Tag: #histories

Family history

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I’ve been told about my family’s history and told I should remember it, so I do. This is how we start.

In the beginning… we were here, we were here from time immemorial, from before colonization, before Canada and before the treaties. We come from people who were autonomous and independent. We had our own creation story, our own history, our own math and science. We hand our own medicines and medical practices. We educated ourselves. We took care of ourselves. We knew our history, our laws, and practiced our culture freely.  As time continued we experienced changes and made contact with new cultures and new ideas. We considered ourselves equal to these people. They did not consider us their equal and sought to exploit us.

We found the changes that were occurring were faster than we expected, and we were asked to enter into agreements to share the land.  So we entered into ceremony, prayed, and asked for guidance towards this end. In 1876, we were guided and therefore agreed to enter into a sacred treaty. This was done to benefit the people. We thought that because we we had entered into an agreement through Sacred Ceremony, that they would honour the sacredness and truth of the treaty. We thought they would follow through on their word to help us.

We did not agree to give up our independence, nor did we agree to give up who we were, our laws, our traditions, and our ways of being. We did not think they would continue to steal from us, not only taking all the land we agreed to share but also eventually our children. We did not think we would lose our autonomy, nor did we think we would be forced to give up our culture, language, and traditions to fit into another nations society. Their society.

So our family history is always told with the prefaced context of what happens next. This is the story of our family and its journey to now. It’s about how history has impacted us as best as I can tell. It’s about our relatives and who we come from. It’s the story of us.

History

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I am a survivor – yes, a survivor of history, a survivor of residential school. Though I did not attend, I was never the less there. I survived it. I was there, I was there before I was born.

This is not ancient history, a story, it is real and it is my history.

I survived the hurt, the anger, the fear – the tears – the sorrow – the betrayal of trust. A child’s trust, the loss of that innocence.

I survived. I survived the wicked behaviour called “discipline”. I survived the shame, humiliation, self-hatred and the loss. “You are nothing, you dirty Indian”

I survived the losses.
The loss of language, culture, history and pride.
THE LOSS, THE LOSS, THE LOSS!!!
The loss of safety, security, and the loss of family, for generations.

How can this be? How did I survive, you ask???

I did, I survived….
I am a survivor of my fathers pain and my Mosom’s shame. I am a survivor of the betrayal, two generations of “education”.

Yes, I did not go to residential school but my family did. My family was sentenced there. The terms were carried out over several generations, sentencing that carried a legacy, holding us, stealing life from us, slowing us, paining us.

It taught my family not just reading and writing. It taught shame, self-hatred and created the need to forget.
It taught my Mosom Self-loathing, it raised him up in foreign ways. It told him “remember your place” “say your prayers, you’ll go to hell” and it created shame, shame, shame.
It taught my father to forget. The only direction to turn – ANYTHING to help you forget. But it was not gone. It never leaves, it was ALWAYS there. It is always there.

It is there in the fear and the tears and the sorrow. It is there in the behaviours, the promises and the inter-generational sorrow. The trauma that still holds.

Yet I have survived. I walked into that building, feeling the fear, struggling to make myself go inside. I cried. I cried for those children who never left, whether that was through experience or death. I cried so that I could be free. I survived.

I will not let the former shame claim another generation. “I will be okay, we are okay” “TAPWE” this generation grows strong because I survived. My father and my Mosom lived and I am here in spite of the fear. I am a survivor of residential schools.

Searching for history

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History is interesting. It is both written and spoken. History is remembered, and some events will always be spoken of. Those events that continue to be spoken about have had huge impacts on those that tell the story.

The stories we tell are connected to where and who we come from. Some of those who I come from didn’t have a voice that was ever heard. So now I research their stories so I can speak their truth.

1876 treaty paylist

My family always tells the story of when the treaty was signed at Saddle Lake. They say it was at the corner where our family had property. They say the first signers were 7 brothers. They agreed to join the treaty. This is a paylist. I wonder, are these those 7 brothers? Were there sisters? What are the other stories?

History is interesting. Written or spoken, it tells the story of a time and place. It tells the story of what happens to people. We must remember to tell the stories.

Medicine Gifts

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Touchwood creek

Medicine has been gifted to people. Every culture has its own understandings of medicine and what that means. Medicine is learned, it is taught, it is lived. In Nehiyawak culture medicine can be plants, it can be ceremony, it can be spending time in nature or with others. The word medicine has many different meanings. In this way there are many different ways to seek healing. Medicine is what makes you better.

One summer several years ago we went camping at mile seven. My Aunt Alsena, my father’s first cousin, met us there. Our purpose in going there’s was to pick medicines, there are several different kinds in that area.

We had spent the afternoon picking medicines and auntie Alsena told us that her friend Diane was going to meet up with us. She had camped there with us before. When Dianne showed up she had brought sage and sweet grass with her.

