My mother's stories.

When I was a child, I would often look to the stars every night. I lived on my reservation, far, far north. I would often see the northern lights shine just beyond the horizon, where the sky meets always white-covered mountains. The vibrant violet and ember green would reflect off that crystal pelt so wonderfully. I was only a child then and wasn’t fully sure how to describe such a beauty. I would often go running to my mom whenever I see that first hit of green and violet hit my ceiling from out my window. Bouncing up and down in excitement about the prospect of seeing what awaits me far off in the distance, and having the chance to view it with her. She would come every single time, no matter how late it was, just to spend that extra few moments of precious time together. I would lay there wake each clear winter night, each noisy spring evening, every gentle autumn dawn, and every blazing summer twilight in hopes that those enchanting dancing lights would come again and fill my sight with such a beautiful view, and my body with such a loving embrace from the women I love the most, my mother.

After a while of taking in the spectacle together, she would always put me to sleep because it was so late. As she was readying me for another world of vibrant scenery and peaceful moments, she would tell me stories of her father, my papa, and how he would do the same for her when she was a child. She would tell him of this old native tale he heard from the elders when he was a child.

A young boy was born on the harshest day of the harshest winter. A day so cold and stormy, it was told down orally for centuries to come. He was born so small, and the weather so harsh, they thought he would surely die before dawn would come. Finally, a few hours after this birth, the storm let up, and the stars shone brightly above, across the untouched sky. Snow piled heavy and fresh, it was just below everyone’s waist. The boy -- sickly, and fragile, the buffalo pelt blankets, and fire were not enough to keep him fully out of the cold, and damp earth. He let out a roaring cough and scream, and just as his voice echoed over the plains, the sky above lit ablaze. It was that same vibrant violet and ember green I still see now whenever I look to the sky, deep in the heart of my reservation. They saw the boy’s mighty, demanding voice, even through his fragile and frail body, and they named him Born In The Winter. A name of reliance and hope for a young boy who lived through the harshest day, and those who believed in him. Born in the Winter became our people’s pantheon, the one who all look up to. He and his many stories were all told to me as a child, and I wanted nothing more to be like him: A man who can overcome anything.

When I was older, I learned my grandfather was given the same name as him when he was born. I think I realised then, my mother’s tale about her hero, and his, was never my grandfather’s hero to begin with, nor my people’s -- He was my Mother’s hero, My Papa. The story of Born In The Winter, and his heroics and Origin were all made by my mother to show her love for his father, and I cherish every bit of that. I will never forget those late nights when she would tell me of the Great Hero Born In The WInter and how amazing he was. I will never forget those moments I spent with my mother as a child, and as I grow older, I know they will mean even more.

Before he passed away in May of 2018, he gifted his name to me, my Papa did. His name full of resilience and hope was passed down to me when I needed it the most -- when my childhood hero passed away. I plan to do the same when I have children or my siblings do, to tell them of that grand hero and his powerful origin, to giving them my name when they need it the most. That is always what our people have done and will continue to do.

I can only hope that future generations will carry on our stories too.