Birthing 'Kaiesk Crossing'

Everyone's story matters. Your experiences (even the dark and mundane) are not insignificant. When the rivers of our story's merge, we will create an ocean of understanding. This one is mine, but it is also ours.

Mom

Audrey Brown was born March 13, 1960. My mother was one of a handful of Maidu women left to live (homeless) on the mountains of Butte County. She had deeply rooted physical and spiritual connections to Feather Falls and Berry Creek California.

Gold mining, and the founding of Oroville, California came to the detriment of the Maidu people who thrived in this region for thousands of years. Over time, she and her 6 siblings continued to get pushed out of the mountain by logging companies, mining operations, and landowners. My aunties and uncles managed the best they could to survive in and out of town in Oroville, CA. There weren't too many choices for "uneducated" Browns whose hearts were grief stricken from intergenerational trauma. They either had to work for the logging company or they were made to classify themselves as "disabled" or "welfare recipient" until our casino revenue picked up. They tried to continue cultural practices as much as possible, attending bear dances, sweat, traditional games, making medicines, cradle boards, earrings, and other crafts to stay connected to themselves in some way.

There were places housed in their memories where they knew they could go to gather materials and medicines. The places their mom, dad, and grandmother used to take them before alcoholism wound around them too tightly. However, those places continued to become more and more out of reach, further severing their relationship with the land. With that, dove their physical, mental, and spiritual health. Where pride and belonging once thrived, depression, grief, and rage took root in our family. In a failed attempt to further cope, addiction loomed over us like a heavy fog, leaving us feeling abandoned, sick, and lost. Over the years we watched 5 out of 7 aunties, uncles and parents leave us, and this world behind...never to know their grandchildren.

My mother used to walk miles a day. She wandered the mountains of Butte and Plumas counties, finding respite from the weather with her favorite people and places. Sometimes she would even sleep in old hollowed out logs and campgrounds. She did this her entire life, refusing to completely assimilate to colonization, despite the constant judgement and discrimination. Her relationship with the land was much like that of siblings. They depended on one another. There were trees, creeks, springs, meadows, and rocks she preferred. They knew her, and she knew them. A poem she wrote in 2015 said:

Living on the Land

As I walk upon the Earth

I feel the ground tremble below me.

And I see trees, Rivers.

Trees Waving, Swaying back and forth

in the wind, as it blows them.

Rivers talk to you!

In the way they flow,

Rounding, ruffling over rocks.

Sun shine down on the land

as I stand.

Now time goes on, as I go walking on.

Birds fly up high in the sky! In the sky.

As I say Hi, Bye

and thank Grandfather for the life

Upon this Earth...Land I live on.

Thank you Mother Earth I stand on.

By Audrey Christine (Chrissy) Brown, 2015

Unfortunately, she became unable to care for the places that sustained our people for so many generations, and like many of our people, she lacked the social service support she needed as an indigenous woman, to remain clean and sober. She also lost myself and my two siblings in the late 80's early 90's to Oroville's foster system. After several foster placements, our tribal representative, as well as the Indian Child Welfare Act saved us from being split up and even further cast into the colonized world. Luckily, my mother's brother cleaned up and took us in. We were adopted back into our family by our uncle and his wife.

My Mother, Audrey Christine (Chrissy) Brown, aka Cricket

Migration

Before colonization, The People moved from place to place, depending on the seasons and times for gathering. I didn't understand this until now, but it seems I have been doing this unconsciously my whole life even in a colonized world. I've always been pretty good at following my inner compass, even if in the moment I don't understand where I am headed and why. I've learned to just listen to my intuition, and trust that everything happens right on time. In 2006 at 18 years old I picked myself up, left my home and family in Oroville California, and moved to Pomo Country in Ukiah California. I followed the drums...and a boy. We had met a few years before, playing a traditional gambling game growing up; united by our music, and people.

The Coyote Valley Band of Pomo Indians is small, but the culture is rich, and the people are kind and welcoming. Fortunately, I was blessed with the opportunity to work with the youth within the daycare setting on the reservation. I was blessed with the ability to explore Pomo territory, as well as some of Yurok country where my children's grandmother is from.

"The edge of the world" is what the old mountain Maidu people called the coast.

I met native people from different places, through our traditional gambling game (handgame), exchanged laughter and songs. I learned to sew my own dance regalia and discovered the healing of stomping my bare feet into the earth with the beat of rock man, his clapper and the melody of earth's creatures. I learned the basics of basket weaving, beading, some Maidu and Pomo language, and spent personal time deepening my relationship with a few local plants. It was a transformative time. A time of discovery and learning for my own children as well as myself.

It's so easy to paint a beautiful picture, highlighting the positive aspects of my life, but it would betray me not to acknowledge that I constantly struggled with my mental health and emotional immaturity. We raised our two children together for seven years before I left the relationship. I had a lot of healing to do, especially surrounding my sense of belonging and self-worth. Contemplating traditional cultural experiences, and relationship with the land is how I discovered the overgrown path back to myself.

It's been several years since the relationship took a turn, but in that time, I put a lot of effort toward my mental, and spiritual health. Two years into a healthier relationship, I earned a Human Services Certificate from Mendocino College and spent two years working for Pinoleville Pomo Nation in the Early Head Start as a Family Support Specialist. This chapter helped me better understand the developing human mind. Children are amazing teachers. I discovered that I could discern ego from spirit and look at myself and others a little more objectively. This ultimately led me down a path of understanding, forgiveness, and compassion.

