Grandmothers

My mother and myself and my nosim.

My parents often speak about their grandmothers. They’ve told me many stories about them. My dad has told me how much his dad’s mother loved him. He has told me that she used to always feed him whenever he went there, which was very often. He said that when his mother died his dads mom, his grandmother helped him a lot. He said when she died he was very sad. He wasn’t very close to his other grandmother. My mother also only had one grandmother. Her father’s mother had died when her father was young. Her mother’s mum had a profound impact on her life. Her grandmother was a midwife and a layer out of bodies. She was a washer woman and she was Welsh. My mother said that her grandmother had an air of mystery about her and that her grandmother loved her family fiercely. Both of my parents loved their grandmothers strongly and remember them in a way that keeps them alive to anyone who listens to them talk about them.

“All my grandmothers flowers” painting by Madeline Belanger using photos of my great grandmothers.

When my daughter had her son I became a grandmother, a kokom. It changed how I thought of the world of grandmothers. I thought I want to be remembered the way my parents talk about their grandmothers. I want my grandchildren to still talk about me when they are grandparents. I want to bring happy thoughts and thoughts of love and comfort to all my grandchildren no matter how old they are.

It made me think about my own grandmothers and I wondered what it would have been like growing up with them.  My parents speak of their mothers with love. All I have is my parents memories of their mothers. Both of my grandmothers passed away before I was born. I know how much I love my nosim, grandchild, I can only hope that would’ve been that would have been the same for me. Both of my grandmothers died from health issues that I’ve experienced, one from gallbladder issues and the other from cancer. In some sense I’m connected to them through those things and the stories my parents tell me about them.

While I didn’t grow up with a grandmother in the sense that most people had grandmothers. I did have women in the grandmother role. In dominant society you can only have a certain amount of grandparents. In my culture you have many grandparents. I’m blessed to have many grandmothers. There have been several grandmothers that showed me that grandmother love.

On my dad’s side I was blessed to have my dad’s aunties as Kokoms.  I will always appreciate them. Those beautiful women made me feel connected to our family. They were excited for me with every milestone I experienced in my life. They encouraged me and taught me. They were chapans (great grandmothers) to my children. We all loved them.

Kokom Bella and I

On my mum’s side I was blessed to have her stepmother. She was the only grandmother I had from that side and although we called her Auntie she was one of my truest grandmothers.  She fussed over me when I was sick. She taught me how to draw perspective when I was 11. She was proud of me and I know she loved me. When my children were born she knit them all kinds of little sweaters and I wish she could have met them but she lived in England and we lived in Canada.

Auntie Phyllis and I

All these grandmothers that walked in my life; whether that’s in spirit and through my parents memories or physically with me, they have shown me how I to be a grandmother. They have taught me that a grandmother’s role is to love a child and to create memories that will always comfort you no matter how old you grow. I look forward to all the happy memories I will create for my grandchildren.

Grandmothers are important and you can always impact a child’s life in a positive way, whether you are related or not. Be the grandmother you needed as a child and create memories of love and happiness that last a lifetime.

Old hands

There is something beautiful about old hands. I never really noticed them before. I don’t really remember my grandparents hands. It wasn’t until I saw a photo that one of my cousins took of her mother’s hands kneading bannock dough, that I started to think about it. Sheryl said it was one of her favorite photos of her mom. She said it connects to happy memories of her mother.

Her mother had been gone for about a year when we talked about the picture. I asked her what had made her take the photo, she told me that she always wanted to remember her mother’s hands. That thought sat with me, it really resonated. I thought about how soft my mother’s skin has gotten over time. I thought about how her hands have changed.

I hadn’t thought about how many times my mothers hands had comforted me or all the items she had held as she handed them to me. As I think about all the times I held my mothers hands, all the times she rubbed my back and all the times she grabbed a hold of me and told me not to worry, and all the times she said she loved me. I realize how precious my mothers hands are to me. I realized exactly why my cousin would want a photo of her mothers hands. The hands of my mother represent all the love and security she has for me.

A letter to my children

You amaze me. You have grown into the most amazing, independent and strong adults. You show compassion to others. You respect the world around you. You value life and the lives of others. You know that sometimes people walk in pain and sorrow and I see the kindness you show to them. You walk with love in your heart and show that love to others. It gives me comfort to know that you will always know love because you are so loved.

You should know that some day when I’m gone, my love will always surround you.  It will be there in the kindness you show others. It will be there when you appreciate the beauty of the earth; it will be there when you show respect to others. Most of all, my love for you will be there as you teach your children to be the same amazing people that you are.

Each smile, each moment of laughter, each moment of amazement that you experience with your child; know that the love you feel for them is the same love I feel for you. That love never changes, never dies, and is never diminished by distance or time. Love is infinite. So always know that I love you beyond measure and beyond time. I am proud that you chose me to be your mother.

Love you now and always. ❤

Returns

I walked into the school my father once attended never knowing he had been there before. I saw the Nehiyaw culture every where I looked but I felt something there that was unexpected. I felt dread and emotion that I did not understand and I thought it was because this was a residential school.

