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Happiness From Within
By Anonymous
My life seems to have revolved around trying to find happiness. I was always concerned with other people’s feelings, and I put myself in charge of making everyone happy. If I couldn't make someone else happy, then I wasn't happy. I have since grown out of that way of thinking, but it has been a long, hard struggle.
I'll start at the beginning; I am the second youngest in a family of seven. When I was about five, I was sent to a boarding school. I guess there was no kindergarten back then because I remember playing outside in a sandbox. It seemed that I played in that sandbox for a year. I remember going into the school with the others, but just sitting there. I was very lonely at school. I had two older sisters there, but it didn't seem to sink in that I could get comfort from them. We didn’t really communicate as a family.
We children started to come together as a family the summer my mother was in the hospital and my dad was either working or drinking. We depended on each other for survival. My older sister checked up on us, and she brought food. My father's boss and wife helped us out, too. We were on our own for two summers and I don’t know how we ever managed.
During these critical years, I started to feel bad about myself. I was envious of other children who had loving families. I thought it was my fault that I wasn't loved, and that I didn’t have parents who were around when I needed them. My mother must have sensed the change when she finally got out of the hospital because she became very protective. She did what she thought was best for us, and she did it the best she knew how. I didn’t understand it then, but I do now.
When I was in Grade Eleven, I got pregnant. My mother hid my pregnancy from the rest of the family. I went to a home for unwed mothers in Regina. I was told I wouldn’t be able to care for my baby and he would be better off if I gave him up for adoption. Before they took my son away, I wrote him a letter explaining why I gave him up and asked him for forgiveness. For twenty-three years, every time I woke up, my first thought was "Where is my son?"
Soon after, I got married to an alcoholic, thinking, " This man needs me, I can help him." I realize I was desperately trying to fill the void left by my son's absence. I was abused, and several times had to call the cops. Once, when my husband was drunk, he ran over me with a vehicle. I had enough and left him, pregnant with our second child. It was a very unhappy time of my life. I didn’t see him again until divorce court.
One day I came home from work to find that my ex-husband and his mother had taken my daughters. I was devastated. My ex-husband’s mother didn’t want her only grandchildren growing up without knowing her. A lawyer advised me to let my husband keep the children. I was young and naive, so I listened to him. The guilt I suffered was unbelievable. I gave as much financial and emotional support to my girls as I could. My ex-husband, his mother, and our daughters came with me to family therapy. I explained to my girls why I had left them and the guilt eased up.
I tried to get control of my life by entering therapy. A white counsellor didn’t help, so I talked to my aunt, who still followed the traditional ways. She helped me understand I had to connect with my Indian identity before I could move forward. Until then, I had ignored my heritage and was ashamed that I didn’t know anything about it. I couldn’t speak our Native language, and that caused me the most shame. I stayed away from Native people, and I put on a big front for the white society. I was caught in the middle and didn’t know where I belonged.
When I started to learn about my traditions and to know myself at a deeper level, the healing began. I know now that happiness has to come from within yourself. My happiness is no longer dependant on the happiness of others.
I have five children, and yes, that includes my son. He found me and has satisfied his curiosity. We don’t keep in touch, but I hope that someday he will come back to us and the circle will be complete.
A Kokum’s Love
By E.K
Becoming a kokum is one of life’s most precious moments. I was there to welcome my granddaughter when she was born. I felt so much love for her from the moment the doctor put her into my arms. I held her close to me, and didn’t want to let her go, even for a second.
In the last month of my daughter’s pregnancy I was a bit anxious to be a kokum. I would constantly rub my daughter’s tummy, checking to make sure the baby was still there. The thrill of becoming a kokum was so overwhelming that I didn’t get much sleep.
My granddaughter and I have been together right from the day she was born. I always made sure she was in the same room with me, so I could keep an eye on her. When I’d wake up in the morning I’d see her big, happy smile. At night when I’d lie down with her, she would grab a handful of my hair and hold it very tightly. When she was sick I would hold her, carry her, and sing to her. We went everywhere together. We laughed and cried together. Sometimes when things didn’t always work out for me, I’d be upset, but as soon as I had a granddaughter in my arms, nothing else mattered.
