It was wonderful growing up in an environment where learning was a family affair. My parents taught us how to raise animals, hunt, fish and make maple syrup. My aunties and uncles would come by often, and when they did they told the stories of days gone by — stories of their childhood and traditional stories told by our ancestors.

I remember my parents taking us camping. On these excursions, we explored Lake Superior and, in particular, the territory of my people. One of our favourite spots to visit was the Agawa Rock Pictographs (which bear the same name as my paternal grandfather’s last name). Here, my dad would tell stories of our relatives who left the markings on the rock face walls dated from the 17th and 18th centuries. I was in awe of these remarkable images and how they were used by our people as a way of communication and mapping.

Little did I know in my young, naive life that our family gatherings were actually the beginning of my teachings. They helped form who I am as an adult, walking the Red Road, balancing both traditional and contemporary urban life.

Growing into my teen years, I did not fully grasp the impact that cultural genocide and colonization had had on my family and community. I was 16 years old when I heard my father speak Ojibwa for the first time. I was at the mall with my parents, and my father sat down for a coffee while I shopped with my mother. When we came back, my father was talking in low tones with his childhood friend. They were speaking in fluent Ojibwa! This was a very important moment for me. I wondered why my father never spoke to his children in Ojibwa, when I knew that our language is an essential piece of our culture and ceremony. I eventually found out that the reason my father spoke Ojibwa quietly was due to his experiences as a student in the residential school system. Indigenous children were forbidden to engage in any aspect of their culture — a huge loss for our future generations.

As a young adult living in Toronto, I found myself reconnecting to ceremony on a deeper level. Throughout the city, there were many safe spaces to engage in various ceremonies. I was invited to make a traditional Anishinaabe hand drum on another Anishinaabe Nation’s territory. I engaged in ceremony by creating my drum, birthing my drum, awakening my drum and feasting for my drum. The process of finding ceremonial space was important for our people to continue sharing in our traditional ways without repercussion from the government. Even though I was many hours away from my home territory, other Anishinaabe Nations welcomed me to ensure we are connected to one another through ceremony. I was able to take part in pipe ceremonies, naming ceremonies and women’s teachings. I also participated in receiving colours ceremonies and sweat lodges. To this day, the smell of fresh cut wood and the burning of a roaring fire remind me of the time I made my first hand drum and participated in a sweat lodge; these moments are forever stitched in my memory. I have been honoured and humbled by the spaces offered to me and to other Anishinaabe people who live in urban centres. It is such a treasure that we can still reconnect to the land, even though our bodies are not physically rooted in our home territories.