ê-wîtisânîhitoyâhk asici pîkiskwêwin ~ Language Family

ê-nêhiyawi-kiskinohamâkosiyân

I am learning to speak Cree

and I hear the language

rooted

in the land

not uprooted by sôniyâw.

Some may wish to call me môniyâw

because of the colour of my skin.

Let me tell you about my roots.

I learned a Cree word

and I really like it.

kôhkomipaninawak.

We use it to mean cucumbers.

Let me “do a derivation” for you

to illustrate

the logic of the language.

ohkom-: the root for “grandmother”

nôhkom: “my grandmother”

kôhkom: “your grandmother”

kôhkominaw: “our grandmother”

You can already hear the logic of nêhiyawêwin.

-pan means “late,” “someone passed on or deceased.”

So the literal translation for kôhkomipaninawak

is “Our late grandmothers.”

But we also use the word to mean cucumbers.

“Where is the logic in cucumbers?” you ask.

Be patient, nitôtêm, be patient

and I will tell you.

When you plant a cucumber seed it grows

and spreads all over the place.

A whole bunch of cucumbers all over . . .

when you pick them, of course, each time you pick them

new little ones will sprout and grow.

kôhkomipaninawak tells of the grandmother’s lineage.

nôtokwêw is “Old Woman.”

An endearing term, complimentary.

See the proud grandmother in her garden

full of children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Her lineage, rooted in the land.

Her kinfolk, cucumbers multiplying.

My mother’s mother,

nôhkom didn’t speak a lot of Cree because

she was born at a time when

kihc-ôkimânâhk told her she couldn’t

be an Indian.

But Grandma planted kôhkomipaninawak anyway.

nôhkom mistahi kî-miyohtwâw ê-kî-âpihtawikosisâniskwêwit

êkwa mistahi nikî-sâkihâw.

Listen. Can you hear the lyricism in the language

of nêhiyawak?

nôhkom mistahi kisâkihitin.

ohtâwîmâw: the word for “father,”

kohtâwiy: “your father.”

Sweet logic says nohtâwiy is

“my father.”

A woman once told my father

it didn’t matter how well he spoke Cree,

she wouldn’t like him because

he was a môniyâw.

nohtâwiy namôya nêhiyaw mâka mistahi pakaski-nêhiyawêw.

nohtâwiy mistahi miyohtwâw môniyâw.

nohtâwiy mistahi kisâkihitin.

okâwîmâw: the word for “mother,”

kikâwiy: “your mother.”

Logic and love tell me

nikâwiy is “my mother.”

A colleague asked my mother, over and over,

“What nationality are you?”

“Métis,” said my mother, “does it matter?”

The colleague didn’t have much to say

to my mother after that.

nikâwiy namôya nêhiyawêw mâka mistahi ê-pakaski-pîkiskwêt sâkihiwêwin.

nikâwiy mistahi miyohtwâw ê-âpihtawikosisâniskwêwit.

nikâwiy mistahi kisâkihitin.

This is the colour of my skin: nasakay wâpiskisiw.

This is the colour of my blood: nimihkom mihkwâw.

Did you know, it’s the same colour as your blood?

This is the colour of my roots: mihkwâw.

Kinship means much in nêhiyawêwin.

I learned a Cree word.

I quite like it.

kôhkomipaninawak — cucumbers.

All these little roots: they sprout, they spread,

they grow.

Language and land, logic and love, lineage and lyricism.

If you pick the cucumbers, of course,

they will spread all over the place.

êkwa kâ-nîmihitocik mistahi katawasisiwak.