The following story is part of a new feature, a fictional work by our columnist Wayne Weedon, Doctor M. Wayne is a brilliant writer whose style consists of simple declarative statements that stick in your mind as he leads you through an intricate web of circumstances to reach the lesson he set out to teach.
by Wayne Weedon
Note: The contents of this story deals with religion and may offend some people. You may wish to avoid reading it.
Pregnant and deserted by her lover, a young girl moves in with her grandfather. When the baby boy is born, the grandfather agrees to look after him so his granddaughter may go to work. Despite the age difference, the relationship between the boy and his great-grandfather was more like two siblings than that of an adult and child. As this boy grew into a young man, he loved to look back and tell stories about his great-grandfather, whom he always called “Pops”.
When I came home from school, Hank, one of Pops friends, a former Blood Indian from Alberta, was visiting. When Hank returned to Canada after the war, he refused to follow the directives from Indian Affairs to go back to his reserve. Instead, Hank decided to give up his Indian status and stay in Winnipeg with his new bride.
Pops and Hank were talking about the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Hank did not have anything good to say, “It was nothing but a scam. The authorities bought off a few collaborators with fancy jobs, honorary degrees, and medals; and everyone pretended they wanted truth and reconciliation. They claimed there were no records of who attended these schools. We, who could prove we had been in residential school, had to sign affidavits confirming such and such a person was our classmate so they could participate in the process. If the government had allowed us to go ahead with the class action suit we had initiated here in Winnipeg, the trial transcripts would be available to the public, and the truth would be out. As it is, interviews were done in secret and the stories will soon be destroyed, hidden from history forever. The whole truth will never come out.”
Pops explained, “Hank was telling me about some of his experiences in residential school. They are not pleasant memories. He has been showing me a diary written by one of Hannah’s friends. I’d like for you to read it. A teacher bought a house close to a reserve and set up a school to give Indian children from the reserve a proper education. Back then, this was a violation of the Indian Act.”
“This journal,” Hank explained, “gives a good indication of how impossible it was for an Indian to get a useful education, and how the feelings of inferiority became so ingrained, it’s near impossible for any of these people to come to believe in themselves. For me, I started school when I was five years old. On my first day of school, Sister Geraldine, noticing I was holding a pencil in my left hand, screamed out, ‘We use our right hand to write, that is why it is called a write hand.’ She beat my left hand so badly with a wooden ruler, I had no choice but to use my other hand. That is an example of their kind of education. In this journal, you’ll read much more of this type of attitude and, possibly, you’ll be able to understand why the teacher depicted in this journal had no choice but to run away with her students in tow. That was the only way she could give them the type of education they needed to live independent and productive lives.”
Hank opened the journal somewhere close to the middle and asked me to begin reading from there.
January 27, 1949
Much has happened since I last wrote in my journal. My mind is still spinning, and I can feel my heart. I am sure that it is extreme anxiety. Now that we are settled, it seems to no longer affect her, who is my lover and my friend.
On December 18, being a Saturday, we had no lessons. I had breakfast with just Teacher and Olivia. When I returned from my chores, I found Teacher pacing the floor. I could see she was extremely agitated. She did not give me a chance to speak before she went into an agitated diatribe. An informant told her that the police would be coming. Someone had reported that we were harbouring minors from the reservation in our house so we could indoctrinate them into a religious cult. What BS!
Teacher blurted out, “There is only one thing to do. We must disappear. How do we get to Winnipeg in a hurry?”
I calmed her down and told her to lie down for a few minutes. I told her that I would look after things. After asking around, I found out, there is a Bombardier available. We needed to take three trips to transfer everyone to where we could catch a bus. I checked the bus schedule and found out a bus from Brandon would pass us on the highway at approximately five-thirty the next morning.
I immediately went to Helen’s house and told her what was happening. I stated that she and the other women had worked so hard to get this school program going that it would be a shame if it all ended. I told her to round up all the students and to get them over to Teacher’s house as soon as possible. I stated that each student was to pack a bag for a prolonged vacation.
I had no idea what our game plan would be once we arrived in Winnipeg, but I did know that idly sitting around would only make matters worse. If they arrested us, who knows what charges they could trump up. After all, we are dealing with Indians who, in Canada, being wards of the Crown, have no rights.
Before I left Helen, I told her we would be going away, and I reminded her that we should tell nobody about our whereabouts. “Walls have ears and I think that it is best if nobody knows where we are going.” In addition, I added, “Not even you; you won’t even know.” Her answer was, she is okay with that since she did not wish for the responsibility of keeping a secret. I reminded her to tell everyone to pack enough belongings in preparation for a long stay away from the reserve.
It was a bit of a panic. We had no idea what we should take with us, and we had no idea of where we were going. Somehow, we all managed to get things together. The last Bombardier load arrived at the highway just before the bus came.
As we were finding our seats and settling down on the bus, she paid the driver for our tickets to Winnipeg. We would be getting off at the bus station, which is next door to the Eaton’s mail order in Winnipeg. She whispered to me as we pulled away, “I think that it is best that nobody knows where our final destination is until we arrive there.” I agreed.
It was early morning when we arrived at the bus depot. We walked a block over to Portage Avenue where we got onto a streetcar which took us down Academy Road. We got off close enough to walk to Doctor M’s house.
As far as we know, nobody, except for Doctor M and his attorney, knows that we are in this house. Doctor M’s attorney stated that we should allow absolutely nobody to come on to the property unless they have a search warrant. He also has assured us that we are such small potatoes, nobody will even bother with us, unless someone squeals. He told us, “Just hang tight.” Greatly relieved to find refuge, we decided, classes will continue.
One thing that we have been glad about is the fact that Julie has come with us. She is doing all the cooking. One of Doctor M’s friends has arranged for a man to do the shopping for us, so we never have to show our face in public. The house is big enough for everyone to feel quite fortunate and even spoiled to a degree. What a novelty for the girls to have several bathrooms. It took them a while to get used to the idea of having a shower. Some of them did not know what a shower is. But they now shower daily. When Teacher sent a note to Doctor M expressing our deepest appreciation, he replied giving only one recommendation. It was just three words. “Imagine and think.” She showed me this note. Possibly, Doctor M is a real person. However, I still have my doubts.
This all sounds like a cat and mouse game. Could it be a true story? I promised Pops I would read the journal from beginning to end. Pops warned me, this journal has adult content.
Next Month: The Journal Continued.
Wayne Douglas Weedon is a Manitoba author who writes a combination of fictional and factual stories, essays, and novels.
