Not Stanley

Not Stanley Laughing, I said “My stone’s name is Stanley.” But as soon as the words left my mouth, I knew that I was wrong. My name is not Stanley. You may call me abinoojinh aki earth child. I was torn from my home many lifetimes ago. The great white destroyer pushed me where I would not have chosen to go. I bore the oppressive weight and show the scars, but I am still myself. Tiny hands found me and gave me a new life. Wrapped with rawhide around a stick I became a childish tool; given to Grandmother, I became a useful tool. Together we stripped the cedar roots for canoes and cleaned the flesh from skins. She named me wiidookaagewinini helper. When her life time was ended, she returned me to Grandson to remind him of their summers: open sky, roaring water, giving land. She named me gizhaadige guardian. He carried me on a thong around his neck - across his chest; to work in the fields, to war in the far places, to the last days. His hand closed over me, fingers feeling my cool smoothness. The rounded edges fitting into the hollow of his palm the one, blunted side facing out as it did when he first plucked me from the riverbed. He named me nisayenh brother. My name is not Stanley.