Agony & Grace

When I was six years old, orange became my favourite colour, and it is to this very day. Despite recent events in Canada, I waited for over six months after my mother's death to share the most horrifying secrets of my heart and dreams. It would take a lifetime before I truly realized how important it would become to Canada as a nation. My prayer is in sharing certain circumstances and thoughts; I might help some Canadians understand our Indigenous peoples' plight. Canadians might better understand the long-lasting effects that are caused by stealing the innocence of childhood. Not just on a person, but on people as a whole, and how it eventually can tear at a nation's soul.

In grade eight, my mother took me to a private residential school located in the farmlands and bushlands of Alberta. On the first day in September, as my mother got into her car with my aunt, I received my first lesson about living in a residential school at the age of twelve or thirteen. Over the next ten months, I would be beaten with a wooden paddle, slapped, punched and more by the adult males at this school. One of the Masters punched me in the stomach for being disrespectful. The term "Master" refers to a male teacher or instructor, and I believe the term originated in the British school system.

In horrifying nightmares, I remember a tall student about fifteen years old who put my life in peril when he choked me with his school scarf until I was unconscious. The school I attended had no cleaning staff, and students performed all tasks under more senior student supervision. I remember being sodomized with a broomstick and beaten until an older student intervened. My offence was I had not completed cleaning the bathrooms promptly. I reported this to the "Master" in charge of the Infirmary. I was given a mystery little red pill and then beaten on the bum for being a "Dirty Fag."

When it was time for an exam, the Master would walk in with the exam papers and a large piece of wood, sometimes handcrafted, known as a Swat Stick. Once given these exams, failure to pass often meant a beating, or one Master would line up all the other students, and they would beat you with their belts as you crawled past them. Some Masters required an eighty percent pass grade, one swat for every percentage below.

School fighting was permitted as long as it was outside, and sometimes people placed bets, including school staff. I was fortunate, despite my mother not believing this abuse. When I wrote to her about it throughout the school year, she agreed to hear me when it ended. When I returned home at the end of June, I pulled my shirt up and dropped my pants, and she agreed I would not return to this school. My mother and I would never openly discuss the school or the experiences at the school again.

Sometimes at night, I remember the "Swats" I would receive and how exams terrify me over forty years later. One day in the early 1980s, I found the courage to contact the closest RCMP detachment to the school. After some delay, I spoke to an RCMP sergeant who listened on the telephone as I described my experiences as I could remember them. He told me he was tired of the lies students would say about this school in an authoritative tone. He refused to look into my complaint and threatened to have me arrested for a false accusation.

I tell this story, not for pity or help but to let my Indigenous brothers and sister know I had a small sample of the horrors inflicted upon you. Except after one year, I could drop my pants, and the visible marks on my back, buttock and thighs got me away from that place, though it lives in my mind and eats at my spirit forever.

I was able to escape the abuse these alleged educators and members of and supporters of a particular Christian church inflicted upon me. I should not forget to mention that many of these "Masters" were former military men and believed that brutality created better adults. The truth is my experiences were but a small taste of what my indigenous brothers and sisters suffered; their pain was far worse and went on years after years.

As I have told you a little of my story, we as Canadians need to listen to our Indigenous brothers and sisters' stories. We can treat the fallen and mistreated with respect and dignity. We can listen closely to the survivors' stories and make sure nothing like this ever happens in Canada again. My prayers and heart go out to all the survivors of Residential School abuse; I am genuinely sorry for your forever pain.

I want to thank my uncle and his family, who tried to support me during my challenging experience. I was fortunate enough to have you as a refuge from time to time. I would also like to say I have faith and do not hold God responsible for men's evil. Once in my late forties, I came upon a truck filled with crushed vehicles. At the top of the pile was a school bus with the name of this residential school on it. I will admit tossing rocks and screaming at the bus for a long time until my arm could throw no more.

I chose not to mention this school by name as it was part of a Canadian National Film Board production in the 1970s. The 1976 National Film Board production is on youtube. Many comments include former students who counted the number of times they received "Swats."

Thank you for reading, and please remember To believe survivors!

Author's Notes

I wish to take a moment to thank the many friends who read my story, assisted in editing and took time from their busy schedules. I wish to thank my immediate family, who have supported me, especially when I have relived some of these nightmares.

This story may appear in other publications, including but not limited to Medium.com.