Halfbreed

by Maria Campbell

  We Halfbreeds always played by ourselves unless there was rugby or a ball game, when we played against the whites. It was the same in class; we stayed in two separate groups. Lunch hours were really rough when we started school because we had not realized, until then, the difference in our diets. They had white or brown bread, boiled eggs, apples, cakes, cookies, and jars of milk. We were lucky to have these even at Christmas. We took bannock for lunch, spread with lard and filled with wild meat, and if there was no meat we had cold potatoes and salt and pepper, or else whole roasted gophers with sage dressing. No apples or fruit, but if we were lucky there was a jam sandwich for dessert. The first few days the whites were speechless when they saw Alex’s children with gophers and the rest of us trading a sandwich, a leg, or dressing. They would tease and call, “Gophers, gophers, Road Allowance people eat gophers.” We fought back of course but we were terribly hurt and above all ashamed. I remember coming home and saying ugly things to Mom. She took me in her arms and tried to hold me, but I kicked her and said that I hated her, Daddy, and “all of you no-good Halfbreeds.” She turned away and went outside and a few minutes later Daddy came in and tried to talk to me. When I said the same things to him he just sat there while I cried and shouted that the other kids had oranges, apples, cakes, and nice clothes and that all we had were gophers, moose meat, ugly dresses and patchy pants. Cheechum was sitting on her pallet listening through all this and when Dad said nothing, she got up and led me outside. She didn’t speak for the longest time, just walked. When we were about half a mile from the house she told me to get her a long willow stick and bring it to her. Then she told me to sit beside her and listen.

  Many years ago, she said, when she was only a little girl, the Halfbreeds came west. They left good homes behind in their search for a place where they could live as they wished. Later a leader arose from these people who said that if they worked hard and fought for what they believed in they would win against all odds. Despite the hardships, they gave all they had for this one desperate chance of being free, but because some of them said, “I want good clothes and horses and you no-good Halfbreeds are ruining it for me,” they lost their dream. She continued: “They fought each other just as you are fighting your mother and father today. The white man saw that that was a more powerful weapon than anything else with which to beat the Halfbreeds, and he used it and still does today. Already they are using it on you. They try to make you hate your people.” She stood up then and said, “I will beat you each time I hear you talk as you did. If you don’t like what you have, then stop fighting your parents and do something about it yourself.” With that, she beat me until my legs and arms were swollen with welts. After she was finished she sat with me till I had stopped crying, and then we walked home. Nothing more was ever said about clothes or food. My first real lesson had been learnt. I always tried to keep my head up and defend my friends and cousins in front of those white kids, even when I knew we were wrong. Sometimes it was very hard to control my disappointment and frustration, and many hours were spent with Cheechum telling her how I felt, and she in turn would try to make me understand.

  A family of Seventh-Day Adventists lived a couple of miles from our house on the same road. Their two children, a boy and a girl, were very pale, sickly and timid-looking, but they acted very authoritarian and superior towards us. On the way home from school we often chased and tormented them. In the winter they drove to school in a small caboose warmed by a wood heater. A caboose is a square wooden box with a door at the back. It has runners and a peephole in front to see and to put the reins through. We would hide by the side of the road and scare their old horse so badly it would run away, tipping over the caboose. It’s a wonder they weren’t burned alive. Next morning the teacher would receive a letter from the parents and we would be whipped in front of the class, but in the afternoon we would make it just as bad for them until they learned to shut up. After a while they decided it was safer to be on our side and so they tried to be friendly. They gave us their lunches as bribes. They could have had ours but they never did develop a taste for gophers or lard.

  Our first teacher was a sad-looking little Englishwoman in her late forties. She had never taught Halfbreeds before and we soon realized that she didn’t like us. I remember her long straight skirts, her black woven stockings and ugly black shoes. She had very little hair, and what little she had she scraped back into a bun. She loved to sing and her favourite song was “O Canada.” I can still see her whenever I hear that song, waving her arms up and down, completely off key and getting all red in the face from the effort. We had many different teachers during those years; some got the girls pregnant and had to leave; others were alcoholic; and because our school attracted everybody else’s rejects, we had a constant stream of teachers. We had one good teacher, Mrs. Park, who was stern but fair. Maybe it was because she treated us as equals that I liked her and did well in school.