Eventually, I bought a home in Upper Lake, California (27 miles east of Ukiah), settled in with our newborn, and dedicated more time with my immediate family. We still had some wounds to tend to, and the path forward was unclear.

Wildfire

When my mom called me in need of desperate medical care, I was 33 years old. She was 59. I made a deal with her; In exchange for her sobriety, I would let her stay with my family, and I would care for her. I wanted to know this woman, and I was in search of a way into forgiveness. We had 8 months together before she tragically passed away in 2020 amidst the Coronavirus pandemic. She was only 60 years old. The loss of my mom after having just begun to get to know her, triggered the grief of an unconscious wound. I discovered that I am mourning much more than the absence of a healthy mother's presence.

Audrey Brown, Mother's Day 2020 In Mendocino National Forest

I am mourning the loss of our traditional culture and relationship to the land, our right to autonomy, and our right to naturally evolve in our own way as a community. I'm mourning the grandparents I never got to meet. My Elders. My teachers. I mourn WITH them, and I mourn with their parents and their grandparents, because they never got the chance to properly grieve.

Through me, my ancestors mourn.

While more than 4 million acres burned in California over the last few years, the depths of my grief ignited a flame of its own. All of my conditioning and perspective of myself and the world around me has been burning down into a pile of ash ever since.

Labor Pains

In this chapter, I am experiencing the discomfort of re-birth, and re-growth. I'm stepping back into the world with new eyes; like sumi (deer), slow, careful, methodic, and intentional about how I show up in the world in a good way. Rekindling a relationship with the land is just the beginning. It starts by acknowledging the people whose land I live on. Patience is a requirement. A prerequisite. Acknowledging and respecting their space and cultural practices. Listening to their stories, concerns, prayers, and sitting with them in their anger and grief. This is how we "get over it", or rather how we "get through it" together. There is no rushing this.

Taking accountability for myself, surrendering to the process of grief, and allowing forgiveness into my heart has helped to lift a tremendous burden from my shoulders. A huge weight. I can walk through life a little lighter now. Healing, however, is not a linear process. I'm noticing fear come up around moving forward. Old stories I tell myself that encourage me to be afraid of making mistakes. The fear of inadequacy. This fear can be crippling when attempting to connect with new people again, but I know I'm never alone. Surrounded by my ancestors who guide me.

Birthing

One day at the end of February, after spending some time planning for this year's garden, my oldest sister texted me. She was excited about a class she signed up for called UC California Naturalist (californiatribalcollege.com) . A 4-unit course through the California Tribal College. She tagged me in the flyer and said, "I get to go out and learn in the field for 8 hours". Instantly interested! Finally! a way to connect and learn from the land I live on with other native people. "Maybe I'll find a grandma" I told myself, halfway joking. The class screamed at me like a bird calling for her young to follow her off the edge of a branch for the first time. I didn't exactly understand what it all entailed, but my inner compass vibrated with curiosity and enthusiasm. It was time to stop slinking around in the comfortable womb. Time to step out into the world and take part. So, I enrolled.

It's difficult to put into words how this course has changed me. It's been an uncomfortable experience, but in a good way. Just when I became accustomed to the ebb and flow of loss and grief, Joy and pain as it was showing up in my life... these lectures, discussions, videos, and readings (about climate change, ecological history, fire, earth, water, air etc.) unearthed another layer of unconscious grief. The soil of my soul is being overturned and woken up. It's beautiful and necessary, but it's also uncomfortable. Mulching the rawness of accountability with acceptance and forgiveness all over again. My home garden projects are at a full stop as I contemplate the state of the environment around me. While I reevaluate my families' goals and habits, the spiders are looking at me in the corners of my home resting easy, while my energy is directed into these new revelations and reflections.

Kaiesk

The Maidu word Kaiesk (pronounced kosk) refers to the Scrub Jay. "Kaiesk-Kaiesk" is the name my dad (uncle who adopted me) gave me growing up. He was referring to those loud, extremely vocal blue birds who screeched and hollered at each other all spring and summer long, as they flew with purpose from tree to tree, and throughout the brush. He said I reminded him of them because I was the family "Announcer." My never-ending questions eventually blurred into one single noise at times too. Kaiesk is very vocal with around 23 different calls. She calls to warn others of predators, to imitate, unite, fiercely protect, and so on. She is a keystone species (vital to the seeding of our precious oaks), intelligent, territorial and resourceful, which is probably why they have thrived for so long in this world. Our people have learned a lot about how to live from birds like Kaiesk.

In the spirit of Kaiesk I've created this blog to document my journey back into the natural world. Or rather, the deepening of my relationship to it. Becoming a California "Naturalist" I feel is only a small step in that direction. The word "Naturalist" feels strange to me because it suggests that people are separate from nature. I suppose it's true that many people have forgotten that they are not. I'm no exception. The word that feels right to me is "remembering". Remembering that I am a part of the natural world and remembering the thrill of discovery.

If you are reading this, it means you heard a call and followed out of curiosity. Just like Kaiesk. My fellow Indigenous Californians, let's share our stories, and honor the merging of our path's. This isn't easy. It's gets uncomfortable. The accountability fire is real. But, with devotion and courage, together we can utilize our collective experiences and traditional ecological knowledge in rebuilding what has been burned to the ground. We're Stronger Together.