Category Archives: WPLongform

Margaret’s Baby

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Sometimes old memories float up in need of
a little light…
A soul’s whisper to let it go.

curtains city skylineI was 14 years old.  My mother and I were living in an apartment on the 14th floor of a basic downtown high-rise.  We were there because that’s where she was when I ran away from the last foster home I’d intended to live in.

I threatened to run away and never be found again if they made me go back to that home.  The Department of Social Services, and my unprepared mother, gave in.

My mother had been struggling with escape from an abusive marriage, alcoholism, and no way to fully support her daughters. Those were the consequences of the sins created by and for the Government. That’s how we ended up in foster care just after Christmas that year.

We were six girls, ages two to twelve years. I was twelve. They were my sisters and because I was the oldest, they were also my beloved babies. There was no doubt that we were a fiercely bonded ‘band of sisters’ having already traversed a very rocky start together.

I was quite used to taking care of them and the house as required, which it seemed was almost always.  So, the demand to relinquish responsibility to the social workers who came to take us away or to the people who were to foster and/or adopt us was incomprehensible. It was shocking and infuriating and frustrating.

Many nights I’d lie awake planning our escape from that foster home and formulating the many ways I’d find our mom. I usually ended up crying myself to sleep immersed in the despondency of realizing how powerless I really was.

We were all together in that initial home, except the youngest who was instead taken to live with our father – another story for another time.  I was eventually to move to two other homes within a year and a half. Only one sister was allowed to go with me; they gave me one day to choose between the four faces that pleaded to be taken. Despite everything that we’d already lived through to that point, it was then that I learned that a soul could feel fractured.

In short time and with little choice, we adapted and carried on as kids are so able. Then two years later, suddenly we were all being taken to visit with our mom at her own new home. The visit went by as quickly as I’d dreaded. When it was time to say goodbye to her, it felt like the beginning of all the bad goodbyes again. I could not return to that pain; the next weekend I bolted for home, for her, for good.

So there I was, on the 14th floor in a small, sparse apartment, a temporary only child, but finally with my own mom.  Life definitely took another turn in my day-to-day. I spent less time with my friends and more with my mother’s.

She had a friend on the 7th floor.  Phyllis was one of those larger than life characters; a hard-drinking party girl, a queen bee who had great pride in being a full-time ‘player’.  She seemed to take my mother under her wing.  She was a louder than life distraction for a young woman bogged down with desperate problems.

Phyllis held court to an allotment of very proud and loud butch lesbians. They called themselves the girbols (girl boys, hard g). One of them was Margaret. She was pretty, a large woman and very quiet. Though she liked to hang out with the crowd and indulged in the same drink and smoke, she alone remained quiet.

I came home from school one day at the start of spring break and went down to the gang. There was a brand new baby girl cuddled up in Margaret’s arms.  I hadn’t even realized that she had been pregnant. The baby was so tiny and delicate, and wrapped in a pink blanket.

Spring Break began on a weekend and as on all weekends, it was time to get the girbol party started. I was immediately designated the girl baby’s guardian. I took baby and all of her required possessions up to my apartment.

The ‘weekend’ turned into nearly two weeks during which I had full custody of baby night and day. It’s awesome, as in really awe-inspiring, how easily you fall in love with a child, even as a young girl and you immediately wish to be everything it takes to nurture them to perfection.

She needed me for everything and I reveled in that.  At night, I would wrap her next to me and listen to her breath and smell the top of her head until I drifted off in true peace. Every minute with her was another moment of reclaimed love. I was once again protector, friend, sister, mother.  For awhile I was me again.

Spring break was over and I’d already missed two days of school, I had to go back. That morning, I reluctantly took her down to the 7th floor, gave her back to Margaret and left for school. When I came home, I dropped off my school things and grabbed one of her blankets to collect her. I sniffed her baby smell all the way to Phyllis’s apartment.

When I walked in, I saw Margaret sitting by the window staring out with the curtains blowing around her. The girbol group was strangely quiet. I asked for the baby and no one said anything. I went to Margaret and asked. “Where’s the baby”?  She wouldn’t answer and then I saw her tears. I was instantly alarmed.

“Where’s the baby Margaret”?  I was ready to cry, but not sure why.

“They took her”, she said softly.

“Who took her”?

“Social Services. I phoned them today and they came to take her away”.

I know I asked her why, maybe a few times, but I don’t recall an answer. I doubt she gave one.