  When I started school my hair was waist-length and so curly it was almost impossible to comb without pain for me and frustration for Mom. She wanted to cut it but Dad forbade her and threatened anyone who even mentioned scissors and Maria in one breath. Mom combed my hair and wrapped it around her fingers to make long, fat ringlets that fell down around my shoulders. She liked to put a bow on top, and that was even worse than the combing. I knew it looked ridiculous because I was always in short pants, boys’ shirts and bare feet. With warts on my hands and with such dark skin, I knew that ringlets and me did not belong together. Poor Momma, she wanted to have a feminine little girl so badly.

  My hair was one of Cheechum’s pet grievances and she would attack it with the same patience and determination that she revealed whenever she decided to change something. It was fine with me whenever she braided my hair since I wouldn’t have to comb it as often. She would spend an hour rubbing bear grease into it and then braid it. The grease was to keep the curls from popping out of the braids and to give me a shiny, tidy look.

  My hair, so thick and so full of bear grease, was a perfect place for head lice, and I was deloused at least twice a month. We never had lice at home but some of the kids with whom I played had them. Daddy laughed while Momma sighed, as she washed my hair in coal oil, muttering all the while about Cheechum whom she knew would rub in the bear grease again. Cheechum would say, “Just wait my girl, your Cheechum will make your hair straight yet.” And today at thirty-three, my hair is straight as a poker.

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  Our days were spent at school, the evenings doing our chores. Daddy was away trapping from early October until Christmas, and again during the beaver season in spring. How we missed him! It was as if part of us was gone with him, and we were not complete until he had returned. I remember the times he came home, always on Christmas Eve. The food supply in our settlement would be very low at that time of year as the men were all gone on the traplines. However Grannie Campbell and my aunts would bring food they had been saving for a long time to our house. They steamed a pudding, which was called a “son-of-a-bitch in a sack,” made of raisins, flour, baking powder, sugar and spices. They made cakes with frosty icing, sprinkled with coloured sugar, and baked blueberry, cranberry and Saskatoon pies. The smells would be heavenly, because at that time of year our sole diet was wild meat and potatoes. There was no bannock as the flour was being saved for the holiday baking. On Christmas Eve, Grannie, Mom, Jamie and I always went into the bush for a tree. We decorated it with red and green crepe paper, some ornaments Mom had from her mother, and strings of popcorn coloured with crepe paper. There was an angel for the top branch, but no one put it there for that was Daddy’s job. Then Mom laid out our best clothes while we all bathed in a washtub, and then put us to bed. At ten-thirty we got up and dressed for midnight Mass. It was a thrilling time—outside we could hear sleigh bells ringing and people laughing and calling back and forth as they drove to church.

  Right in the middle of all this Daddy would always w
alk in, with a full-grown beard and a sack full of fur on his back. First he swung Mom off her feet and kissed her, and then we climbed all over him. I remember that he always smelled like wild mink. He washed himself while Mom and Grannie put his packs away, then we all dressed warmly and walked to church with Grannie Campbell. Cheechum stayed home and kept the fire going.

  After Mass we talked around the big heater in the church, and friends and relatives all kissed each other. Then we’d all go home, for that was the one night families spent together at home. Daddy would tell us all the things that had happened to him while he was on the trapline. While Mom tidied up and my grannies smoked their pipes, he put the angel on the tree, and we would say our prayers and go to bed.