I thought that because I knew this had been hallways and dorms

where children were brought,

where they did not feel safe,

where bad things had happened,

that this was the reason for my fear.

I walked down the hall to where the library now stood, where once a chapel had been. I felt dread and disconnected from the reality of where I stood. I left and felt glad to be shedding the feeling of this place. Perhaps it was all in my head.

I returned home and told my father where I had been and where I had stood. He asked me why would I ever go there. I said I was there to learn about its history and its place now, as it tries to return culture to the people it stole from. I said “you should come there with me some time. There’s culture and language everywhere.” He looked at me and in a shaky voice half shouted “I will never go back to that fucking place.” I was shocked and shook to my core. I did not even think about my dad being in school there.

I remembered then the stories he told, brief though they were, of the nuns and how mean they were in school. I paused and I questioned, “I thought you didn’t go to school there.” He said quietly “It was only two weeks.” I did not say anything else but I thought his reaction was too strong for only two weeks. I didn’t ask again.

I went back there…to the school of two weeks…wondering how this place connected to me and my history. How was it connected to the pain my family experienced and as if the school could read my thoughts, I could not find a way into the building. None of the doors would open although there were clearly people inside. Someone came out and I caught the door and went in. The same feeling of dread surrounding me as I walked down the hall. I went to meet the person I had come to see, unfortunately, she had been called away for a family emergency. I left the building and immediately felt better.

Twice more I came to the building and was shut out. Twice more I left without answers. Then I went to a ceremony being held on the school grounds and I prayed that my dad would feel safe enough to tell me something; I shed tears for him.

A few days later my parents called. They said “can you please come here, we need you to look at some papers.” I went to their home and my dad handed me a brown envelope; he turned and walked away. I sat down at their kitchen table and asked my mum what it was. She said its about the time your dad spent at residential school. I said oh. I felt emotionally flat. I said I thought it was only 2 weeks. My mum said “no its longer and they only know he was there because other people identified him”. The school otherwise had no real records of him.” I felt anger burn in the pit of my stomach but I also felt sick. I asked “how old was he”….my mum said “just read the papers.” So I did.

It identified his timeline as at least two years and two months. I felt sick. I asked “What does this mean” I felt bewildered and confused. My dad came and sat down next to me. He asked “what should I do?” “They want me to go and make a statement.” I asked him “Do you want to?” He was unsure, unsure if he should open old wounds, unsure if he should talk about it, unsure if it was safe to do so. We smudged and prayed and I went home with even more questions.

I knew my uncles and aunties had gone to school there, they had said. My Auntie told me that they didn’t learn to read or write, that they had learned how to pray and to know that they weren’t good enough. She said my uncles learned how to work farm jobs. My Kokom had told me that they had been treated worse than dogs and that everything was rationed, they had to make do. Yet I couldn’t figure out why I didn’t think my dad had gone to school there. I guess because he never really said anything about it and because he had a substance use disorder, it wasn’t something that every crossed my mind. Now I had more unanswered questions. I also knew why my dad would walk away when anyone talked about going to school.

My dad called me a couple of days later and said “I’m going to do it but only if you and your brother will come with me and please ask your friend Wanda to come with us.” I said ok. nothing more, no questions just ok.

The day came for the independent hearing and I was nervous. We smudged and prayed. I gave my dad the things my children had given to me for Mosom; rocks for strength and a letter telling him that they knew he would be ok.

I listened to my dad’s story, the terrible things that had happened to him, the fear he felt, the pain he experienced and how it impacted his life. He he had suffered from depression, anger and suicidal thoughts for years. How he couldn’t be the father that he wanted to be but how he wanted to be a better Mosom. He showed them the gifts the kids had sent for him. WE were all crying. I understood my sense of dread and fear connected to that place.

I heard his story and understood my father on a different level. I saw him as a child, who had survived a horrible experience. How his dependence on alcohol for so long had kept him from thinking about those experiences and how his years of sobriety had helped him tell his truth.

I continued to go to that school to participate in the ceremonies every year that are held there. I always asked him if he would come. He always said no until about 5 years ago when he said maybe. Then he came with me. He was nervous and scared. As we drove closer he talked about the evil of the place and how much he didn’t want to be there. I asked him “do you want me to turn around?” He said no. We arrived.

He had returned. My nephew, the youngest grandchild at the time, was with us. He took his Mosom’s hand and we walked towards the building. My dad walked up to the building, took a breath and walked in. He had returned to his place of terror. He could only get through the door but that was more than I had expected. I felt proud of him. My mum looked at me as my dad said I need to leave the building and my nephew walked out with him. They walked around the grounds and we gave them time. Then we left. My dad seemed somehow lighter as we left.

The return was powerful, as was the ability to choose to leave. He had gained some freedom and I told him he didn’t ever have to go back there unless he chose to again. My parents, my nephew and I have gone back only once since then to attend a ceremony on the grounds but never to the building. I doubt if he will ever return to the building now that he has freely walked away from it.