The first few years of a child’s life are very important and very special, especially when they are spent with the kokum. I was raised by my kokum, and in keeping tradition, I did things the way my kokum did. The things my kokum taught me about life and Native culture, I passed on to my granddaughter. I believe that what I taught my granddaughter will help her in life.
My granddaughter and I are still very close. She is my granddaughter and I am her kokum, but we are also best friends- always there when there is no one else to talk to. We both learned a lot from each other; she learned about love and respect, and I learned patience. Because she has the love of her kokum, I’ve been her source of security and safety. It brings tears to my eyes when she calls me kokum. I have known a kokum’s love and my granddaughter also knows a kokum’s love- my love.
The Old Ways
By Bernadette Micheal
I lived in moccasins until I was six years old. When I entered the residential school, I got my first pair of shoes. That was the first step the white society took to rob me of my heritage. I also had to learn to speak English. The Sister would yell at me, "Bernadette, quit speaking Cree and being a savage!" They also cut my hair so I would look like a "human being". Life at the residence was very degrading, but I survived, and so did my values and beliefs. The values I learned from my great grandmother, my grandmother and my mother have guided me through my life.
When I went home for the summer, my world was reversed again. I spoke only Cree because my mother couldn’t understand English. Being in the residence had made me take life's basic necessities for granted. Now I was back to hauling water, chopping wood, and outside toilets. It seemed that I would regain my traditional way of living, and then go back to the residence and forget about it for another ten months.
Life on the reserve was hard, but we were happy. We made money by chopping wood and we lived on wild meat. Rabbit, grouse, and duck- these are the foods God created for us. We picked berries to get ready for winter. I still eat berries and wild meat, because without them I would be lost.
When I was fourteen, I was diagnosed with tuberculosis and spent nearly three years in the Prince Albert Sanatorium. When I was discharged, I didn’t want to leave. It had been my home and my friends were there. At home I cried all the time, and my mom said, " Don't cry, you're home now, " but I hated the reserve.
My mom passed away when I was seventeen. She was a medicine woman, and she tried to teach her daughters how to gather herbs, but we had no patience for it. The knowledge died with her, and now I deeply regret that loss. She never received any payment for her services. She did it out of love for the people.
The feast was our most precious celebration. My mom taught us the proper behaviour that was expected during these celebrations. If food was being prepared for a feast, we were not allowed to touch it. At the feast everyone sat down when the elder leading the ceremony sat down, and nobody was allowed to get up until he was done. You don’t see that kind of respect anymore.
I remember the gatherings we had. There were teepees set up in a circle and it was so beautiful. There was so much harmony among the people. When someone recognized you they would come over to your fire and visit. The dancing was also beautiful and I even remember seeing the "ghost dance." I miss those gatherings. I still go to pow wows, but the respect isn't there anymore.
I was lucky enough to have three generations of teachers: my mother, my grandmother, and my great grandmother. We sat at their feet and listened to their wisdom. They taught me the importance of love and respect. We were taught never to interrupt when there was an adult speaking. When the older women visited together we, the children, were not allowed to sit with them. We were told not to stare, especially in strange surroundings.
The women wore dresses all the time. You never saw a woman wearing pants in those days. Now even I wear pants. I've lost that part of my tradition. Another part of my tradition I have lost is my long hair. When my mom braided my hair, she put a rag down to collect all my hair that fell off during the combing and then she would throw the hair in the fire. She told us to do this especially in a strange place. I asked her why we had to do this, and what she told me certainly scared me enough to keep me doing it. She said someone might find my hair and use it to get me to marry him.
Make up was something my mother did not believe in. She would tell me, "God created you in perfection, so you don't need anything else." I also remember her telling me, "Be yourself, my girl, don't pretend to be someone you’re not." I still live by that advice today. I believe you can't help another person if you don't know who you are.
I am now ready to really help my people. I want to help revive the dignity, the harmony, the friendship, and the communication among our people that has been lost. It hurts me to see how money, alcohol, and drugs have destroyed everything that we hold dear.
These simple rules have guided my life: be yourself, be on the same level with all Native people, and don't make judgements on the first encounter. They may not sound like much, but I'm not one for complicated rules.
Living Off Reserve
By L. M. H.
My family moved off the Cowesses Reserve in the Dirty Thirties. My father felt there was nothing there for him. We moved to Fort Qu’Appelle and my father got a job with the government. We never went back to the reserve, except to attend funerals, and even then most of the time only my father went.
