They Called Me 33: Reclaiming Ingo-Waabigwan

Preface

It took many years to write this book. I came up with the idea in 1994 thinking it would be easy: like writing a diary. But writing this book has been one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life. I did not know all the ghosts I had in my closet. In addition to my painful memories of residential school, looking back made me realize I had blocked many other painful memories, from both before and after residential school life. I went to my family with these painful memories, trying to find help in remembering some past experiences. I wanted to focus on what happened to me, so this could be my story. Many times, I had to stop writing because depression set in. I learned to listen to my body and focus on the feelings to find out what was triggering the depression. I realized I had to learn to grieve. This was an important discovery to me, as it was something I had never considered. I did not realize that my inability to grieve was preventing my healing journey.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank all the people who encouraged me to write this book: Wilma for showing me the importance of writing; Rhonda for encouraging me along the way, and showing me the grammar part of writing; Chuck for listening to my thoughts, for his encouragement and ideas; and to Pam for showing me the significance of grieving, loss and trauma.

Even though this is a book of pain, some parts which involve my family, I would like you to know that I love my family very much, and the reason I am sharing these family secrets is to show you how I faced these problems then and today. Grudges would take up too much energy and would rob me of the present. In my family, we have all been victimized, and each of us, in our own way, has tried to survive. As we did so, and despite loving one another, we hurt one another along the way. Violence breeds violence.

I did not have a nurturing childhood, and as a parent, I became emotionally unavailable to my children. How can I judge my parents when I also fell short? Motherhood is a big responsibility. There are no right ways of being a mother, but we can all identify if it is the wrong way. All I knew was to be a domineering mother, one in control. I was raised this way. Even though I knew this was wrong, I knew no other way, and for this I am truly sorry.

I would like to thank the Creator for giving me the courage, the words, the love, and the grieving process and for placing people in my path to help me on my healing journey. Even though I doubted Him, He faithfully took care of me.

Meegwetch!

Our ancestors have always told us to share our stories.

This is mine.

Chapter 1

My Childhood

It was a hot sunny day; a soothing breeze was flowing off the lake through the open screened windows. My mother and I were both lying sideways across a double bed, next to the open window, enjoying the afternoon together. I was on my stomach, legs in the air, as my eyes followed a bee buzzing around outside the screen window. My mother was lying on her side, legs dangling off the bed. She was a hard-working woman, young in spirit, all the while loving her family. There was no rest, having twelve children to tend to, but that afternoon she was taking a break with me anyway. Out of the blue, I asked, Mom, what was it like when you gave birth to me?

Mom looked out the window, reminiscing on the day she gave birth to me. Her face brightened as she began to tell her story. She said she went into labour the wee hours of the morning, and as the sun began to appear across the horizon, she prepared for her journey into town, packing a suitcase with her belongings and some baby clothes. My mother prayed that she would make it to the hospital on time. She had plenty of experience giving birth.

Dad took the suitcase down to the boat. There, he carefully prepared our big ole fishing boat for the trip by making sure there was plenty of gas and by laying blankets on the floor of the boat, so Mom could lie down as she bore each contraction. As my mother wobbled down the hill toward my dad, he grabbed her hand and helped her into the boat. He made sure she was comfortable on the blankets before starting their journey. Like all dad’s, he was nervous. He remained silent and hoped they would make it into town on time. The two-hour ride seemed like eternity.

The water was calm and serene and looked like a glass mirror. There was no breeze, and all you could hear was the motor putting slowly across the lake. Occasionally, my mother moaned in pain as she would breathe into each contraction. While gasping, Mom saw a stork flying across the lake as they approached our Couchiching First Nation reserve. Immediately, upon seeing the stork, Mom had suspicious thoughts that her baby might be taken away. She prayed that she would make it to the hospital safely and that I would be healthy.

As my parents approached land, houses appeared on the lakeshore, and she knew that things would be fine. As Dad docked the boat, he climbed out of the boat and opened his hands to help Mom out of the boat. Once he had the boat docked and Mom was safely on land with her personal belongings, he ran to the nearest house to call a taxi. The trip to the hospital was only a ten-minute drive, but they had railway tracks to cross. If the tracks were blocked by a train it would prevent them from getting into town.

