My Inheritance
10/11: Thanksgiving Day - Canada. Columbus Day (observed)- USA.
50% of me ought to be in Canada with my relatives committing gluttony and sharing too many stories. The same 50% ought to be sharing these stories in my own language, with the remaining 50% protesting the observance of the day when THEY arrived to eventually rob me of my natural inheritance.
I am a first generation English speaker. I speak this language fluently, and sometimes perfectly, but not by choice. It was the "sisters" who made this decision for me, and this was done years before I was even born.
They abducted him when he was just a little boy. Abducted, tormented, and held him captive. A six year old hostage. A six year old prisoner of war... A war he did not start... A war he did not understand... A war that had long been declared over.
They tell me there were many little prisoners like this at the Kamloops Boarding School. Little prisoners who would be washed of all natural and native influences - heritage - language - culture. Prisoners who would not be released until THEY were satisfied that they were re-created in THEIR own likenesses. Their short haired, bitter-filled, English speaking likenesses.
I always knew he had an angry streak. I also knew he was afraid of bats. But it wasn't until my adult life that I would find out why.
We used to go to Canada a lot when we were kids. I always liked to visit with my grandma. She always seemed so alive and full of life as she told us her animated stories. Dad was our interpreter.
I never thought to question the need for an interpreter until I became a teenager. One day while he was gone, she began to tell her stories. I desperately wanted to hear her stories. I desperately needed to hear her stories, but there was no interpreter to be found. No one else had the patience that dad did to convert her stories to English.
When he came back later that day, I somewhat angrily asked him why he did not teach us the language. In my mind, I was really expecting a fully detailed explanation for this. Afterall, I missed so much during his brief absence in that one afternoon. All he offered was to say he didn't learn English until he was 12, and he did not want us to go through what he went through. End of story. Period.
Years later during my annual visit to Canada to clean his grave, I stopped in to see my aunt. We were washing dishes when she suddenly began to tell me about their experiences at the Kamloops Boarding school. I had never heard this before. He never talked about it.
I listened very intently, and was surprised to hear her voice become little. She sounded so innocent, and so afraid. She told of the sisters and their weapons of choice. She told how the innocence of a little boy and little girl was lost too soon. Sometimes in their fits of rage, the sisters would use rulers with the big balls at the end. Sometimes it would be straps. Sometimes they liked to use fear tactics. They would come up with many ways to punish the children for speaking their language.
They once threw my dad in the attic when he made such a mistake. They were kind enough to give him a sleeping bag and water, but decided to withhold all food. He was locked up there for days. Locked up there with the bats. Bats that happened to get stuck in the sleeping bag with him as he tried to hide from them. Bats that scared him when he was so small.
In a few short moments of time she poured out nearly 60 years of pain, and then she stopped. She didn't say anymore, and I didn't ask her to.
50% of me ought to be in Canada with my relatives committing gluttony and sharing too many stories. The same 50% ought to be sharing these stories in my own language, with the remaining 50% protesting the observance of the day when THEY arrived to eventually rob me of my natural inheritance.
I am a first generation English speaker. I speak this language fluently, and sometimes perfectly, but not by choice. It was the "sisters" who made this decision for me, and this was done years before I was even born.
They abducted him when he was just a little boy. Abducted, tormented, and held him captive. A six year old hostage. A six year old prisoner of war... A war he did not start... A war he did not understand... A war that had long been declared over.
They tell me there were many little prisoners like this at the Kamloops Boarding School. Little prisoners who would be washed of all natural and native influences - heritage - language - culture. Prisoners who would not be released until THEY were satisfied that they were re-created in THEIR own likenesses. Their short haired, bitter-filled, English speaking likenesses.
I always knew he had an angry streak. I also knew he was afraid of bats. But it wasn't until my adult life that I would find out why.
We used to go to Canada a lot when we were kids. I always liked to visit with my grandma. She always seemed so alive and full of life as she told us her animated stories. Dad was our interpreter.
I never thought to question the need for an interpreter until I became a teenager. One day while he was gone, she began to tell her stories. I desperately wanted to hear her stories. I desperately needed to hear her stories, but there was no interpreter to be found. No one else had the patience that dad did to convert her stories to English.
When he came back later that day, I somewhat angrily asked him why he did not teach us the language. In my mind, I was really expecting a fully detailed explanation for this. Afterall, I missed so much during his brief absence in that one afternoon. All he offered was to say he didn't learn English until he was 12, and he did not want us to go through what he went through. End of story. Period.
Years later during my annual visit to Canada to clean his grave, I stopped in to see my aunt. We were washing dishes when she suddenly began to tell me about their experiences at the Kamloops Boarding school. I had never heard this before. He never talked about it.
I listened very intently, and was surprised to hear her voice become little. She sounded so innocent, and so afraid. She told of the sisters and their weapons of choice. She told how the innocence of a little boy and little girl was lost too soon. Sometimes in their fits of rage, the sisters would use rulers with the big balls at the end. Sometimes it would be straps. Sometimes they liked to use fear tactics. They would come up with many ways to punish the children for speaking their language.
They once threw my dad in the attic when he made such a mistake. They were kind enough to give him a sleeping bag and water, but decided to withhold all food. He was locked up there for days. Locked up there with the bats. Bats that happened to get stuck in the sleeping bag with him as he tried to hide from them. Bats that scared him when he was so small.
In a few short moments of time she poured out nearly 60 years of pain, and then she stopped. She didn't say anymore, and I didn't ask her to.
posted by Rezilla | 8:06 PM
3 Comments:
I only happen to understand when people speak Navajo but it is intensely difficult for me to regurgitate it back to people. for once in my life, I would like to be able to hold a 10-min conversation with my grandmother. I used to be bitter towards my parents for not teaching my siblings and I Navajo. Once I asked my mom why she didn't teach us.
She cast her head down and then just uttered, "I don't know, but I should have." She spent her childhood in boarding school and I assume she had traumatic experiences that led her to the decision of not passing down the language. she never talks about the reason behind that decision.
Therefore, I'm doing the best I can to learn from a book and audiotapes. It's really hard.
This was probably one of the hardest things for me to write. It has been years since I heard this, and I am still trying to process the impact of the whole thing. The destruction in my mind is much like that of a nuclear explosion:
"Nuclear explosions produce both immediate and delayed destructive effects. Immediate effects... are produced and cause significant destruction within seconds or minutes of a nuclear detonation. The delayed effects... inflict damage over an extended period ranging from hours to centuries, and can cause adverse effects in locations very distant from the site of the detonation."
Nuclear Weapons Frequently Asked QuestionsCarey SubletteWhile knowing the truth did not offer offer much in the way of comfort, it has at least allowed me to begin in the healing process of the intergenerational trauma I inherited.
The secrets they kept.
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