Verna, the Boss of Life

Michigan, in the early 1800’s, the government negotiated terms with the Native Americans where they did not have to leave the area, they resided in. My ancestors did not have to walk the trail of tears due to the savvy negotiations of the untied Tribes of Michigan. Their efforts brought success to the Native people and many families could stay on their lands. I am proud to say that I am living on the same allotted land my Great Grandfather had received in the town of Petoskey Michigan. My grandparent, my mother’s siblings, and now my family live in that same plot of land. When my parents married, they purchased a few lots from my grandparents. After 185 years, we are the only Native family on this street.

Over the past year of 2020 and 2021, I had the opportunity to learn more about my family through the writings of my Uncle, Simon Otto. He was a writer for many of the local newspapers where he would share his stories of his childhood. I am an archivist for the Tribe here in Harbor Springs so working with historical documents is what I do. In Simon’s passing, his manuscripts for his books, were lost. After nosing around and making a phone calls to his widow, I found his collection and brought it home. In April of 2020, I brought home his manuscripts of his books, cut out pieces of news articles he had written, in the collection was a few personal items, and many pictures of the family I had never seen.

My mother, a small quiet Native woman, was unbelievably strong person. What she survived and experienced was amazing. She was one resilient woman. Resilience was her specialty. I really do not know how she manage to raise eleven children, four of them, were mentally handicapped. She married a man who was an alcoholic. He, was not a “happy” alcoholic he was abusive in many ways. I watched her struggle to cook, clean and care for children with a blackened swollen eye. Even though I was a young witness, I still saw greatness in her resiliency. She was a good strong Anishinabe Que, Native woman.

Why is it, that humanity really has no concept of cause and affect. Yes, affect is the word that I need to use here. Effect doesn’t go deep enough into the psyche. Affect is the internal impact on the individual that the effect uses to act or react to. Events in one’s life causes the response of happiness all the way to trauma. After many years of recovering from my traumatic childhood and all its life occurrences, it came to me that I knew very little about my mother’s childhood. I have read, even though I can’t quote it, that most trauma one experiences is during childhood. The internal book records of everything one learns and that is stored in the brain. When that memory is triggered, one uses the book in your memory to determine how and when we need to act and react. Deep inside it is stored information you wouldn’t even know it is there until snap, it opens up a reaction or action. A man can stand between two women and quickly raise his hands, the women would react differently according to their life experience. Each person would respond differently and there are many different responses according to their experiences in the world.

After my mother’s passing, I wondered about her life experience in growing up. After all, she was raised by parents who knew death by murder in the family, loss of ancestral lands, Veteran of the Civil War, survivors of the Indian school in Mt. Pleasant, Michigan, she was a daughter of bootleggers, and forced to go to Catholic schools. What kind of affect did generational trauma have on her life? I will never totally know all the things that formed her. All I can do is remember the stories she told me and with the additional information from my Uncle’s writings and pictures, I have built a larger scope of what her life was like.

One day, while sitting at the table with a hot cup of tea, she and I talked about a memory of hers. Spring was in the air so was her thoughts. She took me back to a time when a stranger came into the classroom and took her from school. She remembers the kind lady because she was the first white woman to talk to her so nicely. The lady explained that she was going to buy her some new clothes as a gift. Off they walked to the store and replaced the socks with holes and bloomers with gashes from wear in them. With a frowned brow she talked about feeling so ashamed of her clothes and of her dirty little hands and feet. The lady gracefully ignored her physical condition and bought her clothes. I could see the affect the memory had on her furrowed brow. The effect was same, the affect I saw the hurt little Verna that was broken inside. I didn’t ask her about her memories too often for I could see the direst it caused, but when she shared openly, I listened.