God answered their prayers, and everything turned out fine. Mom explained that I was a dry birth because her water broke several hours before I was born. Despite it all, Mom and Dad became proud parents once again. I was now the tenth child and second girl in the family. It was mandatory that we stayed in the hospital for the next ten days as my mother recuperated and regained her strength. When we checked out, I had a good bill of health.

My family are from the Ojibway Nation, Bear Clan, and are band members of Couchiching First Nation. Before I was born, my parents moved from the Couchiching Reservation to Rice Bay, a remote area twelve miles east of Fort Frances, Ontario. There, my dad purchased Rice Bay Fisheries plus a two-bedroom log cabin.

Rice Bay was uninhabited land; we only had wildlife for company. There were no other people living year-round in this area. You could look at a wilderness movie to see how our home looked. Our log cabin was only a few yards from the shore.

Home was a two-bedroom log cabin, divided by a partition inside the house. In the kitchen area was a wood cook stove with an oven. The kitchen cupboards hid our food supplies. On the counter were tall baking-powder canisters filled with rice, sugar, flour and other items to prevent them from getting wet. At the end of the counter Mom had a homemade box that separated our forks, knives and spoons. We also had a big wood box where we stored chopped up wood. On the top of this wood box was a shelf where fresh pails of water from the lake were kept. In the winter those pails were filled with snow. The warmth of the house melted the snow. Our house was well used. The hardwood floors, once varnished, were worn because of the heavy traffic areas and could easily give you splinters.

The living room had a table with two chairs on each end, another two chairs along one side, and a long wooden bench beneath the window on the other side of the table. The torn chair covers had been replaced with old blankets. Our living room couch converted into a bed and was covered with a homemade quilt. Underneath the quilt was a flannel sheet. At the head of the couch was a book shelf, and on the top shelf was our battery-operated radio. In the living room, there was also an old wood heater that we used daily.

In one bedroom we had two double beds separated by a trunk. There was a window alongside one bed and between the two beds was another window. There were no curtains on the windows. Each bed was covered with heavy homemade quilts. Underneath the beds were cardboard boxes where our clothes were stored. On the partition walls were shelves with items that Mom and Dad stored (old pictures, etc.), and underneath the shelves were huge nails to hang jackets, sweaters and other items. The other bedroom had one double bed. It also had a homemade quilt and many boxes of odds and ends stored in one corner.

Sleeping arrangements were crowded because there were many in our family. We all squeezed into all the beds at bedtime. To make more room, we would sleep sideways, across the width of the beds. We were all children, so we all fit. Upon going to bed our room would be nice and tidy. After we rustled and played, we would fall asleep with the sheets no longer on the bed, and the room would be in a total disaster. It would look like an F-4 tornado had hit.

We had kerosene lamps for our lights and on extremely cold nights my dad would ask one of my brothers to keep the fire going all night. My brothers always made sure there was a good supply of wood on hand. During the summer months they would take the boat out and load it up with wood. During the winter months they would drag tree parts to the house on a toboggan.

We did not have much privacy in our house. If I had to change, I would wait or ask my brothers to leave the room. And we never had the comfort of a bathroom. We had an outside toilet, which we used during daylight hours. The boys had the advantage of making their own bathrooms outside the house during the dark hours of the night. If the girls wanted to go to the bathroom, we had a pail to go in and it was in an open area where anyone could see. Many times, we would have to wipe our bottoms with newspaper or a catalogue.

Dad was a small man of around five foot eight, 185 lbs. He had short black hair, crew-cut style, brown eyes, and he always wore a plaid shirt tucked into his pants and held up with suspenders. He always had a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He was a quiet, observant man who kept to himself. He did not say much, but when he did, his words meant something. Whether it was words of instruction or words of humour, he made a great impression on everyone around him.

