The first day of the event was bright and sunny, then the next two days were gusty and rainy, as if Mother Earth was there to grieve with us. The tents were snapping as the winds blew through them. When a survivor got up to share her story, a strong gust of wind moved through the tent, snapping the canvas and adding emphasis to her words. On the last day, the sun returned; the healing of this history was strengthened by the sharing of stories.
Although the weather was windy and rainy, the atmosphere was colourful. I saw a minister wearing his white collar with his black outfit walking down the path. The minister’s clothing and what he chose to wear on this day may have seemed an odd choice for this special event. This was an event where former residential school survivors are mingling with former teachers and church members. Memories of past and present are on the minds of all.
I could hear the drummers pound on the drums at the sacred fire in the background. The beat is what we aboriginals like to refer to as our “Mother’s heartbeat.” The pounding beat was soothing to listen to as I stood surrounded by memories of residential schools, the minister in his clothing, the old pictures of the schools posted in the tents and the shared stories of other survivors. There is the smell of wood smoke coming from the sacred fire bringing its own fond memories of home. Of my mom and dad, and the old wood stove that sat in the middle of our home. My own strength is not enough to bear sharing my story with others; I need these memories to help cope with the opening of old wounds.
I saw fresh tears on the faces of other residential school survivors and all it took was a quick glance to see the mirrored story of inner pain in that person’s eyes. As survivors, we are all at different stages in our healing journey, some are able to share their stories with laughter, others with a hint of anger.
Sadly, I didn’t see any of my former dorm mates who attended Cecilia Jeffrey Residential School. Many of them died at an early age. I did meet friends from my hometown of Kenora, Ont., who attended Cecilia Jeffrey at different times. As I walked about the Forks soaking up the atmosphere, my thoughts were of my mom, dad and other survivors who didn’t live to see this day come about — their voices and stories forever silenced.
I was there to share my story of working with the Presbyterian Church, but I was hoping to see Nancy Morrison, a respected elder from Kenora. She was also a friend of my mom’s; they both attended St. Mary’s Residential School. Nancy was 81 years old, but very active in her community. I heard her speak on the third day. I was once again a student of her words, listening to a respected elder share her teachings.
One aboriginal man in his early 50s sang a healing song in his own language in the interfaith tent. I was able to understand some of the words and it brought tears to my eyes. A Presbyterian minister came over to where I was standing and held me while I wept. My tears were not hidden; the moment for secrets is long past. Now I can shed my tears without shame.
