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About Sacred Sea

Sacred Sea

The Sacred Lands Conservancy 501c3 dba Sacred Sea is an Indigenous-led non-profit committed to promoting ancestral knowledge and practices for the protection and revitalization of the the waters, culture, life, and sacred sites of the Salish Sea.

SCAN THE QR CODE BELOW OR VISIT SACREDSEA.ORG TO LEARN MORE ABOUT THE NON-PROFIT.

About the Interviewer

Julie Trimingham

Julie Trimingham is a mother, writer, and non-tribal member of the Sacred Lands Conservancy (SacredSea.org), a Lhaq’temish-led non-profit dedicated to protecting Native sovereignty, treaty rights, sacred sites, and the life and waters of Xw’ullemy (the Salish Sea bioregion). Her heart is filled by the work to protect and promote ancestral place-based knowledge so that we can all learn to live here, with one another, and with Mother Earth, in a good way.

Since Time Immemorial: Jason LaClair

INTERVIEW BY JULIE TRIMINGHAM | PHOTO BY COCOA LANEY

SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL is a new recurring series featuring community members whose families have been here since time immemorial. The ancestral knowledge carried by Lhaq’temish (Lummi), Nooksack, and other Coast Salish peoples is knowledge about how to live in our shared home in a good, life-sustaining way. We live in a time when we need to restore our relationship with Mother Earth and with one another. We are grateful for these stories, told in the words of each featured individual.

Siemum Jason LaClair is a 39-year-old artist of the Lummi Nation and Nooksack Tribe. He creates large-scale murals, art prints, and business logos, among other things. This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

How did you come to be where you are today?

I grew up around a lot of artists. I wasn’t formally trained, it was just something I took an interest in at a real young age. For 20 or so years, I would make prints of my stuff and walk door-to-door selling them. I often wondered about my situation; deep down I knew that I needed to get healthy and away from trouble. I suppose I’m just going to say it: I needed to get out of addiction. I’ve been clean and sober for three and a half years, and I honestly feel that if I wasn’t clean and sober, none of these good things would be happening. My first mural was a few years ago for Children of the Setting Sun Productions, then the following year I collaborated with Gretchen Leggitt on the Salmon Run. That one got me a lot of notoriety. Since then, it’s been really good and busy.

How would you describe your art, or style?

I started out doing Northern Formline, which is from north of Coast Salish territory. When we lost a lot of our language and culture, we adopted some of that Northern style. That’s all I knew for like 25 years. Shapes glide around shapes, that’s Formline. About five years ago I was spoken to about doing art in our own style. Coast Salish has flow, but the shapes don’t form around each other. I only use three shapes in Coast Salish: circles, crescents, and trigons. I had a really hard time for a couple years, because I couldn’t use all the shapes I was used to. But now I can really feel my ancestors when I work in that style. It helps me out a great deal.

You said that tonight you’re going out clam-digging?

Our ancestors would say that “when the tide goes out, the table is set.” Clam-digging was one of the first things I was taught. It’s spiritual, you know. I go out there and I imagine my ancestors doing that without all the tools that we have now, they’re out there digging with their bare fingers in the sand, in the freezing cold weather late at night. When I’m out there alone, sometimes I really feel my ancestors; sometimes that’s where the visions come from. But if I’m digging close to a bunch of guys, then it becomes like a camaraderie, a fun thing. We laugh and joke around and try not to think about how cold our feet and hands are.

Is there a teaching that has been especially significant to you?

Estitem’sen is a Lummi word for “I’m doing my best.” I start off every day with that. I just do the best I can for that day. I just tell myself to trust that the Creator is going to put me where I need to be.

Anything you’d like to add?

Yeah, it’s such a cool thing, an honor, to be able to represent my people and my ancestors by creating art and sharing visions. What makes me feel really good is the human connection, how different communities, people from multiple backgrounds, get the same feeling when they look at a mural. I’m thankful that I get to be a part of that.

Hy’shqe, thank you so much.

Jason’s Salmon Run mural can be seen on North Forest Street in Bellingham. Other murals include those at Pioneer Park in Ferndale and at the San Juan Islands National Historical Park. Jason’s Instagram is @jason.laclair.946.

Since Time Immemorial: Dr. Lexie Tom

INTERVIEW BY JULIE TRIMINGHAM | PHOTO BY COCOA LANEY

SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL is a new monthly series featuring community members whose families have been here since time immemorial. The ancestral knowledge carried by Lhaq’temish (Lummi), Nooksack, and other Coast Salish peoples is knowledge about how to live in our shared home in a good, life-sustaining way. We live in a time when we need to restore our relationship with Mother Earth and with one another. We are grateful for these stories, told in the words of each featured individual.

Lummi tribal member Dr. Lexie Tom is the Education Director for the Lummi Nation. She formerly served as Dean of Cultural Immersion, as well as on the Lummi Indian Business Council. This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

When or how did you realize that education was your passion?

I really struggled in public school when I was in K-12, I always felt very different. I was never a kid that raised her hand or blurted out the right answer. I remember sitting in elementary school and the teacher would be like, “Oh, we’re doing our Native American unit now,” and I would sit there waiting to hear or see something that was relevant to my life, but most of the time that connection was never made.

When I started at Northwest Indian College, it was a completely different experience. I realized that maybe I do have some skills, maybe I do know how to write, maybe I am the type of person that can get involved in the college setting and extracurriculars. So at college and then as I went on for my master’s and PhD, I started learning about Pacific Northwest biology and history and Lummi history and Lummi language and federal Indian policy. The curriculum finally connected for me.

In your experience, what are some ways that culture affects education, and how does that play into your work?

Children are taught in our longhouses that they’re there to take in as much information as they can. You don’t speak, you listen. And then, at a certain point, you will have enough information to then share. So in school, sometimes if a teacher is too energetic, too eager, is wanting to ask questions of the students and get feedback and get responses from them, the students might take a step back.

The way we see the world is different. There was a study about how young kids drew their world. Often when we think of a kid’s drawing, we think of a horizon line with animals on the ground below the line and the sun and clouds and birds above that line. But a lot of Indigenous kids drew pictures like you’re looking down on a landscape from up

above. There’s no horizon line, animals are all around the page. People who come from oral traditions are not taught, “Here’s a book and you read this line and you read it from here to there.” You’re taught in a completely different framework, the way things are sequenced and organized is completely different.

That has a big impact on the way we assess in education. Like, are we assessing the right things? It comes back around to a question that I ask a lot, which is, “How do we know what we know, and who gets to decide?”

We need to ensure that people know that multiple systems of knowledge exist in the world, and they’re all valid. We, in oral traditions, already have all kinds of knowledge and science and research. All of that exists in my community, we just don’t call it by those same names. It’s important to me to advocate for our knowledge, and to advocate for the validity of our ways of knowing in educational systems.

Is there a teaching or a story or an experience that has really shaped who you are?

My parents instilled in us the importance of knowing who we are and where we come from. My mother has spent a lot of her life learning about our history and our culture and our language, and she’s always been a big advocate for education. She’s also a genealogist, so even as children we had lessons about our family connections here at Lummi and all over Salish territory, which has really grounded me as a tribal person.

When not at work, how do you spend your days?

I have two children, three stepchildren, a dog, and possibly one more dog. So I have a pretty full house and full schedule. I’m also a part of a canoe club that was founded by my sisters and my mother. We do the intertribal canoe racing circuit every summer from May to the end of August, racing and training every single day. We try to include our families, so we have a kids’ crew that gets out there and races. It’s something that really keeps us all grounded and disciplined.

Hy’shqe, thank you so much 

Since Time Immemorial

Cu-se-ma-at Cathy Ballew

INTERVIEW BY JULIE TRIMINGHAM | PHOTO BY COCOA LANEY

SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL is a recurring series featuring community members whose families have been here since time immemorial. The ancestral knowledge carried by Lhaq’temish (Lummi), Nooksack, and other Coast Salish peoples is knowledge about how to live in our shared home in a good, life-sustaining way. We live in a time when we need to restore our relationship with Mother Earth and with one another. We are grateful for these stories, told in the words of each featured individual.

Cu-se-ma-at Cathy Ballew is an enrolled Lummi tribal member with Sto:lo Nation and Jamestown S’Klallam family ties. She has been a lifelong activist working for Native rights, women’s rights, treaty rights, and environmental rights. She currently serves on Lummi Nation’s Housing Board, Budget Committee, and Lhaq’temish Foundation Board.

Can you tell us a bit about how you grew up?

As a young girl, I loved playing on the banks of the Nooksack River and beach of Hales Passage, where we’d watch the killer whales traveling through. I lived part time in my Grandmother Sadie’s home. She was my teacher; we harvested fruits and other plants, preserved most of our food, made medicine, canned fish, smoked fish, butchered deer. We had the sandbars at our front door, so we harvested lots of shellfish. Salmon fishing was a way of life for us. We hunted waterfowl, wild duck is nothing like the duck you buy in a restaurant. We had wild gooseberries all the time, wild strawberries were the sweetest berries ever.

How did you come to be an activist?

I have witnessed so much hostility towards my people all my lifetime. When I was in high school, during an assembly they lined up some school coaches and bigger male teachers and out comes a line of Native boys. Big huge paddles were handed to the teachers, the boys bent over, and the men swatted the Native boys, it echoed in the gymnasium. Those boys dropped out of school. I can still hear in my mind that echo. Another thing we used to have teen dances on Friday nights. One time the National Guard came in and shot tear gas on us at the dance.

I married into a fishing family when I was 17. During the Fish Wars, non-tribal people would throw boulders into our nets. One day our boat was full of water, and

we found a gunshot hole in the hull. People would drive through the Reservation with guns shooting at our homes, my grandmother’s was shot at on Christmas Eve. My family was threatened with guns. Nothing happened to those men threatening us. Nothing.

During this time, I loved watching and listening to Natives like the American Indian Movement fighting for tribal rights. I loved listening to Gloria Steinem. Martin Luther King Jr., Rosa Parks, they’ve all been inspirations.

Giving back to the community is part of our traditional way of life. I’ve been fortunate to travel to different parts of the U.S., Canada, South America, Paris, Papua New Guinea, wherever I can go to help with the work. The goal is justice. I campaign and do what I must when I can, which includes speaking up for the nonverbal relatives, like the plants, animals, water, and air.

How do you spend time when you’re not involved with work and activism?

