Story from someone left behind

I remember when my cousins were picked up to go to school. They were dressed in new clothes, the boys in suits, the girls with colourful kerchiefs on their heads. How grown up they looked! They were given a little paper bag of candy and I remember wishing I could have one of those, too. When all my cousins were gone, my aunts and uncles soon left to go to their winter homes. The lake suddently seemed so vast, so empty. Sometimes the loneliness was excruciating, it was a physical ache that I couldn't run away from, and I tried. If someone could have seen me in those days, they would have wondered what demons were chasing me around the island.

Not until spring would I see my relatives again. The girls always seemed so worldly, with there neat short hair cuts, their nice clothes. I quickly became shy around then and it would take awhile for us to feel comfortable around one another, to get back to our old friendship.

When I was little, about 8 years old, I was aware of how well my cousins dressed and jealous as I became very aware that my clothes were old and illfitting (I remember one fall not having boots or shoes) But I was most jealous of their haircuts. Their hair would swing and fly freely and fall neatly back around their faces, while I still wore braids that were often not combed for many days with long strands that came loose and got tangled and full of sticks and pine needles. I am sure I was considered a wild person, I know I looked and behaved like one.

As I grew older and could hear my aunts and uncles talk with my mom, I became aware of something else. My older cousins didn't stay in school for very long, usually only a couple of years. They came back to their place in the community quite easily, it seemed. They learned to hunt and trap and fish and make snowshoes and did all kinds of things. The younger ones were kept in school a lot longer and when they came back, the old people talked about how they didn't do any work, they just lay around and listened to the radio and read comic books. I remember my mother describing them as ruined, damaged, not knowing how to do anything. At the time, it seemed like she was looking down on them and it was many years later that I understood that she was referring to our collective lives, our community. Their schooling had cut them off from their heritage, their culture, their history.

I was still in awe of them, felt like a poor relation. They seemed grown up, especially when the wouldn't play with us anymore. They could actually go to work in the summer! I because aware that many of them had started drinking (another sign of being grown up!) and getting married and having children. I felt like such a kid, still going to school, still be sent away from home.

I remember my uncles and older cousins as strong, strong men, successful hunters full of knowledge. My aunts and women cousins were all hardworking, knew how to do so many things, and they never complained. I remember seeing their clothes-lines full of boys jeans, and thinking how hard I found it just to wash my one pair of jeans. Gradually, as their children were taken away, I saw them drift away too, to Red Lake, where they began to drink. That was so sad, so horrifically sad. A lot of children were taken away because of the resultant neglect.

When I grew up, after having left home for many years and having gone through my own traumas, I started seeing my relatives with different eyes. It wasn't until I moved back home, in my 30s, that I started learning their stories. One of my goals in coming home had been to sober up my cousins, a goal that led to a lot of frustration and strained many relationships. Slowly, as I took more time to listen, I learned to accept our differences and began to feel their pain.

With their infinitely patient guidance, I am still learning my place in our community, in our homeland. I am learning an interdependent way of living, where we recognize and honour one another's gifts and roles, where we can acknowledge, accept and appreciate our difference. The pain I feel today as I look at old photographs, hear more stories, sometimes overshelms me and I know it is nothing compared to what they have gone through and are still going through.

Today, despite the pain, I am constantly re-energized by the healing that is going on all around me. I feel our resilience and our refusal to stay down. More and more people are talking, sharing their stories, breaking the silence, moving from shame and pain. We still joke a lot and with gratitude, I hear out laughter. I know the history of our resistance, both in the schools and in our communities, and our renewal, our rebirth, is coming in like a tide that cannot be held back.