The news of the Record no longer being published was upsetting to me as a novice writer. This was a place my pen and I considered home.
You two would have loved reading some of the articles that I have written. One can see how much you two have inspired me .
Reconciliation. A long word with many meanings. A word that leads to many interpretations for many of us. As a residential school survivor that has been scarred by my residential school experience, my interpretation of that word is simple.
As I grew up, I turned away from anything that had to do with religion. The very word reminded me of residential school. Evening prayers and forced Sunday school attendance; I was having none of that in my life.
My middle sister, Pauline and I were sitting around the bedside of our oldest sister, Barbie. There was heavy silence that hung in the air.
My church is not made of brick and mortar. It does not have hard wooden seats or songbooks. My church is not contained within four walls of a building.
I’m thinking of Mother’s Day and residential school. Were there any positive mother figures when I was there?
Earlier that day I was at my doctor’s office for a regular appointment. While I was waiting there, I saw the security guard trying to physically remove two homeless people from the waiting room. This was early January and it was -30°C outside and there was an extreme windchill warning. Wanting to do something, I got up and took a picture of what was happening with my cellphone.
Joining the Healing and Reconciliation Committee couldn’t have come at a worse time for me. I was just starting the legal process for my residential school claim against the church.
I hold a picture of my parents in my hand. The picture is faded slightly, but the memories I have of them are very dear.
The house-mother is doing her rounds; the beam of light from her flashlight announces her presence. I have to muffle my cries and pretend to sleep.