Magic Weapons: Aboriginal Writers Remaking Community After Residential Schools PDF
Preview Magic Weapons: Aboriginal Writers Remaking Community After Residential Schools
MAGIC WEAPONS MgkWpns-textpgs-proof 6 FINAL.in1 1 17/10/07 10:00:37 am MgkWpns-textpgs-proof 6 FINAL.in2 2 17/10/07 10:00:37 am MAGIC WEAPONS Aboriginal Writers Remaking Community after Residential School Sam McKegney Foreword by Basil H. Johnston University of Manitoba Press MgkWpns-textpgs-proof 6 FINAL.in3 3 17/10/07 10:00:37 am © Sam McKegney, 2007 University of Manitoba Press Winnipeg, Manitoba R3T 2N2 www.umanitoba.ca/uofmpress Printed in Canada by Friesens. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database and retrieval system, without the prior written permission of University of Manitoba Press, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from ACCESS COPYRIGHT (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency), 6 Adelaide Street East, Suite 900, Toronto ON M5C IH6, www.accesscopyright.ca. Cover and text design: Grandesign Ltd. Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication McKegney, Sam, 1976- Magic weapons : Aboriginal writers remaking community after residential school / Sam McKegney. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-88755-702-6 1. Canadian literature (English)—Indian authors—History and criticism. 2. Canadian literature (English)—Inuit authors—History and criticism. 3. Indians of North America—Canada— Residential schools. 4. Inuit—Canada—Residential schools. 5. Indians of North America— Canada—Ethnic identity. 6. Inuit—Canada—Ethnic identity. I. Title. E96.2.M325 2007 C810.9’897 C2007-904064-0 The University of Manitoba Press gratefully acknowledges the financial support for its publication program provided by the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP), the Canada Council for the Arts, the Manitoba Arts Council, and the Manitoba Department of Culture, Heritage and Tourism. MgkWpns-textpgs-proof 6 FINAL.in4 4 17/10/07 10:00:37 am CONTENTS Foreword by Basil H. Johnston vii Acknowledgements and Permissions xvii INTRODUCTION 3 1. ACCULTURATION THROUGH EDUCATION 11 The Inherent Limits of ‘Assimilationist’ Policy 2. READING RESIDENTIAL SCHOOL 31 Native Literary Theory and the Survival Narrative 3. “ WE HAvE BEEN SILENT TOO LONG” 59 Linguistic Play in Anthony Apakark Thrasher’s Prison Writings 4. “ ANALYzE, IF YOU WISH, BUT LISTEN” 101 The Affirmatist Literary Methodology of Rita Joe 5. FROM TRICKSTER POETICS TO TRANSGRESSIvE POLITICS 137 Substantiating Survivanace in Tomson Highway’s Kiss of the Fur Queen CONCLUSION 175 Creative Interventions in the Residential School Legacy Endnotes 183 Bibliography 221 Index 235 MgkWpns-textpgs-proof 6 FINAL.in5 5 17/10/07 10:00:37 am MgkWpns-textpgs-proof 6 FINAL.in6 6 17/10/07 10:00:37 am FOREWORD U ntil I read Magic Weapons I didn’t realize that those of us who had at- tended residential school and then written about some of our experi- ences could cause such an uproar in the academic world so as to open the floodgates of the sea of deep thoughts and let loose a torrent of words. Reminded me of my father, Rufus’s, astonishment when I told him of my new- found knowledge that I had gained upon joining the ranks of scholars at the Royal Ontario Museum in Toronto in 1970. I told him that I had learned that our An- ishinaubae words fell into two categories, animate and inanimate; and that our verbs had a tense called “dubitative” that English didn’t have. Dad stood, as if dazed, for some moments before remarking, “Gee Whitakers! I didn’t know that we were that smart!” Like my father, I’m taken aback to learn that our words had such impact as to in- cite debates in the academic world. I didn’t know that we, myself included, meant to heal, empower, and help people find their identities. If the works of Highway, Thrasher, Joe, and myself bring about these results, well and good. But I didn’t have such lofty aims when I wrote Indian School Days. Mine were much more modest. It was simply to amuse the readers of The Ontario Indian, a magazine of the Union of Ontario Indians that ceased publication in the mid-1980s. After graduation from residential school in 1950, I and ten other former inmates of the school went to Wawa to work in the mines. There we formed a sort of com- munity, often reliving some of our experiences while we were locked up in the Spanish school. For five summers I worked in Helen Mine, consorting with my old schoolmates; as always, we rehashed old memories. MgkWpns-textpgs-proof 6 FINAL.in7 7 17/10/07 10:00:37 am MMAAGGIICC WWEEAAPPOONNSS Upon my graduation from Loyola College, Montreal, Quebec, I went to Toronto. In the late 1950s there may have been fifteen former Spanish residential school stu- dents working in Toronto. We found each