My Indian life

I grew up with my parents shuttling between Port Edward and Gitwangak. Both my parents attended Indian Residential School, and all of my siblings did too—except for me. My grandfather, who we call yea’a, also avoided that fate; his own grandfather hid him away in the mountains when the Indian Agent came to round up the Indigenous children.

My early years were marked by pain, much like every other Indigenous person’s. Our children were often taken from us at a young age. When I reached that same age, I found myself neglected—perhaps no one knew how to care for me. Many days were filled with hunger, boredom, and loneliness, and those were considered the better days. I witnessed my parents’ struggles firsthand, including the times my dad would fight and hurt my mom—there were moments when I saw her beaten unconscious, and worse. I sometimes stayed with my uncle Fred, who betrayed my trust in the worst possible ways while others were absent. I was not alone in this suffering; many of us faced similar horrors.

However, there were times of joy too, especially when I got to spend time with my sister Michelaine. She was fiercely protective, strong-willed, and had a sharp tongue that wouldn’t take any nonsense. Her humor brought light to my life, but her early passing has left a void that few moments of peace can fill.

I remember some better days when my dad showed kindness—he taught me how to box, share stories of our history, discuss Spirituality, and pass down our traditions. He also showed me how to fish and smoke fish. It’s strange, but even though he could be monstrous, I find myself missing him. I understand the traumas we endured in Indian Residential School, and I know the broader implications of Canada’s efforts to undermine our existence.

My mother embodies strength and resilience. Throughout her life, she’s worked tirelessly to teach us survival skills. Even in her 80s, she runs a home bakery renowned for her famous Peggy’s Pie, displaying her perfectionist nature and the respect she commands for having survived so much. She has spent the last three decades as a chief—a role that often feels thankless.

I was fortunate to sometimes stay with my grandfather. Though it could be boring, those moments with him felt like the safest I could ever be. My yea’a Art took me trapping, teaching me to respect all living things. He instilled in me the belief that Gitxsan don’t need to go to churches to connect with the Creator—he lived in harmony with life, understanding that God resides within us.

When my mom left my dad and moved to Vancouver with my stepdad when I was ten, we ended up in the projects. This was a whole new struggle, yet it felt liberating compared to my previous experiences.

I was born with the gift of sensitivity. I can feel when someone is unwell, the substances they might be using, and their emotional state. In times of prayer, I’ve found that I can sometimes lift those ailments. I didn’t truly understand this gift until my brother’s tragic loss at sea. When he went missing, we all searched tirelessly for him. When we found Dex on the beach, I rushed to him; it was horrifying—he lay there, exposed and lifeless. It left me unable to walk properly for some time. My mom, sensing my pain, laid me down to help me, and began to describe what she saw. She mentioned a rock with a hole that I traveled through, and she believed I had left part of my spirit there. With her help, she brought it back, and I regained the ability to walk without issue.

Growing up, my mom often spoke of her own mother’s healing abilities, and my yea’a would always have devils club around for her. My dad, too, discussed spiritual matters—hul’do’gwitt, bad medicine. It took me years to realize he was sharing truths about his family’s history.

I made my way through several college years, not obtaining a degree, but completing five years of various courses. I can’t say how I managed it; I know my mom’s perseverance played a significant role. While I may not have reached the heights of some family members, I’ve found fulfillment in my work.

I’ve sought to help those who desired prayer, but I found it’s not always easy—many become self-righteous in their healing journeys. I, too, stumbled down that path, learning humility in the process. Now, I pray for people from a distance and keep my circle small. I also speak out and advocate for our people.

I’ve battled PTSD, which led to struggles with substance use in my youth, as well as anxiety, depression, and sudden outbursts of rage. Because of these experiences, I’ve often felt isolated, yet I’m learning to be okay with that. I've distanced myself from family to preserve my own peace.

I have yet to meet an Indigenous person who hasn’t been affected by Canada’s colonial agenda and the theft of our land.


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AI addition:

The author's childhood experiences are deeply intertwined with the historical context of genocide and the ongoing impacts of colonialism on Indigenous peoples in Canada. These dynamics include:

1. Legacy of Residential Schools: The author’s parents and siblings attended Indian Residential Schools (IRS), institutions designed to assimilate Indigenous children into Euro-Canadian culture. These schools inflicted physical, emotional, and sexual abuse, aiming to erase Indigenous identities and languages. The trauma associated with IRS continues to impact generations, contributing to issues such as familial disconnection, mental health struggles, and loss of cultural knowledge.

2. Cultural Genocide: The experiences shared by the author reflect the broader effects of cultural genocide, where Indigenous identities, traditions, and languages have been systematically suppressed. The absence of cultural connection is felt acutely, as the author grapples with a disconnection from their Gitxsan heritage amid the legacy of colonialism.

3. Intergenerational Trauma: The author's narrative highlights how the traumas faced by the previous generations affect their own childhood dynamics. The violence, neglect, and loss experienced by the author's parents were a result of their own traumatic experiences in IRS, perpetuating a cycle of trauma that has profound impacts on mental health, family structures, and community cohesion.

4. Community Violence and Disempowerment: The ongoing violence within families, such as the domestic violence witnessed by the author, can be understood in the context of disempowerment and dispossession. Colonial policies have disrupted traditional family structures, contributing to cycles of violence and instability within communities.

5. Identity Crisis and Displacement: The upheavals in the author’s life—moving from their home to the projects—echo the displacement faced by many Indigenous peoples due to colonization, land theft, and imposed governance structures. These experiences can disrupt community ties, cultural practices, and support systems, making it difficult for individuals to find a sense of belonging.

6. Systemic Racism and Marginalization: The author’s struggles are compounded by the systemic racism and marginalization faced by Indigenous peoples in Canada. These societal dynamics contribute to economic challenges, lack of access to resources, and social stigma, further isolating individuals from their communities.

7. Spirituality and Resistance: Despite the trauma, there remains a strong connection to spirituality and the resilience of Indigenous identity. The author speaks of teachings from their grandfather about respecting life and understanding spirituality outside of institutional beliefs. This highlights a form of resistance against the attempts to erase Indigenous culture and beliefs.

8. Advocacy and Healing: The author’s journey involves not only personal healing but also advocacy for others, reflecting a broader movement among Indigenous communities to reclaim their narratives, seek justice, and promote healing from the wounds of colonization and genocide. This advocacy is vital in raising awareness of the ongoing impacts of colonial policies and the need for reparative actions.

Overall, the author's story serves as a poignant reminder of the enduring impacts of genocide and colonialism on Indigenous peoples in Canada, illustrating how historical trauma manifests in contemporary experiences of violence, loss, and resilience. The intersection of personal and collective histories emphasizes the importance of acknowledging these dynamics in order to foster healing and reconciliation. 

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