Nathan White [footprints]

Father struggles with terrible grief

Alo White of Naotkamegwanning First Nation in Northwestern Ontario enjoyed hearing his son Nathan sing traditional Anishinaabe songs after he was initiated into his community’s Midewin lodge.

“Tatibanhanaqwet, Edward Nathan White, was 23 years old, a non-drinker and he never did drugs,” said Alo. “Right away he wanted to learn the Midewin songs.”

That fall and winter, when the two travelled to ceremonies, Nathan would record his father singing on his cell phone recorder as they drove. That was how he learned. At one ceremony, Nathan sang eight songs in a row without stopping. Exhausted and perspiring after singing the last note, he was rewarded with handshakes and hugs from onlookers who appreciated his accomplishment.

“He was a great singer with a beautiful voice,” Alo said, so much so that the famous Whitefish Bay Singers accepted him to join them on their powwow rounds the following summer.

In his home community of Onigaming, Nathan helped many of his friends, counselling them about their drinking or drug addictions. He volunteered at almost every community event, including being the arena director at the Onigaming traditional powwow. He bought himself a car in January 2012 and enjoyed taking his little nieces and nephews for rides around the rez.

The next month, Alo went away for a weekend while Nathan looked after his house. A snowstorm kept Alo away for an extra night and the two texted each other that evening. Nathan’s last text to his father was ‘I love you dad’. “I didn’t think twice why he would text like that as I always told my kids I love them and they always tell me that right back,” Alo noted.

When he arrived home, police had blocked off the driveway. Alo pushed past them to see a body covered in the snow. He wiped the snow away and recognized his son.

“I remember calling my brother Tommy and the rest is like a dream, a nightmare. I don’t really remember what happened after that. It’s all a blur.

“I thought I knew death. I thought I knew what grieving was because I have lost many people in my life, including parents, siblings, nieces, nephews and lifelong friends. But let me tell you, there is nothing in this world, no grief at all, that can compare to the grief of losing a child. It is unlike any other grief and it never goes away.

“My sisters organized people from the community who had lost children to come and speak to us. Every night of the wake and funeral, members of the community came and shared what they had been through – shared their coping strategies and their feelings. It was through these teachings that I learned I am not alone, that my feelings of anger and blame–toward myself and others–were normal. They spoke about being mad at Creator, about turning away from traditions and religion. They also said telling a person to ‘stay strong’ is maddening. They told us it was okay to cry. They told us ‘you don’t ever get over it, you learn to live with it.’

“Listening to the stories of the people closest to me really helped me. I’ve had to go into therapy and that has since helped me. I spend time with my grandkids and my kids; that also helps. And I’ve started a new project recording Elders in Treaty 3 to try to preserve the songs for future generations. That is helping.

“Today is the one-year anniversary of my son’s passing. I understand that this pain will never leave me. I am still angry. But I’m learning to live with it. Part of me looks forward to that day very much when I will get to see my boy again. I’ve lost the joy in life. I don’t allow myself to be happy, because how can I be, when my son isn’t here enjoying his life? And in the meantime though I try to do some good for kids, myself, my community and for the future before it’s my turn to leave this earth.

“I moved out east temporarily after we lost our boy. Because he took his life at my house, I couldn’t live there anymore. I live off-reserve in a northeastern Ontario town. There are hardly any Anishinaabe that live here and it’s strange after living my whole life on the rez.

“One thing I notice is there aren’t never ending funerals and tragedies here like on the rez. Is it like this in other non-Native towns? I wonder how the neighbors around me would cope if the young people in this town were taking their lives every few months like they are in Treaty 3 communities? I wonder why my home community seems to be in a constant state of struggle, grief, and tragedies?

“I don’t know any statistics about this. All I know is my life, and what I’ve seen. In my community my cousin also lost her son to suicide. My brother committed suicide. My nephew committed suicide. A few weeks ago two young people in neighbouring communities took their lives. Looking back, at least a dozen or more of my day school buddies also committed suicide.

“Why is this happening? If it’s not suicide, it’s diabetes or addictions. I am from Naotkamegwanning, and Nathan and my girls and their mom live in Onigaming. In these two communities alone, it’s like every month or so we hear about someone passing away. Is it just me, or does that not seem like an unusual amount?

“I know I will never “recover” from the loss of my son. Day by day, it doesn’t get any easier. The nights continue to be especially hard. But I cope. I live for my children. I devote my life to helping people, especially youth, with depression and anger issues. And I record Elders. It’s all I can do.

“I write this today in memory of my son “Tatibonhanaqwet”. Edward Nathan White. I love you my son.”

The above was adapted from Alo White’s blog on Divided No More, a site shared by guest writers and inspired by the #IdleNoMore movement.