I love to spend my days near the water, sewing, art and crafts, clam digging, or just walking on the beach; I don’t fish anymore at my age, it is too hard for me now. I preserve our traditional foods for the off season. I harvest cedar for weaving. I gather native plants for tea and medicine. Alder was my grandmother’s all-time favorite. It is medicine, and also used for color, for dyeing wool or cedar whatever. My grandmother said alder and spruce, those were the two medicines that were good for just about anything.

Is there a story or a teaching that has been important to you?

My Grandmother Sadie used to say, if you haven’t learnt something new today, your day is not over.

Hy’shqe, thank you so much! 

Since Time Immemorial Santana Rabang

INTERVIEW BY JULIE TRIMINGHAM | PHOTO BY COCOA LANEY

SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL

is a recurring series featuring community members whose families have been here since time immemorial. The ancestral knowledge carried by Lhaq’temish (Lummi), Nooksack, and other Coast Salish peoples is knowledge about how to live in our shared home in a good, lifesustaining way. We live in a time when we need to restore our relationship with Mother Earth and with one another. We are grateful for these stories, told in the words of each featured individual.

Santana Rabang is currently executive assistant to the secretary of Lummi Nation and is also a student at Fairhaven College. She previously graduated from Northwest Indian College and worked for Children of the Setting Sun Productions, where she is honored to be part of the Salmon People Project and the Young and Indigenous podcast.

Would you please introduce yourself?

My name is Santana Rabang, and I come from Lummi, Nooksack, and First Nations Shxwhá:y Village. My mother is Felicia Lawrence of Lummi Nation, my grandmother was the late Hazel Lawrence, and my grandpa is Felix Gallegos. My great grandparents were the late Madeline Quincy and Peter Paul Lawrence. My father is Robert Rabang, Jr. of Nooksack and Shxwhá:y Village. My grandma was the late Janice Lee Rabang and my grandpa is Robert Rabang Sr. My great grandparents were the late Elizabeth Rabang and Frank Rabang.

You mentioned your parents, grandparents, and greatgrandparents when you introduced yourself?

There’s this saying in our culture that you don’t know who you are unless

you know where you come from. For me, that’s not only place-based, it’s also ancestral.

How did you come to be where you are today?

I think where I am right now all really stems from a traumatizing experience that I had with tribal disenrollment and pushing me down this journey of advocacy. I find myself very happy and joyful in the moments where I’m advocating for something that’s bigger than myself. When I started working at Children of the Setting Sun Productions, Darrell [Hillaire] really helped spark the confidence in me to use my voice even further, and speak out against various issues Indigenous peoples face. The largest project I had the honor of being a part of was the Salmon People Project. Now, with my work at Lummi Nation, I’m really following this path of tribal leadership and figuring out what that means to me.

Disenrollment?

I was raised in both Lummi and Nooksack communities, but I was enrolled at Nooksack. All my life I went to cultural gatherings, family birthdays, anything that you could think of, in both communities. These places are a part of me. In 2012, my family got a letter that stated that we didn’t meet certain eligibility requirements for enrollment, and that our Nooksack citizenship was revoked. I was only 16 at the time, and I didn’t understand what was going on. In a lot of Native communities, not everyone’s blood related, but we all consider one another family. So, when I was told that I wasn’t Nooksack by people who I considered family, it hurt. It made me feel like I didn’t belong and ultimately pushed me down a journey of self-discovery.

When I enrolled at Northwest Indian College, I took a cultural sovereignty class where one of the first assignments was to learn our own family tree. Learning my family tree empowered me with the knowledge to feel like I belonged. The education I received regarding identity and belonging allowed me to think beyond a plastic tribal ID or blood quantum or any of these colonial policies that have been pushed in terms of eradicating tribal identity.

Is there a teaching or a story that you hold very close?

When I was in the midst of trying to figure out my life, I went to Oaxaca, Mexico, on a study abroad program. I was really happy to go, because I felt like I was going to have two months to heal. My idea of healing was very individualized, like my healing would be for me, for myself. I’d talk to my mentor about these feelings I was having, and he shared a saying with me: “No es sanarme, es sanarnos.” It’s not about healing me, it’s about healing us. For me, that meant when I heal, I help heal those around me.

I know you take care of a number of family members who live with you. There’s all this heavy work that you do. What do you do for lightness, or for filling yourself back up?

I’m a sunset chaser and a sunset lover. Visiting any type of water and watching the sunset are like my two favorite things in the world.

Hy’shqe, thank you so much. Enjoy the evening, find a sunset. I’ve got a midterm paper to work on, but yes! 

Since Time Immemorial

Dr. Dakotah Lane

INTERVIEW BY JULIE TRIMINGHAM

PHOTO BY COCOA LANEY

Dr. Dakotah Lane is the executive medical director of the Lummi Tribal Health Center.

Could you please introduce yourself and tell us a bit about how you got to be where you are today? My name is Dakotah Lane, my Indian Name is Me-Musia given to me by my late grandparents Vernon and Nancy Lane. My parents are Galen Lane and Lydia Bennett. My dad is Lummi, my mom is white. Growing up, I went to school in Bellingham and spent summers out at Lummi fishing with my dad and working at my grandparents’ fireworks stand. My grandparents always told me that I had to go get educated and then come back and serve our community.

How did you come to medicine?

I graduated with an electrical engineering degree from UW and worked for a while in that field, but eventually realized that the corporate engineering world was not where I belonged. I needed to come back to my tribe but I didn’t know how I could do that with the degree I had. I wanted to learn more about community engagement, so I joined the Peace Corps as a teacher and worked in Malawi, Africa. I still have the letter I wrote to my mom when I was sitting on the doorstep of my house at Monkey Bay on Lake Malawi, and I was asking myself, “Well, what am I going to do when I get back?” I had narrowed it down to three things: American Indian studies, law, or medical school. I just couldn’t see myself writing and reading papers all day long, so I settled on the medical degree because I could still do science, and I would also get the social, community engagement part.

After my studies, I came home with my wife and children in 2016. I was a regular physician at Lummi Tribal Health Clinic, and in 2018 I became the executive medical director of Lummi Health. Then the pandemic hit…

Lummi was such a leader in the pandemic. I remember you had tests before the rest of the country was even noticing the virus.

In January of 2020, the first positive COVID case in the U.S. was in Seattle. It was so close to us. My director of public health, Dr. Cristina Toledo, and I knew we had to act but all we knew back then was that the virus appeared to spread really quickly and was very contagious. On the recommendations of Dr. Toledo we decided that we would treat COVID transmission as if it were measles, which is also an extremely contagious airborne virus. Cristina immediately placed the first order for PPE. I went to our lab to figure out what type of testing equipment we would need. One of the key components at that time was a specific viral media. We then reached out to our vendor, who told us that they only had 300 vials of media left. We bought them all.

You also established clear public health protocols right away and offered treatments as soon as they became available.

Everybody is somehow related or connected at Lummi, so we took the pandemic very personally, very seriously. We only had five deaths due to COVID on the reservation. Two of them were before we had vaccines and treatments, three of them were people who had declined vaccines and declined any interventions from our clinic. I think anybody who engaged with our clinic after we had treatments and vaccines lived.

Was there a teaching that helped get you through that hard time?

Probably about a year into the pandemic, after we’d had a few deaths, we were all burnt out. My colleague, Dr. Toledo, probably worked 120 hours a week for two years straight and reached a point where she just couldn’t do it anymore; she ended up resigning. I’d been working 100-plus hours as well and was feeling defeated. My aunty Penny Carol brought some fish soup to work, and noticed I was feeling down. She then shared the words of her mother, Violet Hillaire, who built this clinic in 1978: “God won’t put these barriers in front of you if He didn’t think you could get through it.” I clung to that every time I was faced with what appeared to be an insurmountable challenge.

Everybody is somehow related or connected at Lummi, so we took the pandemic very personally, very seriously.

Dr. Dakotah Lane, executive medical director of the Lummi Tribal Health Center

How do you spend your days now?

The pandemic supercharged everything. The public health infrastructure that we had to build is really setting us up for the 21st century. We’re moving into a new 50,000-squarefoot medical facility sometime this summer. We upgraded to an electronic health record system that’s integrated with PeaceHealth and UW. We’re able to provide much better care across the board: adult medical, pediatrics, psychiatry, behavioral health, physical therapy, and dental. We had over 37,000 patient visits last year, which works out to be about three patients per minute. We’re really expanding our pharmacy, which went from 250 scripts per day to 400 and sometimes 500 scripts a day.

You’ve got all this intense work that you do. How do you recharge?

I have three kids and a wonderful wife who keep me grounded. I’ve coached my daughter’s and son’s soccer teams in the past, which is a lot of fun. I usually train for a triathlon or half-marathons. And if I had a day off to do absolutely nothing, I would play video games! 

Since Time Immemorial

Lucas Kinley

INTERVIEW BY JULIE TRIMINGHAM | PHOTO BY COCOA LANEY

Chexanexwh Lucas Kinley is a Lummi tribal fisherman. He is also an elected member of Lummi Nation’s Fisheries and Natural Resources Commission, which oversees openings, regulations, species management, and negotiations pertaining to Treatyguaranteed rights to fish, hunt, and gather in traditional Lhaq’temish (Lummi) territory.

How did you come to be a fisherman?

My family has always fished, and we’ve always fished as a family.

What does that look like?

Depends on which fish we’re going after. We have specific roles we try to stick to, but everyone can typically do each other’s job when needed. Let’s say you’re on the purse seiner, going after salmon. So, like I’d be running the boat, finding the fish, figuring out where to set the net. Brother would be running our purse winch and the boom winches. Dave would be the guy who runs around and helps out where it’s needed. Mom would be on the drum which would haul the net in, and Joe would be in the power skiff which tows the other end on the net.

You’ve got other boats, too?

So the boats I own are the Golden Eagle and the Silver Bullet. Mom owns the Salish Sea, which is the purse seiner we all fish salmon on. My brother’s boat is the Tah-Mahs II, named after my mom. Our family also owns the only tribal reef net gear over on Lummi Island.

You built your own boats from scratch, didn’t you?

Yes, more or less— with help from my parents, and Pat Pitsch who started All American Marine on our family property.

Which I find amazing. I find fishermen amazing because you need to know how to do so many very different things.