I turned from Margaret and I looked at everyone else. No one would look back at me; they kept their eyes on the floor or each other. I turned to Margaret again and watched her silently cry for a while. I walked to the door and quietly closed it behind me.

It was the last day I saw Margaret or our baby. I went to sleep that night holding that baby blanket. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. Somehow, I knew in my heart then, that no matter how much I dreamed, I was never going to get my family, my  ‘band of sisters’, back in the same way again.

And, we didn’t, not ever in the same way again.

RL

What? Me Blog? Thanks WordPress, and Maybe Ellen

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Blogger Kendall F. Person isn’t kidding, in my opinion, when he says:  “Writing is a performance art and every post is a show”.  When the notion of blogging first came up via the semi-gentle prodding of blogger Lois, I thought, really?  Would my personal musings, normally put down on paper in a private journal, have a place in the public realm?  Not that the public realm is necessarily a bastion of expert, or even semi-good, public offerings. Was it possible I could land somewhere in the semi-middle?

I looked over some of my musings to see what might be interesting and I thought, n.o. w.a.y! Well, maybe?  I eventually settled into the idea that maybe there is someone out there that I’m meant to share some thoughts with.  I have to confess, I also wrestled with the idea that any non-fans might have a heyday with my inner vulnerabilities.

Eye of the TigerCue up ‘Eye of the Tiger’.  This is my tap dance; any naysayers would be braying whether I wrote or not.

So, I searched up how to start a blog and looked at a couple of websites that offered pre-set web pages.  Novice that I am, I wanted cool, but needed easy.  I chose the WordPress offerings and I was off to the keyboard – which actually, wasn’t that far off.

For my first publication, I settled on a note written for my son after I was hospitalized with a condition that made me wish I had already condensed all my learned life shortcuts for him.  It wasn’t Aurelius, but perhaps enough for a decent start.

I followed the directions to send this out to the cyber-world with the expectation that maybe ten of my closest friends and family would bother to have a look. I was content with that idea, and that my son might get a kick out of the latest item added to my first-time-to-do list.  I intended to share the post on Facebook with some of my friends, so I also anticipated a like or comment about it on my Facebook wall in the same way I get for status updates.

Despite my low-key expectations, I still held my breath a little when I clicked that ‘publish’ button.  Regardless of how well you think you know your audience, putting yourself out onto the ledge of public judgment gives you some degree of heart palpitations that feels a lot different from the quaint idea of butterflies.

Regardless, shortly after, my tried and true came through with their likes, comments, and support for the blog.  All was well; I could breathe easily within the cushioned approval of my pals.   I was also lucky enough to be unaware at that point, that our website host also supplies statistics on how many people read your posts and from which country they are reading them.

I discovered that statistic counter the next day.  I clicked on the link to my post from my Facebook wall.  I wanted to see what it looked like from that angle.  It brought up my blog website and unexpectedly I saw that it had a ‘Follow’ tab at the bottom.  I clicked on it and it said, “Join 235 other followers”.  Huh?  That was exactly my first thought.  Then I realized this was some kind of error, so I logged into my website and navigated around the site directions. This took me to that eye-popping statistical page.  It said 135 people read that first blog on that first night, followed by the rest the next day.   Now, maybe that’s not exactly The National Post’s readership numbers, but for this average mom in the sticks, it might as well have been The National Post and CNN!   Of course I was obligated to check this page every hour for the next few weeks.

I was astonished at the number of people who cared to have a look at my site, especially those who weren’t aware that I existed pre- blog.  It was also thrilling to see those geographical stats. First another country popped up, another, then another continent, and now only one more continent to go.  I couldn’t believe how fast and how far these words, my words, could travel – Belgium, Ethiopia, England, Qatar, Singapore, Australia and on and on and back to Canada.   It was a heady Sally Field moment for me, but you know, just not in front of millions.   Of course, that pride puffing up was deflated somewhat by a bit of a reality check.  Blog junk mail.  Who knew there was such a thing?   See blog no. 4 – “First Blog Results in 3 Unbelievable Opportunities”.

Despite blog no. 4, I showed my young son all of these details and he was as excited for me as if he was my agent about to get his 15% of… something.  He has big plans for me, as soon as he figures out what they are going to be, something about Ellen DeGeneres.

An unexpected bonus in all of this was that I landed in a new community of extremely interesting, uplifting, fantastically talented, writing thoughtfulness.  One as generous with information and tech support, as they are in raising spirits by being quick to like, share, and comment on your work!

