by Julia Gibson
(in parts I and II, Julia, who, as she says, was 'raised by atheists', joins a pilgrimage of Native American mothers to walk around one of the Great Lakes…the Lakes are dying, and this is their response…)
In the afternoon I have a new walking partner, someone I’ve seen little of so far – BJ, Josephine’s nephew and Melvina’s son. BJ’s been off his feet for several days. Now his blisters are better and he has new shoes that fit. At first he seems quiet and not so interesting, and I’m glad. I’ll be able to space out, I think. I’m too bleary to make conversation. But then I begin to be enchanted with BJ, and within an hour I’m crazy for this young man. I don’t know what it is about him, but my heart is creaking open, introducing me to a new chamber of it that has to do with being someone’s aunt, maybe, but I don’t know if that’s even it. I never have been an aunt to anyone, and he’s got his own aunts, one of them being the venerable Josephine, and I have my own grandson and son and no vacancy in my life for a scruffy 22-year-old guy with two DUIs and a confusion about what to do with himself. It’s not that I want to help BJ, or guide him or give him advice. I just love him. He cracks me up with his dry wit and doggedness. He wears a t-shirt that says For Sale – Make Offer. Sometimes people do. This slays him.
BJ does the driving. His dad’s a truck driver and BJ wants to be one too, but the DUIs are a problem. It doesn’t occur to me that BJ doesn’t have a license until we’re stopped in a wide driveway to what seems to be a factory and a police car’s pulling up alongside us.
“Uh-oh,” BJ says. “Don’t tell him I was driving.” That might be a bad move, I think, since he’s in the driver’s seat and the engine’s running. “We can just tell him I’m fixing something,” BJ says.
“Good morning.” The cop looks even younger than BJ. “Do you know where you are?”
“New York state?” BJ says.
The cop indicates the tall metal gates spanning the driveway where we’re parked. A fence topped with barbed wire surrounds the grounds. Two guards stand at the gates. They cradle rifles. “You know what this place is?” the cop says.
“I guess a factory,” I offer.
“This is a nuclear power plant,” he says. “Do you have some business here?”
“No,” BJ says. “We’re just waiting for some people.”
“Who are you waiting for?” the cop says. I realize he thinks we might be protesters. We’re the advance team, he thinks, for a civil disobedience action.
“We’re on the Water Walk,” BJ says.
“What’s a Water Walk?”
“It’s to raise awareness of the water.” BJ hands him one of Josephine’s xeroxed brochures. “We’ll just be here a couple minutes. We have to wait for the next walker.” He points down the road at the vans.
In a part of myself that used to be familiar, I long to explain. But I’m too worn out, and I don’t want to be a pushy honky knowitall, and it’s not my clambake, and it doesn’t seem that the cop’s going to bust us. He’s reading the brochure, really reading it, not just glancing it over.
But I’m braced for trouble – a ticket, a racist insinuation, an order to move the car right this minute. I’ve still got residual sixties’ distrust of uniforms, though most of the encounters I’ve had with cops in the past thirty years have been positive. I chalk that up to being a middle-class white lady – not a ragtag hippie in a Vietcong flag t-shirt, as I once was, not a young African-American man with baggy pants and braids, not an immigrant with no English, not homeless.
“So you’re walking all the way around the lake?” the cop says. “How long will that take you?”
“A few more days,” BJ says. “We have to walk now. Bye.” And he takes the eagle staff from Josephine. I take the bucket.
As we set off, I find that I’m a little disappointed that there was no us-against-them antagonism. And why? To reconnect with the glory days of activism? For a story to tell back home? A way to feel righteous? Maybe a little of all of these, I think, but more it’s about belonging. I, devoted proponent of Groucho Marx’s policy of not joining anything that would allow me in, neurotically lean toward inclusion in groups from which I’m automatically excluded. I’ll never be a gay man, or black, or aboriginal, but the strongest feelings of community I’ve had perhaps in my entire life took place during services at a church whose members were mostly gay black men.
