being rehabilitated, right?
A man in the front of the room clasps his hands together, grabbing everyone’s attention. He takes the center of the room and speaks. He must be the chief. He has long black hair, sitting under a black baseball cap. His skin is as tan as my dad’s, but he dresses better. He dresses like he’s on stage at a concert, in dark jeans, a white T-shirt, and a leather jacket. His face is kind and strong. And not a trace of facial hair on it. I wonder if he has to shave every day. His rock and roll shirt and jeans completely destroy the image in my head of what Native American chiefs are supposed to look like. If he was in Hollywood auditioning for the role of a chief, he’d be rejected. Which is crazy because he’s an actual chief. I squint at the logo on his colorful shirt. It’s of the band A Tribe Called Red. Wow. What a cool chief. They’re huge in Duluth.
“Aaniin!” he says to the crowd of people.
I look at my dad, who stands directly behind me. He’s smiling. I’m not.
“Greetings,” my dad whispers to me, even though I didn’t ask.
“Tonight is a special night. One of our own has returned. He is here to bloom,” he says.
The crowd applauds. Bloom? What does that even mean? And why are they clapping? They don’t even know me, and they’re already rooting for me. They should boo me and toss me out of here. But instead, they’re all pretending to care about me. Why?
“But before we get to him, I must warn you, gimoodishki,” he says. “So hide your wallets and purses.”
The crowd laughs and heads start to turn toward me. My dad leans in and says, “It means ‘he is a thief.’”
No wonder the people next to me took one step back.
“Before we meet the young misakakojish, I want someone else to speak with you all. As many of you know, niwiiw, my wife, my aki, recently left this world.”
The group nods, sad eyes all around. That sucks. The dude’s wife died. I wonder if she looked like a rock star too.
“She and I worked closely together on making our community the best it can be for all of us. With her gone, I’ve seen dark, heavy days and sleepless nights. I reached out for help. I reached out for a light to my darkness. Indaanis,” the chief continues.
“That means my daughter,” my dad says into my ear.
“Ever since she was knee-high, she’s been helping her mother bloom our community. She has been there every time I have been there for you,” he says, and the crowd nods.
“And as your traditional tribal leader, my responsibility is to do what is best for all of you. These are strange times for us all. I am here today to announce to you all that I, Chief Waatese, have begun training my daughter, Niimi Waatese, to be the head of the Gichigami Garden, where she will be leading all future bloomings.”
The crowd gasps. Some cheer, some do not.
“But she’s too young!” a woman shouts.
“Yes, Miakoda, she is young. But it is the youth that will lead us to healing. The youth will replace us. The youth will be in charge of this aki when we are gone. And those who know her know no one is better suited for the job. Niimi has left school to focus on her training. She will be here for all of you.”
“Are you saying she will be our ogimaakwe?” an elder woman asks.
“One day, I hope so. But for now, I will remain Ogimaa. My focus will be to assist in government affairs, language programs, health programs, and ceremonies,” he says to the crowd.
“Isn’t she a bit … too out there to handle the bloomings?” an older man speaks up.
A few in the crowd laugh. I don’t know what’s funny. I also have no clue what bloomings are. And what the heck is a Gichigami Garden?
“I will be the first to admit, her methods, as were her mother’s, are a bit unconventional, but many of you have already witnessed the medicine she carries,” he says.
Then it hits me. He said Niimi Waatese. The girl in the mask. That’s his daughter. She’s going to be the head of something and one day possibly be the new chief? Are tribal leaders allowed to dress up as superheroes and buy children’s books?
“We all mourn your wife,” another man says. “We loved her, and we love your daughter, but putting a child in charge of something so important is, perhaps, not the best answer, especially in today’s world.”
“The best answer can only be given if the best question is asked. And I challenge you to ask Niimi all of your best questions. I open the floor to you all. I raised her, yes, but it is every day that she teaches me about this ever-changing world.”
