I traveled home this summer to Bkewanong FN, also know as Walpole Island FN. It is nestled along the southern end of the St. Clair river in Southwestern Ontario. As you drive onto my beloved homeland from the mainland you will see a park on the right side of the road. There you will find a beautiful black marbled monument elegantly landscaped. A scene, I am sure, that National Geographic would be proud to have in its photo archives. On its wall is an inscription that reads, "This monument is dedicated to all children from Walpole Island who attended Residential Schools throughout Canada and the United States of America." However, what is chilling is that caption below it that says, "From inside those walls no one outside heard our cries : when we left no one heard our cries from within." You can see a photo of this on my Facebook wall.
When I was growing up I heard my elders - grandparents, great grandparents, aunts and uncles and generations that have now passed on speak Ojibway constantly. From an early age I repeatedly asked for them to teach me. The last time I ever asked that was when my great grandfather told me rather harshly, "You don't need to learn it, it wont do you any good!" Thinking about it now, I think that was the day I began to think that something was wrong with me because I was 'Indian'. It was the beginning of a 25-30 year old battle of accepting who I am. Let's face it - it started from my Ojibway speaking great grandfather; plus the integration into an off-reserve school at grade 5 and the teasing we took; getting into the teen years and listening and to the stereo types of the drunk uneducated Indians. It is a good thing that I decided in my childhood years that I would not allow alcohol to affect my children as it did me otherwise I may have been another one.
Thinking about it all makes my head spin. Makes me stop and wonder why I didn't ask my other great grandfather, or stand up for myself when I and others were teased relentlessly. Makes me wonder why it took so long to say enough is enough and to begin to accept myself as a person of First Nation heritage. I know the reason why - it was because of those very words inscribed on the walls of that monument. 'when we left no one heard our cries from within.' It was my father, and his father, my aunts and uncles, it were individuals whom I looked up to as a child and they themselves had faced, perhaps even still are facing the same 'crisis' I had faced. They, inadvertently passed it down to us - their children. I feel sorry for them; my heart goes out to them.
I write this blog to day for a reason. Those feelings of inadequacy I felt as a young child, a teen and an adult all came flooding back yesterday when I asked a boy from my group, 'How to say 'Where are you from?' in Ojibway. He looked at me ans said, "You can't speak your language?" Not in a demeaning way but of surprise! Albeit, the feelings I once lived with and thought were gone hit me hard. How did I handle this awkward moment? I smiled and said, "I wasn't blessed to have been able to learn our language as a child." Left it that.
Yet, it made me think who can I ask to teach me Ojibway?
Well until next time
Chi-Meegwetch
Baamaapii