I now find myself turning to our host reader page to view their posts as often as I do the newspaper.  I feel like I won the literary lottery and now have at hand the most engaging stories of every genre at the ready.  Who knew Lois’s kick in the pants would catapult me into writing and reading bliss?

Whatever the long-term purpose of this blog is to be, I am ever hopeful that it helps to serve as much as I get from it.  I might also hope that the next time I’m rear-ended by a foot, I may more quickly remember that, many times, if not most,  inspiration comes in the form of a good kick and some bruising.

And, I still have the excitement to come of that one last continent being added to my stats.

RL

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/08/02/daily-prompt-beginnings/

Daily Prompt: Origin Storyby michelle w. on August 2, 2013

Why did you start your blog? Is that still why you blog, or has your site gone in a different direction than you’d planned?Photographers, artists, poets: show us BEGINNINGS.

This SHOULD be Ancient History by Now! To the Thoughts Mostly Unspoken About First Nations

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I hadn’t intended to immediately write anything about the Indigenous after my previous post.  I was leaning towards something funny.  I was in the mood for a ha ha, but life interfered again. I’d since learned even more about what goes on within the politics of “Native” life.  I know that I am far from the only one who was or is unaware of a lot of this information that is readily available, but rarely shared.

I received a great deal of positive comment and support on that ‘Half-Breed’ post, which I certainly appreciated.  I was expecting at least one comment of dissension, if not an onslaught.  Certain criticisms mean that there is still need for education, an opportunity to dispel a myth or two.

There was one critical thought, but it was given indirectly, written on the Facebook page of a mutual friend who had shared my story on his page.  The comment didn’t bother me to any great degree, and I doubt that its writer was the only person who felt like he did or something similar.  I’ve heard it said many times, that this topic just needs to go away. Actually, I can’t think of a group of people who would agree with that more than the people of Indigenous nations.

Response to post Half-Breed to Metis, My Return from a Savage Wilderness:

Anon.( for the sake of mutual friend):  The bogus multicultural self-identifying that happens in this country is ridiculous, especially when it comes to the inheritors of the first nations.           May 12 at 7:28am via mobile · Like

Then I recently read another blog that spoke to the Idle No More movement and Indigenous issues in general.  Her first reply was from someone who took issue with her post.

Response to post “Idle No More”, by Blogger Anne Thériault, The Belle Jar:

Carlos:  February 1, 2013 at 10:19 pm #

Let’s be real. There was no threat of Spence actually dying, what with all that fish broth she was consuming. No it’s not a full meal, but nutritious enough for her to survive. Also, just because the First Nations were here first does not preclude them from supporting themselves. How do you think that “the white people” survived when they got here? Exactly in the same way that the First Nations people did, hunting, fishing, gathering, and building their own shelters. The main difference is that the “white people” sought to advance and grow as a society, rather than try and piggy back on the work and efforts of others. There’s no reason why my tax dollars should go to fund the lives of those that do not have any motivation to work to support themselves, when the institutions that my tax dollars are SUPPOSED to go toward are so poorly underfunded. In all honesty, I have little sympathy for a group of people that have mismanaged the assistance has been given to them. Blogs like this that try to validate their claims of oppression absolutely drive me insane.  

REPLY 

Permit me to reply.

The lack of threat to Theresa Spence’s life notwithstanding, these are the kind of continual single-minded replies that completely ignore the actual facts and nuances of all the Indigenous issues as noted in Anne’s blog, and over all these many, many years.

Let’s break it down a bit. Let’s have a short look at some of the facts and nuances. To start, it’s fairly certain that most individuals and community bodies understand the enormous amount of work and time necessary to help people recover from abusive childhoods.  I think few today wouldn’t understand that many abused kids may require treatment even for the rest of their life to regain a life worth living.  Yet, despite the number of people who get that, there are too many with almost no understanding about how that same idea applies to the healing of the Indigenous . These are people dealing with the same kind of traumas -and so much more – applied to generation after generation of Indigenous families from birth to death.

A typical response to that is something like, “Hey, we’ve given you lots of money, you should all be better already”!  Why not try such an easy fix, in general, with all abuse victims?  I think most people agree that money alone does not solve everything.  There are all kinds of needs in response to life-altering events that need attending to:  physical and mental health, education, training, follow-up, and time.  I also have to wonder what exactly is the correct designated time period to get over it and assimilate?

Moving on from that issue, how many people regardless of ancestry would be able to “advance and grow as a society” like the “white people” if they don’t have the same advantages of the “white people” like deciding who can work on, or even sell, their own lands?

