February 1968
On a frigid February day, spread across a table piled with textbooks and bags of potato chips, Susan and I—despite my being only twelve—decided we would head to college together, dedicating ourselves to study more than ever, with the looming responsibilities of adulthood still years away. Susan had become consumed by the Women’s Liberation Movement and the Royal Commission on the Status of Women, so there was no room in her plans for men—“not yet,” she insisted. So, in our visions of the future, I left John out. In my mind, he existed, but around the kitchen table he seemed to be just another student doing homework, and when we were at school munching on lunch on the bleachers, I didn’t mention him. Susan and I had become friends thanks to her mother, who occasionally stopped by our house after dark to buy tea to help with something Kiju called “women’s troubles.” Susan came with her once, soon after we’d started elementary school. She was my first friend who wasn’t from the few small houses near ours or from families that arrived in the fall.
“Are you Indian?” she asked on her first visit to my home, looking over our modest space and taking in the things she’d never see in her own house—ash baskets for gathering vegetables from the garden, braids of sweetgrass hanging by the door.
“Half, I think.”
“Half what? Don’t you know?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
An adult would never have pressed so boldly, and that moment is one of the things I still admire about children—unfiltered curiosity.
“I don’t have a father.”
“Sure you do. Everyone does.”
Susan’s mother lowered her voice and glanced over her shoulder, trying to listen in on the conversation, so I did the same. “I don’t know who he is,” I whispered, then shrugged.
Susan’s mother pivoted and stepped toward us, taking Susan by the hand and guiding her out the door, thanking Kiju and scolding Susan for asking questions she had no business asking.
If Susan felt that my being Indian and fatherless might keep us apart, she never voiced it. When school began a few weeks later, she sat beside me, and we became inseparable in short order.
“My grandfather married an Indian woman after my grandmother died. Mom said he was as happy as a clam.” To Susan, that implied we shared something, though what that something was, I wasn’t sure, and it kept us close nonetheless.
Susan had long, dark hair and skin darker than mine. “From the Greek side of my family,” she explained. In our tiny corner of the world, a tan from her Greek lineage was exotic and intriguing. Indian and African dark-skinned complexions carried a different weight, as if they hinted at something more threatening.
I kept wandering among the harvesters, seeking out new faces, anyone who might resemble me, no matter how vaguely. A new family would arrive, perhaps fair-skinned with freckles, and I would offer to help hold their baby, to read with a child, to stir the stew. I would ask about a Maggie, for a long-lost photo’s promise. Yet I never found what I searched for, and I’d love to claim that the older I grew the easier it would be, but it never was. Acknowledging my status as an orphan—and not merely an orphan but one with an unknown father—hung over me like a lingering ghost. Most of the year it was easy to forget, but in October, when everyone gathered for a community ritual, the matter took center stage. My longing to belong consumed my every thought and most of my time.
As I matured a little, my mind wandered to other things during that season. I began to anticipate John’s arrival, scanning the cars and trucks as they rolled in, hoping to catch a glimpse. That year his father and younger brother were there, but John wasn’t. I asked his father why, and he answered that John’s mother wanted him to stay in school. He’d had a rough year, so she chose to stay home with him. I walked away disappointed.
Teenage me still believed I was a child in many ways, especially in matters of the heart. As I trudged back to the house, I let my thoughts run wild, convincing myself that John’s absence meant he didn’t like me anymore. Perhaps I had placed too much faith in our letters and the New Year’s kiss on the cheek. I felt foolish and sulked for the rest of the evening. That night, I dreamed of John, and in the morning my feelings were tempered but not gone. Then Kiju grew sad, and my own emotions, valid or not, took a back seat.
It was a Saturday morning when Kiju entered the kitchen with a heavy frown scarring her face.
“Something’s not right, Kiju?”
“I heard another family chose to have their baby in a hospital,” she said, the ache in her voice barely concealed.
“Oh.”
She sounded wounded but kept busy setting the breakfast table. She didn’t cry the way she had the first time, but she sighed a deep sigh of loss.
“They’re still here, I suppose. They keep the mother and the babies for a week, far from family. They don’t even let the mothers nurse their babies. I just can’t understand it.”
“It’s winter,” I offered, hoping that would soothe her, even though I knew that births took place beneath the birthing tree in winter as well. Kiju paid me no mind.
“We haven’t had a baby all year, Aliet.” She sat, the weight of sorrow pressing down on the thin legs of a worn kitchen chair.