Some of it has to do with mistrust of the mainstream culture – death culture, we used to call it – where success means inclusion and positioning in the machineries of industry and academia. Some of it is guilt over what was called white-skin privilege back in the day: if my access to the goods is greased by factors I was born with – class, race, bone structure – I should disdain and avoid the access. Some of it is pouting: I don’t have an Oscar or a published book or a title, didn’t graduate from a college anybody’s heard of, and do I care? Not if I embrace outsidership.
But then there are the times when habits of thought don’t serve us. Be convinced that you’re unique and apart, and you’ll be lonely. Expect misunderstanding, and you’ll hear code when people greet you. Regard creation as bounteous, and you’ll have watermelon on a sunny day. And what’s an outsider, anyway? How can anyone be one, when we’re all watery beings?
That night we have rooms at a Super 8. Melvina gives me an electronic key and tells me the room number. When I get there, I wonder if she’s made a mistake. Josephine sits on one of the beds, rubbing her feet with bear grease liniment. Someone’s backpack is on the other bed. The copper bucket and the drum they call Little Boy sit on the dresser, covered with a cloth.
“Come on in, Julie,” Josephine says. “You and Violet can share that bed. Is that all right for you?”
All right? I’m in a room with Josephine! I’m honored, grateful, and exuberant, as well as dusty, stinky, and ravenous. Violet finds some takeout menus. “There’s pizza, a sandwich place, and Greek food,” she says. “Maybe we could get some salad.”
“I’d love a salad,” I say.
“I want some chicken strips,” Josephine says. “And poutain.”
“Poutain for me too,” Melvina says. “And a Coke.”
Violet hands me the menus. “This Greek place has homemade lentil soup,” I say. “I don’t see poutain, though. What is that, anyway?”
“French fries with gravy,” Melvina says. “Just tell them to give you a side of gravy if it’s not on the menu.”
“Double,” Josephine says. “Sometimes those sides are really measly.”
I make the call. None of the places have gravy. Violet and I are excited about our salad. When it comes, we offer some to the sisters. “I’m happy with my chicken strips,” Josephine says. She puts a few on a paper plate and puts the plate by Little Boy, an offering of spirit food.
I ask Josephine if she knew there was a nuclear power plant on the shore of Lake Ontario. “No, I didn’t,” she says. “I’ll be interested to know what’s in that water I got today. Whatever that plant is doing, it can’t be good for the lake.”
Melvina is asleep before the rest of us are done eating. Josephine and Violet gently joke about her snoring. “I hope it doesn’t keep you up, Julie,” Josephine says.
“Nothing could keep me up,” I assure her. I get into the bed next to Violet. I’m the last one to fall asleep. It’s strange to be lying next to someone I barely know. I don’t want to elbow her or embrace her by mistake in the night. It’s also nice to be so close, to feel her warmth even from the distance between us.
I wake to whispering. “Do you need help?” Melvina says. Josephine is tying her shoes by flashlight.
“I’ve got everything,” she says. Josephine nestles Little Boy in one arm, then takes up the bucket. Light comes into the room from the hallway as she goes out.
I dress – leggings underneath the black skirt, layers of long-sleeved shirts I can peel off later. These early May mornings have been cold. Outside, it’s warmer than the other days have been. By the time it’s light, I’m down to one shirt. BJ and I are together again. We walk from semi-rural roads to shabby industrial streets that segue into tattered neighborhoods of rundown row houses. We’re in Rochester, New York. Somber young black men in do-rags drift along the street at nine in the morning. “Wow,” BJ murmurs. “It’s the ghetto.” Maybe he’s never been in one before.
We walk past two teenage girls pushing strollers. Whatever’s in the babies’ bottles is swimming-pool blue. I greet the mothers, but they look past us. It’s strange that they don’t think us strange – a middle-aged white woman in braids hoisting a copper bucket, a young aboriginal man shouldering a pole affixed with eagle feathers.