Yeah, I guess you have to kind of be a jack of all trades. You gotta know about boat maintenance, gear maintenance, how to read tides and weather, you gotta

understand the fish, know where they are, where they might be going. Then there’s always the business aspect.

What’s the hardest part for you?

Probably time management, ‘cause a lot happens pretty quick, there’s always multiple things going on. Like right now we’re fishing crab, but we’re also getting ready for a prawn opening, which means making sure that all that gear is good to go, and we’re on standby for various long line (halibut) openings. We need to make sure our gear, bait, boats, everything is ready to go for these other openings while still making sure we’re crabbing up to our full potential.

Could you walk us through a year in fish?

January, February, we could be crabbing. Halibut fisheries, which are usually short little openings here and there, typically start in March. Come April, May, we will be doing prawns and halibut while also gearing up for crab, which usually starts at the end of June, beginning of July. Then as you get into June, July, August, we’re typically getting ready for salmon, doing boat maintenance, nets, whatever else. August, September, hopefully, depending on the year, we’re chasing some kind of salmon, sockeye or pinks, and also doing crab openers in between. Hopefully, come October, there will be chum salmon and potentially more crab. Then November is when we start back up on our winter crab season.

And where does all this happen?

All through the San Juans, in our traditional territory. I also spend some winters down in the San Francisco area chasing Dungeness crab. In past years, I’ve gone to Alaska to gill net in the Bristol Bay region when the fishing was slow here.

Why is it sometimes slow?

You know, salmon used to be one of our biggest income sources. It isn’t anymore because of habitat loss, water quality, the way the rivers have been managed and whatnot. Right here used to be the salmon capital of the world, and now we’re fishing only one to two percent of what the salmon stock used to be.

Why are you still fishing for salmon if it’s not providing for you the way it used to?

Because it’s who we are. We’re Salmon People. We fish for salmon, whether or not we catch anything. The running joke is that we’ve branched off to different areas

like crabbing and prawns to pay for our salmon habit. We go into Alaska to chase fish, and we’ll go crabbing down south in the winter, just so we can chase salmon here at home.

The 1855 Point Elliott Treaty guarantees you the right to fish for salmon as long as the mountain stands and the rivers flow. Since the Treaty is recognized as the supreme law of the land, doesn’t it seem like the US government should be ensuring sufficient wild salmon runs so that you can fish at your usual and accustomed levels as well as in your usual and accustomed places?

Yes. Plain and simple.

How does it feel to you when you’re chasing salmon?

I don’t know how to describe it. Out on the water in the islands, that’s our ancestral home grounds. So many village sites and reef net sites. Doing what my family has always done. It just always feels like home.

Hy’shqe, Luke. 

Since Time Immemorial

Swil Kanim

INTERVIEW BY JULIE TRIMINGHAM | PHOTO BY COCOA LANEY

Swil Kanim is a Lummi tribal member. He performs widely as a violinist, motivational speaker, and storyteller. He is a United States Army veteran. He currently sits on the board of the Seattle Symphony, and works with the Kiwanis in programs that focus on the wellness of children.

How do you describe yourself?

I’m a violinist, but my music and my performances are really just a strategy for creating connection with people.

And how did you come to be where you are now?

Well, my music is a direct product of a well-supported public school music program. I would not be alive if it wasn’t for a public school music program. I believe that the traumas of being a foster kid would have eventually got me if I didn’t learn how to process my feelings in an effective way through music.

After school, I joined the army. While there, I realized that the traumas of my childhood were having an effect on my adult behavior. I went into therapy and became an advocate for behavioral and mental health. I realized the value of self expression and community, of finding a safe place to honor the feelings that we put aside in order to survive the traumas of our childhoods. And it’s been a wonderful life, a wonderful experience, expressing myself in a way that helps other people see their own stories and heal.

You’ve mentioned trauma and also being a foster kid.

I was taken from my Lummi home and put into a white home when I was about 5. There were difficulties when I was on the reservation, but I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was loved. A lot of the trauma from that time comes from the notion that I was rescued from my tribe.

It’s real that my foster parents provided food, clothing, and shelter. But my name was changed. I was denied my identity. They thought they were saving me from a culture of poverty and abuse, when actually government policy had created the intergenerational traumas and poverty they claimed to be saving me from.

The recent Supreme Court decision to uphold the Indian Child Welfare Act (ICWA) was one that was celebrated by a lot of tribes, because it strives to keep Native kids in their communities.

Yes, in the 1970s, up to 35% of Native American kids were snatched away from their tribes and fostered out, adopted out, or institutionalized.

I know that most parents who bring kids into their home by fostering or adopting simply want a family, they’re acting out of love, so I’ve been trying to understand why ICWA is so important. I’ve also been trying to understand the term “cultural genocide,” which I think means that a people is killed when everything that makes them a people is taken away.

When you bring up the fact that a huge number of Native kids were forcibly removed from their families and stripped of their language, culture, ancestral home grounds, and kinship bonds, are you talking about a policy that says it’s about an individual child’s welfare but actually has another agenda?

Yes, there have always been governmental forces that want to end tribal sovereignty. And it sounds harsh to say it, because I know good-hearted, kind people have a hard time believing that we are still a racist nation. But it’s the system that we were all born into.

I overcame the oppression that I internalized by embracing the love and the wisdom of my elders and ancestors. And recognizing that if I can show others how to overcome the internalized oppressions that we hold as a nation, then we can truly be the land of the free and the home of the brave.

What do you like to do for fun, or to restore yourself?

You know, it’s so funny. I am a Mariners fan, like big time. I love to go and scream at baseball games. That gives me great joy. I love baseball. I love high fiving the people around me when a great play happens.

Is there a teaching, a story, or a quote that you hang onto?

Do your best, pray it’s blessed, and let the great spirit of love take care of the rest.

Hy’shqe. Thank you. 

Since Time Immemorial

Quatz’tenaut Candice Wilson

INTERVIEW BY JULIE TRIMINGHAM | PHOTO BY COCOA LANEY

SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL is a recurring series featuring community members whose families have been here since time immemorial. The ancestral knowledge carried by Lhaq’temish, Nooksack, and other Coast Salish peoples is knowledge about how to live in our shared home in a good, lifesustaining way. We live in a time when we need to restore our relationship with Mother Earth and with one another. We are grateful for these stories, told in the words of each featured individual.

Quatz’tenaut Candice Wilson is the Tribal Policy Director at the Washington State Department of Health. She previously served as Executive Director of the Lhaq’temish Foundation, was on the Ferndale School Board, and was elected to three terms on the Lummi Indian Business Council.

How do you like to introduce yourself?

Ey'skweyel Si'am e ne-schal e che Si'am Quatz'tenaut se ne sna che Xwlemi’-sen. Good day friends and family. I am Candice Wilson from Lummi Nation. I was born and raised at Slyeksen, Sandy Point, where my mother's father inherited the land from his mother Theresa (Forsyth-Kwina) Finkbonner. Growing up on the shores, running barefoot in the sand and splashing in the water, climbing the trees and running in the fields, all sent me off to a good start.

That sounds like a lovely childhood!

My father always said, “Don't go to bed mad at your siblings or your family.” So as difficult as it is sometimes, that's what we tried to do. My mom always says, it's the little things that matter most. “The good will lift you up, and the bad will bring you down.” So to look for those good things in life.

How did you come to be where you are today?

I went to Lummi Headstart, which really brought all us kids on the reservation together, we grew up like brothers and sisters. Then the Ferndale public schools. I was a single mother for a while out of high school, but I eventually graduated from Whatcom Community College. Right around the same time I met my husband. I never thought I'd leave the community, but when you marry somebody in the military, the orders come up and you have to relocate. So we went to San Diego and then Honolulu.

What was that like for you?

Oh, we fit right in with our Hawaiian relatives with song and dance, my children participated in luaus and hula and barbecues. My youngest child was born over there. It was awesome. When my husband retired and we came back home, I knew I could find a job easier than my husband. I said, okay, well, I want to wear my red lipstick, I want to drink my coffee, and I want to talk on the phone. So I want to be a receptionist or I want to be a politician.

(laughs) You do have the best lipstick.

Well, and I did become a receptionist. I worked at the Employment and Training Center and then I worked my way up in different jobs for Lummi. Next thing you know, I was running for tribal council. I served three terms.

So you became a politician, too!

I was so fortunate to sit at the table with our tribal leaders, like Uncle Jimmy Wilson. His advice always was “a little bit of love goes a long way.” He always tried to base decisions around being thoughtful, kind, and taking care of our people with love. And Uncle Willie Jones. His teaching was to always keep in mind the past, present and future of our people. And then there was Uncle Freddy Lane, who always kept his sense of humor, reminded us that sometimes we had to pause and take a break with love and laughter. These elders have all gone on. My job is to keep those teachings, to share them with the next generation.

You were on Council when Lummi Nation successfully fought against the massive coal terminal at Xwe’chi’eXen / Cherry Point. You were on the Ferndale School Board getting the Since Time Immemorial curriculum implemented. You’ve been a part of some big changes. But I’ve also heard you tell stories about how you’ve seen an offensively named item on a menu and called the restaurant owner, or you heard about racist graffiti at a school and you made sure that it was not only erased but properly addressed, or when you saw well-intentioned but hurtful language on a ballot, you went to the source to have it corrected. What are your thoughts?

I learned that I have to speak up because of what my elders endured, what they went through. I always ask myself, “Who am I not to say something?”

We have to be willing to stand up to make change even in small places, because sometimes the small places mean the most, like my mother would say. I'm fortunate to have a voice that carries and that's loud. Sometimes I know I probably get myself in trouble. But you know, hopefully it's in a good way.

Hy’shqe, Quatz'tenaut! 

Since Time Immemorial

Sk’aliCh’elh-tenaut / Tokitae

WRITTEN BY JULIE TRIMINGHAM | ARTWORK BY JASON LACLAIR

SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL is a recurring series featuring community members whose families have been here since time immemorial. The ancestral knowledge carried by Lhaq’temish, Nooksack, and other Coast Salish peoples is knowledge about how to live in our shared home in a good, life-sustaining way. We live in a time when we need to restore our relationship with Mother Earth and with one another. We are grateful for these stories, told in the words of each featured individual.