Growing up as a child, I remember Dad sitting on the couch with his eyes closed while he listened to the hockey game on the radio. Hockey meant listening to the radio for what, to me, seemed like long, agonizing hours; I considered this sport very boring. There were times when I thought Dad was sleeping, and I would go up to the radio and change the station. Then Dad’s eyes would open. I knew at that moment I had to change the channel back to where it had been. One could only imagine a snapping turtle and what would happen if it is disturbed. I soon learned that Dad did not have to say anything; his look said it all. Despite the look, Dad had a gentle spirit.

My dad was also musically talented. Evenings were a time for music, and occasionally he played the violin. I would sit and listen to his playing. He had no problem playing tunes, such as Orange Blossom Special and Amazing Grace. My brothers would accompany him, keeping the beat, taking turns playing the guitar to match his violin. There were times when the guitar strings would break. Living in the woods meant we could not purchase another set right away, but my brothers managed to compensate and play guitar with what they had. If Dad was not playing an instrument, he was keeping time playing the spoons. The rest of us sang.

I was fortunate, for I grew up listening to good entertainers. I really enjoyed listening to the guitar and singing the songs we heard on the radio. It didn’t take much for them to learn a song and play the guitar. All music was learned by ear. My younger sister took advantage of playing the guitar and singing. This really was a good way of sharing our talents with each other. I sang, but I was very shy and backed off whenever people other than family came around.

Mom was around five foot six, 180 lbs, with black hair, fair skin, and I can remember her always wearing dresses. During the winter months, she would wear pants underneath her dresses. My mother was outgoing and loved people, and I remember her being full of laughter. She had a passion for music, and many times I would catch her singing. She was not the greatest singer, but her songs brought joy to our household. Her days were busy from the time she woke up until the late evening when she went to bed. She was always busy taking care of the household. Mom was the one who disciplined. Dad was the provider. Dad sat back and would give us this stern look, and we knew he meant business.

My mother’s final hours of the day were spent with my dad. They would play cards (cribbage), and when my mother lost, my dad would laugh and tease her. She would make faces at him behind his back. We would all laugh. Dad knew what she was doing, but he would ignore her and continue playing cards.

I had eight older brothers and one younger brother. Growing up in a large family with brothers meant trouble. I grew up being teased and picked on. It was normal to be teased with frogs, snakes, and spiders. I soon became a tomboy, climbing trees and wandering in the wilderness with them.

Clarence, the oldest, was eighteen when I was born. He worked away from home to help provide for the family, but when he came home, I would sit on his lap. I followed him wherever he went: often to the outdoor toilet, where I would wait until he was done to continue our conversation. Clarence had a gentle spirit. He gave me quality time whenever he was available. Clarence had a beautiful voice. He seldom sang, but when he did, he had the attention of everyone.

Arnold was the next oldest. He was the career person in our family. He graduated from high school and went into the air force. My parents were proud to have someone in the family accomplish this status.

Alex was the third oldest. I don’t remember him being around much, but like Clarence, he helped my dad provide for the family. Alexwas known for playing the guitar and singing; he would entertain us in the evenings when he was home.

Anne was the first-born girl in the family. Her hair and eyes were brown, her skin was olive. She grew up naturally becoming Mom’s assistant; she cooked, took care of younger siblings, and did the laundry. She had a very hard role to fill, especially when Mom was not around. The boys challenged her by not listening when she was babysitting. They also would tease her with snakes, a fear she still has today.

Elmer was the tough guy in the family. He loved playing hockey. His life was hard, as he fended for his younger brothers and became known as the bully in the family. He also played the guitar and sang.

Allen was the fairest of all our brothers. He had brown hair and hazel eyes. He inherited his fairness from our mother’s side of the family. He was well-educated and loved learning the history of our people. He spent many hours with our dad learning the history of Couchiching First Nation.

Joseph and John were identical twins. My dad had a hard time distinguishing one from the other. John was the first born and was the stronger of the two. Joseph was gentle and sensitive. They were inseparable.

Robert was two years older than me. He loved music and spent many hours playing the guitar. Many times, you would see him strumming the guitar with only four strings. This did not stop him. As he became an adult, he travelled Ontario and Minnesota to play in many bars.

I was the next in line; I became the second daughter in the family. My older sister was eight years older than me. My parents were thrilled to have another girl in the family. They spoiled me. I had light brown hair and hazel eyes.

