* Mi'kmaq is the plural term used in this essay, while Mi'kmaw is used in its singular connotation.
Theresa Meuse
The Chief
During an excavation survey, near an old abandoned gypsum mine, bones were dug up. The bones were taken to the city’s museum where they were examined. The archaeologist found that the bones were of pre-European time and that they were North American Indian. The bones could not be identified as being Micmac, but the archaeologist could make the assumption that they were. The bones were the remains of three people: a woman of child-bearing age, a child probably about nine years old, and an infant child.
The Chief from the Reserve nearest the survey site was contacted about the remains. The Chief was unsure of what to do with them. He, himself, was soul searching his ancestry and he didn’t know what was the best thing to do with the remains. He did know that he wanted to avoid media publicity and since the bones were from pre-Christian times, they should not be buried in the reservation cemetery.
For quite a while he spoke with as many people as he could, trying to find the answer as to what was the best and most appropriate way to deal with the remains. Meanwhile, the bones remained in the museum.
Finally, the Chief made a decision to bury them in a traditional burial ground set aside not far from the Reserve. On the day when the remains arrived at the Reserve, he asked numerous people to go with him to the burial ground, but no one was available, or willing to go with him. So he decided to go by himself.
The Chief placed the small boxes on the back of his truck and drove off to the site. Upon arrival, he carried the remains to the grave sites, which were previously dug by the owners of the land. The graves, however, were not big enough and since no one was around to help, he had to make the graves bigger using his hands as a shovel. He laid the boxes containing the remains in the graves and covered them with dirt. Then he placed leaves and twigs on top so that no one would know that anyone had been buried there. Unsure of what exactly to do next, he continued on to the best of his knowledge. He lit a braid of sweet grass and said what he thought were appropriate prayers: he spoke from his heart.
The Chief left the grave site not really sure if he had done the right thing. As he walked up the path to his truck, he asked the Creator to show him a sign which would tell him that he had done the right thing. Shortly after, the squirrels began to chatter and the birds began to chirp loudly. He thought this might be a sign, but he was kind of expecting something a bit more elaborate. He wasn’t sure if this sign meant to go back to the grave site or continue on to his truck. He paused and thought on it. He thought of going back to the grave site but decided against it. He just didn’t know what more he could do. So, he had to be content with what he had done and with the sign shown to him. As he got into his truck and closed the door, he looked on the side of the road and, to his disbelief, there stood a black bear — that’s what all the animal noises were about. If he had gone back to the grave site, he might have met the bear in the path on his return to his truck. The feelings he had at that moment told him that this was his sign. He was sure he had done the right thing.
Isabelle Knockwood
From “Out of the Depths”
Rewards and Punishments
I remember those horrifying years as if it were yesterday. There was one nun, Sister Gilberta, she always passed out the punishment. Every day, she would take me into the bathroom and lock the door. She would then proceed to beat me thirty times on each hand, three times a day, with a strap. She would count to thirty, out loud, each time she hit me. It’s an awful way to learn to count to thirty. My older sister Grace learned to count to fifty.
I never understood why I had to get those beatings, but at the age of thirty-seven, I realize it had to be because I spoke my language. To this day, I can’t speak my language very well. But I do understand when I am spoken to in Micmac.
Why was our culture and language such a threat that it had to be taken away from us with such vengeance?
To be taught your language with respect and kindness by your people, then to have the White Man pull it from your heart with meanness and torture. Some people wonder why we are so tough, because we had to be, we had no choice.
I have polio and it affected my bladder and, as a child, I wet my pants a lot. I received extra beatings for that too.
Once I was thrown across the dorm floor by Sister Gilberta. At the age of six, it seemed far away. I bounced off the wall at the other end of the dorm, I was sore on one side of my body for a few days.
— Imelda Brooks, Big Cove, NB
Micmac-Maliseet News,
May 1991
I don’t remember ever receiving any rewards from any nun for anything I have ever done except for the laundry. I helped in the laundry and the nun there was very good to me and every morning she would give me one piece of candy or chocolate. She just did it I think from the goodness of her heart and I always did my work whether I received a reward or not. I think the Sister was trying to get a good relationship based on good terms — love, respect and admiration which I gave her. When I went to visit her, she was eighty years old exactly and she was so glad to see me and she just cried and held out her arms and I went into them and we hugged each other and our tears mingled. I went to visit that Sister because of that friendship established many years ago.
I saw the favourites and pets get rewards of ribbon, candy, bread and jam, medals and holy cards. And to children who never received presents at Christmas time those things meant a lot. One thing I can say about the Sister on the girls’ side is that she let me have skates when I was fifteen, one year away from going home for good. During summer vacations, she tried not to be as mean as during the school year. She held back her anger and didn’t scold as much. She let us get away with little things like sleeping in. They took us to Grand Lake once. We had to pick blueberries. When we had a bowl full of berries, she rewarded us with candy — a B.B. sucker — one candy — a B.B. sucker. I have to think really hard to remember the rewards.