We learned about creating sage bundles and sweetgrass braids. Once we finished making the braids and bundles we took them and hung them up to dry in the breeze off the lake. 

Then we began to clean the roots and preparing the medicines. As we were cleaning the medicines, Dianne and auntie Alsena were telling stories of the medicines and how we got them.  We learned how the medicinal plants were used and why we are so connected to the land. This connection itself is a form of medicine. Just being out on the land brings healing in various ways.

One of the medicines we learned about was spruce gum. This spruce gum is used as an antiseptic. It fights infection. It helps to hold skin together when someone is injured. It is used to treat colds and is added to other medicines. It can be used for food too.

We were told the story of the gift of spruce gum and how badger gave it to us. Badgers are fierce and dangerous animals. A long time ago they were very big, much larger than they are now. They were bigger than people, and they used to kill and hurt people. The people prayed to the Creator for help, because we are weak and we need help to survive. The Creator told badger to stop harming people. That did not happen. Eventually the Creator had to do something about badger. The people had chased two baby badgers up a tree. Creator told them that because badger had not respected the request to live peacefully they would be changed. They would no longer be bigger than the people, they would remain the size of their babies. They would provide help to the people through the warmth of their fur, etc. The baby badgers were grateful that the Creator allowed them to live and they promised to help the people. When they slid down the spruce tree their claws cut open the bark and the tree sap came out. The badgers told the people that this was their medicine that they were sharing it with the people as a way to make amends. They taught the people what its used for and how to use it. There are stories for all medicines. Storytelling helps you to remember the medicines and how and why they are used.

Auntie Alsena also told us about a man was lost in the bush for two weeks in the winter. His snowmobile ran out of gas and he tried to hike out of the bush. He got lost and ran out of food and water. To survive he ate spruce gum and drank melted snow to help sustain his body. He survived and was rescued. She told us all that spruce gum is full of vitamin c and will help us if we need it.

All of these activities were each a form of medicine. Each thing gave us something different to heal us. It balanced our spirits through the camping and story telling. It taught us ways to help ourselves in a crisis. We learned the medicinal properties and usage of plants. We laughed and found purpose in what we did. We built connections and created memories that will last a lifetime. All this is good medicine.

Etikwe, I suppose

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Etikwe, I suppose. I’m not sure why this word popped into my mind, I suppose there are lots of reasons for it.

I think about how many different times I’ve heard this word in my life. Etikwe, I suppose it’s a lot.

Etikwe, it means I suppose or maybe just suppose. Awina etikwe, I don’t know who or maybe I wonder who depending on the context. I suppose I should talk pîskiskwêw to my dad about it.

I suppose I’m supposed to use it more. I guess I need to use the words in Cree as they pop into my mind.

Etikwe it is to remind me that there are words that I know and that I need to learn more.

So that I can pê-pîkiskwêw
Ekosi, that’s all my thoughts for now, etikwe

Changes

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Everything changes. Sometimes we are prepared for it and other times it takes us by surprise. As we age we change and the life around us changes. Those we know age and pass, friends move or become distant, we add new people to our lives. There is constant change around us.

I think about all the people from my childhood who are no longer here. I think about what they meant to me, who was important to me and the reasons why. I think about how time changed them and how they aged. I think about the last times I saw them and try to remember what my last words were to them or the sound of their voice. It’s like a sound that’s far away and indistinguishable from the static of time past.

Everything changes, even memories. Moments that were happy and bright begin to fade unless we write down those precious memories and tell their stories. Stories help, photos help and still life grows and changes so we continue to tell new stories and we remember the good old days. We become surprised about what we remember and all the changes we’ve experienced along the way.

Healing

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This painting represents how imposing blue quills has been on my family. There is a lot of intergenerational trauma because of it. This place caused a lot of physical, emotional and spiritual pain for my family. My dad and all his siblings attended there. My mosom (grandfather) and his siblings attended there. My Chapan, great grandfather he was fortunate enough to not have to go to residential school. However he did have the experience of losing his father at a young age, when his father was murdered during the 1885 northwest rebellion . (That’s another story)

This painting came to me one night while I was thinking about the impact that residential school had on my family.

The flowers are growing over the photos and bringing healing and change. The photo of blue quills is large because it had a huge impact. It’s not covered because it will never go away.

The smudge and eagle feather are clearing away the pain through reconnection to culture.

The photos are of my dad and his siblings. Each one of the flowers represents someone in my family. The purple ones are my dad and his siblings. The yellow ones represent myself and my siblings that’s why there are 5 of them. The orange ones are my parents grandchildren. The pink dots represent all of my cousins. The berries represent change and new growth. The sage also represents growth through healing. The background colours are there because of how this painting came to me.

Returns

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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.