They call it Labor Day,
a day for the working ones,
for those whose hands shaped cities,
whose bodies carried the weight of nations.
But for us, labor was always older,
always gentler, always sacred.
It was the joy of planting seeds in soft earth,
the laugher of paddles striking water,
the ceremony of raising children,
the songs that guided us from fire to fire.
Our work has always been more than survival -
it has been love,
woven into beadwork,
carved into canoes,
sung into prayers that rose with the smoke.
Yes, there were times when labor became heavy -
when mines and mills called our people away,
when our children were forced to toil in schools
that tried to dim their spirits.
But even then, the light endured.
The kokums still stitched the stars into moccasins,
the hunters still rose with the dawn,
the aunties still wrapped little ones in arms of belonging.
Even in hardship, our labor grew gardens of hope.
So when the world rests on Labor Day,
let us remember:
our labor is not only struggle -
it is joy.
It is ceremony.
It is the smile of a child learning their first Cree word.
It is the pride of water protectors standing together.
It is the soft strength of songs that will never die.
We labor for life itself.
For the children not yet born,
for the ancestors who dreamed us into being,
for the land that still cradles us with love.
This is our Labor Day -
a day not just of rest,
but of remembering that our work in holy,
our path is strong,
and our future is full of light.
- Kanipawit Maskwa (John Gonzalez)
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