Broken Bowl – The story of my bowl

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The broken bowl, the idea is that we are all similar to bowls, we carry around with us the experiences of our lives and somehow we are able to put ourselves back together. This doesn’t always happen right away but it does happen. It is a process that we sometimes need help with and sometimes we are able to do this ourselves. I had thought of doing this project previously but had not stopped to take the time to gather what I needed. When my supervisor asked me if I would help her with it I thought that it was a good chance to try it out.

As we sat at the board room table painting the gesso on the bowls I was contemplating. I considered what I would put on the bowl, what would it reflect about my grief and loss. I thought about how my parents had separated when I was in grade 7. I thought about the addictions and violence that was in my childhood home prior to their separation. I thought about all the people that I loved and had since lost over time. All these experiences contributed to who I am, they have made me the person that I am and shaped the destiny that I have followed. I put these thoughts aside for a bit while I went back to my regular work day but I felt unsettled. I went online and looked at some quotes on grief and loss. Some were so depressing and some were way to “I shall overcome”. These experiences sat with me while I ran a group for self esteem and I continued to feel as though I needed to let go of some of the thoughts. I was glad to be able to start the project. I knew what I wanted to start with.

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When I went to break the bowl and I had a difficult time to do this. I didn’t want to many shattered pieces; it was as though I didn’t want to have as many broken pieces of the bowl as there might actually be in my life. I also felt guilty breaking the bowl as it did represented part of me, I asked my husband to do it for me. I had to explain the idea behind the bowl and as always he helped me. I brought it back to the office to begin this process. I placed all the pieces out on the table and contemplated. Then I decided that the place where the bowl had been broken was similar to my heart. So I decided to paint a red heart around the hole. This was the start of a several hour process. I then decided that I wanted blue sparkle paint over the top of the heart and black sparkle paint at the bottom. The reason for the sparkles, without the darkness there is no light. The reason for the blue above is because when I feel sad I go outside, turn my face towards the sun, close my eyes and look up. The sky makes me remember that there is light when there is darkness.
Next I drew. I decided that it would be easier to draw what I wanted to paint. I decided at that point to draw like I was a little kid. So I drew my family. I drew my mom between two of the broken pieces because my mom was always trying to keep us together. It didn’t always work and if the power of love and her will could have kept us all ok, it would have.

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I drew all of us holding hands because we always went everywhere together. Sometimes as kids we hated that, there were 5 of us kids and we all received the same amount, no one ever really got anything more than the other. We even used to divide a box of smarties between all of us and any extra went to my parents. I put my dad on the other side of us kids because of the separation and his leaving. On the same side as my dad I drew a house. We lived in a trailer that had green stripes on it.

We lived in Kikino Metis Settlement, so I drew trees because we were always climbing trees and outside exploring. I also drew the river because in the summer we would go swimming in the river almost every day with all the other kids on our road.

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When I painted the sun it was high in the sky but underneath the storm clouds is a sunset because everything changed and my life living out of town and being free to roam around ended when my parents separated. The sunset is attached to the black because I thought I would never get over losing my home, the land that I used to run barefoot on and the freedom that I had.

My family continued to change and that broke my heart. It was like there was a huge hole in my heart and I thought everyone who met me could tell just by looking at me. I turned inside myself for a long time. It then felt strange to glue the bowl together again. It felt like I should be able to make it look the same and hide the cracks but I couldn’t. Then I remembered that my experience created who I am and it doesn’t define me. Its just a part of me.

Once it was time to paint the inside of my bowl this too was hard to decide what to do. There was a huge hole in the side of the bowl. I tried filling it with some of the pieces from the bowl and while it covered it up it didn’t change the fact that there was a gaping hole in the bowl. Then I saw a heart that I had been given by a stranger at the truth and reconciliation event in Edmonton. I decided that I would put that on the hole. This heart said compassion. I thought it was a reflection of how other people have helped me to heal and move forward as well as a reflection of self-care. So I glued it over the hole. I’m not perfect, I have healed some of my emotional pains but it will always be something that stays with me. I painted the inside of the bowl black and then turquoise. I then decided that although the cracks will always be there I have learned some things about myself and being resilient so I decided that I would use sparkle glue to make the cracks stand out but they are the same colour as the paint so its really only if you look closely will you have the benefit of seeing the beauty that comes from the breaks.

Finally I put 4 quotes into the inside of my bowl. These quotes both remind and encourage me. The first is written on the black teardrop in the center of the bowl. It says “The darkest of nights produces the brightest stars.” Again to remind me that even in the darkness I can shine. The next quote is “Sometimes in tragedy we find our life’s purpose.” This is because I became a counselor because of my experiences and I try to help others with theirs. The third is “It is perfectly okay to admit you’re not okay” This is to remind me that I also have to take care of myself. The last quote is personal and a quote by someone named John Graham. It says “I survived because the fire inside of me burned brighter that the fire around me.” This is to always remind me that I am alright and that I can be alright. In all the difficult situations that have happened in my life, I have walked through the other side.

What is your bowl’s story?

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“The darkest nights produce the brightest stars”