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tânisi cuzzins,

I had an emotional reunion of sorts this past Tuesday – not with a person, but with a pair of doors. Let me explain.

The doors lead to the ceremonial glass tipi on the campus of First Nations University in Regina, where I was attending a conference on Indigenous Media and Democracy.

I was excited to attend this one-day conference, and to be in the room with so many smart and gifted Indigenous journalists. I was equally excited to see these doors again. You see, they were carved by my late cousin, John Henry Fineday, who passed on to the Spirit World in 2006. 

The front of the doors to the glass tipi on the campus of First Nations University, in Regina, SK on May 7, 2024. Photo by Eden Fineday 

My cousin John Henry and I were very close in our youth. We were born two months apart, and grew up in different cities – he in Regina and me in Vancouver – but we spent time together in the summers, when he would come out to Vancouver to stay with our aunt and uncle.

We grew closer as young adults. When I visited the res, to see my granny or other cousins, he was always with me. He made me feel like I was a part of the Cree side of my family. He helped me feel like I belonged.

We came from complicated families, which intersected each other in multiple ways. His father and my mother, both non-Indigenous, had once been together. They had a son named Brian, who was my brother, and also John Henry's brother.

Later, my mother and John Henry's father both partnered up with Finedays. My mother had me with my dad Wesley, and John Henry's father had him with Wesley's sister, my aunt Patsy.

That put John Henry and I in a strange position – we were cousins, but we also shared our brother, Brian. I sometimes joke that my family tree is a bush.

He and I experienced a lot of the same struggles as children: parental neglect, poverty, living with a parent who was an alcoholic. We both experienced the confusion of identity that came with having one Indigenous parent and one non-Indigenous parent. We weren't Cree enough to fit in with our cousins on the res and we also weren't white enough to be considered white.

And, we both lost our older brother Brian to a drug overdose when we were 26 years old. It was a painful time for us, but we stayed close through it all.

John Henry Fineday, with his dog Ron Fineday and his father, circa 2005. Photo by Stephanie Messner

The conference started in the glass tipi, with a pipe ceremony. I got to sit in that sacred space, feeling the spirit of my cousin through the beautiful doors he carved before his death from leukemia in 2006.

I hadn't been to the campus in years – perhaps not since his death – and I felt my grief come to the surface. It was like a wound that had not quite healed being torn open again.

As I listened to the prayer being spoken by the Elder, I reflected on my cousin, and thought about his life. I thought about how much I missed him and how much I wished I had understood what he was dealing with in his younger years. 

I also felt grateful. For the ceremony I was partaking in, for the Elder leading the ceremony who was praying in Cree, for my language and the fact that I was starting to be able to understand some of what was being said, and for the doors that kept John Henry's memory alive for me.

The inside of the left door. Photo by Peter Brass

Life is beautiful. Even though we've lost so much, and will undoubtedly lose more in the future, there's still so much to be grateful for.

The relationships I have had with family members who are no longer here were gifts. The relationships I still have – with my husband, my children, my colleagues and my friends – are rich with love and support.

kinânskomitinaw (I am grateful for all of you),

Aunty Eden

p.s. I even wrote a song about John Henry. You can listen to it here. 

Eden Fineday is a nêhiyaw Iskwew and the publisher of IndigiNews.

Aunty Eden's Latest TikTok

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