This month, in a bit of a departure, we are featuring Sk’aliCh’elh-tenaut, who was also known as Tokitae or Lolita. Although she was a killer whale who was captive at the Miami Seaquarium for decades, she was also an important part of the Lhaq’temish community. Lummi tribal member Tah-Mahs Ellie Kinley has worked for years advocating for Sk’aliCh’elh-tenaut. In this work, Ellie has often shared that ancestral teachings hold that killer whales, in general, are simply humans who put on killer whale regalia in order to live under water, and that the Southern Residents, in particular, are members of the Lhaq’temish family. Both Southern Resident and Lhaq’temish societies are matriarchal, depend on salmon, and call the Salish Sea home. For both, families are sacred.

“We mirror each other,” Ellie says. “We are taught, ‘What happened to them, happens to us.’” The Lummi language term for orca is qwe’lhol’mechen, meaning “our relation under the waves.” Like the Lhaq’temish and other Coast Salish peoples, the Southern Resident orcas have been here since time immemorial.

Jim Washington, who sits on the Lummi Indian Business Council, explains, “Qwe’lhol’mechen are our elders. They showed us the way. They taught us how to hunt. They showed us how to stay together, how to be family.”

Sk’aliCh’elh-tenaut was stolen from her L-pod family in 1970, when she was likely 3 to 6 years old. This was during the killer whale capture era, when as many as one-third of the Southern Residents were violently taken from their families and sold to aquariums, effectively erasing an entire generation. The late beloved hereditary Chief Tsilixw Bill James of Lummi Nation compared this capture era to the boarding school era, when Native children were likewise stolen from their families, sent away, and denied their languages, cultures, relations, and homelands. Like captured qwe’lhol’lmechen, many of those human children were abused, many died, many never came back home.

For over fifty years, twice a day, every day, Sk’aliCh’elh-tenaut performed for visitors to the Miami Seaquarium. It was as a showgirl that she was called “Lolita.” Her trainers, caretakers, and the activists who rallied for her freedom called her “Tokitae,”

or “Toki” for short. This Chinook jargon word meaning “nice day, pretty colors,” had been given to her shortly after she was captured. The late Tsilixw gave her the Lummi name Sk’aliCh’elhtenaut, after the ancestral village of Sk’ali, close to the place of her capture at Penn Cove on Whidbey Island.

One of the ways that Southern Resident orcas communicate is by singing. As a baby and young child, Sk’aliCh’elh-tenaut was taught the L-pod family song by her mother. Even in captivity, she continued to sing this song.

Lummi elder Shirley Bob tells a story of recent visit to the Miami Seaquarium, when she went to hold a healing ceremony for and with Sk’aliCh’elh-tenaut: “When I sang to her, she went down, and she came up. She went up in the air like that and she splashed, and she got me all wet! And she comes and looks at me, and the caretaker said, ‘She knew you, she knows the connection between you and her.’”

Sk’aliCh’elh-tenaut was described by those who knew her best as sweet, affectionate, agreeable, and unusual in her ability to survive circumstances that others did not.

In 2017, Lummi Nation began working to bring Sk’aliCh’elh-tenaut– their relation– out of captivity and back home to the Salish Sea, where her mother still swims today. In an unprecedented collaboration, Lummi tribal members worked with a number of activists, non-profits, philanthropists, politicians, and eventually the Miami Seaquarium, on a plan to safely and responsibly bring her home. Sk’aliCh’elh-tenaut was active, healthy, and playful; the plan was fully financed; all the complicated logistics were aligning when, in August of 2023, suddenly and unexpectedly, Sk’aliCh’elh-tenaut passed away in her tank at the Miami Seaquarium.

Lummi Nation then called for the return of her ashes, so that she could be laid to rest in the Salish Sea. Lummi Youth Council President Damien Kamkoff has said, “She’s still coming home. Maybe not in the way we wanted, but she’s coming home.”

Sk’aliCh’elh-tenaut was always more than one whale: she carried many meanings, teachings, and stories. She was an avatar of healing. She carried hope, she carried the possibility of righting an old wrong, of heeding Native calls to action, of beginning to get back into the right, reciprocal relationship with the natural world.

Anthony Hillaire, Chairman of the Lummi Nation, has said, “A great leader brings everyone together. She was a great leader.”

This poem written by Jay Julius, founder and President of the non-profit Se’Si’Le and former Chairman of Lummi Nation, and by his daughter Teja Julius, was read aloud during a celebration of Sk’aliCh’elh-tenaut’s life held this past August by Lummi Nation. 

SPIRIT – LOVE – HOME

I am the spirit of family and community… look around you.

I am the spirit of Salmon… this is how we live on.

I am the spirit of struggle… the newcomers just don’t know or understand.

I am the spirit of perseverance… you and I never gave up.

I am the spirit of forgiveness… but let’s not forget.

I am the spirit of healing… see the truth in our story.

I am the spirit of Love… continue to fight for our existence.

I am the spirit of the water… the water is my “giver of life” and the Salish Sea is our Home.

I am the spirit of family… let’s all come together as one.

I am the spirit of Hope… I am HOME, despite all odds.

I am Sk’aliCh’elh-tenaut / Tokitae / Lolita.

I am keeper of the Spirit.

Since Time Immemorial

Sul ka dub Freddie Lane

INTERVIEW BY JULIE TRIMINGHAM | PHOTO BY COCOA LANEY

SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL is a recurring series featuring community members whose families have been here since time immemorial. The ancestral knowledge carried by Lhaq’temish, Nooksack, and other Coast Salish peoples is knowledge about how to live in our shared home in a good, life-sustaining way. We live in a time when we need to restore our relationship with Mother Earth and with one another. We are grateful for these stories, told in the words of each featured individual.

Sul ka dub Freddie Lane is an enrolled member of Lummi Nation. He organizes the annual Gathering of the Eagles canoe journey throughout the San Juan Islands each May long weekend. A speaker, activist, and event organizer, Freddie is also part of the totem pole journeys undertaken by House of Tears carvers.

How do you like to introduce yourself?

Most people know me as Freddie Lane. My Indian name is Sul ka dub, I got it in January 1999. My Indian name comes from Upper Skagit on my mom’s side. My mom’s mom was full blooded, Upper Skagit. My grandpa Felix was Lummi. Theirs was an arranged marriage. Sul ka dub was my grandma Dora Williams’s uncle. And so that’s where my name comes from. It doesn’t have any particular meaning. It’s like, Julie, it’s like Fred, it doesn’t really translate. It’s a name. And so a lot of our Indian names, you know, they’ve been passed down for thousands of years, just like our stories.

You’ve been a journalist, the editor of the Squol Quol, you’ve organized Stommish and Canoe Journeys, you’ve worked to get out the Native vote, you’ve sat on tribal council, you’ve been a photographer and a filmmaker. Do you see a thread that ties all these together?

I love being part of a campaign. I love strategy. It doesn’t have to be an actual war, but there’s a fight. There are things we need to protect. Sacred sites, clean air, clean water, all our relations. Qwe’lhol’mechen (killer whales), salmon, we need to be a voice for those who can’t speak. How can you win a battle that, you know, is against governments or big corporations? It’s through the public sphere. It’s through sharing stories to get the people aware, and protecting what they love.

Where do you think that comes from, that drive?

You know, there’s a picture of me, over there on the wall. In it, I’m wearing red paint. Some people really don’t like it. My partner Diron asked me what I thought of the picture. I said, I love it. It’s me on the front lines. As a two-spirited, you know, that was traditionally our work, what we were chosen to do and raised up to do. Twospirits had no husband or wife, no children, so it was their sacred

duty to stand in front of the warriors, to be ready to sacrifice. I don’t have children. I feel like my place is on the front lines.

So, it sounds like campaigns are where the warrior and the storyteller in you meet. What’s the most recent campaign?

I’ve been traveling with Se Sealth Jewell James and Sit ki Kadem Doug James and House of Tears carvers on totem pole journeys for years now. The journeys are about bringing peace and healing and awareness. We did one for Lolita the killer whale, we did one to protect Xwe’chi’eXen (Cherry Point), we did one to free the Snake River from the dams that are killing our salmon and starving our orca relatives. This last one was for Leonard Peltier, who’s been in prison since 1977 even though he was eligible for parole in 1993. He fought against racism and police brutality, and then was convicted of murder in a trial that was pretty controversial, pretty suspect. Mother Theresa, Nelson Mandela, the Dalai Lama have all called for his clemency.

This past September a large, peaceful rally was held in front of the White House to ask President Biden to finally grant clemency to Peltier. You were there with the totem pole. What was it like?

Since 2021, these journeys have felt more spiritual than anything. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like seeing a bumper sticker that says, “Good Happens.” Like with this journey, we struggled with funding, but the Spirit always provided. Somebody always took care of us. Every place that we stopped, people took care of us. We journeyed all the way to Washington, D.C. to be part of the demonstration, we had the totem on a trailer, and there was no place to park it. Things weren’t working out. We were trying to get to the White House for the action, I happened to make a mistake and I forgot to tell Doug where to take the exit. We didn’t take the exit, we didn’t know where we were or where we were going and then all of a sudden the President’s motorcade went by right in front of us. So we were honking at the President saying, “Hi, look at our totem pole.”

Is there a teaching or a saying that you hold close to your heart, that gets you through?

I have a pin that says, “Question Authority.” I believe that. Somebody always has to question the King. Make sure that ego and power are not getting in the way of the good.

And this: Walk knowing that all your ancestors are behind you. Every one of us has ancestors. Know who you are, where you come from, know your family, know your heritage, where your name comes from. My name is Sul ka dub. Like all my Lhaq’temish relations, I’m Che Shesh Whe Wheleq, a survivor of the great flood. One last thing. Always speak with dignity, joy, and purpose. Hy’shqe, Sul ka dub.

Since Time Immemorial

Barbara Lewis

INTERVIEW BY JULIE TRIMINGHAM | PHOTO BY COCOA LANEY

SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL

is a recurring series featuring community members whose families have been here since time immemorial. The ancestral knowledge carried by Lhaq’temish, Nooksack, and other Coast Salish peoples is knowledge about how to live in our shared home in a good, life-sustaining way. We live in a time when we need to restore our relationship with Mother Earth and with one another. We are grateful for these stories, told in the words of each featured individual.

Barbara Lewis is a Lummi Tribal member with roots also in Lower Elwha, Nooksack, and Beecher Bay (British Columbia). Since graduating from university, she has worked at Northwest Indian College and currently serves as the Executive Director of the Northwest Indian College Foundation.

Can you share a bit about what you do?