— Rita Joe
Mi’kmaw poet
Rather than trying to inspire us to be creative or to motivate us to do well, the teachers at the school relied on orders, threats and ridicule. They had no interest, apparently, in anything we might have thought or felt. Such rewards as were meted out depended on the nuns’ whims. Even if you won something by chance it could be snatched away from you. I remember there was a bingo for someone’s left-over Christmas present and we all sat around to try to win a surprise that Wikew had. I didn’t really care what it was as long as I won it. I was set for B-15, but she called B-14 and I got so excited I went, “Whew! That was close,” and I blew all the pieces of paper I was using for markers off the card. Everyone sitting at my table started to help me get them back on when an older girl reminded us, “You don’t have to do that, just wait for one number.” Just then we heard B-15 called. Everyone started yelling, “Bingo, Isabelle got Bingo!” Wikew took out a white fur hat and said, “Here is your prize. Come over and try it on.” I walked over and she put it on my head and tied the furry tassels under my chin. “Turn around and let me see what you look like.” Then she made a funny face and said, ‘That hat does not look nice on you. Girls, do you think this hat looks good on Isabelle?” And all the little girls looked at me, then at her, with a puzzled look but didn’t say anything. “No,” she continued the conversation with herself, “she does not look nice at all. Isabelle, do you want to wear a hat that does not look nice on you?”
“No Sister,” I didn’t much care what it looked like. All I knew was that it felt nice and warm and furry.
“Okay, take it off. Margaret come over and try on this hat. I think it will look nice on you.”
As a child, I lived in perpetual fear of saying and doing any-thing, even if it was good, for if my work was too good, I knew that it would bring the response, “Who do you think you are? You think you’re such a big shot!” And I was always afraid to do my best.
If I knew my work was good, I made sure that I didn’t finish it. Then, the nun could only yell, “Why didn’t you finish the job I asked you to do?” To me, that was better than being ridiculed. I remember the incident that taught me this. We were given the task of embroidering the altar cloth with fine designs of grapes, roses, and flowers, and with little crosses along the edges. Pauline Johnson was very artistic and adept with her hands and her work was excellent. Sewing was no effort for her and she would chat and sew merrily along while the rest of us struggled with threading fine needles and got all tangled up. In no time, she had a whole section finished. Wikew came down from her prayers and examined our work. When she saw what Pauline had done, she was furious and instead of being pleased and praising her she began yelling, “Who told you to continue sewing? You did not have my permission to sew this much, so rip it all up again and we’ll see who the smart one around here is. You sit there looking so proud of yourself. You look as proud as Lucifer. Say it, I’m proud as Lucifer.”
Pauline mumbled, “I’m as proud as Lucifer.”
Wikew, “Say it louder so everyone can hear you. Here, stand on the bench and say it so the girls in the back of the room can hear you.”
There always seemed to be something arbitrary about the way any treats were handed out. I remember Wikew walking into the recreation hall with a bowl of candy or peanuts and throwing handfuls of goodies on the floor while she stood and watched us scramble for them. I was never good at scrambling. She always came in unexpectedly while we were busy knitting or playing. Other times, she’d walk in the hall with a plate piled high with toast covered with jam which was left over from the Sisters’ dining room. We would stand around looking at the plate, hoping to get a slice. She would call each girl by name and they’d step up one by one and walk away with their bread while the rest of us waited for our turn which sometimes did not come.
There was no recognition for our service, for achievement or for work completed or well done. We received no certificates, diplomas, or awards for school grades, promotions, arts or sports. The only real recognition was to crown the statue of the Virgin Mary during the annual May Procession, or to read the accompanying prayer, or to sing solo at Midnight Mass.
Once the girls’ choir won the prize as the best choir in Hants County schools and was invited to sing on CBC Halifax’s program, “Fireside Frolics.” The trophy was presented to Sister Gilberta and displayed in a glass case in the front hall leading to the chapel for one year. It was only on loan and, after the year was up, had to be returned to the school board. Russell Brooks, who was a student after the war, recalls seeing a scroll that held all the names of former students who had served in the military and been killed during World War II. For a long time it hung on the wall leading to the chapel but when the school closed down, the scroll was never found.
I remember singing solo one Christmas Eve, “Oh Holy Night” and “Adeste Fidelis” That afternoon, I developed a cold and had to suck on a lemon and go to bed early. At eleven they woke me up, gave me some cocoa and I sang like an angel. Mommie and Daddy were in the audience as well as several other people from the Reserve. Frankly, I was not the best singer they could have chosen. Most of the other girls had better singing voices and a better sense of rhythm than I, although I do have a good ear and I know a good singer when I hear one. I often wondered why Leona Copage wasn’t picked. After a while it dawned on me that favouritism had more to do with the selection of soloists than singing ability. The fact that my parents were regular visitors at the school not only saved me from many punishments but also meant that I was sometimes singled out for preferential treatment. However, I was never picked for the supreme honour of crowning Mary. One year that was decided by election and Nora Bernard remembers being voted by her peers as the one to do the honours:
It was my last year there and we had elections and I was voted as the favourite. Sister Mary Charles did not take the news too well and called me into her office and told me why I should give my votes to Lillian so she’d have something to remember the school by … So instead of being given the honour I was due, I was allowed to read the valedictory which meant nothing to me. I was so jealous I was wishing the statute would topple over, or that Lillian would slip or something.
