Survivor Tracks - a personal story

** Before you begin reading, you need to know that this is a recounting of my experience as a student in a school run by nuns in the late 60's. I discuss my experience with corporal punishment and the confusion that arose from that experience. This may be triggering for some and for others not so much. Either way, I am compelled to share my story as it connects me to a piece of art that I sold too soon and have never stopped thinking about. Perhaps by recounting and sharing my experience the tie I have to that story will release me. That remains to be seen. Miigwetch. Thank you. _________________________ My first school was a Catholic primary school in Petawawa located in the Ottawa Valley, Ontario. At the time of this, I was in grade 3 and a fair student - a bit too stubborn, a bit too independent maybe, but I was fun and attentive in my studies - I liked school. At the time I had 9 brothers and sisters. We were a close family of humble means, but it was church every Friday and Sunday with lots of fun gatherings and plenty of playtime. In winter, the school used to bulldoze all the snow into a huge hill in the middle of the playground but prohibit us from playing on it. Unable to resist climbing that glorious mountain of fun, I and a few other girls played on it and got caught. We were brought to the office to face the Principal – a strong faced woman with severe features and round glasses.  I recall how none of what was happening made any sense to me - playing on a hill was as natural as putting on boots - harmless fun. No one came forward with a reason for why we weren't allowed on the hill. If someone said, "Look, this is your last warning, stay off the hill", I would have. I was angry and confused. This was unfair and scary. In the Principal's office we were questioned, and humiliated about our decision to play on that hill. I can't recall all she had to say about our school yard criminal enterprise but we were told to stretch out our hands and I remember the strap looking so big and our hands looking so small. It reminded me of a beaver tail. We were strapped by the principal while another nun watched. The first strike took my breath away. I pulled my hand on the second strike and the Principal was not pleased. I got 5 strikes on one hand and 3 strikes on the other and were sent back to the classroom after. Writing was hard because I couldn't hold my pencil properly. My hands were stinging and burning and so so red. My fingers hurt a lot and I wanted to cry – maybe I did. It hurt for a long time on my hands, and it hurt even longer in my heart.

I had a good friendship with Father Kennedy who was at our little church – he was kind and gentle voiced. He never locked the church and I often hung out there. He always spoke with me in a very matter-of-fact way. I spent time in the pews reading my book or watching the light play on the stained-glass - it was a daydreamer's paradise for a child's active mind needing some peace. After my experience with the strap I was worried about running into a nun that wasn’t nice so I just didn’t go there as much.

In school the nuns used those long wooden pointer sticks - the ones that sound like a gunshot when they were wielded by a practiced hand hitting a desk top. But for me, that strap was a bigger deal.

My story is small when I think about the many young people who were harmed far beyond my experience. I would like to think the Principal took no pleasure in what she did - that thought feels better than the alternative.

I don’t feel much emotion about that day anymore. One of the remarkable Elders I have had the pleasure of knowing was Frank Settee. I only got to see him periodically but I listened to all his words. He loved our little community and we loved his visits. Moshom had a way of seeing you with spirit eyes. I didn't know him as well as some, but he once spent time looking at my art and shared wonderous things with me. He taught me that when something negatively impacts you deeply, you work long and hard to heal it. When the thing that's hurt you can be seen and no longer feels oppressive, you can share that experience to help another the person without hurting yourself. Your experience then becomes a gift that you can use to help through the simple act of sharing it. Miigwetch Moshom.

Unpacking this memory over time and only now feeling the lack of grip it has on me is a good thing. It took a lot of smudge 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 as part of my own healing journey. My pain is pigment and I am an artist. The Payne's Grey in this work is one of my favourite colours. It reflects in both words and hue, a depth of feeling. Art helps me to plumb the depths of my experiences and brings them forward for closer examination. This painting came to me gently and with purpose. As I painted it I felt a deep connection with it - in retrospect, I should have sat with is for a while. But I needed the money and so it went into an exhibition and was purchased by 2 lovely gentlemen. They seemed deeply connected to it so letting it go with them felt ok. It was sold about 4 years ago and it's taken me this long to get this painting out of my system. Telling this story gave me more healing. Art is pure healing power in all its gory, 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