How’s this for some facts, that are by far not the only like them on the books, that would raise havoc for the rest of Canada? (courtesy of  Anne Thériault, The Belle Jar from CDN Dept. of Indian Affairs) :

  • “First Nations peoples have very little control over reserve land, and the Minister of Indian Affairs must approve any land sales or transfers.
  • First Nations people need to seek government approval for selling or bartering any crops, livestock and other products grown, reared or cultivated on reserve lands.   (Add in minerals and oil too.  There is far too much money in royalties and business taxes for the government to look at relinquishing them easily.  I also wonder who benefits the most from those taxes and royalties?  I wonder what the percentage of those taxes and royalties are paid back to the Natives in all those annual “handouts”?)
  • …if you’re an Indigenous Person, you’d better hope that the government doesn’t declare you to be “mentally incompetent”, as that means that the Minister can force you to sell, lease or mortgage your land as he sees fit.
  • Even a dead Indigenous person isn’t safe from the Minister; no wills drawn up on reserve lands are considered legally valid until the Minister approves them’.”

This kind of changes the overly accepted idea that the Indigenous simply chose the plan for a ‘welfare state’, doesn’t it?  If you still think there is a privileged existence on those reservations, or as status Aboriginal peoples, why don’t you ask to live as one for a week and see if you still feel that way?

Why are the people who feel the contentions are only about ‘status,’ or some other unfair representation, unable to get the message that no, the playing field to a decent life is not even.  Not even close.  That is the crux of the issue.  This is exacerbated by the fact that even many of the actual agreements, the Treaties, that were put in place have never been truly or fully honoured by the Canadian government.  It is these sort of issues that are going to take a lot of work to work out, which is why it has still to be worked out even after all these hundred some years.

I’d also like the people who demand that no more of “their” tax dollars be spent on these issues to tell me exactly what they think they’ve actually lost personally.  What exactly was their portion of ‘the wasted loss’?    I’ll bet these guys also think that “Natives” don’t pay any taxes at all either.  Better look that one up – because yes, we do.

As for all the mismanagement of funds by Band leaders, yes, there is room for improvement – with some bands, probably lots.  However, name any sort of business, government department, or even charitable organization that hasn’t had some mismanagement issue, even without the ‘advantage of full government oversight as required by the Indian Act’.

Don’t even try to compare any of that band mismanagement, perceived or real, to the billions lost by the very governments that require oversight of the Native funds.  Can you say $3.1 billion this year by the Harper government in one department alone?  Or how about all those advanced and educated senators recently in the news who cheated on their expenses?  Yes, interestingly, even one of them happened to be “Native”.  We’ve come at least some way, baby.

It’s also convenient for some complainers to continually overlook all the Indigenous groups that are working damned hard to overcome overwhelming and seemingly insurmountable problems to uplift and change life for all.  The point made about white society advancing and growing on its own seems to have missed the point entirely:  that ‘the whites’ initially advanced and grew as a society on the backs, resources, and guidance of the Natives, and in many ways continue to so today.   No, we wouldn’t say it was the sole way that society advanced, but that doesn’t negate the long, and again,  continuing role of that fact.

So, I’m sure we can all agree that it really is too bad, even deplorable, that Indigenous issues are still an issue.  These discussions should all be ancient history by now, but they’re not, and not because of some simple inconvenience like the Indigenous simply wanting to “piggy back on the work and efforts of others”.  In order to speak to such a large overall issue, one needs to have a far larger view and a handle on all of the facts and history.

Personally, I am very happy to know that there are plenty of people willing, able, working to get able, and actually working on this.  If we want an issue to go away, the first step to being of any useful help is learning just what the problem is.   So, instead of opinions based on reactions to headlines or chats, why not try to really learn about the subject?  Who knows, maybe then, even we all could help.

RL

Thanks to the Belle Jar blogsite for the Idle No More commentary, and the May 24, 2013 post in the Winnipeg Free Press on Native business partnerships with conventional industries.

http://bellejarblog.wordpress.com/2012/12/26/idle-no-more/#comments

DULCE ET DECORUM:  http://noraloreto.ca/the-indian-act-in-plain-english/

May 24, 2013 post in the Winnipeg Free Press on Native business partnerships with conventional industries.

First Nations Business Partnerships Exploding

http://www.winnipegfreepress.com/opinion/analysis/Industry-First-Nations-partnerships-exploding-204351481.html