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Bee in the Bonnet by BH BatesThe blue light of early morning filled the intermediate boy's dorm at the Saint Joseph mission, when Brother Robby came in to announce: "Time! Time, boys, to get up. Time!" But I was already wide awake; this was to be one of my first memories of the Catholic Residential school system. As the lights went on they made a 'ping' sound. One by one they were turned on and one by one they sounded off. Ping. Ping. Ping. Funny, the little things a kid remembers. They say that a person's senses can provoke powerful memories and stir emotions you thought long dead! The smell of bread baking, a certain taste, even a sound can take you back in time faster than the blink of an eye. It's been many, many moons since I attended the mission and in that time I've forgotten - or should I say, repressed, a lot of memories. But recently I had the opportunity to walk the halls of an old Catholic mission again. Even though the place had been refurbished into a fancy resort, the basic stone structure was still intact, an imposing building that dominated the surrounding land - just like it did when I was a kid. I'm standing at the entrance of this immense building. I've never seen anything so big. I'm scared and I just want to leave this place and go home with my Mom! But I'm not a kid now. This stone building we are standing in is no longer a Catholic Mission. The memory fades and I am back in today, on a holiday with my wife. Checking in at the front desk was as normal as checking in at any other hotel … at least for a moment. Then, the front desk clerk told us that this very room was once the 'visiting room.' In the old missions it was the room where the parents came to visit their children. Suddenly, I felt like someone had poured a bucket of water over my head - tears, to be more exact. We kids called it the crying room because anyone who went into that room would break down in mournful sobs or out-right wails of sadness. A feeling of sorrow engulfed me ... I was eleven again. Walking down the halls of that mission, I hear the steps of a thousand shoes following behind me. We are all in a line marching to the recreation room to say our pre-meal prayers. The junior, intermediate and senior boys are all standing against the walls, shoulder to shoulder, heads bowed and in unison a mighty roar of voices begin s ; "Our Father....!" Then I snapped back to the present day and I was standing at my hotel room door with my wife saying: "Well? Are you coming in?" My wife, being a person of non-native heritage, had no idea what was going on in my head or in my heart. All she saw was me standing there with our suitcases and a blank stare on my face. Little did she know I was carrying a lot more 'baggage' than either of us realized! If you're Native, and have a little more salt than pepper in your hair, you're probably old enough to have attended a mission and you'll know what I'm writing about. But, if your hair is still as black as the feathers of a crow, I hope you can read this and understand the feelings I and many others experienced, both the good and the bad. Some would have you believe it was all sexual abuse and cultural devastation. And these things absolutely did happen. No matter how you slice it, we were left in the care of an institution and it was especially difficult for the younger ones. Still, there were some Priests, Brothers and Nuns who were very concerned about the children's feelings of abandonment. They did their best to help us adjust to the loneliness a person can feel, even as they stand in a crowd of hundreds. My saviour was Brother Robby. I truly believe Brother Robby saved me from my self-imposed depression. I was very upset at my parents for leaving me at the mission. And to punish them for their betrayal, I, at first, hated them as hard as I could. When that didn't work, I decided to pout and became as sad as I possibly could. The only thing wrong with that plan was: Brother Robby wasn't going to let me do that to myself. He was one hell of a guy, for a Catholic Brother! I swear he could make the Devil himself smile. He just had a way of sensing when you were down and he'd do something to get your mind off of whatever was bothering you, from a joke out of his well worn bag to crossing his eyes. He made funny faces or just gave an understanding nod of his head, accompanied by a sympathetic smile. I don't know where you're at Brother Robby or even if you're still alive ... I just hope, somehow, you receive this; "I thank you, for helping me! And I love you like a real brother, for your heart-felt compassion." In memory of ol' Brother Robby, I can't finish this story with a sad ending. Here's one of his corny jokes: "Where was Moses, then the candle went out? In the dark, silly!" Dear reader: Please feel free to contact, B. H. Bates at: beeinthebonnet@shaw.ca |
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