Niimi walks through the crowd and approaches her father. The way the crowd parts, it’s obvious they all have respect for her. But I can see some are not yet convinced she is ready for the role. I wish I could see the rest of her face so I could get a sense of how this is all going down with her.
Then she speaks.
“Aaniin. I understand your hesitance. I too was hesitant when my father approached me about this. The thought of being taken out of school scared me. But the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. The one who blooms people should be young, in order to grow and adapt to this unpredictable world. I will bring new ideas and new perspectives to all the challenges we face today and tomorrow. I look at you all, many of whom I have already had the pleasure of seeing bloom. Like you, Namid Morrison. When you lost your art gallery to the heavy rains and had nowhere to turn, who kept you focused? Who led a fundraiser to help you rebuild? Who sat with you every night, not letting you give up, and made sure you created more art?”
“You and your father did,” says Namid, an older woman who is dressed in a fringed vest and bell-bottoms, like she’s stuck in the 1960s.
“That’s right. And look at you now. I doubt there’s a person in here that doesn’t have one of your paintings hanging on their wall,” Niimi says.
Is she the artist who did all the paintings in the hallway?
“And you, Mr. LeSage, when you lost your job at the refinery and you wanted to give up, feeling too old to start over, who convinced you to go back to school and learn a new trade?”
A tall, broad-shouldered man steps forward. “You and your mother did.”
“And at fifty-three years old, you start this year as a nurse’s aide, correct?”
“That’s correct. I’m an official healer,” he says.
The crowd applauds.
“Yes. I am young, and to put your trust in me is asking a lot, I get that. But isn’t that the whole point of trust? If it was easy to give, it would be worthless. We face great challenges, and the only way to meet those challenges, and defeat them, is by thinking outside the box. So, I stand here, proudly, alongside imbaabaa, as your friend, your sister, and your Gichigami gardener, Niimi Waatese.”
After a few random claps, the room gives in and delivers a thunderous applause.
“And now, I’d like to welcome the sneaky little misakakojish to join me up here. His blood is Ojibwe, but his heart has a large white hole in it. He tries to fill it by stealing things. Stuffing them into his broken heart, but this hole only grows deeper and wider and hungrier. We need to fill it with the only thing a heart needs … his blood. And we are his blood. So, Benjamin Waterfalls, the son of Tommy Waterfalls, you sneaky little badger, please step forward.” The crowd parts, giving me an open lane toward Niimi.
This is awkward. I don’t move until my dad elbow-nudges me forward. Slowly, I approach Niimi. With her twirling finger, she signals me to turn around and face the crowd. So, I do. Gulp. All eyes on me. I don’t know which is worse, being humiliated by showing up to this place looking like a five-dollar Halloweendian or being forced into public speaking. I hate being stared at. I’m a thief. I literally rely on not having attention on me.
“Daga,” she says.
Ha. I know that one. “Please what?” I ask.
“Speak.”
What does she want me to say? I don’t know any of these people. I don’t live in this world. I just want to go home. Heck, I’ll even go back to the bookstore if it gets me out of this room.
“Hey,” I say to the crowd.
“Boozhoo!” they shout back to me.
Ugh. There’s that word again. Boozhoo. Booze, who? Whose booze? My dad’s. He’s a drunk. He is the reason I’m here. This is all his fault. I look at him and hope he feels every dagger my eyes are shooting toward him.
“You have to open your mouth to speak. Like how I’m doing right now,” Niimi says, and the room laughs again.
“Well,” I say, “I’m not sure what to tell you. I’m a thief, I guess. But you should know that Miss Bloom Girl over here just bought a kid’s book about caterpillars today. Recommended reading age was three to six years old. Good luck with her as the head of the tribe someday.”
The crowd laughs. But I wasn’t joking. Even my dad is laughing. And Niimi and her dad are laughing too.
“He’s quite the aadizookewinini, isn’t he?” Niimi says to the crowd.
They laugh again. “What’s that mean?” I ask her. “What did you just call me?”
