STORIES / Okara’shòn:’a
Another mouth
As soon as those kids made it clear of the car, she put it in reverse and we got out of there. A few minutes later, she parked on the side of the road and she cried and cried. I just didn’t know what was happening.
It keeps going on
As a kid, I was so confused with my mom. I never knew what she went through. I couldn’t say anything about it. If I had known the way she grew up, then I would’ve understood better. She didn’t tell us what she went through. All she would do is start crying when she mentioned the school.
Black and blue
Ti-bert used to dream out loud in Mi'kmaq, which they called the devil’s language. And if you spoke in Mi'kmaq, or even in English, you got beaten. Every night Ti-bert would miss his grandmother and would dream about her. So of course, he spoke in his sleep in his language because his grandmother didn’t speak French or English.
St. Patrick’s Mission
My father and my uncle, they were sent to a residential school in Oklahoma, in 1909. They had a railroad ticket around their necks. The conductors took care of them until they reached Oklahoma. Their parents didn’t want them attending there because already rumours were circulating about these schools. So anyway, they ended up there in Anadarko, Oklahoma at St Patrick’s Mission boarding school.
Music Is my medicine
I went to the back door of K103 radio station at 10 o’clock one night. I had a Hank Williams record with me and asked, “Could I pay you $10 to play two or three songs?” I knew it wouldn’t be allowed if I had asked at the main entrance. They would think I’m crazy. So I bribed them all - everyone except the manager.
Nearby farm
I didn’t go home over the summer like some of the other kids at Spanish residential school. I would be sent to a nearby farm to work and the school would be paid for the work I did. It was like slave labour. But I liked it more than going to school. Like day and night. We would have to work at school during the year anyways. They’d make us clean the gym, the kitchen and do things around the grounds.
Scraping every last bit
When I was at Spanish residential school, they didn’t feed us enough. I was always hungry.
We had mush for breakfast - I guess it was some kind of oatmeal. For lunch and supper, we’d have soup, beans and two-day old plain rolls with no butter. And for snack, they gave us a slice of raw turnip and tea.
Root cellar
There were about 25 Mohawk boys from both Caughnawaga and St. Regis at the Garnier residential school when I was there. And the older ones had our back, us younger boys.
Her escape
The girls and the boys were split up between two buildings but they were only about 150 feet apart. We were at the Garnier Residential School and the girls were at the St. Joseph Residential School.
Rambunctious ones
My dad had left when I was young so my mom was raising five of us by herself. In 1949, when I was nine years old, she went to the Indian affairs office to apply for welfare or “relief” as it was called back then. Instead, they thought it would be best to send me and my older brother, Marvin, away to residential school.
Uncle Ugly
I just had a Zoom meeting with the department of youth protection. They want me to work with the kids. It's a big emotional investment, and reminds me a lot of my own past, being taken away.
Three times
I never knew my father. He passed away when I was only 6 months old. My brother and sister, they were lucky they were never carted away to the residential school, because of my grandparents.