I think that finances should be the last thing that our students should have to worry about when they’re focusing on being scholars. At the Foundation, our main goal is to raise money for scholarships; we’re working on an endowment campaign to make sure that there is funding in perpetuity for students that want to attend Northwest Indian College. I like to call what I'm doing friend-raising because we have a lot of support from Tribes, alumni, corporations, and friends of Indian Country. It's community building.

I know you work in the political space as well as the philanthropic space.

I'm passionate about getting people to vote, and ensuring that people have access to voting, and that it's done in a fair and transparent way. And I love voting. It's one of my favorite things to do.

Growing up, I’d heard lots of family stories, I’d listened to my uncle telling me about my grandpa not being allowed to fish in his ancestral homelands and not being able to move freely in the islands, having all that taken away from him. As I got into politics, I intentionally started delving into history and reading a lot. The more I learned, the more I realized that everything's all about systems. And how, if you understand a system, you can work to change it.

I really believe that we can create a healthy, vibrant community for everybody, regardless of sex, race, ethnicity, religious background, you know, things like that. That’s what led me to politics. I’m currently a state committee member for the Whatcom Democrats, and am involved with the Affiliated Tribes of Northwest Indians and the National Congress of American Indians.

Is there a particular experience that has helped shape who you are today?

In 2016, I got invited as a youth delegate to the White House Tribal Nations Conference, hosted by President Obama. So I walk into the White House and there are hundreds of Native people. And they are beautiful. Everyone's laughing and having a good time and chatting. I see ribbon skirts and moccasins, loafers and suits, bolo ties and beaded hats and cedar headbands. A beautiful blend of regalia and professional attire from all over the nation. Everyone is so proud. They're so proud to represent who they are and where they come from.

Up until that point, I had joked around and told people that I was ambiguously ethnic. Part of that was being in spaces where I didn't want to stand out and put a target on my back, right? But at the Conference everyone was asking where I was from, and I

was telling them “Lummi,” and they're saying, “Wow, I know your leaders. You guys fought the IRS; you guys fought the Cherry Point coal terminal and won. You guys have done a lot.”

Going to the White House I think really was a pivot for me because I realized that I need to represent where I'm from and be proud of that.

What’s a typical day like for you?

I am always moving. Wake up, get my kid ready for school, feed the cat, make sure my mom has coffee brewing. Meetings, phone calls, a lot of social events, a lot of galas. And then one day out of every month, I try to get 12 hours of sleep. Honestly, it's kind of ridiculous. But just that one day a month keeps me going.

How about fun?

I actually find politics fun! And hiking, snowboarding, movie night with my family, cleaning the house with the music blasting. Waking up and making a perfect cup of coffee. Finding those little moments of joy and peace.

Anything you’d like to add?

You know, a lot of people think that Native Americans are an ethnicity but we're actually a political group. We have the opportunity to do things differently as sovereign nations. Northwest Indian College is such a special place because it blends mainstream knowledge and cultural knowledge. You can't get that in very many places. Most of our students move back home after graduation, and they're doing big things. Talk about systemic change! I really want to fully fund every single one of them.

Hy’shqe, Barbara.

Hy'shqe, Julie. 

Since Time Immemorial

Cyaltsa April Finkbonner

INTERVIEW BY JULIE TRIMINGHAM | PHOTO BY MESSIAL CRUZ

SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL

Cyaltsa (sigh-alt-suh) April Finkbonner is a multimedia artist, journeyman ironworker, and member of the Lummi Nation. She serves on the board of Se’Si’Le, an Indigenous nonprofit organization, and is the Vice-President of the Sacred Lands Conservancy.

Could you please share a bit about where you come from?

I grew up on the Lummi reservation. Marcelline Lane is my mother, Ronald Finkbonner Sr. and the late Larry Kinley are my Dads. I like to say that I was raised by three little tribes: the Lanes, Finkbonners, and Kinleys. I went to school in Ferndale, graduated in ‘89. In the summertime, I’d go fishing with Dad K. If I wasn’t fishing, I’d be out riding a motorcycle, or in the backyard pool, or playing softball. It was fun. But a life-long teaching from my parents is, “Get your priorities straight.” Work before play, you know?

So you fished for a while, then got into welding?

Well, it’s kind of funny. I don’t know if you’re into astrological signs, but I’m a Leo, a fire sign, and welding is all about fire. Dad K introduced me to welding when he was doing some repair work on the boat. He said, “Grab that hood and come watch me.” I watched him and I was like, ‘Wow, that was cool.’ He said, “You should look into welding.They say women make pretty good welders with their steady hands.” So I went to technical

college, and worked as a blackjack dealer to support myself while I was in school. It was good timing because later that year fishing had a major decline. Dad K was happy that I got into welding, even though he thought I’d end up building us aluminum fishing boats.

What kind of welding did you do instead?

I ended up joining the ironworkers union because I discovered that I love the flux core welding process, which is used in building skyscrapers and bridges. Climbing trees as a kid was good training! It’s hard work. But, you know, fishing is hard work, so the work ethic was already built in me. One thing I always say is that ironworkers get the best view in the world because we’re up high, we get to see the sunrise, sunset, whatever, and we’re not looking through a window. It’s beautiful up there!

Beauty is important to you! Yes. I’m an artist. I am inspired by nature and its beauty.

How did you get started on that path?

I always loved drawing and coloring stuff, and my mom gave me a camera when I was maybe 10. Later, I went to the Art Institute of Seattle and studied multimedia. I work in pen and colored pencils, acrylic paint. I love photography and video. Uncle Chief (Tsilixw Bill James) introduced me to clay, and taught me how to weave cedar hats and baskets. I just finished a commission, a large steel sculpture called “All My Relations.” That was an amazing project to be a part of.

How do you describe your art?

Colorful, some abstract. You’ll see some formline, the traditional Native style, but then I’ll also get free-flowing, put my own flavor to it. One time, I showed a relative a drawing and they’re

like, “The lines are supposed to close. You’re not supposed to have them openended like that.” And I was like, “You know me, traditionally non-traditional.”

Creativity flows through you! Do you ever experience a dry spell?

Well, water is life and my creativity flows best when I am by the ocean, or any body of water. On “All My Relations”, I felt like I was blocked at first. The deadline kind of shut my creativity down. I had to remember my own words: Creativity comes in waves. You know, you may be stuck but then the tides change and everything flows again. I had to remember that, and I had to physically go to the water. So I found a spot out on the beach where I could see Mount Rainier off in the distance. I set my little chair up, a little blanket under my feet. I was looking over the rocks and I could see the crabs, and the waves coming in, once in a while a ferry would go by. I started drawing and it all came together.

You’ve had pieces commissioned, and you sell your art under the business name Creative Cuzzin. Are you also still working on skyscrapers and bridges?

I’ve actually just started welding at the Navy shipyard in Bremerton.

So you’re back to boats!

Oh my gosh, yes. By the water. And working with my hands, welding. It’s what I love to do! And I still get to be creative with my art. It’s such a blessing, you know?

Anything you’d like to add?

Yes. Only a small handful of ironworkers, welders, and fishermen are women. But we’re out there making waves. I want the next generation, especially the little girls, to know that they can do anything. Rise up, branch out, and believe in yourself. Anything’s possible.

Hy’shqe, Cyaltsa! 

Since Time Immemorial

Noelani Auguston

INTERVIEW BY JULIE TRIMINGHAM

PHOTO BY DANI WINTERS PHOTOGRAPHY

SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL is a recurring series featuring community members whose families have been here since time immemorial. The ancestral knowledge carried by Lhaq’temish, Nooksack, and other Coast Salish peoples is knowledge about how to live in our shared home in a good, life-sustaining way. We live in a time when we need to restore our relationship with Mother Earth and with one another. We are grateful for these stories, told in the words of each featured individual.

Noelani Auguston is an enrolled member of Shxwhá:y Village of the Sto:lo Nation, and has family ties with both Lummi and Nooksack. A graduate of the University of Washington, she received her MFA in creative writing with a focus on screenwriting from the Institute of American Indian Arts. She currently works as a screenwriter and producer for Children of the Setting Sun Productions (CSSP).

How would you like to introduce yourself?

Noelani kwen-sná. I7lh chan tolí7 Noxwsá7aq qe Shxwhá:y ilh ta Stol:o qe Kanaka Maoli. I’m the daughter of Andrea Bumatay-Jefferson and Joseph Jefferson Sr. I am the granddaughter of Priscilla Gladstone and Andy Bumatay. I grew up here in Whatcom County on the Nooksack reservation. I live with my husband and three-year-old son.

I’ve heard some introductions in Xwlemi Chosen, the Lummi language, but your introduction sounds different.

Lhéchalosem. It’s a language of Nooksack and the lower Fraser River area. I’m not fluent at all, but language is part of our culture; it’s important

to speak it. We have only a handful of fluent speakers.

I can imagine that language might also be important to you since you’re a working writer and filmmaker. How did you get your start in all this?

I used to be a kid in elementary school writing poems, little stories, songs. I was also really interested in films and movies. I remember sitting down with a notebook watching movies and writing down all the action, transcribing the dialogue.

What does your writing life look like these days?

At CSSP, I’m like an overall writer. Scripting dramatic projects like The Sound, working on documentaries, storyboarding themes and ideas, characters.

“The Sound” has been getting a lot of attention lately.

Yeah, it’s a dramatic series; we just finished the proof of concept pilot, which we’re hoping will help secure funding for the whole series. I wasn’t at CSSP when the project started—they brought me on after the first draft was done and it felt like it needed a local Salish voice.

What’s it about?

A misfit group of Salish teens travels by canoe through their ancestral waterways, and all the while they come to terms with grief, healing, identity, love, loss. We call it ‘Reservation Dogs meets Euphoria.’ It’s real and raw, dealing with mental health issues—we don’t sugarcoat things. But we also, you know, keep it PG.

Is there a film project that you carry around in your heart and in your dreams, one you’re passionate about making some day?

Yes. It’s my Salish superhero flick. It comes from one of our local legends about X:als the Transformer—he’s a shapeshifter who has the ability to heal conflicts. I thought it would be cool if this transformer power gets pushed into a meek Salish girl who must fight forces that are destroying her homelands. Epic battles with a cool finale in the

Cascades, where rocks and trees and huge ancestral soldiers kind of break out of the mountain form to help our girl superhero.

