I haven’t wanted to turn the news on. It’s too grim. The announcement of 215 graves found around around a Kamloops Indian Residential School seems too much to bear. Yet it shouldn’t be surprising considering our history and treatment of First Nation Peoples.
Where is my legacy in this terrible history. My school years were mostly fine. My Grandfather was shot five generations ago. It changed our trajectory. Our family became what we did because of it.
I don’t know what reconciliation looks like, to both ask for forgiveness and understand someone else’s pain. To be pushed under, held under until you beg but never given a breath.
To watch your children taken away. To who knows where. Where many would never return.
This isn’t news, everybody knew it went on.
When I was young we had a fight outside the school. It was the Aboriginal kids against the White kids. There was some good battles going on among the older kids.
We were in grade one but had both failed it once. I held on to Scotty and we pretended to fight. We became good friends.
Scotty’s grandfather Mose was hit on the highway. His father Ray died on the hill near our house.
Scotty and I ran into each other once and while and always had a good laugh.
Scotty died, young as well.
I am ashamed to turn my face against such grim history.