  Jamie and I always woke everyone up at five o’clock. In the living room our stockings were plumb full and overflowing with nuts and candy canes, oranges and apples—the only ones we ate all year. Under the tree there were gifts for everyone. Mom got a comb and mirror from Daddy; he got shaving lotion; and our grannies got cloth for new dresses. We were given blocks made and painted by Dad and Mom, home-made dolls which looked like the modern day “Raggedy Anns,” and shoes from our grannies. Then Daddy made pancakes. That was the only meal he ever cooked while Mom was still alive. He made huge pancakes, and while we all stood around, wide-eyed and breathless, he would toss them in the air and catch them right back in the pan.

  Christmas dinner was the highlight of the day. It consisted of meat balls rolled in flour, stewed moose meat, all covered with moose fat, mashed potatoes, gravy, baked squash and pemmican made of dried meat ground to a powder and mixed with raisins, smashed chokecherries and sugar. After that we filled ourselves with the pudding and cakes until we could hardly move.

  All the families visited back and forth during the holidays. After supper, furniture was moved against the wall or put outside while the fiddlers tuned their fiddles. Soon they were sawing out a mean hoedown or a Red River jig, and everyone was dancing. Each family held a dance each evening and we never missed any of them. The hostess baked a nickel inside her cake and whoever got it in his piece held the dance the next night. We stuffed ourselves during those holidays until we hurt, because it would be a year before we would eat like that again. One thing about our people is that they never hoard. If they have something they share all of it with each other, regardless of good or bad fortune. Maybe that’s why we’re so damn poor.

  Old Yes-Sant Arcand put on a dance at his house once a year and invited everyone. He lived on top of a very steep hill with a lake at the bottom. His grandchildren used the hill for a slide in winter and poured water down it so that it was really icy, and with a sled you could go almost to the middle of the lake. I remember one party he had in particular. We all came—Campbells and Vandals together from our area, as well as Arcands from the other area and the Sandy Lake Indians too. As we arrived Mom said, “There’s going to be a fight for sure with those Sandy Lake people here,” but I paid little attention because there was never a good dance unless there was a good fight. Yes-Sant’s cabin was a very long one-room log house with a big stove and heater, and four beds on one side. He had dragged all the furniture outside so there was plenty of room to dance. He was also the proud owner of the largest cellar in the country with a huge trapdoor on the floor.

  Everybody was enjoying themselves, dancing and eating, when suddenly a fight broke out. The mothers chased all the little kids under the beds and we big ones climbed up to the beams to watch. Soon everyone was fighting and no one knew who was hitting who—Dad even punched out his brother. The heater pipes were knocked over and there was smoke everywhere; then the kitchen stove pipes went down. Dad finally made it to the door and threw it open. Whenever someone came near the door Daddy would slug him and he would go sliding head first or backwards down the slippery hill to the lake. The lights went out and it was pitch black inside, mothers were yelling, kids screaming—a total mass of confusion! Cheechum got Mom and another lady to help her open the trapdoor and some of the men fell in. Finally, everyone was either down the hill or in the cellar. (When they tried to climb out Cheechum would hit them on the head with her cane.) When everything had settled down, the women lit the lamps and laughed as they set the place to order and got us kids back to bed. Cheechum shut the trapdoor and said, “Let them all stay in the cellar and by the time the others climb the hill they’ll all be sober.” So furniture was hauled back in while some women made tea and everyone sat down to laugh and eat. The men outside weren’t able to climb the hill, so they went into the barn with the horses to keep warm. When daylight came they found the path leading up to the house. Cheechum scolded them well and then she opened the trapdoor and let the others out. What a sight they were with black eyes and smashed noses, nearly frozen and feeling foolish! She scolded them too, and hit a few. We never had a dance without a good fight and we enjoyed and looked forward to it as much as the dancing.

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  Next to the Christmas festivities, our people looked forward to weddings. Weddings were something special, and were gay and gala affairs, in which everyone in our area and other communities participated. Flowers were made from bright crepe paper; yards and yards of decorations were made for the houses and the horses. The best-matched team was used for the bride and groom, with a bright red cutter in winter and a red buggy in summer. The horses would have their manes and tails braided the previous day, then they would be brushed and curried until their coats shone and their manes and tails hung in waves. The harness was oiled and strung with bells, and from a long wire hung braided coloured ribbons that fluttered as the horses pranced.