Marie was two years younger than me. She had an outgoing personality just like our mother. Marie enjoyed being around people and liked having fun. She loved laughter and joking about anything, whether it was about her or things that were happening in her life. She was also talented and became familiar with the guitar and singing. She had a close bond with our brothers because of her music abilities.

Wesley was the caboose in our family. He was born when I was six years old. He also inherited the talents of the family, playing the guitar and singing. He became an energetic, hard worker. He learned at a young age to be independent. At the age of sixteen he owned his first car, and whenever it broke down, he could fix it.

My childhood was carefree. As soon as I woke up and ate breakfast, I was outside until dusk. I had the freedom to roam the area in which I lived. The outdoors were beautiful, and the wilderness, which became our playground, was right outside our back door. I was not afraid to wander the path that was so frequently used by the intense traffic of all our feet. All I had to do was keep on the paths that I made, and they would eventually lead me to my home.

I played with mud pies with my younger sister, Marie. We would put our baked mud pies in Mom’s outside cook stove and many times we would forget about our wonderful masterpieces. It was only when Mom would use the outdoor cook stove that we would be reminded of our gourmet delight. As the heat came from the stove our miraculous baking would be dried and was ready to be thrown out.

My house was only a few feet away from the greenish blue water that sparkled like diamonds a princess would wear. The sparkles were so shiny, it hurt my eyes to look at the water. I was fortunate to be by the water anytime I wanted. It somehow gave me peace and serenity. I would spend several hours a day relaxing and tanning by the lake. As a child I came to be a very good swimmer, though I don’t know how I learned. I can remember being in the water until my body was completely wrinkled, making me look like a descendant of the California Raisin family. Being in the water for hours often made me extremely exhausted, and this would allow me to fall asleep in no time. It was like an instant sleeping pill prescribed by Mother Nature.

I was privileged to have a father who was a talented craftsman. Dad carved wooden boats for us. I would pull them around the dock or shoreline with a rope and stick. I can remember crossing over rocks and beaches, stretching out my stick to get my boats around the rocks in the water and pretending to operate the boats by making motorboat noises while pulling them along the shoreline. I felt like I was a captain in control of a mission. To make the boats more interesting, Dad would also attach a piece of tin with a loose nail to act like a propeller on the bottom end of each boat. The faster I would pull the boat, the bigger the trail of ripples. I felt like the waves were so big from my ship they could conquer any experienced surfer. I would fight with my brothers over which boat I was going to have. There were times our boats would break, and Dad would repair them. He provided these toys for us without complaining. Looking back, I don’t know where my dad got his patience.

I played hide and seek with my siblings. This game would last for hours because of the wooded area. There were times when I would get bored and throw a hint to whoever happened to be It. I would shake a branch by the bush in which I was hiding in order to get caught. The problem with getting caught meant I would be It though, and I would have to search for my siblings. Searching for them could take forever, and many times my brothers and sisters would get impatient and give up on me and quit the game. Then the fun would end.

Even in the winter months, our playroom was outside. We would spend all our time in the snow, sliding. This was exciting for us. We had a twelve-foot wooden sled and Mom said we would be outside from breakfast to bedtime. The only times we would come in was to eat, go to the bathroom or to change clothes. No matter what the temperature was, we would be outside sliding. During those days we did not have ski pants, so we would wear long johns and socks with several pairs of pants. At the end of the day, clothes would be hanging up all over the house to dry.

My mother kept our clothes clean by washing them by hand. She would carry water from the lake, or during the winter months use snow, warm it up on the wood stove and then wash our clothes. This was an all-day chore for her. When she was done, she would have several clotheslines filled with clothes. The smell of fresh clothes was refreshing. My mother was a hard-working woman. I can recall seeing beads of sweat coming from her brow as she took a break from doing her chores. She would sit down with a cigarette in her mouth while she sipped on a hot cup of tea. The next day she would do it all over again. I never heard my mother complain.

