Page 43 of Stolen Dreams
Same as my grandmother, Stone Bay is my heart and home. Stone Bay is all I’ve ever known.
But it soothes a piece of the soul to know where the Imala family originates. That more of us live outside our small town’s borders. Grandmother has worked diligently to organize a reunion party. The largest gathering of multiple generations in more than a century.
The scent of smoked meat wafts up my nose as I enter the kitchen. A smell so comforting and familiar. Home. I inhale deeply and sigh. My stomach grumbles, and I rub my midsection with the silent promise to eat soon.
“Unukut, Anaanatsiaq.Anaanatsialirqiuti.” Good evening, Grandmother. Great-grandmother.
Both their heads pop up, their tasks forgotten. Deep wrinkles line their eyes and lips as smiles brighten both of their expressions.
“Unukut, my darlingirngutaq.” Grandchild. “How was your first week of cooking classes?”
I walk around the large kitchen island and hug my great-grandmother, then grandmother. “Good. More tedious than anything.”
Curious eyes so similar to mine but a hint darker stare back. “Tedious?”
Without being asked, I slice the red onion on the counter. “This week focused on teaching basic techniques and kitchen safety.” My eyes sting and I blink a few times as I continue to cut. “Was dull because I already know most of those things thanks to you.” I set the knife down and lean into her side. “You and Great-Grandmother have been my favorite teachers.”
She kisses my hair. “As sweet as youranaana. Although, I wish we would’ve been able to pass on more.”
Another side effect of my grandmother taking the DNA ancestry test… guilt. It isn’t her fault, nor her mother’s fault we lost so much of our culture. Yet, as the eldest living Imala generations, they still shoulder the burden.
It was Great-Grandmother Liuna’s great-grandparents who decided to trek south for months in search of a better life. When the Europeans invaded what is now Canada, they stole so much from the Indigenous. From stories Great-Grandmother has shared, my Imala ancestors tried to cohabitate with theqallunaat. White people. But as time progressed and theqallunaattook over more Native lands, it became harder and harder to coexist.
Tekkeitsertok, my four times great-grandfather, said there had to be a place for his family to live without worrying about what the white man would do next. So, he packed up his family and they crossed the country south until they happened upon the Stonewater tribe in what is now Stone Bay. This was not long after Washington became a state.
The Stonewaters accepted the Imala family, which had dwindled from seven to five on the journey. For a time,the Stonewaters and Imalas lived harmoniously off the land. Washington was a new state in the Union, but much of the land still belonged to the Indigenous.
As moreqallunaatarrived, it proved more difficult to defend their home. It was Lusa Imala, my three times great-grandmother, who bridged the gap between the Stonewater, Imala, andqallunaat. Over time, Lusa learned simple English and interpreted for her family and the white men.
Lusa Imala is the reason an Indigenous name is listed as a founder on the town charter. She fought to include the Stonewater name but was repeatedly denied. To assuage her exasperation, the town was named for the Stonewater people. Stone Bay.
It was not enough, but there was little more she could do.
Rather than fight, when land wasgiftedto each founder, the Imalas shared with the Stonewaters. The money the Imala familyearnedas a founding family was split with the Stonewaters. To this day, sharing everything we have with the Stonewaters is still in place. It is not a burden. The Stonewaters are as much our family as the Imalas still in Canada. Sharing thegiftsgiven to us by the town is a moral code we abide by and will continue to honor with each generation.
I lift my head from her shoulder and kiss her cheek. “We will continue to learn.” A soft smile tugs at my lips as I pick up the knife and resume my task. “The past cannot be changed. But the future is what we make it.”
Her loving gaze warms my profile. “My smart girl with the biggest heart.” She brushes fallen hair off my cheek. “The moment you came into the world, I knew you’d be a force of good.”
We finish our individual tasks, load everything on platters, and carry them to the large dining table at the heart of the house. As is routine every Friday evening, the family filters intothe room within seconds. Seats are taken, plates are passed and filled, and conversation carries on with ease.
As we dive into caribou burgers on homemade bannock buns, air-fried goose, roasted vegetables, pickled beets and cucumbers, my mom announces she has news. The table quiets and all attention turns to her.
She reaches for and takes Dad’s hand. “Tikaani and I have been in touch with a medical facility in Colorado for some time. We’ve paid close attention to case studies that may be beneficial for some of our clients.”
Animated murmurs sound around the table.
“Dr. Adriel Hatathli, a Navajo neurologist, has been dubbed the best of his generation,” she continues, a glint of admiration in her eyes. “Tikaani and I asked if he would come to Stone Bay and give a seminar.” Mom glances at Dad and he stares at her as though nothing exists but her. “Dr. Hitathli agreed to the conference. As a thank-you, we want to extend a dinner invite.” Mom’s gaze shifts to mine. “Kaya, I’d like you to join us.”
Neurology may not be my area of expertise, but it would be wonderful to ask a specialist how to spot signs of neural issues that may appear as behavioral obstacles. My mind wanders as new ways to help children filter in, but I quickly shove them aside.
Something about Mom’s tone as she suggested I join them doesn’t sit right. Can’t quite place it, but a voice in the back of my head says she has an ulterior motive.
“For the seminar?” I sit straighter in my seat and square my shoulders.
“Of course, the seminar.”
As I exhale, a hint of tension leaves my muscles.