Terese Marie Mailhot. Photo from Facebook
Writer Terese Marie Mailhot shares word of another death on her reserve in Canada, the fifth so far this year:
Sonny Bobb, my first-cousin, died of a heart attack. He was a tribal officer, youth worker, and fisheries authority. Most knew him as a good dad to three, who could quote “Smoke Signals” ad nauseam. His death was a tragedy, and I think it broke all of our hearts when the casket dropped and the final song sounded on the hand drums. I remember him as the cool cousin, who used to have a water-bed, a Farrah Fawcett poster, and a killer drum set. These people shaped my life. Without my mother's rebellious nature, I wouldn't have a story to tell. Without Sonny, I wouldn't have an affinity for Sherman Alexie's work, which compelled me to become a writer and apply to the Institute of American Indian Arts, where I work-shopped with him. When I worked with Alexie, I couldn't help but think of Sonny, with all his quotes and laughter. In many ways I worked to go back to the rez with something to show for it, but now nearly everyone is dead or gone. We die too often, and I'm sick of it. How can I prevent this, I ask myself. But nobody could tell my father to stop drinking, and nobody could have foreseen the beating that would take his life. We just knew he'd never change, and it tore us up for years. I couldn't have saved my mother, because I was just a kid without a job. I couldn't have known Sonny was unwell, because everything was seemingly fine before the night of his death. Death strikes us, and leaves us polarized, asking why. The only thing I can discern is that we die because we are Indian, and being Indian isn't a preventable thing. Don't misunderstand me, I'm proud of my heritage, but not of our mortality rate.Get the Story:
Terese Marie Mailhot: An Indian Life Is a Celebration: The Epidemic of Early Death on the Rez (Indian Country Today 4/26)
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