“What happened to this city?” I say to BJ when we get into the car.
“Something bad,” he says. He hits the lock button. I recall that Rochester is where the Kodak plant was. Maybe it’s gone now, or digital technology has decimated the plant, leaving a community of displaced workers with nowhere to move to.
We walkers are tense, moving through block upon block of deprivation. People barely look our way. There’s little greenery, a spindly tree here and there, a knot of plucky weeds. The sun blazes down on the peeling, splintering, buckling buildings, and on us. The lake, murky and poisoned as it is, seems from another land.
Then we’re out of it, onto streets with bigger houses, then into a modest suburb. “We’re out of the Colt 45 hood,” BJ remarks. “Nobody drinks that here.”
“What do they drink?” I ask him. I have no idea, not being versed in the class structure of alcohol.
He studies the house we’re passing, small, square, white, with a patch of lawn. “Chablis,” he says. “Hey! That guy’s an Indian!”
Across the street a man with a long dark ponytail is standing at the curb looking at us. BJ waves at him. The man runs through traffic to get to where we are. “We can’t stop,” BJ says, so the man walks alongside us. He doesn’t know about the Water Walk. BJ explains that his aunt’s the one in charge of it. “She’s right up there at the next car,” he says. “You could meet her if you want.”
“I have to get back to work,” the man says. “I’m painting that house over there. But good luck, brother. It was great running into you.”
“Hold up,” BJ says. “Is there a native center around here?” The man tells BJ where it is and goes back across the street.
Josephine and Melvina are waiting on the next corner. “Auntie Jo!” BJ is excited. “I ran into an Indian guy! Did you know there’s a native center right over on Main Street?”
“I didn’t,” she says. “That’s good to know. You two should slow down. Don’t walk too fast. It’s so hot today. I don’t want anybody getting heat stroke.” She and Melvina take the bucket and staff. Their pace is swift too. They may look like plump grandmothers, but last night I saw their legs, wiry and tough.
We haven’t seen the lake all morning, and the route to get to it is complicated and confusing. There’s a river to cross. We have to get to the bridge. We miss some turns. Since the water can’t turn back, we have to detour and find a different bridge. BJ and Adam confer on the walkie. “There it is,” BJ says as we pull up to the head of the line in one of the vans. A bridge arches into the distance. “How are we going to park on that thing?” he says. “There’s no pull-off lane.”
Josephine and some of the others are clustered in a group right ahead of us. We get out of the van and join them. Josephine shades her eyes with her hand and examines the span of the bridge. “It’s a drawbridge,” she says. “It lifts up to let the boats go underneath. I want BJ and Julie to be the ones to walk across it. They’re the fastest walkers.”
“We’re right here, Auntie Jo,” BJ says.
“Good.” Josephine looks us over. “Cars can’t stop on the bridge, so you’re going to have to go the whole way, just the two of you. The bridge goes up every fifteen minutes, so get across as fast as you can. All right?”
We nod. We hurry to the foot of the bridge to wait for the bucket and staff. “How do we know it’s not going to lift up while we’re on it?” I say anxiously.
“We don’t.” BJ shrugs. “If it starts going up, just hang on to the railing and make sure you don’t spill any of that water.”
But we’re stoked. We’ve been chosen by Josephine. “We’ll zip across that thing,” BJ says. “We’re the fastest walkers!”
“Go!” Violet says, grinning widely, handing me the bucket. We haul ass. My arms feel like they’re out of their sockets. Drops burst out of the bucket, though I try my hardest not to let them. BJ leans over the railing to throw tobacco onto the river below. The sun is boiling my blood. Lungs burn, muscles clutch, soles of the feet feel raw. Our vehicles honk at us and people wave as they pass.
