Celebrating Sharron Proulx-Turner

Raised in the Ottawa River valley, Sharron Proulx-Turner was an Indigenous writer and poet, who sadly passed away in November 2016. Sharon came from Mohawk, Wyandat, Algonquin, Ojibwe, Mi’kmaw, French and Irish ancestry, and was a member of the Métis Nation of Alberta. Proulx-Turner was a talented writer, a Nokomis (storyteller), a community worker, and a beloved mother and aunt.

Her memoir Where the Rivers Join (1995) was a finalist for the Edna Staebler Award, and her collection of poetry what the auntys say (2002) was a finalist for the Gerald Lampert Prize. Proulx-Turner was published in several anthologies and literary journals throughout her career, and also had two other books published in 2008: a mixed genre historical fiction called she walks for days/ inside a thousand eyes/ a two-spirit story and a collection of poetry titled she is reading her blanket with her hands.

Her final publication creole métisse of french canada, me was released in December 2017 by Kegedonce Press, in honour of Proulx-Turner. This collection of poetry combines the mediums of prose poetry and memoir, and reflects on Proulx-Turner’s life experiences as a two-spirited Métis woman and the role of writing in her life.

We would like to share some excerpts from creole métisse of french canada, me with you.

I dream of a large room, where the wind blowing indoors doesn’t seem out of the ordinary. though the room is full of people, I feel alone, lonely for a friend. my childhood home was like that, like I didn’t belong, with my mom stretching out a silence I wasn’t meant to break. the silence concerned me, mom teaching the older ones, the younger ones the dangers of me. my biggest flaw was I was too nice, too kind. not natural, my mom would say. born evil, that one. watch your back.

in dreamworld there are mirrors up above in the large room. I can see myself and each strand of my hair contains volumes of knowledge forming along the waves. the wind picks up words, like dust from my hands, my skin, my hair––swirling them into a tiny twister whose point reaches into my left eye. and rather than close my eyes, I hold them open to the harshness of those words, the blinding sting that opens a doorway to the past.

(An excerpt from “The longhouse”)

I wish I could be that brave. as brave as the big dipper. the great bear there, purring, watching, holding my hand. me looking to the side and down. the words I seek are buried there, under grief. inside the darkness of a cottonwood, inside the seeds of orange berries. the wings of a female mallard in flight, exposing blues and whites and blacks otherwise unseen, like a woman’s beauty, often hidden until she looks up, sees the small spaces between the leaves, yellow hearts on the black bark after a fall rain.

something wants to push its way out, from my belly to my heart to the frame of me. a doorframe. a wooden door with windows, an old key that no longer fits. the door to the outside becomes the door to my room, where birds make their way in the early morning light and the wind finds a path through the cracks. I’m looking, searching my heart for the words, the true words that are buried inside my unruly inner bark. my wood is hard. not hard like something unfriendly, but hard to the seekers of what may be hidden inside, the medicine there.

(An excerpt from “A house full of birds”)