My Experiences Shape My Artistic Perception

My first school was a Catholic school in Petawawa when this happened. I was a small child – grade 3 I think. I was a pretty fair student, maybe not that bright, but I was fun and attentive. At the time I had 8 older brothers and sisters so I knew how to play hard. In winter, the school used to bulldoze all the snow into a huge hill in the middle of the playground and prohibit us from playing on it.

Unable to resist climbing the mountain in our playground, I played on it one day with some other girls and we got caught. We were brought to the office to face the Principal – a strong faced woman with severe features and round glasses.  We were questioned and humiliated about our decision to play on the hill. We were strapped by the principal while another nun watched. I was with 2 other girls and we all got the strap - it was a big strap (or maybe I was just small) and it looked like one of those things you sharpen a shaving blade with. It reminded me of a beaver tail.

I got 5 strikes on 1 hand and 3 strikes on the other. I'm not sure why those numbers but I've never forgotten that detail. The first strike was shocking - it really burned and stung afterwards. At one point I pulled my hand away from the strap and she missed. I think I got an extra strapping for it, I can’t recall. I was so confused about what had just happened. We just got the strap for playing – for playing? I grew up with so much freedom to play and no one ever thought we deserved the strap, least of all for playing on a snow hill at recess.

We were sent back to the classroom after. Writing was hard because I couldn't hold my pencil up. My fingers hurt a lot and I wanted to cry – maybe I did; I can’t clearly recall. It hurt for a long time on my hands, and even longer in my heart. I great up going to church – a Catholic church. I adored Father Kennedy – he was kind and gentle voiced. He never locked the church and always spoke with me when I would hang out in the pews reading my book or watching the light play on the stained-glass Madonna and Child. I liked the quiet and reverence of the place – but after that day, I was worried about running into a nun that wasn’t nice so I didn’t go there as much.

Sometimes in class we would encounter those long wooden pointer sticks slammed as the nuns walked around our desks. They could really hurt your hands if you got nailed. I liked to draw and if I got caught drawing in class I'd get whacked so I kept it hidden. I did get whacked once at least but I can't remember what for. The strap was a bigger deal I guess.

Not all the nuns were bad - just one or 2 that scared the crap out of me. The music teacher was kind and gentle and I remember her well. Funny how kids will remember how someone made them feel for their whole lives. She loved my drawings and doodles and would always ask me to see my new ones. That validation was something I needed in school as a child who was suddenly facing corporal punishment confusion. The title of the art below is titled "Survivor Tracks". While it was fashioned from that memory, the title isn't intended to position myself as a residential school survivor. Moreover, I hope to honour the tremendous suffering and subsequent victory of the people who are still standing, still walking, still healing, still teaching in spite of what they have endured.

My story is so small when I think of how many young people were harmed by such awful religious people that had bad intentions or felt invested in hurting children for rules that made no sense. In the face of the deep and lasting generational trauma that so many have endured, my story feels insignificant. I know it isn’t and I’m grateful it wasn’t worse. I don’t feel much about that day anymore but I have learned through the process of trying to better myself, that this was something that happened to me and it had a lasting effect. Unpacking it and feeling the lack of grip it has on me now is a good thing – it took a lot of smudge and open-concept thinking to get through remembering all that, but it’s done now and I’m grateful for the healing that’s come from it. I’ve never shared my story publicly before, but I’m doing it now. Your pain is pigment and you are the artist. Let art help you to plumb the depths of your experiences. Bring them forward into your creative process and feel what happens when you simply stop caring about the perfection of the work and embrace the healing power of art in all its messy glory.

Title: Survivor Tracks Story: She felt the pull of the medicine as her Spirit walked on. Grandfather Wind opened a path for her to follow, and the land she loved swallowed her whole, covered her tracks, kept her secrets. The broken church that broke her heart became small and in a flood of understanding, forgiveness took the place of all their names. Every journey begins with an ending. Watercolour on Arches Paper