other and kept in touch, drawn together by our common background and heritage and training in residential school. At home in Cape Croker, there were more than thirty people who had gone to residential school: my father, mother, uncles, and many others, who said not a word about their years at Spanish to us, their children. Eugene (Keeshig), Hector (Lavalley), Charlie (Akiwenzie), and I talked about residential school, but not to our children. When I started writing some of the stories that originated in Spanish and its residential school, former students came to me or called me to tell me more sto- ries. “Write a book! Why don’t you write a book?” they said. And that is how Indian School Days came into being. First, it was intended to amuse readers, to recount and to relive some of the few cheerful moments in an otherwise dismal existence, a memorial to the disposition of my people, the An- ishinaubaek, to find or to create levity even in the darkest moments. And this is how I would like my book to be seen. Had I known what I now know, perhaps I might have written an entirely dif- ferent text. But I didn’t know what I know now, and not knowing would have trivialized the residential school experience. But it’s not likely that I would have changed the purpose I had in mind in setting pen on paper to write about my schoolmates and friends. When word got out that I was writing about Garnier Residential School, I’ve reason to believe that there were a few uneasy Jesuits. One day Father Felix, then pastor of St. Mary’s Catholic Church on the reserve, remarked with a smirk, “Heard you’re writing about Spanish. Please don’t exaggerate as writers are in the habit of doing!” “You needn’t worry, Father!” I replied. “My account is a model of restraint!” Even afterwards, I heard from Father Wm. Maurice that none of the stories were documented or dated, and from Miss Alice Strain that they were all lies. In 1959 the former students of the Spanish Residential School held a reunion. Many did not come, too bitter to come to the scene of their degradation and hu- miliation. After two days of speeches, religious exercises, eating, and reliving hor- rors and capers, we went home. That so many came may be seen as customary among Indians; they like to visit and to revisit old times. viii MgkWpns-textpgs-proof 6 FINAL.in8 8 17/10/07 10:00:37 am FFOORREEWWOORRDD I think it was around 1995 that I heard rumours of a lawsuit being launched against the Jesuits and the federal government by former students of the Spanish Residential School. I heard that a lawyer from Meaford, Ontario, had been retained to represent the plaintiffs. I wasn’t interested. I wanted to get on with life. Besides, I didn’t want my wife, Lucie, to know that she had married damaged goods and that I had not trusted enough in her love to confide in her what had been done to me at school. One Saturday afternoon I left the house to drive around the community and take in the sights of home, my roots. Around the band administration building were cars. Must be important, I thought, for so many people to give up going to town on a glorious Saturday afternoon; there must be something special going on. As a rule I avoid public meetings. But something drew me to stop and drew me to the building. Inside was a large crowd. As I stepped into the dim interior, the gentleman standing at the head of the table asked what I was doing at the meeting meant only for residential school survivors. “He’s one of them, one of us,” the people sitting around the table spoke before I could explain. I gave my name, then sat down as invited. The gentleman conducting the meeting, which was primarily an information session, was John Tamming, a lawyer from Meaford, Ontario, who had been re- tained first by Renee Buswa and his wife of Whitefish Falls, Ontario, back in 1996. When the lawsuit was converted into a class action lawsuit, Mr. Tamming was retained to represent hundreds of complainants from the Spanish Residential School. I was, as it were, roped into the class action lawsuit. As one of the parties in the action against the Jesuits and the federal govern- ment, I had to make an affidavit declaring that the violations inflicted upon me during my incarceration in residential school actually occurred. In preparation for the interview with Mr. Tamming, I girded myself to tell the story that I’d never told anyone before, without breaking down. But I broke down. I wept. Why did I weep? Shame! Guilt! I don’t know. Did I feel relief? I don’t know. Did I feel better? I don’t know. For years I had laboured under the conviction that I was the only one to be debauched in Spanish Residential School. But during the course of the meetings ix MgkWpns-textpgs-proof 6 FINAL.in9 9 17/10/07 10:00:38 am
The list of books you might like
