Jeremy's "Call"

I received our son, Jeremy’s, “call”,

Late at night on the 23^rd of October 1992.
A dreaded knowingness hopped on my back.

I carried it into the trauma unit’s family room.

I turned off the light, sat on the chair, and shook my rattle.

My spirit guide put her arm around me.

“It is time,” she said.

We flew into the Lower World and stopped at a ledge

Overlooking an iridescent river.

We walked down a rocky embankment

To a rowboat, tied to a dock.

My spirit guide handed me a glowing orb.

“Give this to the gatekeeper,” she said.

We got into the boat. 

She stroked the oars

Slowly across the dark water

To the dock on the other side.

She helped me disembark. 

The bearded gatekeeper stood eight feet tall.

His arms were folded,

His eyes were stern.

I handed him the orb.
He took it with both hands 

And walked away from the opening. 

We entered the cave of waiting souls.

Jeremy came walking over to me.

I hugged him and then I sat on a large stone and cried.

He bent down and put his arm around me.

“It’s OK, Dad. I’m ready.”

I wiped snot from my nose with the back of my arm.

He became small enough for me to carry him out

Without being seen by the gatekeeper.

My spirit guide and I ran to the boat.

She rowed to the other side.

We flew out of the Lower World,

Through this world and beyond the Upper World.

Sadness overwhelmed me.

Tears clouded my eyes.

We were flying,

Flying higher and higher.

Grief had already wrapped its sadness around me.

I heard a loud snap.

A thin slice of light appeared 

In the void’s blackness.

It grew kinder and brighter,

Taking my sadness away.

Jeremy and I were engulfed in light.

He gave me a hug and walked into the opening.

“I love you, Dad,” he said as my parents took his hand.

The opening snapped shut.

But the darkness was not complete.

A Kindness took its place.

My spirit guide and I flew back into the family room.

I walked into his trauma unit

And looked at the brain monitor.

Jeremy’s body was brain dead.

I called the nurse.

Soon his room was filled with staff

Preparing his body for organ donation.

I cry on this day, the 23rd.
I cry because I miss him.

How Would My Great-grandparents Feel?

I want our grandchildren and great-grandchildren to be proud of their heritage. I want them to be aware of our ancestors' existence and culture. I know that the culture changes and sometimes gets lost as time moves forward. 
My adult children do not live in our house. Our grandchildren do not live nearby. Opportunities to teach my grandchildren about their ancestors and heritage is very limited.
How would I feel, (after I am dead) if one of my great-grandchildren wanted to learn about his heritage but when he went to ask, my relatives refused, saying that he was trying to steal the culture, that his blood was too diluted, that he did not live in the community, that he did not understand their ways, that he was too white?
I wonder how my great-grandparents feel.  

I can’t help but think that my great-grandparents would have wanted to teach me the Native ways. They would want me to be proud of my heritage. 

But my heritage has been stolen. Stolen by laws, stolen by White man's attitudes, and stolen by poverty, and stolen by fear. I know that my Native ancestors are from the New Mexico area. I do not know which tribe or pueblo they were from.

My soul longs for my ancestors. My soul longs for the songs, the dances, the worldview, and the wisdom that my great-grandparents would have given me. Their blood flows through my veins.

Heritage

Sometimes our heritage has parts

That were kept secret,

Or minimally mentioned,

Or not taught to us,

And not celebrated.

And sometimes we discover

Those parts were kept secret

To protect us from harm.

How then can we can we know

What our souls long for?

How then can we be proud

Of that part of ourselves?

How then can we really be whole?