Verna was her nickname from her siblings and many family members. Verna, she was a stranger to me. Mom, as a child wasn’t something I just didn’t know. Yes, she told me about the bed bugs. She told me about the chickens and geese they kept. She told me about her grandfather always sleeping in the cellar. She always wrinkled her nose when she remembered the boiled suppers they had during the Great Depression. The stories were so superficial and general knowledge stuff. Nothing of joy and happiness or the thoughts that kept her going when her life was tough. She always said, “I don’t know how we survived.” And I say, “Mom, how did you survive?” What did Verna learn when she was young to help her survive?

The other day, I heard my daughter say while rummaging around the fridge, “we’ll make something out of nothing.” Now there’s a phrase I learned from my mother and I see that I have handed it down to my daughter. The Great Depression had an impact on my mother’s childhood. She probably heard her mother say that very same phrase. Depression food is what I was raised on and crave. She had many children to feed with very little money so depression food was served. Her mother taught her how to cook on a strict budget and she taught her daughters to do the same. When times get tough, and dinner is needed, we say, “We’ll make something out of nothing.”

Summers were structured around the two gardens the family kept. Planting, weeding, and harvesting under the hot summer sun was a family chore. We grew and harvested them, she canned into all hours of the night and stacked jars in the basement for winter storage. This past 2020 experience caused me to kick into survival mode. Preservation of my family was my focus. I must say that I am blessed that my mother taught me how to can vegetables and live cheaply on a budget. Back and forth to the Tribal garden I went. Prepping the food, I would need to keep a house of six people fed, was one of my focuses, the other was working on Simon’s collection. Each jar I canned was placed on the shelf. Each jar was a jar of hope that my kids would make it another year. I wonder if she felt the same looking at a summer’s work sitting on the shelves.

I learned canning from my mother. It is a dying skill in today’s society. Today’s society is in dire need of such skills and they do not even know it. During the pandemic, the grocery shelves were emptying at an alarming rate. The world fell apart, people reacted out of fear of starving, Yet, I didn’t. I know how to harvest and preserve food. I worked hard like my mother did and put food up in jars so I could feed the family. Blessed, our family was blessed by her gift. A skill of survival. A skill she probably learned from her mother.

As I worked on Simon’s collection, pictures emerged from their time capsule and changed me. I finally got to meet Verna for the first time. Verna, two or three years old in the arms of her mother. This moment was frozen in time with a smile on her face. Such a simple little dress she wore. No lace, no flowers or anything fancy. I sat there gazing on little Verna, she was happy in that picture. A shuffle and a toss of a few things and a picture of a group of kids swimming flew to the floor. There she was, age 6 or 7 swimming topless. I could feel the happiness beam from the picture. Almost every picture that emerged showed her smiling and laughing with her siblings. She loved family. I read Simon’s account of his childhood and knew my mother may have had similar experiences. I just wish she would have talked more about the happy times she had as a child. She didn’t though. Everything was so secret or were things that she was taught not to speak about. I do not know all the details. I will take the few pictures and treasure them completely. What I like the most was that she chose to be happy even when she was hungry, poor, cold, or anything else you want to add. I came to understand that one must choose to be happy and family is important.

My mother was a victim of abuse. My mother was betrayed. My mother broke and healed from brokenness. My mother wasn’t a survivor she was a warrior. She fought back when she was attacked. She defended when she could. She took the risk and divorced my dad and worked even harder to keep us going. She fought for she was strong. I can’t imagine all the laundry, meals, and crying babies she made it through while caring for the handicapped siblings. Every day was a battle. One couldn’t just stop for life keeps going. I am proud to say, “My mother was a warrior Que.”

When I think about my mother, I think she taught me to rise and fight through the trials and tribulation. She taught me to take a stand to my abusers. She taught me to survive and instilled survival skills. She taught me that family is the most important thing. She also taught me that it is okay to break, get help, and do what you have to do to heal. Most of all, one must support others in their direst. Friend who become family is what one should strive for. My mother, raised a Warrior Que and I fear no trials and tribulations. My amazing mother was a boss of life. I am a boss of my life. Lessons from my mother is worth more than gold. When I think of her, I think about how proud I was of her I am.