We get across without being flung off. The other walkers congratulate us. I’m barely able to lift my arm to hand over the bucket to Barb. She’s smiling, though not quite at me. Josephine puts a cold Pepsi in my shaky hand. BJ and I collapse into the waiting car and crank up the air conditioning. We’re damp and breathless and exhilarated. “We’re speed demons!” BJ exclaims.
All the rest of the day, BJ and I are revved up. We laugh and prance, spring in and out of cars, do little balancing tricks on rocks and walls. We’re given the task of finding a place for lunch. A grassy park by the lake would be nice, but the lakefront property seems to not be public. “White-collar,” BJ says of the sprawling houses and wide lawns. “Managers. Martini drinkers.” We settle for an afterthought of a park, a patchy strip by an ice-cream emporium. The boys head for it. The women stretch out on the grass and throw crusts to the geese.
I catch up on phone calls. My son-in-law’s from Buffalo, not far from where we are. “I’m just outside of Rochester,” I tell him. “Looks like it’s seen better days.”
“The Kodak town,” he says. “Yeah, it really took a dive in the seventies. It used to be, every job was a union job. If you were a janitor or worked in the cafeteria, you could have a house on the water. Everybody had a boat. Everybody.”
“Not any more,” I tell him. “Plus the water’s not so great for swimming, so I hear.”
“Yeah,” he says. “You’ll get toe cancer from walking on the beach.”
I finish my calls. People are done eating, packing up the leftover lunch meat. I can’t face another white-bread sandwich. All afternoon I eat bag after bag of chips. BJ tells about his life, his parents splitting up, school troubles, having a son at a young age, jobs he’s tried, places he’s tried living. “I’m thinking I might go and work with Auntie Jo,” he says.
“Doing what?”
“You know, helping her out. Going around with her.”
“Like where to?”
“Ceremonies, I guess. Or she does talks. She’s going to quit her job and do more spiritual things.”
“I hope you do that, BJ.” I badly want him to. “She must think highly of you or she wouldn’t ask you. It would be a wonderful opportunity.”
He shrugs and lights a cigarette. “I don’t know. I’m thinking about it.”
“I guess there wouldn’t be a lot of money in it,” I say. I think I know another reason that he might be hesitant. Josephine wouldn’t allow any partying. BJ’s already let me know that he’s been missing drinking while he’s been on the Walk.
“It would be good, though,” he says. “I’d learn about my heritage.”
I stop myself from saying more. Would I drop everything to carry and make calls for Josephine? I hope I would. She seems to have so much to teach. She leads by example, being the one who walks the most each day, the one responsible for Little Boy, the one whose determination and vision brought us from our homes to this road.
We talk of other things. “If you could eat anything for dinner tonight,” I say, “what would you have?”
“Like the last meal of a condemned man?” he says. “Is it true they’ll bring you anything you want if you’re going to be executed?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I hope neither of us ever have to find out.”
“Potain,” he says. “That’s my favorite.”
“Just potain? What about some steak or something with it?”
“Sure.” He stubs out his cigarette. “I’d have a steak.”
“I’d be so happy with a roast chicken,” I say. “Real tender and juicy, falling off the bone. That’s what I’m going to make when I get home tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? We’ll be done with the whole Walk the day after that. Why don’t you stay another day? They’ll have a feast for us.”
“Who will?”
“The people at Niagara-on-the-Lake. My cousin’s cousin is coming, and a bunch more people, too.”
I could change my plane ticket, change my plans, but I’m primed to leave. Already more people have started to arrive – a white couple, a woman known as the Soup Lady, her sister. My legs won’t be needed.
It’s barely dusk when we get word that we’re stopping for the night. We gather around Josephine as she leaves offerings of water and tobacco at the stopping and starting place. “Guess what?” she says. “I ran across a native family. The teenage boy saw us going by and he ran over to talk to us. When he found out what we were doing, he was so excited. He’s been reading about pollution in the Great Lakes. He’s got an emotional relationship with the water. He walked with me for a little while and then he left. A couple of hours later, his parents drove up. They brought us supper!”
