I don’t recall giving my mother any Mother’s Day gift or card as a child. It was not because I didn’t love her. Mother’s Day was not a day we celebrated in the aboriginal community back then. The thought of me trying to make my mom a special breakfast for Mother’s Day is laughable and sad at the same time. For one thing, food was scarce and not to be wasted. If one wanted to show our mom any appreciation it would be to help with the never-ending laundry that a large family piles up.
I’m thinking of Mother’s Day and residential school. Were there any positive mother figures when I was there? There was one young house mother—she was caring in nature and tried to comfort us when we got homesick. She got engaged and left the school. I don’t remember her name, just that she left a vague memory of maternal feelings. A person that I remember fondly, because she reminded me of my mom with her caring attitude.
Another maternal memory is of me spending Christmas with an elderly lady in Winnipeg. My parents didn’t pick up us for Christmas at the residential school. So those remaining were shipped off to various homes for the holidays.
The elderly lady I stayed with lived alone. She took me to a big store and even allowed me to visit my older sister where she was staying. That memory is warm and fuzzy. I see bright colourful wrappings and remember laughing with my older sister.
I don’t recall the older lady’s name, I was so young at the time, but for me it was like an oasis. No homesickness or scary stuff to bother me.
There was good food and lots of treats from this lady. I drank in the attention. When I got back to the residential school, I had lots of presents to take with me. Even afterwards the kind lady sent me treats through the mail.
There was another maternal figure I recall when I was in the dorm; she was not a staff member, but an older girl who helped me with the basics of doing chores. I will call her Betty, which is not her real name. Betty helped me learn how use the sink to wash up and brush my teeth. The sink was circular and sat in the middle of the large room. There was a foot pump at the bottom of it to turn the water on. My leg couldn’t reach the pump, so Betty would step on it and showed me how to brush my teeth. She also taught me how to make my bed to avoid the house mother’s harsh words.
Residential school was a nightmare for me. To this day, I am still living with the consequences, but I am trying to find the good. I have to search hard through my memories, pull one out that invokes warmth. I find a few, but not enough to take away the horror of my stay there.
I want to end this column by honouring my mother this Mother’s Day. She would find it humorous—in the indigenous community we honour all mothers every day. It must have broken her heart to have her children taken away to be put in residential school and in later years in foster homes or group homes. When I was with my mom, I felt her love and she showed it in different ways. Clean sheets. Berry picking. Brushing my hair. Little gestures that I do remember my mom doing for me and for our family.
My mom doing what a mother is supposed to do. Love her family and raise her family if only she was allowed to.
Love you, mommy. Always.
