Cancer….why
So I asked
There was no answer, only silence
Again I asked
CANCER…why
Still no reply
In anger and frustration I yelled
CANCER….WHY
Still silence, no answers
I can only cry.
cancer….why
My tears fall. My heart is silently broken.
There are no answers, the fight begins and still I wonder why in the silence
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.
The going home snow, kewaytinok
Tell me about the going home snow, kewaytinok
The last snow before spring. One last moment to remind you to take a breath in the stillness of winter.
Tell me how the geese have returned and the birds sing. Kewaytinok
Tell me about life renewed.
Tell me about the going home snow and what it means.
Kewaytinok
I paint as an expression of what I feel that I cannot always explain with words. Sometimes these paintings come to me very clearly as this one did. I had been thinking about how much my family has been impacted by residential schools, how colonization has affected us and how these things are passed on generationally.
This painting represents how imposing blue quills has been on my family. There is a lot of intergenerational trauma because of it. We had multiple generations of family members attend this s hool.
Flowers represent medicines to me. The flowers are growing over the photos and bringing healing and change. Medicine comes in many forms.
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. Culture is medicine.
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. There are two photos of my family members as youth when they would’ve been in Blue Quills Indian Residential school
The background colours are there because of how this painting came me. Red is understood to be connected to healing, it is also understood to be the only colour that spirits can see.
Overall the painting is like a prayer for healing, separating my family from the school and the impact it’s trauma created.
HOPE.
That little light far off in the distance.
HOPE.
The light in the night sky.
HOPE.
I need to move towards it. That’s my hope.
It’s very dark.
My hope is a beacon in this darkness. I move closer still. My hope is getting brighter.
The darkness still surrounds. Yet I still see that light.
It burns brighter and whispers “I am here”
Hope
I move closer, I’m trying to reach out, trying to grasp a hold of the light in the darkness.
I hope.
Hope tells me “you are not alone” – Hope says “I am here. “
Suddenly, I realize that the light isn’t far away. Suddenly, I realize that the light was always with me. I just didn’t know that the light was always shining within me.
HOPE
Hope shines and it radiates out. It is light. The darkness is diminished. Hope is bright and it radiates from me.
Hope is love. I grasp a hold of my hope.
HOPE
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.
I wish I could speak my language. I know words but not conversations. I hear words I recognize but cannot understand. Some words come to me.
Pikiskwe – speak
Astum ota – come here
Awas – go away
Mitsoh – eat
I know words and sometimes I hear answers in my mind…
Tansi -namoyananto ekwa kiya
…but my mind says “I’m fine, how about you?”
Someone gives me something, my mind says ay-aye but I answer in English and say thank-you.
Kekeway oma? What is this?
I have lost my words. I have lost my conversations and now only in my mind I speak.
Do you carry the land or does the land carry you?
Are you immersed and infused? Do you feel it in your blood?
Do you carry the land?
Does it walk with you?
Does it heal you?
Do you feel it within you? I feel the land, it is ever present in its beauty, in its calm and even in its wild freedom. The land exists in my heart and my spirit.
Where is the land in you?
Do you carry the land or does the land carry you?
When you walk through the bush do you feel the land? Can you see its gifts, it medicines, its life?
Do you feel it carrying you, sustaining you and healing you?
Does the land carry you? Are you connected to the land? Are you part of the land? Is it part of you? Do you hear it speak and feel its heartbeat?
It speaks through the rustles of the wind in the trees and grasses. It heals through connection. It heals through plant medicine and the water. It heals through its spirit. When I walk barefoot on the land, it sustains me with its gifts. I am infused within the land. My ancestors walked here, healed here, bled here, ate here. This land gifted my ancestors with life.
The land speaks to me. In the winter it speaks in the cold and the silence. The the spring it speaks when it awakens with new life. In summer it speaks in its beauty. In the fall the land speaks, with its gifts, relaxation and promise of restoration.
It carries me, it sustains me, it heals me.
I feel the land, it flows within me, I carry the land with me.
I carry the land and the land carries me.
What about you?
Do you carry the land or does the land carry you?
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.
Silence,
It is deafening in its stillness and quiet
Kista?
Awina?
Neya.
I am silent.
I am mute.
What do I say?
These words are lost to me.
These words I should know.
Tapwe.
I should be able to speak but I am silenced.
The nuns and the priests they took away the language.
I heard it in my youth.
My father’s first language. He learned not to speak and to remain silent.
It is spoken to others, who also spoke…those not totally mute, not totally silenced but still they did not speak it to me. I am silenced.
Sometimes words want to come, not lots of words only some. Then fear takes hold and they go away.
I do not know enough language to get by.
I know a few words but still fear gets in the way so I remain mute.
Silenced.
The silence is deafening in its stillness and quiet.
Thanks to that school I am silent. I am mute.
Sakaw Iskwew 