Years back, I attended my late cousin’s funeral in the core of the inner city where she lived. One could call the area run-down, poor, and even scary. It was the kind of place where taking to the street at night was risky, let alone by day. Many of the shops were closed down, and the upkeep on the surrounding buildings was minimal, to say the least.
My cousin had been renting a three-room apartment over a dingy hotel where she lived a hand-to-mouth existence due to childhood traumas. Every time I went to this city, I made a point of stopping in on her for a visit because, despite her struggle, she hadn’t lost her sense of humor and hadn’t forgotten the ways of knowing taught to us by our grandmother. She was fun and had a great sense of humor. She didn’t let too much bother her, and I enjoyed spending time with her. It was relaxing because there was no pressure to be anything else than two cousins spending time together. We would often jump into my car, as she didn’t own a vehicle, and drive out to the country for fresh air and a change of scenery.
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The last time we did this, we went to an area of countryside that had once been the reserve where our grandfather had been raised. Across the river from the former reserve was an old historic stone church. The grounds were open to the public because they also held a historic graveyard where many of our Sinclair ancestors were laid to rest. We would go there to pay our respects and visit with them.
My cousin was down to earth; real, there was no pretentiousness in her, and she was always grateful for anything offered to her. We ended that day by stopping for supper at a nice restaurant. Although it wasn’t the most expensive restaurant, she was so impressed. She had lived with us for about three years when we were kids. We learned to ride bikes together, told spooky stories at night together, just for the laughs, and often pretended to be actors on the old coal bin that served as our stage. This was before she was taken to live with another family in the city.
Later, as young adults, we found each other, reconnected, and never lost touch again. So, when I heard that she had suddenly passed away on a north-end city street, I was deeply shocked and heartbroken. My dear cousin was gone.
Although I lived two provinces away, I knew that I could not miss her
funeral service. I drove for over 14 hours to get to the indigenous funeral home and arrived about five minutes after the service had started. When I pulled up to the door, there was a crowd of people standing on the steps and out to the sidewalk. When I went inside, I understood why. The funeral home was so full that it left standing room only.
I looked up to the front of the room where my beautiful cousin lay in state. Her long black hair had been draped over her shoulders, Her hands were placed one over the other, and every finger was adorned with a ring. Each ring was bright and colorful, fitted with a large stone that looked every bit the Ruby, Diamond, Emerald, or Pearl. It was all costume jewelry, probably bought at a second-hand store, but her sisters knew that she loved beautiful rings, and they wanted to honor her with something that represented what she couldn’t have as their parting farewell.
My cousin looked peaceful and beautiful lying there. I just stood over her in silence, remembering all the days and times that we spent together, and thanked her for what she had unknowingly taught me by example.
As I sat down, there was a person at the microphone sharing their memory of my cousin and what she meant to them. Person after person stood up to the mic to tell a story of my cousin’s benevolence, her care for the people she knew, funny stories, and heartwarming stories. This didn’t surprise me in the least, but I was surprised by the sheer number of people that her short life had touched.
I knew there were other Hannahs out in the indigenous community who would have also been socially profiled and misjudged because of their socio-economic station in life. I wondered how many people outside of the indigenous community were aware of people just like her — people who struggled but had good hearts, people who helped others in their community because they understood the struggle.
This was when I decided to use my voice to tear down stereotypes, to build rooms of understanding and, ultimately, acceptance. I wrote Hard Time Hannah in honor of her and have kept on writing. I tell stories of people like her that I knew and met, I address issues, integrate mythology, and our ways of knowing. I thank my cousin Hannah for this gift. Her life was a lesson, an inspiration, a catalyst, a force, an inspiration way beyond those she touched. Way beyond me.
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