A Story About the Young People Who Were Always Told to Wait

A long time ago, in a small Anishinaabe community beside the water, the people gathered around a great fire whenever important decisions needed to be made.

It was not an ordinary fire.

This was the fire where the community came together to speak about the things that truly mattered: the land, the water, the children, the people who were struggling, and the decisions that would shape the nation long after those sitting around the coals were gone.

The Elders came carrying memories of things the younger ones had never lived through. They remembered the years when the fish were plentiful, when the winters were colder and harder, and when the people had to make difficult choices to protect one another.

The leaders came carrying the weight of governance. They listened to the people, weighed what was said, and tried to make decisions that would serve the whole community.

The parents came with concerns about their families, their homes, and the day-to-day work of surviving.

Everyone had something to say.

Well, almost everyone.

Beyond the bright circle of the firelight, the young people stood in the shadows. They were close enough to hear every word, but far enough away that nobody thought to turn around and ask what they thought.

Sometimes they whispered quietly among themselves.

“Why don’t they ask us?”

“That decision affects us, too.”

“I have an idea about how to fix that.”

Every now and then, a young person would take a tentative step closer to the warmth. But an older hand would gently rest on their shoulder, or someone would smile kindly and say, “Your time will come. Right now, listen and learn.”

And so, they listened.

Year after year, season after season, they stood in the cold and listened.

One evening, the community gathered to deliberate on the future.

The discussion turned to the youth. The adults talked about building recreation spaces where the young people could gather. They debated education policies, cultural programs, language retention, and how to stop their youth from leaving for the cities—or how to bring them back once they left.

The leaders spoke about what the young people needed.

The parents spoke about what they believed their children wanted.

The Elders spoke about what they remembered needing when they were young themselves.

Everyone around the fire had an answer, a program, or a plan.

Then, from the dark edge just outside the ring of light, a young person stood up.

“Can I ask something?”

The talking stopped. Heads turned.

“Of course,” one of the leaders replied, surprised.

The young person looked around the circle of faces illuminated by the flame.

“You’ve been sitting here all evening talking about us.”

A few people nodded, waiting.

“You’re deciding what we need. What we should learn. Where we should go. What kind of future we ought to have.” The young person paused, letting the silence settle over the clearing. “Has anybody thought to ask us?”

Nobody answered. The quiet grew heavy.

A second young person stepped out of the shadows.

“You tell us we’re the future of this community. But we’re already here today.”

A third stepped forward into the dim light.

“We know things you don’t know. Not because we’re smarter. Not because we’ve lived longer. But because we are living a completely different part of the story.”

The fire crackled in the silence.

Near the front of the circle, an Elder who had remained quiet all evening leaned forward on a walking stick.

“Come closer,” the Elder said.

The young people hesitated, glancing at one another.

“Come,” the Elder repeated gently, gesturing toward the circle. “There’s room.”

One by one, they stepped into the full light of the fire.

The Elder looked around at the community members, the parents, and the leaders sitting comfortably on their cedar boughs and benches.

“We have been so busy teaching these young ones how to listen,” the Elder said, “that perhaps we forgot to teach ourselves how to listen to them.”

The Elder reached down, lifted a heavy, seasoned piece of firewood, and pointed to the hearth.

“Look at this fire. Some of these logs have been burning for a long time. They give us warmth because they have carried the flame through the night.”

Then the Elder placed a fresh piece of green wood directly onto the coals.

“If we never add new wood, what happens?”

“The fire goes out,” someone murmured from across the circle.

The Elder nodded.

“And if we set the new wood off to the side, outside the fire ring, will it ever catch?”

“No,” the voice answered. “It never becomes part of the fire.”

“Exactly,” the Elder said, turning back to the people. “We tell our young people they will carry this fire one day. Yet we expect them to learn how while keeping them out in the cold.”

For a long while, nobody spoke. The truth of it sat in the center of the ring.

Then one of the leaders quietly shifted along the bench, clearing a wide space beside the council fire.

“Sit here,” the leader said.

And for the first time that evening, someone asked the young people an entirely different question.

Not what they hoped to be when they grew up.

Not whether they had been paying attention to their lessons.

Not what they had memorized from the adults.

The leader simply looked at them and asked:

“What do you think we should do?”

You should have heard those young people.

Once the door was opened, the words poured out. Some spoke about the language and how badly they wanted authentic ways to speak it without feeling judged for not knowing the grammar yet. Some spoke about protecting the backwaters and the bush lines where they still walked.

Others spoke honestly about what hurts: overcrowded housing, the deep loneliness of feeling invisible in their own home, barriers to schooling, and the ache of wanting good reasons to stay in the community instead of being forced away.

One young person admitted they no longer felt connected to anyone here.

Another said they wanted to step up and lead, but had no idea where the path even started because all the doors were kept shut tight.

And a few didn't speak at all that night. They just sat quietly by the heat, watching carefully, still learning whether this invitation was genuine or just another meeting where adults made promises they didn't intend to keep.

The community didn't interrupt. They didn't jump in to correct them, defend past decisions, or explain away their pain.

They just listened. And that simple act changed the ground they were standing on.

The next time the nation gathered to deliberate, the young people didn't linger in the dark behind the tree line.

They had a place at the fire.

It wasn't because the adults had abandoned their own responsibilities, and it wasn't because the youth suddenly had all the answers to complex community problems. It happened because the people had finally remembered a basic Anishinaabe truth:

Wisdom does not belong to a single generation.

The Elders carry the memory of where we have walked.

The leaders carry the accountability for how we govern.

The families carry the daily hopes and struggles of the homes.

And the youth carry firsthand knowledge of a contemporary world the older generations are no longer growing up in.

All of them belong at the fire. Without any one of them, the circle is broken.

As the seasons passed, those young people grew older. Some became mothers and fathers. Some became educators. Some took their seats as leaders. Many walked paths no one back then could have predicted.

But none of them ever forgot that quiet evening when someone finally scooted over and made room on the bench.

When the next generation of children approached the edge of the circle years later, those leaders didn't tell them to wait in line.

They simply shifted over.

A strong nation does not prepare its young people to lead by ordering them to stay quiet until their hair turns grey. It prepares them by building a fire big enough to hold them, handing them an ember, and making room for them to practise.

And the fire kept burning.

Reflection

How often do we sit at our own Chief and Council tables drafting policies, approving strategies, and debating the needs of our youth without ever turning our chairs around to ask them what they see?

We call them our future leaders to avoid sharing power with them today.

The fire was never meant to belong only to those who arrived at the clearing first.