“I’m sure there will be more under the tree.”
She didn’t respond as I placed a cup of tea beside her chair. That morning I took charge of breakfast preparations.
“Maybe I should speak with them. Reassure them,” she said, spooning oatmeal into her mouth.
“It might help. Everyone trusts you, Kiju.”
“I don’t know, Aliet. They’re beginning to believe those white doctors more than me. I fear they’ll think I’m a silly old woman clinging to the past. But there’s more to it.”
I buttered a slice of toast and waited for her to continue.
“We’ve lost so much; I can’t bear the idea of bringing our babies into the world in a way that feels unfamiliar and cold. If our children don’t know their stories, how will they know where they belong? They’ll be lost, disconnected.” She paused to draw breath. “I hear the birth sac is not allowed to stay with the child. They burn it. It’s so wrong, Aliet. Our children need to know where they come from and that there is a place where they are cherished.”
“I’m sorry, Kiju.” I wasn’t sure how to comfort her, so I offered practical suggestions instead. “Perhaps you should talk to people, start with those who live nearby, and ask them to share what’s happening. Tell them you’re worried.”
She considered my words for a moment. “Maybe.”
After breakfast, she slipped on her boots and jacket and crossed next door. I trailed close behind. We knocked, listening to the murmur of voices on the other side. Mrs. Jeremy opened the door.
“Well, look who’s here. Come in, come in.”
We shed our coats and followed her into the kitchen. Before we could decline, she set water on the stove for tea. I couldn’t help noticing the landline phone, a modern convenience Kiju had yet to permit. Mrs. Jeremy laid out a plate of cookies and sat opposite us, cigarette between her fingers.
“What brings you here on a day this cold?”
Kiju drew a breath and began. “I want to talk about the birthing tree and our women. It seems many are choosing hospital births now, even without considering our traditions.”
“I know,” replied Mrs. Jeremy softly. “My own daughter gave birth last year there. They offer pain relief, you see. You don’t have to endure the pain.” She flicked ash into the glass ashtray, and a plume of smoke drifted toward me.
“But those medicines erase memories. How will you tell your child their birth story if you can’t remember it yourself? How will they know who they are and where they came from? And those lights, the noise, the harshness for a newborn. They take the cord, the birth sac.”
“They tell us it’s superstition, and my daughter believed them. She wanted to keep it, but they made her feel foolish, like she was a child, so she allowed them to take it.” Her voice carried sadness. Kiju reached out and held her hand. There was no rebuke, only shared sorrow.
Anita, Mrs. Jeremy’s daughter, who was a few years older than me, stepped in and nodded toward us as she helped herself to juice. She listened but didn’t sit.
“But we must move forward, like the whites,” Anita declared. “They already think we’re slow and out of date.”
Kiju straightened, releasing Mrs. Jeremy’s hand, her fists clenched in her lap. “Does it matter what they think? We can’t always listen to them. Haven’t you seen the harm they’ve caused?”
“But that was long ago. Things are better now.”
“Better?”
“Yes, better than before.”
“We must hold on to the threads that connect us to our past. Without our history, we lose who we are. That should frighten you. We can be brave in this world and still honor our own traditions.”
Kiju spoke slowly, trying to keep her voice steady, but the desperation showed.
“Didn’t you say we should be able to choose?”
“Yes, but only once you have all the facts, all the information. Then you can choose. People are being fed lies, and they’re swallowing them.”
Anita shrugged as if the conversation were only gossip between friends.
“If folks would stay and listen, I could help them understand.” “I don’t know,” Anita replied. “It seems a bit old-fashioned to me.” “But …” Kiju tried to say more, but she felt defeated and fell silent.
Anita slipped out as quietly as she had entered. Mrs. Jeremy stood to pour more tea, then left the cups on the counter as she followed us out.
“If you could speak to your family, let them know I’d be happy to discuss all of this,” Kiju asked. “I’d be grateful.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but no promises. These young folks have their own ideas.”
We bundled up against the cold and stepped into winter’s air. I expected Kiju to abandon her mission, but she turned away from home and we spent the morning visiting nearby families, trying to persuade them of the importance of our birthing traditions. Their responses mirrored Anita’s—cool and evasive—and Kiju returned home discouraged.