“I called you a storyteller. And that’s a good thing, Benny. Most people with holes in their hearts decide to give up. They believe the whole world gave up on them, when in reality, it was they who gave up on the world. But you, you steal and tell yourself stories about how it’s not your fault. Never your fault. Always someone else’s, am I right?” she asks in front of everyone.
“It’s his fault,” I say, and point to my dad.
The crowd clasps their hands together, like Niimi just did something amazing, but she didn’t. I’m just telling the truth.
“This is a girl who wears a mask, but she’s no superhero. She’s not even that nice. And my dad isn’t some sweet and kind man that you all think he is. I’m out of here,” I say, and start to walk out of the now-very-silent room.
“Everything you’re feeling is right on schedule, Benny,” Niimi says.
I stop. “You don’t know me,” I say, and try to kick the double doors open. But they open the other way. It’s pull, not push, so I look like a crash test dummy that just kicked a closed door and nearly slammed my body into it from the momentum.
“Life is give and take, but doors are push or pull. To open them, you must first—”
“Oh, shut up! You’re not wise. You’re just a kid, like me. And us kids are full of mistakes. You shouldn’t be the head of anything. In fact, it was a mistake coming here. You can all go bloom yourselves!” I shout, and open the door and begin to walk out.
“Do we have a winner?” Niimi asks the crowd.
An old woman who looks nearly a hundred raises her hand. I stop to see what the heck is going on. A winner? For what?
“Mrs. Cloquet, what did you have?” Niimi asks.
Mrs. Cloquet pulls out a small folded sheet of paper, unfolds it, and reads, “Shut up. You’re not wise. You’re just an old man. It was a mistake coming here,” she says, and looks up at Niimi. “I thought he’d be speaking to your father, though.”
“Close enough. You win,” Niimi says.
The crowd applauds.
“But I did like his improvisations. I really liked the you-guys-can-go-bloom-yourselves bit,” Mrs. Cloquet adds. “He’s very clever.”
The room laughs again. “It should be a bumper sticker,” another man adds.
“Is everything funny to you people?” I shout.
“You people?” Niimi asks, which causes the crowd to go silent.
“I obviously didn’t mean it like that,” I say.
“How’d you mean it?” Niimi asks.
“I just mean … I don’t know. Not everything is funny. Life isn’t. Sometimes it really sucks,” I say on my way out of there. “Like right now.”
Niimi’s father finally speaks. “Life is a story, Benny. You get to choose what kind. Ojibwe humor is rooted back to the very first Anishinaabe man and woman. When we first began to speak. Our first words weren’t ‘wow, we can talk’ or ‘are you hungry’ or ‘good morning.’ Our first words were a riddle. Would you like to know the riddle?” he asks me.
“No. I’m done with all your jokes,” I yell.
“We’ve experienced enough tragedies. It’s time to choose to make life a comedy. Isn’t it funny that we’re all alive on a spinning rock, hurtling through space, while dressed up in our skin and bones, trying to understand the meaning to our existence? Life is a riddle. And we’ll laugh as we try to figure it all out all the way to the next world,” he says.
“Did you laugh when your wife died?” I ask, and hurry through the hallway toward the parking lot before he can respond.
I can’t believe I just asked him that. I feel awful. Of course he didn’t laugh. He’d already expressed how difficult life is without her. What’s wrong with me? And Niimi … If she didn’t hate me already, she most certainly does now.
I brush the guilt away. It’s their fault for trying to make life sound like a sitcom. Life isn’t funny. It isn’t a riddle. It’s a take-what-you-can-get-before-you’re-dead kind of world. I just want to get this boot camp started so I can go back to Duluth.
In the hallway, a glass display holding a bunch of art catches my eye. Not so much the actual art, but my reflection from the glass. They planned all of this. My appearance. My outburst. Everything. They just wanted to humiliate me. Of course, they were all laughing. Why wouldn’t they? I look hilarious.
What kind of boot camp is this?
I’m done!