That sounds fantastic! Is there a teaching of some sort that you hold close, that helps guide you in your work?

There’s a quote from Charene Alexander that really resonates with me: “Storytelling is medicine and it’s healing for our people to be able to share.” As Native people, with the systematic abuse that has happened to us through the generations, when it comes to sharing who we are, it’s like, we have our walls up. But you know, we’re starting to share our stories and share our customs and values with the hope that as people learn about us and the history here, we can all live together in kindness and understanding.

I always like to ask, what do you do for fun or to restore yourself?

I like playing with my kid and really being in the moment with him. Being on the land, outside. We have property out here in Nooksack territory and it’s so nice—we’ve got blueberries, the river’s close by. During the harvest times my husband and I go up into the hills, up past the Falls, and grab cedar, devil’s club, different things.

Anything you’d like to add?

My journey has been something that feels beyond me, like things have just fallen into place when I’ve followed my gut. There’s a spiritual feeling within you when you really connect to the elements, and pray, when you feel your ancestors come to you. It’s like a fire in your belly. I just have to tell any young Native people, any youth out there, that you have to follow those instincts and those passions and those things that give you joy.

Yálh kwómalh ashóy, Noelani! 

Since Time Immemorial Sharayah Lane

INTERVIEW BY JULIE TRIMINGHAM | PHOTO BY DANI WINTERS PHOTOGRAPHY

SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL is a recurring series featuring community members whose families have been here since time immemorial. The ancestral knowledge carried by Lhaq’temish, Nooksack, and other Coast Salish peoples is knowledge about how to live in our shared home in a good, life-sustaining way. We live in a time when we need to restore our relationship with Mother Earth and with one another. We are grateful for these stories, told in the words of each featured individual.

Sharayah Lane is a mother, author, entrepreneur, and community organizer. She also works as Senior Policy Advisor for the Internet Society, which partners with Indigenous communities to make the internet accessible. She identifies as a Black and Indigenous woman, and is a citizen of Lummi Nation.

I first met you when you were running the best food stand I’d ever been to. I went there every day of Paddle to Lummi back in 2019. What’s the story behind your amazing elotes?

We weren’t pulling a canoe, but we wanted to be part of the journey, and to help others be part of it too. I ran the stand with two friends of mine—I swear, throughout my life, I’ve done nothing alone. We came up with elotes (Mexican street corn) because we wanted something crazy good, portable, and affordable. Our stand was a place where friends and family could come sit, visit, or volunteer. Sometimes it can be challenging, especially for youth, to fit into Native culture communities. And so, one of our teachings is: “Just get in there and see how you can help.” It was cool to have people come help out and feel that sense of belonging.

When you look back on yourself as a girl, is there a moment where you can see that entrepreneurial flash, the kind of impulse that would lead you to create a food stand when you’d never done anything like that before?

I mean, honestly, that impulse was born out of necessity. Like, when I was a teenager experiencing homelessness, we would just figure out how we were going to make money to feed ourselves for that day. Though when I think even further back—I was just talking to my partner about this—I remember being a little kid out in lower Elwha, where I was staying with my aunt for a while. The kids, we used to ride bikes all the time, all day long. And I was like, “Okay, guys, we need to get organized, come up with a name for our club. We need to start fundraising; we need to figure out what we want to do with our money.” So I can see how this connects to today, how I’m building coalitions and starting organizations.

How did the “ABCs of Grateful”, your kids’ book that’s been doing so well, come about?

I really wanted to be able to talk with kids about gratitude and gratefulness. And I had the idea to do ABCs because they’re so foundational. The challenge was in bringing the idea to life, having the confidence and the courage to figure the whole process out. It took a few years. Since the book’s been out, I’ve gotten to visit schools and talk with kids who have made their own ABCs of grateful. I’ve loved learning that there’s also been a benefit for the adults who are working with the kids on this. There’s so much happening in the world right now—people are going through crazy difficult things. Having a gratitude practice isn’t always easy, but it can be a way to help us feel a little lighter.

Were you a writer when you were a kid?

There's so much of my childhood that I don’t remember, but one of the memories I do have is of a nationwide poetry contest I won in elementary school. I really struggled in school. I was in trouble, suspended, all the time. So when I was informed that I had won this contest, it felt so good. It made me think, “Maybe I can write.” So I kept writing—I’m still writing.

You’ve weathered some storms.

I think probably the greatest impact of historical and systemic racism is the taking away of a person's ability to love themselves. Whether it's being in the foster care system and being abandoned, or experiencing abuse of any kind, whatever, it results in a deep disconnect from yourself, an inability to really value yourself. So much trouble comes from not loving yourself. And so much good can happen when you start to love yourself, but it's hard and it takes time.

I’m working with a group of people at Lummi on the House of Healing. We’re trying to create a permanent space that will welcome anyone on a journey of recovery, anyone who's been impacted by addiction. We need a safe place to work towards healing ourselves and our community in our traditional, cultural ways. There are horrible things happening right now to our people and way of life. I went through that struggle for a while, and it’s an honor and a privilege to be able to turn around and try to help.

You’re amazing! How do you do all this, how did you get to be where you are?

I got to where I am today because of all the love that has been poured into me throughout my life. I’ve never had to do life alone. I just try to remember to stay considerate, to be open to new experiences, to come from that place of love.

Hy’shqe, Sharayah! 

Since Time Immemorial

Steven Solomon, Sr.

INTERVIEW BY JULIE TRIMINGHAM | PHOTO BY DANI WINTERS PHOTOGRAPHY

SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL is a recurring series featuring community members whose families have been here since time immemorial. The ancestral knowledge carried by Lhaq’temish, Nooksack, and other Coast Salish peoples is knowledge about how to live in our shared home in a good, life-sustaining way. We live in a time when we need to restore our relationship with Mother Earth and with one another. We are grateful for these stories, told in the words of each featured individual.

Steven Solomon, Sr. is a Lummi tribal fisherman. He has served as an elected member of the Lummi Indian Business Council and of the Lummi Nation Fisheries and Natural Resources Commission. He is deeply involved in Lummi hatcheries, and is featured in the forthcoming documentary film “Scha’nexw Elhtal’nexw Salmon People: Preserving a Way of Life” from Children of the Setting Sun Productions.

My traditional name is Tla kalin Ces-xen. Ces-xen clan. Christian name is Steven Solomon. I’m a lifelong resident here on Lummi Nation. I seen many things, witnessed many changes. No changes more evident than there is today with global warming. Low fish returns, weather is completely haywire—we’re losing habitat faster than we can restore it. The fish need our help.

I’m wondering, Steve, because we’re standing here today in your yard and we’ve got all these nets in front of us. Can you tell us what you’re doing with the nets? Oh, I’m just sorting through them, seeing which nets we’re going to be using for every species of salmon that we got. I got seine web to go through and take out the good pieces and create another beach seine. I’ve got every size gill net you could think of for salmon. I keep 1000 fathoms of net for Sockeyes, Silvers, Chum, and King.

So there’s a different kind of net for each type of fish?

Yes, the mesh is different sizes. We seen the sizes in the Sockeye net go down. Before Boldt* come along, we were fishing five and a half which would catch the big Humpies and Sockeye. And then when they reaffirm Boldt in ’79, everybody was using five and an eighth. Right now today, guys are fishing four and three quarters and four and seven eighths. The fish are smaller. Kings are the same way. I used the eight-inch mesh for 20 years but now I got my eight-inch over there in that tote and you know it’s just gonna be a museum piece.

Talking about nets makes me think about reefnet, the beautiful Lhaq’temish way of fishing where the fish come to you, in a net that you’ve made to look like the safety of eelgrass.

It’s like catching fish with a makeshift basket. You just pull up the bunt end when the fish come rolling over the crown. My grandfather would have 10,000 Humpies before noon in his site. They had reef canoes that would hold 5,000 fish. 5,000 in one canoe! That was a big piece of wood.

Reefnet brings on a different dynamic of sustainability. You can, in essence, be a monitor. You can be selective and let the protected fish go without even touching them, you just push the cork line down and shoo them out like shooing the chickens out the door of a chicken coop.

What sxwole (reefnet) means to the community is really knowing who you are, where you come from, and where you’re going. Grandpa Felix told us about all the sites that they used to fish. Each family had seven different locations. Reefnet has an identity that goes along with the family and the site. The onset of traps really forced the reefnets out, but we’ll eventually go back to it. It’s who we are.

How old were you when you started fishing?

Probably six or seven, when I could start to remember. When I was 9, 10, 11 years old I was helping our grandmother fish while all the men left to go to Alaska.

You spent a lot of time with your grandparents?

We’re just the echoes of our past. All the values that I’m carrying today come through my grandparents. My grandparents give me them echoes, and I got teachings and messages to rely on. We take everything in reverence. If you have to go out and get one of those heifers or the pig or chickens for the family, we thank them for giving their life up to so that we may live.

When you’re not working, what do you like to do?

I like to spend time with the kids, and have a barbecue. Marshmallow s’mores. Let the kids play on the beach. My fondest memories are going over to West Shore with all of our cousins. My grandpa owned the property, he had a road right down the beach. He had a horse and buggy, he could take the buggy down there. When the tide was out, it heated that sand up, and when the tide come in, that was the warmest water you ever wanted to be in. A lot of the parents will just bring some soap and make their kids wash up because it was so warm. It was a place of gathering.

Hy’shqe for your time and for sharing some of your story, Steve! 

*The Boldt Decision of 1974 reaffirmed the rights of Treaty tribes to half of the total harvestable catch of fish, and to fish in their usual and accustomed territory, not only on designated reservations.

Since Time Immemorial

INTERVIEW BY JULIE TRIMINGHAM | PHOTO BY BRANDEE SIMONS

SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL is a recurring series featuring community members whose families have been here since time immemorial. The ancestral knowledge carried by Lhaq’temish, Nooksack, and other Coast Salish peoples is knowledge about how to live in our shared home in a good, life-sustaining way. We live in a time when we need to restore our relationship with Mother Earth and with one another. We are grateful for these stories, told in the words of each featured individual.

Skwetslatse’ mot Tammy Woodrich is a traditional Nooksack storyteller. She has worked internationally to bring Indigenous and Native knowledge and perspectives to school curricula. Along with her daughter Skwetslatse’elhot Si’li’xw’tunawt Angela Letoi, she has founded the non-profit organization Healing Through Hope, the mission of which is which is “mending hearts, lifting spirits, and building connections to create space for love and laughter.” Tammy and Angela are currently working on a children’s book based on the Blue Jay story that was gifted to Angela by a Nooksack elder.