That night I tried every possible way to comfort her, to remind her that she was wanted and needed. For hours I spoke into the silence, while she knotted a fresh pair of mittens for me, my hands apparently larger than the ones she made last year. I made hot chocolate, which grew cold while we talked. I buttered toast and dusted it with sugar as a little treat, but the toast grew soggy and uneaten. It was just after ten when she finally spoke.
“Maybe they’re right, and I’m just an old woman clinging to the past.” With that, she rose, set aside the knitting, and went to bed without another word.
As days lengthened, her quiet persisted, her words reserved for essential matters alone. Then, one gray afternoon in early March, everything shifted.
Each day after school I hurried home, checking the mailbox at the end of the driveway, then the small table by the door, hoping for a letter from John, but the box lay empty and the table bare. I’d begged for a telephone, but won that fight. Letters were all we had, and it seemed he’d given up on writing, and I was determined not to write until he did. I could be stubborn when I wanted to be.
That winter, Kiju and I endured together, yet apart. It snowed hard and winds howled as I looked up from my homework to find her features fixed in silence at the window. She didn’t answer when I asked about supper or if I could help. She wouldn’t acknowledge that more of our women were turning to the hospital than to us. It happened so quickly it was hard to notice. Change can creep in or it can crash down, and this felt like a reckless jump we hadn’t prepared for.
“Kiju?”
She started, startled.
“Something’s wrong. You’re too quiet.” I teased, but the attempt fell flat.
Kiju handed me a sheet of paper. It was a town notice about a council meeting scheduled for next Tuesday under the banner “public safety and childbirth.”
“What does that mean?” I asked, passing the note back.
“Some people in town don’t like what we do, and they want us to stop. Yet no one comes to us anymore. I don’t understand why it matters now. They want everyone to know they’re winning, that they’ve beaten us again.”
“It’s none of their business what we do, and the women will come back, Kiju. They’re just confused. They’ll return.” I tried to sound confident, though doubt tugged at me.
“I’m not sure.” Kiju stared into her cup.
“We can go and explain to them.”
“I wish I had your faith in humanity.”
“We’ll go, Kiju. They’ll listen to you. They turn to you whenever they want your herbs and remedies. They’ll listen now.”
*
The night before the town meeting, sleep refused to come. When my mother died under the birthing tree, a small faction of locals caused a ruckus, insisting we be forced into the sanitized hospital world—pressed by bright lights, loud noises, antiseptic smells, and unfamiliar faces, while white women in white dresses snatched our babies and replaced natural nourishment with manufactured formula. This wasn’t what we wanted, but as that small faction spoke, fear took root in the town.
The previous year, a handful of these folks had even walked through our camp in the evenings—men in suits, women with lipstick, some with Bibles, others with lunches—as if we would simply surrender our own to hunger. They spoke of modern medicine and a “proper education” and of not filling children’s heads with Indian nonsense and superstition. Pamphlets warned of the medicines Kiju made in our kitchen, of dangerous mushrooms in tonics, of fatal misuses of berries or leaves. The papers were read, perhaps even believed, but by nightfall they were burned in the fire. Still, something began to take root; Kiju and I could feel it.
Kiju continued to resist the shift, pleading with any woman who would listen, but the more she implored for the children, the more the families drifted away.
*
Dinner was brief so we could walk into town on time. Toasted egg sandwiches with apples—sweet and savory together.
“Well, let’s go,” she said, tossing the council notice into the fire. We watched the edges curl and the words vanish among the flames.
As we walked toward town, I suspected the meeting might be a futile venture. They had already decided, and they wouldn’t listen to us. Kiju claimed that Indigenous women were never heard in matters the broader society called important, a truth that seemed all too obvious here. Susan’s feminist wave hadn’t reached our corner yet, and even if it did, it wouldn’t represent us. The birthing tree still stood, waiting, but no one visited, no one entered the world beneath her sturdy branches, no one clung to the roots for strength. I hadn’t seen the ground glow red in so long that I almost forgot what it looked like, even when I closed my eyes and pictured it.
The town hall was half full, mostly women, with the notable exception of the mayor, the town council trio, the priests—Catholic Father Michael and a Baptist minister—and a mustached, well-dressed man who looked oddly confident in a room that didn’t quite fit him.
“Good evening, Mrs. Paul.” Father Michael took my grandmother’s hand without asking and held on as he bent to meet her eyes. “Please know that we mean no disrespect. The women of this town hold you in high esteem, but we must move forward with the rest of the world and accept new methods to ensure safety for everyone.” He avoided looking at us as he spoke. It was condescending, even at my young age, and I understood.