Mom also made meals from scratch. She did not have the convenience of Kraft dinner like we do today. If she made macaroni and cheese, she would cook macaroni and melt cheese and put it in the oven. Mom also baked fresh bannock twice a day for mealtimes. The aroma of fried bread would lure us in like starving children who had not eaten for days. We would race each other to the next piece, filling our mouths until we were unable to breathe. Minutes later we would all lay on the grass or snow, allowing our stomachs to digest our food.

Bannock was European bread, which Mom had learned to cook. It was made with flour and baking powder. If she decided to make fried bread, we omitted the grease and stirred the flour and baking powder together with water. Mom would put grease into a frying pan and let it get hot on the stove. While waiting for the grease to get hot she would spread out the dough on a table and cut out pieces of bread. She punched holes into each piece allowing heat to go through the dough so it would cook more thoroughly. She also made oven bannock. She made this by putting some grease into the dough, and as she added water and the flour and baking powder stuck together, she put the dough into a baking pan and let it cook in the oven until it was golden brown. Either way, her bannock was a treat in our home. Mom prepared six oven bannocks a day, three in the morning and three at supper time. I often wondered how she managed to find the time to prepare all this bread. I wondered if there were times she did not want to cook. I never heard her complain, but she continued her daily duties.

One of my favourite meals was rabbit-stew pie. I frequently ate this meal during the winter months when rabbits were easy to catch. My brothers would set snares and bring their catch home every day. It made them feel like experienced hunters. They were proud to provide for us in their youth. I sometimes would feel sad because the rabbits were such nice-looking animals. Many times, their eyes would gaze at me, and I would feel pity for these tiny creatures. But as soon as rabbit-stew pie was placed on my plate, I soon forgot the feelings I had and would devour my meal, hoping to get more in my stomach than my brothers and sisters. The thought of eating the Easter Bunny was forgotten once my hunger was satisfied.

We lived off the land. My parents planted a garden with vegetables and potatoes, corn, peas, carrots and tomatoes. Mom learned how to can the vegetables and tomatoes. I remember sitting beside a box of fresh carrots and nibbling on them for hours. They were so delicious. I had heard that if you ate lots of carrots you would have good eyesight. I found that story to be false.

In the fall we ate wild rice that my brothers and dad would pick during wild-rice season. Harvesting wild rice was a long process, but wild-rice season was one of our favourite times of year. People from other reserves would come to Rice Bay and pitch their tents around our house. The visitors would be gone all day to pick rice; only the children and elders remained behind. In the evenings, when they returned from a hard day’s work, they would build a big bonfire and play guitar and violin and sing. I enjoyed the music. Everyone would mingle around the fire and socialize. They would also be storytelling, which I never knew was a cultural thing for us. Each would tell their day’s experience, and everyone would sit and laugh about humorous encounters that may have taken place that day.

I learned how to prepare rice by observing my parents. First, they would roast the wild rice by putting it into a steel tub, placing the tub over an open fire, and stirring the wild rice with a wooden paddle. When the wild rice would start popping and was nice and golden brown, it was then cooled and stored in bags until my dad was ready to dance on it. My dad prepared a hole in the ground and set the rice in it; he then put some old running shoes on and would trample on the rice until the grassy part of the rice fell off. My mom would then put a scarf around her head to protect her hair and take the pan of rice and fan it. She would flip the rice into the air, and all the dried-up grass would drift out. She then took the cleaned out wild rice and would attentively screen it thoroughly by hand, one section at a time. When this process was finally completed, it was ready to cook. I never realized how much I enjoyed watching my family participate together in this work. I did not realize this was a part of our culture. I took it as time together. I never questioned why. I thought it was just another part of living.

We also ate fish, moose meat, deer, and beaver that my brothers and dad would catch while hunting. In the summer months we would have apple, rhubarb and blueberry pies that my mom would make. My mom was the ultimate chef, and I longed to be a cook like her. Her pies were so mouth-watering delicious that they never stayed around very long. Mom would occasionally make homemade bread instead of bannock, and when she did, she would also make cinnamon rolls. We would ask her to make them gigantic, so the taste would last longer. There was no place like home.

I can remember, on chilly winter mornings, waking up to hear the crackling of the wood from the fire Dad was starting in our stove. He would then come and lay in bed with me and massage my feet to warm them up. He would count my toes and