I was not born a healthy baby. My mother wasn’t able to handle a sickly child along with everything else, so when I was two weeks old, my oldest sister, who was seventeen and recently married, took me to her home and raised me.
When I was four years old, my mother put me in the Lebret Residential School. In the summers I went back to my sister’s home in Broadview. The year I finished Grade Eight, my sister told me she wasn’t my mother, and that I had to live with my parents to finish high school. That was very difficult for me to understand. I finished Grade Ten in the residential school, and then I went to live with my parents. Because my parents had lived off the reserve so long, I had to enter into mainstream society education in the Fort Qu’Appelle High School. I was often lonely and would sit out on our front porch thinking, "If I could just walk over that hill, I’d be at my sister’s".
I tried to accept my new surroundings. My sister’s home had been a quiet home, and my parent’s home was very different. My father drank a lot. The yelling and swearing made me very uncomfortable and uneasy. I always found summer jobs just so I could get away from it. The summer I finished Grade Twelve I went as far as I could to continue my education.
I got along with my mother, but never got close to my dad. My mother was Metis, and anything we learned about our culture came from her. She taught me to assert my self. She suffered abuse from my father when he was drinking and she used to tell me. "Talk for yourself and don’t take shit from any man." She was a very spiritual person and told us to pray when everything seemed hopeless. There have been times in my life when praying got me through. Since her death, it seems I have no anchor to hold on.
The effects of living off the reserve have contributed greatly to the loss of my culture. I don’t know if my father was ashamed of being an Indian, but he always said, "Don’t be an Indian." My parents spoke a mixture of French and Cree called "Metis Cree," but never taught us children. When relatives came to visit, we were sent outside so we couldn’t even hear them speak the language. Never learning my Native language and culture is one of my greatest losses. My daughters have grown up labeled as "apple Indians" because they can’t speak Cree and don’t know their culture. When someone speaks in Cree to me I say, "I don't understand", or "I wasn't raised among my people". I have a lot of work qualifications that have allowed me to seek work among my people, but what held me back was not being able to speak a Native language.
I have lived all my life off reserve, but I haven’t yet experienced discrimination from the white society. Instead, it seems that the discrimination comes from my own people. Certainly my children suffered from discrimination, and although they were given a hard time, they are still fiercely proud of their heritage. They absorb all the culture they can from Indian Studies classes and events they attend.
I was most fortunate to become very close to an older cousin who understood my great sense of loss. He helped me to know our culture better. His great understanding of our culture has helped me when I run into difficulties passing this knowledge on to my children. I also have relatives on the reserve who are elders. They seem to know that I can’t speak Cree, and although their English is a little shaky, they take their time explaining to make sure I understand.
When I go to Native conferences or gatherings, I feel like an outsider. Everyone talks about life on the reserve and their culture, but I have none of that. It hurts very deeply to know that I can’t pass on my culture to my children and grandchildren.
Best Part of Our Lives
By Beatrice Cuthand
I grew up in Cumberland House. When I was twelve years old, my mother and one of my sisters died of tuberculosis. My grandparents then took care of us and they were good grandparents.
My grandfather was a very artistic man. Using only two tools, he made carry-alls, bobsleighs, and sleighs. He didn’t speak any English, but he could read and write Cree syllabics. He always read the Cree Bible. The things he read to us and told us, I have carried with me through my life. Every morning and evening we knelt to say a family prayer. We said the Lord’s Prayer in Cree.
He always said, "Forgiveness is the greatest thing on earth." It was sort of like "love your neighbor as yourself." It hasn’t been easy to practice what we preach.
Every year, at the beginning of March, we pulled out for the trapline for six weeks. The traplines were not numbered back then, so you could go anywhere you wanted. Even remember having white people as neighbors. Muskrats were the biggest moneymakers in our community. We would go out in dog sleds and come back in canoes. We stayed in tents, but I don’t remember being cold. We had homemade feather rolls, which kept us warm.
The other big livelihood was sturgeon fishing. I remember that once two of my uncles caught a sturgeon that was over one hundred pounds. It almost upset the canoe when they tried to wrestle it in. Sturgeon fishing was a second income for families. Today there are quotas set and only fish in season.
People worked very hard for their livelihood back then. There was no
welfare. My great grandparents, grandparents, parents were never
on welfare.
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