Kiju gave a slow breath and withdrew her hand from his as she walked past him, taking a seat in the second row facing the council.
“Father Michael.” I followed her, taking a seat beside her in the back row.
“Why do they treat me like I’m blind? I’d wager none of these men have ever witnessed the miracle of birth. And these women”—she swept her hand through the air—“don’t even bother to defend me.” Then she lowered her gaze and remained silent.
I went behind the room to gather snacks. No one approached Kiju or spoke to either of us, though most in the room had known us for years. We all shopped in the same stores, and some had come to Kiju for herbs to calm a cough or to ease a fussy baby. But tonight, instead of anger, I felt relief at the distance. We dipped stale cookies into weak tea and waited for the meeting to begin.
The mayor cleared his throat and addressed the crowd with a practiced politeness. “Good evening. It’s heartening to see so many concerned citizens here. Historically there have been some unfortunate birth practices in and around our town. While those methods may have served in the past, we have made remarkable progress with medical care that can safely support both mother and child while reducing pain. There is no longer a need for …” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “…the less civilized ways of bearing children that can endanger mother and baby.”
He scanned the room, as if hoping to avoid eye contact with us. Kiju remained quiet.
“We have a guest this evening to help us understand the risks of these practices and the advances that keep labor safe for our women. Please welcome Dr. Vincent Thorn.”
I did not recognize the man in the suit who walked down the aisle, took the mayor’s hand, and thanked him for the invitation.
“As you know, the medical field has progressed significantly in recent decades. Giving birth is now safer for mother and child, and less painful for the mother as well. There is no longer a need for the …” He paused again, considering his wording. “…more primitive methods that could endanger both mother and child.”
He looked straight at us. Someone must have told him who we were. The room grew quiet as people shifted in their seats.
“I think we all can agree that progress is welcome, and the safety of women and children is our top priority.”
A few quiet claps followed his statement.
Kiju stood up, and the room fell silent as if a gust has cleared the air. Hands stopped mid-clap, waiting for her.
“I believe you should respect the manner in which women choose to give birth. If a woman chooses a hospital, that is her right, but traditional birth must always stay an option. A woman should be able to decide without fear or pressure.” Her words rang softly, yet they carried weight. “And you, a man, think you know what’s best for a woman. You want to strip away her memories of the moment she brings life into the world by rendering her unconscious. That is cruel, if you ask me.”
“Ma’am—”
“Please let me finish before you spout your nonsense.”
I could hardly hide a smile at her unexpected swearing; it surprised me, but it thrilled me as well.
“If a woman chooses to give birth in one of your facilities, that is her decision. If she chooses to give birth in the earth’s embrace, what gives you the right to tell her she cannot? Where do you derive your moral authority?”
The room stayed hushed.
“You have nothing to say?” She scanned the crowd as people averted their gazes, turning away from us. “Well, that speaks volumes. I’m finished.” She sat down, hands folded in her lap.
“Mrs. Paul.” Father Michael rose. “I believe the doctor has a valid point. We simply want what’s best.”
“And a group of men know what’s best for a woman? I doubt that.”
“Mrs. Paul. I agree with the doctor, and I think most of the women here do as well.” Father Michael surveyed the audience, many women nodding in agreement.
“You’ve twisted their minds. You’ve convinced them to accept something you want. Many of these women have visited my home for teas and remedies.”
I scanned the room and saw neighbors avoiding eye contact with us—the home economics teacher, the grocery-store owner’s wife, the woman two doors down who had once sought help for a headache or a stomach ache—yet none of them spoke up on our behalf.
“Keep your practices, and I’ll keep mine. All I ask is that you stop trying to frighten our women into adopting your ways. It’s unfair and it’s wrong.” Kiju reached for my hand. “I have nothing left to say. I’ve made my point.”
We rose to leave when a younger woman, older than Kiju but younger than me, slid herself down the row, stepping into the aisle to block our path to the door. She was tall and slightly stooped, meeting Kiju’s gaze with a hard look.
“I should have spoken sooner, but you must understand. You let your own daughter die.” The whisper reached the room, but loud enough for those nearby to hear. A hush fell over the crowd. It felt as if every breath paused.