  Everyone lined up in the procession with their horses decorated as well. The bride wore a white satin dress which had been worn by many other brides and was altered so many times you could see all the different stitches. The bottom of the dress was trimmed with rows and rows of bright satin ribbons and on the bride’s head was a long veil made from cheese cloth, with a halo of little crepe paper rosettes. The groom was dressed in dark pants and a white or blue satin shirt embroidered with bright floral designs. He wore a band on his arm trimmed with bright ribbons. The horses never galloped or ran—they must have known it was a special occasion as they would arch their heads and prance and dance all the way to church. After the ceremony we would all go to the biggest house in the community where the women would have the food all ready. For two days there would be feasting and dancing and laughter.

  The bride and groom would then move into their new home built by the men in the community. On their first night together the rest of us would collect pans, whistles, drums, anything—and sneak over. Then we would all yell and scream and bang the pots and pans together till the couple would both come out and make a speech. We loved weddings and our women could hardly wait until they were rested up from one to start match-making again.

  Chapter 7

  DADDY USED TO HUNT A lot when he was home. The meat would be brought back to the house, cut up and hidden. He sold it to farmers around us and as far away as Prince Albert. This extra money supplemented our budget and helped to keep us going until the next time he had fur to sell. The game wardens and the RCMP were constant visitors at our home and they searched all around our house and yard and in the homes of my aunts, uncles and Grannie Campbell. Daddy hunted in the National Park which was illegal and was often almost caught. I remember times when someone would ride to our house, the horse all lathered up, and warn us that the game wardens were coming. Daddy and Mom would grab the meat and run outside to hide it, usually in the church basement. (The priest found it once, and after that Daddy had to give him some whenever he wanted it.) Meanwhile Cheechum would throw all the bloody items in the stove and build a fire. By the time the wardens arrived Daddy would be sleeping and Mom and Cheechum drinking tea. Of course we were repeatedly cautioned never to tell anyone, even our best friends, because it was illegal for Halfbreeds to have game out of season,
and it was a greater sin to get it in the Park. Usually we ran away when we saw them coming, but one winter day, Joe Vandal rode over to warn us and helped us to hide everything. Daddy had a hole dug on the side of the hill where he made his whiskey in summer. It was like a big cellar closed by a trapdoor, covered with earth that had little spruce trees growing on it. Inside he had three elk hides and one moose, plus three to four hundred pounds of meat. I went with him to make sure it was closed properly, and he told us to slide our sleigh over the door and make tracks so it would look like a play area. And that’s where we were playing when the wardens and Mounties arrived in two Bombardiers.

  Instead of going to the house as usual, two of them came over to us. One warden started talking to us, but didn’t get any information as we were too shy and afraid. While he was speaking, the Mountie took some candy bars out of his pocket and held one out. When I reached for it he said, “Where does your daddy keep his meat, Honey?” I sold out for an “Oh Henry!” chocolate bar. I led him right over to the trapdoor, showed him how to open it, and while eating the candy, even told him about the church basement and how Daddy had to give that mean old priest meat. I then took the men to the house. I will remember forever the look on Mom’s face and the way Dad laughed when I walked in with chocolate all over my face and said, “Here’s my Dad.” They were drinking tea at the table. Mom jumped up and said in Cree, “You wicked girl!” and made a grab for me, but Dad stopped her. He looked at me and started to smile. Then he laughed and laughed. Cheechum was slamming pots around and Mom just sat there, staring at me. It was only then that I realized what I had done. The Mountie put handcuffs on Dad while I screamed and cried and beat at him, telling him he had fooled me. Dad kissed me before he left and said not to cry, that he was not angry. The wardens took all the meat and hides plus the whiskey still. I did not see Daddy for six months. He was in jail in Prince Albert. I received many scoldings that winter from Mom and I did extra work the whole time.