Skwetslatse’ mot Tammy: I grew up next to the river, but the river’s changed, it’s not there now. We had a shack over the track, a cabin that was rolled down from upriver from an encampment for the logging industry. Rolled on logs all the way down to where it sat. Four rooms made out of cedar logs that were interlocked. It was put down there in 1876 by my great-great-grandfather. My grandpa grew up there and my dad grew up there. I grew up there. Angela was born and she went home from the hospital to that house. The house burned down, but that’s another story.

Skwetslatse’elhot Si’li’xw’tunawt Angela: Every story comes with another story.

In our ways, a person is given a name to be recognized by our ancestors. When I was gifted my name, Angela became my name too, because she's following in my footsteps. She's my blood, she’s my child, she’s the storyteller. We became the same name.

At any kind of gathering, if she's called to the floor, I go with her. Because we carry the same name. The “mot” at the end of her name means mother, and the “elhot” on mine means daughter.

So when we got the call to do this interview, Angela came with me.

Since we've had our Indian names, it's been like, we don't even really have to talk. It’s a connection. Like I could think, "I wonder if mom needs blah blah blah" and then my phone will ring and it’s Mom calling to answer my question.

I've always told Angela, you have all your ancestors with you. They’ll give you strength to be truthful in storytelling and honoring the stories.

We don't have to do much now when we're up there telling stories: It's just the spirit telling us what to do. We’re just willing to listen to the whispers.

Everybody's hungry right now. Hungry for this spirit quest. For that connection to Mother Earth.

A connection with the land.

My dad used to bring us for rides. Little did I know that it was a training. We'd go up to the mountains, we were hunting for deer, or looking for blackberries, or gathering wood for our wood stove. Different trips for different reasons. But every single time we went up to the woods, there would be a plant and dad would say, “Oh, you know this here can cure pinkeye,” or he’d pull he’d pull up a root and say, “Chop it off right here, put it in tea for your lungs,” or “You can't eat that berry. It's poisonous.” We were getting an education and didn't even know it.

We have to listen to what the land is telling us in order for us to get the medicines that we want. We learn by listening.

My grandma used to tell a story about a skunk getting picked on by the kids until it died, and then the kids played hot potato with its stinkbag. One boy went back to his grandfather and told him what happened. His grandfather said, “You disrespected Skunk, so now he will haunt you for the rest of your life. You’ll see him everywhere.” That’s why there's so many skunks on the river. But these days, now, you can't tell kids that version.

It’s too harsh.

Grandma was just telling us to be nice to animals. But I created a whole new story about Skunk, how he’s conceited and gets fooled by reflections in the water. The lesson is: you can’t always believe what you see.

All the stories have lessons.

Th’oxiya—Basket Woman—who eats bad children. The story teaches that you better listen, you better do what you’re told. Or, sometimes Basket Woman is told to explain why there are so many mosquitos on the river. The mosquitos are the ashes from when Basket Woman was pushed into the fire.

A lot of our stories explain things, but there’s a spiritual part, too. Like once I walked into the woods with one of my daughters and said, “I'm gonna tell you how Crow got his voice.” Pretty soon a crow comes over and gets on the tree. He's talking kaw kaw kaw and I hadn't even started the story yet! My daughter said, “How did you do that?” I said, “I don't know. I never did it before.” Crow went back and forth and back and forth on the tree until the story was done, and then he left. That right there was something that made it spiritually alive to me. Mom, of course, knows about the spiritual part of it. I get to learn by walking behind her.

It’s our way of life. Tl’o Stam Sta’a. It is what it is. 

Since Time Immemorial

Sqw-Qual-Ten Kyle Kinley

INTERVIEW

AND PHOTO BY

JULIE TRIMINGHAM

SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL is a recurring series featuring community members whose families have been here since time immemorial. The ancestral knowledge carried by Lhaq’temish, Nooksack, and other Coast Salish peoples is knowledge about how to live in our shared home in a good, life-sustaining way. We live in a time when we need to restore our relationship with Mother Earth and with one another. We are grateful for these stories, told in the words of each featured individual.

Sqw-Qual-Ten Kyle Kinley is the son of Chexanexwh Larry Kinley and TahMahs Ellie Kinley, and the grandson of Jack and Gladys Solomon and Francis and Mary Kinley. He is a Lummi tribal member who fishes commercially for salmon, crab, shrimp, and halibut in the Salish Sea. He is currently a principal at Lummi Island Seagreens, a seaweed farm dedicated to providing local restaurants and businesses with sustainably grown seagreens.

"I am a fisherman in every sense. Born into it, you know, fishing family. But growing up I didn't always want to do this, I wanted to hop off the boat and do other things. When I was a teenager I took a year off from fishing, and I missed it way more than I ever thought. That year really helped me realize how special it is, how passionate I am about fishing.”

Any good fishing memories you’re willing to share?

Maybe when I was 13, we had a really good sockeye year. The set was so big, we filled our entire hatch, and there was still so much fish left in the net. A tender came over and we started pumping fish out. We filled him up and then a second tender came over and he took about half of what was left. The set itself was only like 30 minutes and then we had eight hours of offloading the fish to other boats. That was a fun day.

There have been some bad fishing years more recently. But as corny as it is, there's the saying It's fishing, not catching. There's never any assurance that you're going to go out there and catch anything at all, but you gotta do it anyway. It’s more than just fishing. There’s a sense of peace and wholeness out on the water. It feels good to do something my people have always done.

We’re out here today at Legoe Bay on Lummi Island. What’s your connection to this place?

My traditional name is connected to Legoe Bay, and my family owns reef net sites here. These are ancestral sites handed down for generations since time immemorial.

When you say reef net, what do you mean?

It’s a form of fishing in a fixed location. An artificial reef is created by placing a net between the boats. You wait for fish to come to you, you don't go find the fish. When the fish come, the boats lift the net and harvest them. My people are Salmon People, reef net is our technology. Culturally, it’s incredibly important.

And you run a reef net gear?

My dad had a reef net built about ten years ago and we had it placed on one of our sites in Legoe Bay. We’re the only tribal reef net gear here right now. The forecast for salmon this summer is pretty bleak, though, so our gear probably won’t go in the water.

Is this where the seaweed project comes in?

Yeah, so we’re using my family’s traditional reef net sites to harvest sugar kelp instead of salmon. We seed weighted lines and, over the course of about six months, kelp grows along the lines. We’re the first fully licensed seaweed farm in Washington State.

This is seaweed for eating?

Yes. We've been drying some of it whole. or grinding it into pieces and drying it on sheets. Kind of like sushi seaweed or like kelp chips you can get in stores. Sweet and salty. A good crunch on most of it. If you blanche the wet stuff it’s good, kind of a spinach texture. Sugar kelp isn't really on the palate for most people in America right now, so we're trying to make something that a lot of people can enjoy on a regular basis.

You’re harvesting sugar kelp at your reef net site, but what about the gear itself?

The name of our reef net is the Spirit of the Sxwole. The name Swxole is the word for reef net in Xwlemi Chosen, our language.

I really hope to see more fish. I hope to see the reef net doing what it's always done, you know, catch fish. Spend time on the water. It's always been my belief that the boats like to work, they like to do what they were meant to do. There's a spirit in that.

A lot of people want to see reef netting done for the good of the people, because it’s what we’ve always done, it’s part of our way of life. But like I say, it’s also for the good of the reef net itself, the spirit of the reef net, to get a chance to do what it's meant to do. The older I get, the more I realize how important that sort of thing is.

Hy’shqe, Kyle!

*the “big set” Kyle mentions was in 2010 and was 120,000 pounds of Fraser River sockeye 

Since Time Immemorial

Hy’oltse Shirley Bob

INTERVIEW AND PHOTO BY JULIE TRIMINGHAM

SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL is a recurring series featuring community members whose families have been here since time immemorial. The ancestral knowledge carried by Lhaq’temish, Nooksack, and other Coast Salish peoples is knowledge about how to live in our shared home in a good, life-sustaining way. We live in a time when we need to restore our relationship with Mother Earth and with one another. We are grateful for these stories, told in the words of each featured individual.

Hy’oltse Shirley Bob is a mother, a grandmother, and a Lummi tribal member. Currently she is the Family Cultural Coordinator at Behavioral Health. She has served in many capacities in the education system at Lummi Nation. Additionally, she was a leader in the cultural and spiritual work to bring the qwe’lhol’mechen (orca) Sk’aliCh’elhtenaut (Tokitae / Lolita) out of captivity and back home to the Salish Sea.

I have two Indian names. Xwe ti mi itse and Hy’oltse. And I use Hy’oltse. I’m a Lummi elder. Shirley Bob. I work for Behavioral Health as a cultural coordinator. I’ve worked with Lummi for years. I worked in Head Start since ’72 until 2016 or ’17. Child Welfare, Childcare, Lummi Language, Head Start. I’ve been with education for years, since my kids are small.

I enjoy working with families. Really proud of the children that I’m working with now and in the past. The young leaders at Lummi—Chairman, Vice-Chair, Council members, Director of Child Welfare—those were my Head Start babies. Two of my students have been my bosses. I’m walking with them all and proud of each one. I know it wasn’t just me, it was their families, but what I instilled in them when they were young in Head Start must have stayed with them, because I always talked about love and kindness and how to carry yourself. I didn’t think they were listening, but they were, because look at them now. And I follow them. I follow each one of them, make sure that they’re all okay. I feel bad for the ones that didn’t make it, left the Red Road and they’re gone now, had to follow them to the cemetery.

I learned a lot, and I tell you right now, I don’t know everything. I’m just a person like everybody else. What I teach comes from my heart, and from what I learned when I was growing up, from my elders. That doesn’t come out unless it’s ready to come out. You speak from your heart. Words come out. Sometimes, when I have to get up and talk, that’s what happens to me. I’ll ask my kids later, did I say anything to hurt anybody? Because you always have to say it. I’m sorry if I offended anybody, I apologize. They say, No, Mom, you

done really good. Because it’s not me talking, it’s the ancestors talking through me, telling me what I need to say. The words just come out. I can’t explain it.

That’s who I am.

