The Narrative down below is a made up story which is told through the eyes of a 62 year old women who had a past experience in a residential school in Ontario Canada. This Story is inspired by the photo shown beside known as “Assimilation vs. Inclusivity,” created by unknown artist

St. Lawrence  Residential School (first person perspective)

        The First Residential school was made in 1831. It was 1925 when i got taken away, away from my culture, away from my family, away from tradition. We lived in a small town in Ontario Canada that I can’t even remember the name of. I was 8 years old, I am here to share my story.

Not only was it an average day but i was happy, happy to be living free with my parents, my brother and sister. When in a split second we were ripped apart from our families and our culture, i will never forget the faces of my parents as they watched us get taken away. I had never heard of a residential school and i had absolutely no clue in where and why they were taking us away from all we knew. I sensed that I had to be in for trouble just by the sound of the white men and the language they were speaking that I had never heard of. When we got to the school we were ripped from our clothes and put into black and white gowns, at least the girls were. They took everything from me, they took my clothes my culture and my language. If we were caught even once speaking our language they would beat us. “A language of the savages” they called it.

They stripped me from my traditions by cutting my hair, they dressed me in pale coloured clothes i had never seen before and they even took my smile. We had 5 minutes, 5 minutes to get dressed, brush your teeth, wash your face and, comb your hair. 5 minutes that i will never look at the same.

I faded away, away from my brother and sister. They were so innocent. Unlike me, my brother was 1 year younger and my sister was 2 years older. I can’t even imagine how they felt, i wish i could have seen them,comforted them, but no, we suffered alone. We went from singing songs around the fire all night long to fearing time. I can still hear the screams at night, the screams of children who were once fulfilling their biggest dreams, the ones who were now trapped inside their head. The strapping’s that the people would give us got so bad I flinched when anyone had come near me. Nevertheless, the one thing i will never forget was the day i was approached by a boy named Amka. He was Inuit,like me. When i first saw him i had a concerned look on my face, he kept walking toward me never losing eye contact. I wondered what he was doing as we were not supposed to be going around talking with each other. As he got closer and closer I became more and more curious, wondering if he was going to be nice to me or what he was thinking. As he got about 4 feet away from me he suddenly furrowed his brows and that’s when he hit me. I was in complete and utter shock as the tall white men in uniforms were standing off to the right. As i stood there in shock not knowing what to do he started screaming at the top of his lungs, he was yelling words that only i had understood. He was speaking Inuktitut, the language i had spoken since i was 4. The things he was screaming while he was getting dragged away by the guards was horrific. “HELP ME” he cried over and over “THEY HURT ME” he said.. I never understood why he had hit me though, maybe all his anger and fear had begun to build up he couldn’t hold his tears in anymore…I never saw him again after that night, i will always wonder what they did to him. The years passed by slower and slower. I only ever saw my siblings when they walked by me and even then i couldn’t stop to hug them.

As I got older each year became longer and harder, i was barely surviving. I learned to keep my mouth shut unless i was spoken to and i learned to forget my way of life.

Sent home, i finally got sent home after 9 whole years. My sister had previously been sent home and my brother was soon to follow. When i got home i was so ashamed. I lost my culture and i couldn’t even speak my own language anymore. I was ashamed to even attempt to communicate with my family. I had lost my respect for my heritage after being abused into thinking being inuit was wrong. When i arrived home i had discovered very quickly that my ataata (which meant father)had started drinking alcohol after we were taken away. My older sister was speaking to me about how their lives had been without children and how she had to take me away somewhere else because we were no longer wanted at home.

I had seen the bruises and scars on my sister, the only thing that concerned me was that some of them had looked fairly new, she had gotten out 2 years before i had… I told her i didn’t want to go with her because i could try to re learn the language,but she interrupted me. She then explained to me the horrible beatings our father would give her just because she didn’t remember our language and explained how alcohol had affected him…. I now knew why she had the bruises but i still didn’t understand how our parents could neglect us in such ways. We had no choice but to stay at home until my brother came home we thought.

We left 4 years later.

I am now 62 years old and residential schools still have not closed in Canada. I refuse to ever have children because i would never want anyone to experience what i had to go through for almost a decade. The Indian Act is still in place today and not much has changed regarding the discrimination towards my people and culture. They still look down on us. In the future ahead, i see brighter days for my great great grandchildren. I see them thriving with prosperity and this country giving them a chance at having a good life. Culture is important, not just to me and my people, but around the globe. It is what unites us and embraces our differences. When the world learns we are no different, we will all thrive in good will.