I hold a picture of my parents in my hand. The picture is faded slightly, but the memories I have of them are very dear. The picture was taken at my brother’s wedding many years ago. My dad’s hair is gray and short; his face is very brown and dark. My dad was an outdoor man and it showed on his face. Leathered with sharp features. High cheekbones. My mom is wearing a flowered dress and her black hair is done up nicely. They are wearing their Sunday best for their son’s wedding. Nothing wrong with the picture; except that both of my parents attended different residential schools in Kenora, Ont. This is the only picture I have of them. I want to know more of my parents’ history.
I found a website called the National Residential School Survivor Society which had a link to the two schools my parents went to in Kenora. My dad went to the Cecilia Jeffrey Indian School run by the Presbyterian Church. I found his name in an admission form on the site. Andrew Ketchum. Written in neat handwriting on a grainy piece of paper. My dad was only in Grade 7 and the year was 1937. He was from Shoal Lake First Nation.
As I read his name my mind tried to process the information. I was feeling a wide range of emotions: excitement that I found a link to my past and my dad’s past, yet a feeling of deep sorrow that I was the second generation of a residential school survivor. My fingers gently stroked the webpage where I read my dad’s name, as if reading it was not enough.
A sense of understanding of who my dad was and why he behaved a certain way dawned on me.
I skimmed through the other pages and found my mom’s name on the one for St. Mary’s Catholic Indian School. My mother’s name was written in bold type; she was 12 years old, from Dalles First Nation. I also found my auntie’s name there. An eerie link to my past.
My parents never discussed with me or my other siblings what happened to them in those schools. The only time my mom mentioned it was to tell me about when they cut her hair. My mother was beautiful, with long black hair that hung down to her waist. She laughed as she told me of how the boys looked at her with her long black hair. My stepfather nodded in agreement as he listened to her story. “Then they came to cut my hair and I looked like a boy,” she said. I can clearly recall her sharing that story; there were tears in her eyes as if it had happened the day before.
Both of my parents passed away many years ago. I only have their names on an admission form on a website to say they once attended residential schools. How they tried to raise their family is part of that history. A deeper understanding of what happened to them in residential school was in the pages of this website. Not to them directly, but to other students—bad food, bad medical care, beatings. I even read stories of children running away, desperate to return home, only to have the local RCMP dispatched to find them. I viewed the pictures of young children with their hair cut short and bangs hanging above their eyes. Images of my mother’s story came to mind. Now I can understand why my parents didn’t share their stories.
I sit and hold the one photograph I have of my parents, taken at a family wedding. Good memories that can be shared over and over again. One that I can share with my grandchildren. I have done what my parents did with their children—I never fully shared my story of my experiences of residential school with my kids. Sometimes family history is too horrific to pass on to the next generation.
