Sarah Sinclair: English 385.2

My own experience of T&R is something that I enjoy sharing, that I believe I need to share. I’ve heard hundreds of stories about the life of people at IRSs and seeing the pain that holding those stories in has taught me that part of dealing with these stories means sharing them. One person can’t be responsible for stories, they have to be spread out because in truth, they belong to humanity as a whole.

Here’s a story about my experience of the T&R Commission.

I interviewed a young man, in his early 30s. He attended the last residential school in Saskatchewan called Gordon’s Residential. He had a lot of positive things to say about his school experience: he was encouraged to play hockey and excelled at it. He received a normal education. He was generally treated well by the staff. This experience was unusual for me to hear because i only talk to people who were abused at residential schools; “where’s the abuse” I wondered, and that thought sickened me a little.

Well, there was abuse, he was so reluctant to tell me about it. And he has some pretty severe problems because of it. He repeated to me over and over that he doesn’t want to blame the system for his problems, that he has responsibilities for his actions. It was an amazing attitude to witness from a survivor of residential school, a rare one, but I think it may have been partly denial. This man’s problems had been street living and indigency in the past, and currently he’s trying to quit smoking crack.

Every time I see some skinny lady on the street, walking a crack-walk, I remember this fellow and try not to judge her. Every time I see any First Nations person on the street older than say, 40, I remember that they may have gone to residential, or a church-run day school. Or their parents went, or their grandparents. The issues stemming from the residential school policies of the government last longer than 3 generations and I consider myself very lucky that the schools my family members attended weren’t among the worst.

On Sunday evening I read Thomas King’s novel “Truth and Bright Water”. I simply could not put it down! I don’t have time for a long post at the moment but I want to blog some of my ideas about this novel. It made me think a lot about  other ways of thinking and living.

The first idea I had about this book concerns the quality of writing. King’s style creates an emotional connectivity for me; I was able to relate to situations I’ve never experienced through this novel. I felt many things whilst reading this novel, perhaps the most poignant and lasting of these feelings was resilience or acceptance of despair. Nothing good happens in this novel in the way I am used to, so I had to find reasons for joy in little tiny events. These tiny joys came in the form of kindnesses mostly, but all in the context that nothing was going to change. While I would normally consider this a negative or depressing viewpoint, somehow King showed me that even a tragic life is still a life.

One more thought about this novel before I have to run: I know that King is Cherokee, but he writes about a reserve in Southern Alberta/ Northern Montana. He also writes very knowledgebly as far as I can tell. This brings up many questions for me. I wonder first off what the traditional lifestyle of the Cherokee was. Are they a Plains people? Was King raised on-reserve? how was he taught? Traditionally or in the Western style? I wonder so many little things about King like if he’s Canadian or American, what nation he identifies with, and whether any of his characters reflect his own experiences.

I think I will probably read more of Thomas King’s novels in the course of this class, because I am led to ask many things about myself and the world around me. Also, they seem to be quite entertaining.

To introduce myself and my family I will tell my grandmother’s life story.

My father’s mother was born on-reserve, at Fisher River, Manitoba. She lived with her parents and 3 siblings on a small farm on the Peguis reservation and attended schoool in a one-room schoolhouse until it became time for her to attend high school at the age of 14.  While attending grade 9 she lived away from home at a residence in a white town miles away from her reserve, and her family. Her mother, my great-grandmother, became very sick and my grandmother left school to care for the home and her younger siblings.

Outside influence was strong at Peguis reserve at this time and my grandmother was not encouraged to learn the language of her people, which was a mixture of Cree and Ojibway. These days, no one in my family speaks the language of our ancestors.

Another effect of this outside influence was the loss of traditional styles of learning. My grandmother was not taught by her mother in the traditional way. She became pregnant with my dad at age 15. She told me a story of this time, saying that she did not understand what was happening to her, and her mother and aunts were quiet on the subject. My dad was born when my grandma was 16 and she left him in the care of her mother and father.

My grandmother was so young; the father of my dad had run away after giving her my uncle, and she went to Calgary to find a new life. My dad was brought up in the tiny farmhouse by my great-grandfather, who taught my dad how to hunt and fish. My dad did not learn much in the traditional way because the reserve was very white-washed at that time.

Before my dad went to Calgary to join my grandmother, it was necessary that he attend high school. The RCMP would have come after my great-granddad if my dad had not been sent away to school. My dad went to Toulon School, a white school away from the reserve. He lived in a residence in the town where he went to school. He tells me of that time that he missed his family very, very much. He graduated school early and tried to go to University but being only 16 and very lonely for his family, he went to be with my grandmother in Calgary.

In Calgary my grandmother had married a very abusive alcoholic and had 4 more children, my uncles and aunt. She eventually was able to leave this man, out of her own great strength. She married the man I knew as my grandfather and he adopted her four younger children, but not my dad and oldest uncle because they were in their twenties at that point.

My grandmother got her first grandchild quite young: my cousin Philip. He was born when my grammy was 36 or thereabouts. I was born when my grammy was 46 or so. I am my grandmother’s oldest granddaughter, of 15 natural grandkids. My grandmother has 5 great-grandchildren as well.

Being the second oldest of the grandkids, I have a special relationship with my grandmother. She has taught me much in what I consider the traditional manner: storytelling. She has told me many stories of her life, and through those stories I have learned how to make bannock, stew, and other foods. I have learned an appreciation for the little bits of traditional knowledge passed to me, like styles of beadwork in the area where my grandmother grew up. Knowing about my grandmother’s life and the loss of knowledge in my family has given my a great thirst for traditional knowledge, especially the language which is spoken by very few people these days.

My grandmother is a remarkable person.  I consider myself a very lucky person to be a part of her family. She is the matriarch of my family. I think that her story is appropriate as an introduction to myself because I hope to be as wise and accomplished as she is, one day.