The past few days, I’ve shared talk of ten different books by and about Indigenous stories (here, here, and here), and today I’ll write about three more: some poems, a novel, and an illustrated song.

D.A. Lockhart’s 2022 collection, Go Down Odawa Way (Kegedonce Press, in Neyaashiinigmiing / Owen Sound, Ontario) appealed to me because his poems often reflect parts of the landscape near where I was born and raised.

In my preteen years, through to young adulthood, when I struggled to feel a sense of belonging in small (and small-minded) places, I took refuge in outdoor spaces, particularly near rivers and creeks (and, when I was old enough to drive, along wider and longer shorelines); I really enjoyed the section of poems dedicated to different waterways (like Turkey Creek and River Canard).

Terms from Lenape (Southern Unami Dialect) and Nishnabemowin are fully integrated “in keeping with the need to preserve these critical languages” and used often enough that you come to recognise them without needing the glossary in the back.(The author explains this decision in a note, and there’s also a list of key historical places and events in the back, for reference.) Even if you don’t read a lot of poetry, these are accessible and engaging short works.

Every truth that settler
tradition and naming
buries in textbook
colonialism. Wounds
left by half-truths
and gouged out earth
percolate in the waters
rendered poison by
way of treaties cobbled
from men too cowardly
to fight wars they knew
they would lose.

In the preface to Saltus, the author explains that real-life events in her own hometown inspired the work—that fiction was a way for her to explore the complexities surrounding this situation in narrative, but that she wasn’t attempting to retell this exact story.

This recalled another media story for me, so I was really surprised to find that the events in the novel were about something entirely different; we all bring expectations to what we read and, because I assiduously avoid jacket copy, I was completely disoriented for a short time by the preface (ironically it was likely included for clarity, but it had the opposite effect).

The opening scene is drawn from someone’s everyday life—unremarkable for them, remarkable for me—and seemingly untethered to the event that’s been heralded in the preface (but, actually, an integral part of the story).

It encapsulates Gereaux’s capacity to render the chaotic elements of ordinary life—and, in this case, the ordinary lives of several people in the small prairie town of Saltus—with all their messiness and disruptions while still pulling the thread of narrative taut to, ever-so-gently, guide readers through it.

The jacket copy (also, the website description) outlines the incident, if you’re curious, but Gereaux affords her readers a lot of credit for being able to unravel the knotted skein, and I’m glad I didn’t encounter the details in advance. Her characters are all trying to find their own places, all trying to discover and create and admit their own processes of belonging in their own skins.

Stripping it down to one single event feels like a shortcut, because what really makes this novel shine is the awareness that everyone is engaged in this process to some degree (consciously or not) and that there are always many elements of identity in motion. (One of the characters in mid-life has yet to reconcile with her Métis heritage, with having been an adoptee in the Sixties Scoop; Gereaux is of European and Métis descent.)

It reminds me of Kiley Reid’s writing, in the sense that both writers put forward many characters whose everyday lives both are and are not what you expect. Both Reid and Gereaux display seemingly fragmented scenes that are emblematic of their characters but also feel very random as though the novelist could have selected the next day’s events or the previous day’s. (But, from a craft perspective, you can see, later, why this specific scene was ideal.)

What I most love about both writers is how they make a space for things to remain unresolved. Because, often, situations are unresolved—often living is about a process of resolution, relentless questioning and probing and redirects. There is some resolution in Saltus (and in Reid’s Come & Get It) but the power in the story resides in what remains unanswered. (Nightwood)

Still This Love Goes On (2022) caught my eye because I loved another with Julie Flett’s illustrations, Mon Amie Agnès. This children’s storybook is based on a song written and performed by Buffy Sainte-Marie (the music is in the back, so others can use it to play and sing too) about the seasons and about what changes and what endures.

It’s a quintessentially Indigenous story with the drums and jingle dresses, but it’s also a universally relevant story about how we share the land (with the geese and the horses) and how we find joy and peace (with the whales and the flowers and one another).

The simple language and the repetition of the chorus makes it suitable for young readers but it would make a delightful bedtime-ritual story for a much wider audience. (Greystone Kids)

Tomorrow I’ll write about two coming-of-age tales (one fictional, one memoir), a children’s book, and a novel. But which of these three strikes your fancy?

NOTE: Whenever I post about Indigenous works, it’s quickly apparent how difficult it can be, especially for international readers, and for North American readers without ready access to a local independent bookseller, to access a book of interest. All three are from indie presses, so Strong Nations (shipping from “B.C.”) and Good Minds (shipping from “Ontario”) might be useful as each offers several titles, not just the ones I’ve discussed. Only Saltus seems to be available in epub.