My grandmother, a gentle soul not prone to outbursts, raised her hand and slapped the woman as hard as she could. The sound echoed off the walls, and I stood frozen, torn between running and laughing at the surprise of it. Kiju looked at me, then took my hand and stepped around the shaken woman, guiding us into the night. Those inside the hall gasped and moved to help the staggering intruder.
A three-quarter moon lit our walk home. The wind had eased, and the night air felt good on my face.
“I’m ashamed,” she murmured.
“Of what?”
“Of my outburst. I shouldn’t have struck her.”
“I thought it was magnificent.”
She paused, the moonlight tracing her features. “Aliet, violence—whether spoken or physical—is never the answer.” Yet a faint smile crossed her lips. “But boy, did that feel satisfying.”
We continued hand in gloved hands, and I leaned on her encouragement as we walked.
“I want you to know I would never have let your mother die. She meant the world to me. Her pregnancy was normal, nothing unusual. If there had been a problem, I would have taken her to the hospital. It was her heart, a condition she’d had since birth, but no one knew. I would never let her die.”
“I know that.”
“Good, I had to say it aloud. Cast it into the universe. I hope she hears.”
“She does.”
“That grief never truly vanishes. It lingers, pushing its way in and out, demanding time and attention. It’s a greedy thing, grief. You endure it, then rise again.”
We kicked a rock into the ditch and continued to walk, our steps soft and careful. When we finally reached home, the house lounged in darkness, and the fire had faded. I fetched a few logs from the woodshed to keep the night warm as she sliced bread and spread cinnamon sugar on it for a treat. The fire grew again, and we sat talking late into the night, trading tales about my mother, stories she’d told countless times, and I could recite them with her. She spoke of how she and my grandfather—back then only known as Ben—had once stolen a bicycle from a troublemaking boy and tossed it into the river, how the police brought my mother home, the time she jumped rope for 796 consecutive jumps without missing a beat, and how she watched over when my grandfather passed away, even though she was still a girl herself.
“And when she was expecting you, she would sit by that same fire and stroke her belly, singing to you. Not the old songs, but newer tunes. She adored Frank Sinatra. It’s as if you can hear her voice whenever you listen.”
That night I dreamt about the birthing tree. In the dream, the figure with Kiju’s handprint on her cheek wielded a hatchet and struck the trunk again and again, and with each blow a woman cried out and blood welled from the bark. I tried to intervene, but the tree moved farther away each time I approached. The sky filled with black birds, screaming and diving, but they, too, drifted away. The dream ended with the tree intact, leaves trembling, branches swaying, even as the hatchet’s strike continued. I woke with a head ache, my eyes and pillow wet with tears. Kiju slept through it all, unaware of the battle I’d waged in my sleep.
I rose and stepped into the crisp air, wrapping myself in warmth as I made my way to the outhouse. The frost crunched underfoot while I gathered logs for the stove in the kitchen. Inside, the space lacked polish but held charm. A tap in the kitchen felt like a small victory. I stood by the stove, hoping to coax the kettle to whistle before she did, but I didn’t hear her approach until she spoke softly behind me.
“A watched pot never boils.”
I jumped as the kettle began to sing, stepping aside to let her claim the space.
“Life here is simple, Aliet. I hope you don’t feel as though you’re missing out on anything. If your mother were alive, perhaps you’d be off on some grand adventure.”
“There will be plenty of time for adventures,” I replied.
When I got to school, I could tell something had shifted. Susan pulled me aside into an empty classroom just before the third-period bell.
“Did Kiju really punch Mrs. Brown?” Her eyes sparkled with wicked delight. “Tell me she did. I would have loved to see it. That meddlesome woman never minds her own business.”
“She did. I was so shocked I almost laughed, but I kept my composure. Mrs. Brown blamed Kiju for my mother’s death.”
Susan’s expression cooled. “What a witch.”
“Yeah. She deserved it.”
The bell rang, and we parted ways, the corridors crowded with whispers and glances. Some voices carried venom, others suspicion, and a few rare ones carried admiration.
Months later, an envelope appeared in the mail announcing a new bylaw: no medical procedure could be performed unless by a licensed professional in an official facility, with fines and penalties for violators. Kiju handed me the notice. As I read, I curled my lip in disdain, and she yanked it away and flung it into the fire. We didn’t speak of it again—until the night we encountered Paulina.
__________________________________
From The Birthing Tree by a writer. Used with permission of the publisher, Catapult. Copyright © 2026.