She opens the back of her van, where covered pans are stacked, smelling meaty. “It’s incredible,” she says. “They made all this food – except the chickens I think they bought already roasted.”
BJ catches my eye. “Your wish came true,” he says. “Chicken.”
We caravan to a motel. Again I’m put into a room with Josephine, Melvina, and Violet. I wonder whether Josephine has let me in with her because the three sisters don’t want me. Whichever way, I’m honored and glad. The food is spread out in the boys’ room. The boys are more excited about the hockey game on TV than the food. Violet and I are in ecstasy. The chicken is all that I had dreamed of, and there’s tender pork chops, rice and corn, too much for all of us to eat. Melvina packs up what’s left for the next day’s lunch. I’ll miss that. I’ll have to start driving to the airport by mid-morning from wherever we are by then.
I find Josephine alone in the room, soaking her feet in a plastic dishpan. I thank her for the privilege of walking with her and the others. I tell her that I’ve never been with a group of people who got along so well. I’ve seen no fussing or sniping. I tell her that it’s due to her example. I tell her that walking has made me see everything differently. I can see the water everywhere. I hear it more clearly. And I love her nephew BJ. I liked getting to know him.
“He’s been through a lot,” she says. “He’s seen a lot. He’s endured.”
“He says he might be working with you.”
She nods. “I hope so. He’s a good kid. I’m about to retire and have a different kind of life. I could use his help.”
“What will you be doing?”
“I’ll devote myself to the people’s work,” she says. “There are young girls in my community who are interested in women’s teachings. I’ll take them on their first berry fast. There’s a lot to do. Whatever is needed. And there’s Lake Erie in oh-seven. You should come.”
“I’d like to. I will if I can.”
“I’m thinking I might do all the lakes again,” she says. “I’ve gotten so used to it, walking every spring. I don’t know if I should stop.” She takes one foot out of the dishpan and steps onto a towel folded on the rug.
In the morning it’s raining. I get to wear the slicker I’ve brought, and my sunburn won’t get worse today. Several new people show up to walk. I’m interested to meet BJ’s cousin’s cousin, but she hasn’t come by the time I have to leave. Nobody asks for my phone number or email address, but I give them to BJ.
“It was good walking with you,” I tell him. He seems sad to see me go, but maybe I just want him to be. I drive away fast, windshield wipers going at top speed. It’s really raining. I can’t go far before I have to pull over. My chest is heavy and my throat’s burning. My eyes sting. Where I pull over there is water, a gutsy churning stream. I fumble for what’s left of my American Spirit tobacco and put it down on the muddy bank. I’d pray if I knew how.
I feel as disjointed as the tender chicken we pulled apart last night, flesh tumbling every which way, leaving the hard essentials. I let the water in me emerge from my stinging eyes and let the water from the sky wet my face. I don’t know why I’m sad. I’m sad because nobody asked for my email address. I’m sad because I won’t ever understand Barb. I’m sad because BJ might rather drink than work with Auntie Jo. I’m sad because I have to leave. I’m sad because I get to. I’m sad because I don’t know how to pray.
But I thank the water. I say it aloud, how grateful I am for the streams and rivers, glacial lakes, salty oceans, tears. Be healed, watery beings, trees and birds and all the rest of everyone, creatures that live alongside me, creatures whose homes I displace with my own, ant people, snake people, possums.
I gather myself and make the hellish drive into the city’s tangle. I find my airline gate. I get home. I greet my loved ones. I wash myself and get into my own soft big warm bed.
In the middle of the night I’m all at once awake. It’s four in the morning on the shores of Lake Ontario. Josephine, surely, is bandaging her blisters by flashlight. She pulls on her socks, laces up her shoes. Melvina’s sitting up, feeling for her glasses on the table by the bed. “Are you going?” she says. “Do you need anything?”
Josephine goes out with the eagle staff and copper bucket. It’s her favorite time to walk, singing to the waters in the purple dark.
11.16.06