If it wasn’t for my mother and father and the elders that my dad brought me around to, I wouldn’t be where I’m at today. My directors, the bosses that worked with me when I was going to school, if it wasn’t for them, wasn’t for Head Start, and the classes and training that I got through them, I wouldn’t be where I’m at. All those people helped me, my mom and dad especially.

There’s a saying my dad gave me—he was on Council at the time, and he went through a lot—anyway, he says, Babe, I want you to say this every time you’re down and out: I’m good, I’m great, I can conquer anything. You say that every day in your mind, two, three hundred times a day, or just think it, when you’re having problems. I’m good, I’m great, I can conquer anything. That’ll build your confidence back up. It does, I’ve done it. When I teach the kids, when I talk to them, I tell them, and they love it. I see it on their little posts, or whatever. I’m good. I’m great. So it’s a good affirmation.

My mother always said to pray and ask God for guidance, and that’s what I do. I pray. I don’t go to church. I believe in God. I go to different churches when I feel like going.

The elders say, Walk your talk, and listen. You don’t add anything. You don’t take anything away.

In life. Walk head high, and believe in yourself, and believe in who you are and where you come from. That’s who you are. Be proud of who you are.

The way we are, we live the life that is our culture. We all have cultures, we all have traditions that we live by, so follow that. Do that to the best of your ability, don’t take anything away, don’t add, just do what you need to do. Take care of you and your family. Raise them in a good way, not with anger about what happened years ago—that was done, that’s gone now. Come back here to where you’re at, and move forward.

Walk together. Learn how to live with each other. Indian, non-Indians. Learn how to walk this life together. Because nobody’s better than the other, nobody. In God’s eyes, we’re no better than the other. We’re all brothers and sisters, no matter what color you are, still brothers and sisters. 

Photo by Julie

Since Time Immemorial

INTERVIEW AND PHOTO BY JULIE TRIMINGHAM

SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL is a recurring series featuring community members whose families have been here since time immemorial. The ancestral knowledge carried by Lhaq’temish, Nooksack, and other Coast Salish peoples is knowledge about how to live in our shared home in a good, life-sustaining way. We live in a time when we need to restore our relationship with Mother Earth and with one another. We are grateful for these stories, told in the words of each featured individual.

I am tsi sEal?alEal Lora Pennington, from Upper Skagit. I grew up in Seattle, feral, a punk rocker, a bookworm. I moved out when I was 16 and made my own way. I ended up at UW through one of my jobs.

On Lushootseed:

taRSeblu Vi Hibert is my grandmother, first cousin to my biological grandmother Eva Joe, they were raised as sisters, and in tribal country, that means a lot. Grandma Vi taught Lushootseed at UW, and I started learning the language when I took her class and, on the very first day, she told us the story of Lady Louse.

Lady Louse Cleans House, originally as told by Elizabeth Krise of Tulalip.

?esAaAlil Isi besZad al te hiI ?al?al. dayay? xi? Ii Gesyaya?s. huy Gel, Iedadex. Gel ?u?iUidex ti?e? hiI ?al?al. qa sZiEil. HuL ?u?udeGijilex ?al ti ? al?al. huy, HiLex. SebSub besZad. [diA shuys.]

Lady Louse lived there in this great big house, all alone. She had no friends, she had no relatives. In that great big house, one day she took and she swept it, this great big house. It was very dirty. When she got to the middle, she got lost. And that was the end of Lady Louse.

I wrote it down by sounding the Lushootseed out, so that I could remember these words forever. That story hit me like it should. It was huge.

Lushootseed provides, Grandma would say. Lushootseed is the language, and also the culture, the people, the way of being. There’s a very Colonial sense where we have to isolate every single thing. But in Lushootseed, the language itself is about relationships. It's not about this cup or this table. It’s about the relationship between cup and table. Our whole language is about relationships, and it shows in everything we do. When you say, Lushootseed provides, it’s not the words and the phrases and the grammar and all that. It's being able to see beautiful smiles and hearts every time you close your eyes. We're human beings. We didn't start off on this planet one human on the ice rift, all alone, like Lady Louse. That's not the way. It's not our way. Why would you have that beautiful house and be alone in there?

On cedar weaving:

You have to be able to see the stitches in your mind. You have to be able to feel the tension in your hands, because all weaving is about pattern and tension. The most important thing is that the stitches aren't the weaving. The relationship we have with our cedar, with our teachers, with each other— this is the weaving. The way you learn the culture through the weaving, through the carving, or through the language. It isn't the stitches. The things you create have a life of their own, and if you don't respect that, it shows. It shows in your heV

As a weaver, you’re always a learner. At one point we were at this festival, and Grandma Ch’optie and Uncle T’slixw— Fran and Bill James—were there. Uncle says, What you got there? Let me see. I hand over a Tiny Tot cedar crown I made for the powwow. He looks at it, and he says, Alright. Now make 1000. You give your first one away. But now that you have the stitch, you need to make 1000, until you're ready. You need to make sure that you're learning the lessons the cedar has to teach. You have a lifetime to weave. Don't rush it. Yes, we are in this modern world, and there are things that are time-delineated, but your relationship with cedar is not. It never was. It never will be.

On what matters:

You don't matter. I don't matter. What matters is this beautiful canoe of our culture, our language, and our traditions that we're portaging to the next generations. We're receiving it from time immemorial, and we pass it on. We pass it on whole and with love. We just get to be a part of it, that is the most amazing thing. Grandma Vi, Uncle T’slixw, my ancestors—they’re here with me. Sometimes those feelings of being small come back, you know, from childhood, and you literally start shaking. It's inside shakes, from your heV. Then you remember that your ancestors have given you all the tools to handle this, and if you need more tools, just reach up into that canoe we're all portaging.

I told you I grew up in Seattle, but I actually grew up for a part of the time in the projects of Seattle, some of the worst areas, the low income housing of Seattle. My uncle Cisco Pastores, my mom's brother, said, If you have to fight, you may not win but I want them to know your name tomorrow. And I love that, because here I am carrying the name tsi sEal?alEal from my three times great-grandmother. One of my grandchildren's grandchildren will have this name, and so yes, the name I carry will be known tomorrow. Amazing. We are so lucky to be in this culture.

Thanks to my relatives, I’m a very lucky, rich old Skagit.

heV, pronounced something like “hutch,” is hard to describe in English, but might be described as the mind but it’s in your heart, or your soul, or your sacred intelligence, or the part of you that sits with your Creator.. 

Since Time Immemorial

Takwiltsa Cheryl Kinley Sanders

INTERVIEW AND PHOTO BY JULIE TRIMINGHAM

SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL

Takwiltsa Cheryl Kinley Sanders is a nurse who has served as a Council member of the Lummi Indian Business Council and on a number of Lummi governmental commissions. She currently serves on the Housing and Law & Justice Commissions and on the Grandparents Committee.

I had a great childhood, lots of brothers and sisters and family. We came from humble beginnings in Marietta, then moved up to a big homestead on Lummi Shore Road. My dad was a very tough guy, strong fisherman. He actually was one of the boats that got shot at up at Xwe’chi’eXen, fighting for Treaty rights during the Fish Wars. Then the Boldt Decision come down in ’74. We had a better childhood because of it, but it also caused a lot of racism. Going to school, it was violent sometimes for some of us.

We weren't rich, but my dad had a purse seiner. He and my brothers all had boats, and they shared with many families. People think purse seiners are all about money, but it's really about sharing everything we have with our community. That's what I was taught.

I was never a fisherwoman. So my job was to get the groceries and also thread the needles on the dock while they mended the seine (net). We all had a part, did what we could, so people could go out on the water, fishing.

When my mom got breast cancer, I dropped out of school. It was a tough, tough time for her and for all of us. We took care of her at home; I think that’s where it started, my work in healthcare. I became a CHR (community health representative) and worked with some great matriarchs. I just loved what they did: diabetes education, transportation for our people to dialysis, Seattle appointments, working with our new moms and babies.

Back then, fishing was going great. Our community was buzzing. There's always a buzz in our community when we’re fishing, when it’s harvest time. My husband Karl was a fisherman on my brother's boat. But then the fishing started to plummet. I think that's what really pushed me to go to nursing school, and the tribe helped with my schooling.

After I got licensed, I worked at nursing homes, then Saint Joe’s, and then the clinic reached out. In our old building, there was no room for me, so they actually put me in the closet. My first office was a storage closet! To see what we have now in our new clinic is just awesome.

My brothers Randy and Larry were always at the highest level in policy. My sister Sandy was also a tribal leader. We all grew up going house to house, to our aunties' or uncles', or people were at our house talking about tribal leadership, self-governance. The phone calls, on landlines, is what the matriarchs did, always checking in on each other. These are things that were taught at home.

I first got active in government when Auntie Violet Hillaire seen me dropping my daughter and son off at the tribal school. She says, Come with me. She takes me down to the school board meeting. She goes, Now it's time for you to get involved. Later, I had the privilege to sit on Council with Uncle Willie and so many other prestigious elders. They’d take us to task, they held us accountable, you know. We agreed to disagree, we debated, but we never come out mad.

We settled stuff. They were visionaries; they looked so far ahead. Both our new clinic and also the secure withdrawal facility we’re building to stabilize our people who are struggling with opioids and alcohol, these were visions our leaders had long ago.

For a while on Council, I served as Secretary, which was the best opportunity I had because I could read the history—I had access to all the records. History is important because there's always a threat to our rights and self-determination. Treaty rights isn't just about fishing, it's about everything we have, including our children. You hear tribal leaders from across Indian country, not just here at Lummi, they’re all saying that something's different, they're concerned about our future as self-governing Native nations. Latest example is Indian Child Welfare. One of our leaders said that this fight is piece-mealing away our sovereignty. They're using words, lawyering. If we’re not careful, one of those words is going to take us down.

We’ve also got the opioid epidemic. We’ve lost so much to it. Part of it started when we started to lose the battle with our social determinants of health: fishing was declining, the economy was tanking. My brother Randy, his policy work and his life story was always about getting enough fish, because he believed—and we all believe—if the fish are healthy, our people are healthy.

My brother Larry, he would always say, You need to know who you are and where you come from. Our inherent and inherited rights, these are your connections to each other, to the land, whatever makes you whole. I believe health is the wealth of our people. Our children, LGBTQ, two-spirit, whatever they are is who they are. They have the same rights as anybody else, and we must protect them. Health and wholeness. That's one of my big personal things, watching to make sure our community is safe for everyone.