If the rewards were meager and slow in coming, the punishments were plentiful and swift. By the early 1950s the school’s reputation had spread throughout the Native community, so that on many reserves, “Don’t do that or you’ll be sent to Shubie,” was a standard threat to children. The school was so strongly associated with punishment in children’s minds that those who were “sent to Shubie” as a result of their family circumstances constantly wondered what crime they had committed. For many of them the school’s reputation as a place of punishment proved all too accurate.
Throughout both Father Mackey’s and Father Collins’s regimes the biggest crime was running away. Runaways were brought back in a cop car by the RCMP. Their heads were shaved and they were kept in the dark broom and soap closet, sometimes for several days and nights. They were strapped and fed only dry bread and water. In one case, the boys were tied to a chair and left there for two days. Matthew Thomas and his wife Katie Copage were both students in 1934 when Bruce Labrador and Joe Toney ran away and were brought back. They told me that the two boys had their heads shaved and had their hands tied behind their backs. They were strapped to a chair with a Bible on their laps which they were supposed to read. They had to sit in the broom closet all day and all night and all the next day without permission to go to the bathroom. These were Father Mackey’s orders. Then they ran away again and were brought back and the same thing happened.
Peter Julian recalls the treatment given to runaways:
When I first landed there, I think it was the first time I ever seen my brother Joe and I heard that he ran away. He was picked up by the RCMP and brought back. Sister Paul of the Cross stripped him down to the waist and shaved off all his hair. Bald! I was just a young boy and I pitied my brother but I didn’t dare cry. They had a closet which they called the dark hole that had no windows and it was located just underneath the steps where they locked runaways and bad kids and the only time they saw any light was when their meals of dry bread and water were served them. They were taken from there and up to Mackey and given the same type of beating I got. I don’t know how long they were put on this bread and water, sometimes maybe a week and very light food after. There were quite a few boys who ran away and every one of them got the same treatment when they returned.
The Sister had the same kind of strap as Father Mackey’s. I remember Peter Michael Stevens was acting the fool one evening in the dormitory and when he was told to keep quiet he kept it up so he was told to pull his pants and underwear down and lay across his bed. Sister Paul of the Cross put a strapping across his bum and after the first blow he rolled right over on his back with his front showing. But Sister didn’t stop at that. She laced it right across his privates and the poor boy let out a scream that could be heard all over the dormitory and Sister hollered, “The longer you lay that way, the longer I’m going to keep whacking.” So he rolled back again. She was a sadist.
On numerous occasions children were punished despite being seriously ill. Betsey Paul remembers:
I used to sit at the same table with Dorothy Doucette. She was so sick, she used to puke right in her plate and Wikew used to beat her in the mouth with a spoon and stuff the food mixed with vomit right back in her mouth again. While she was pinching her cheeks, Sister Paul of the Cross said, “This girl is sick, get her to a doctor.” Wikew answered, “Mind your own business Sister. You look after the boys and I’ll take care of the girls.” So Sister Paul went and reported it to Sister Superior who came through the scullery door in the back and caught her in the act. Wikew was dumbfounded. It was learned that this was going on for a week and that Dorothy was losing weight. Sister Superior called Dr. McInnes and Dorothy was quarantined on the third floor in the infirmary because she
was diagnosed as having diphtheria.
Many of the punishments were meted out almost absentmindedly. I remember during the late thirties coming across a little girl huddled in the dark corner under the stairway in the evening. She told me that she had been there all day, “Will you tell Sister that I’m still here? I’ve been sitting here all day since this morning.” When I told Wikew she said, “Oh my goodness, I forgot all about her. Tell her she can go to bed now.”
Father Mackey introduced boxing for boys more for its value as a means of intimidation than as a form of recreation. Forced boxing matches were a way of keeping the boys in line. Doug Knockwood remembers:
Gordon Tuplin from Prince Edward Island was the number one fighter and champion boxer and when Andrew Julian from Indian Brook had a disagreement with Gordon at play he was made to go in the squared circle with him. After six rounds, when Father Mackey saw that Andrew was winning, he put on Gordon’s gloves and stepped into the ring against Andrew. Because of that religious trip, Andrew wouldn’t throw a punch. He just tried to protect himself and finally, he broke down and cried. That was the end of the fight. Father Mackey used his position in the church to intimidate because he knew that Indian children were taught that a priest was a holy man and was doing God’s work and he was always right, therefore no one should hit a priest. Father Mackey used strappings and boxing to demonstrate his power over all the boys in front of the entire school.
Isaac Knockwood and Angus Cope, who were students during the forties, were called into Father Mackey’s office for a minor offence and the priest hit fifteen-year-old Angus unexpectedly in the jaw so hard it lifted him right off the floor and knocked him out. Then he hit Isaac, who was the same age, with such force it made his head spin.
The Mi'kmaq Anthology Page 15
