(Andrea Gallagher-Courteau)
I couldn't stop looking at that painting. I was mesmerized! It took me back, way back to my nine-and a-half-year-old bewildered self suddenly thrust into a world I didn't know or understand.
Our family arrived in Canada from Paraguay in the month of October and the oldest three children began school shortly thereafter. That first year we lived in the country and were within walking distance of the school. It was a public school, but most of the students were children of Mennonite farmers of the area. The teacher was my mother's cousin. We spoke the same language (Low German) and most of the children at the school could speak Plautdietsch or at least understand it. However, no one did. The rule was to use only English at school.
The teacher asked me if I knew the alphabet. Of course, I did. I had already finished grade two. I knew how to read books! She asked me to recite the alphabet. I recited it in German. Everyone smirked and snickered when they heard what to them was a distortion of their alphabet. The teacher said, "You must learn it in English." And she wrote the word English on the blackboard, in big letters. Then she had all the children recite the alphabet in English for my benefit. I didn't think I would ever be able to learn it. I felt stupid and humiliated.
I was so happy when the school day was over and I could go home to my familiar surroundings with the people I loved, who spoke my language. I went and sat beside the bed my sister and I shared and tried to coax her out from under it. She had run home from school at recess that day and was afraid of getting punished for it! (I've written about this in an earlier post, see Sept.1, 2015, Two Little Words.)
Just recently I visited with a friend (just a few years younger than I am) who told me that she was born left-handed and was forced to write with her right hand at school. When she couldn't comply, the teacher tied her left hand to her chair so she couldn't use it. She is traumatized by that experience to this day, and panics when she is told to turn left or right, not sure which direction is which. For her driving test she wrote an L on her left hand and an R on her right! (I just noticed that the nun is writing on the blackboard with her left hand! Was that intentional on the artist's part, I wonder?)
As I stood there looking at the picture in the MHCGallery exhibit, I realized that my experience and that of my left-handed friend's is only the tip of the iceberg compared to what it was like for the Indigenous children in the residential schools. They couldn't go home after school to speak their familiar language, eat the food they loved, hug their parents, or sleep in their own beds. Not only were they deprived of everything they knew and loved, many of them were also physically and sexually abused. How did they even survive? Many did, but with broken bodies and spirits.
A little girl of about four or five years old did a beautiful butterfly dance for us. She was so innocent. I felt a deep sadness when I watched her and thought of all the children who were robbed of their childhood, whose lives were destroyed by uncaring adults.
One of the items on display was a a replica of a Manitoba residential-school uniform, adorned with colorful ribbons, tassels and silver jingles belonging to an Anishinaabe Jingle Dress, traditionally worn at Pow Wows. The artist, Jubilee Dueck Thiessen, writes:
A Pow Wow is a gathering to be thankful and to celebrate culture and friendship. I wanted to honor the reclaiming of that cultural tradition. . . . The Jingle Dress Dance is considered a healing dance. . . . My piece is an effort to mourn the horrific past of residential schools in Canada . . . while celebrating the rich culture of the people who were impacted.
(The dress has been blessed by Aboriginal Elder Myra Laramee.)
(Maria Epp)
Regarding this painting the artist writes:
Reconciliation comes through loving bonds that form over long periods of time. This image is part of a greater place in my heart of forgiveness. Where my ancestors come to my friends' ancestors and apologize and ask for forgiveness. Where gifts are exchanged and a future is formed where our children are raised together in love. . . . I see our education system as the place where most change can occur. I am advocating for grandparents and elders to bring their stories to the children in the school.
(Daryoush Abbasi)
