Kayl

Indigenous plant and exploration lover

[myindigenous]

Johanna

There is so much to be said of someone you have never met, under proper circumstances. Joanna Commanda for reasons beyond my knowledge attracted my attention easier than any other my grandmothers siblings. Perhaps it was her uncanny resemblance to my grandmother. Perhaps it was because she was the oldest of them all. I sat on my great uncle peters couch while he passed me a photo of her in her adolescent years, and until told otherwise I myself believed she was my grandmother. By far the most riveting part of gaining legal representation in the sixties scoop trial are the pages of files from social services that were given to my grandmother. All written on, and about her. Much so terrible and infuriating remarks written about her colour of skin, her heritage, and a complete and utter lack of writings about the content of her character. The things that stood out to us the most were the files about her life before forced into foster care. Joanna was deemed her godmother. We discovered this on her birthday, and in clouded tears my family comforted my grandma as she missed her godmother. A sister she didnt even know existed. The oldest of the pack, but unfortunately the inwisest. Not because of lack of education, or genetics. Joanna was killed in a car accident when she was 19 years old, and preganant with her first child. Another branch in my family tree which was snapped off before it could blossom. I drove to the town where joanna grew up. The first road trip in my first car just to visit a library so I could find anything about her, or the accident. I sat at the centre table surrounded by binders which were labeled with one simple word: archives. Nothing was in alphabetical order. Half the notes and pages were written in old school French, and the most obvious of road blocks. Joanna was an Indigenous women. I fear and hope that the reason I can not and will likely never find any information on my great aunt is because of the lack of empathy this world had for native men and women in the 1960s when she died. With this thought in mind I gave up. I carelessly created a scene while I sobbed in the middle of quiet library, completely and utterly defeated and drained.

[myindigenous]

Me. My Story.

My story began in a family torn by war far before I entered the world. My mother’s side since the 1960s could be considered a puzzle. Despite the pieces being so clear and close to one another, no one had the energy to put them back together again. It was because of this that my grandmother never met her real parents, and my mother never met her aunts or uncles or cousins, and I never met them either. For me, my family even to this day consisted of close friends, close enough to consider them siblings. My mother’s best friend whom she grown up with had children the same time as her, and to me, they were my cousins. The idea of relatives by blood had always made me giggle, because my fathers side too was broken. His father was a dead beet, and perhaps that is why my father himself chose drugs over his own children. Before my grandmothers death on his side I remember visiting my cousins at least once a year. We would drive hours just to spend the weekend and see them, but in 2010 I saw them less and less, to a current point of not even remembering what they look like. One person In your family is always the glue. Be it an aunt or uncle or grandparent, when they are gone so is the glue, or whatever example you may use to describe someone who kept your family from falling apart. When I turned 18 and used ancestry for the first time, I found my grandmothers niece, Amy. In the following months we made numerous 6 hour drives to visit her side of the family, who all lived around the reserve in which she was born. Through speaking with her different relatives I discovered there were many more in close distance who no one had spoken to in years. To me, they acted as though it was each other’s fault. They all pointed fingeres and made excuses as to why they haven’t spoken to their brother or their sister or their cousin in years. The reality was, nobody made the effort. Despite being blood torn apart by the racism of the Canadian government in the 1960s, they had no urge to show them wrong. For me, it was anger and spite that caused me to form so many close relationships with my cousins like Amy, and her 6 year old daughter who I would now move mountains just to put a smile on her face. I wanted to show this country that it’s going to take more than a faulty foster care system to tear us apart.

[femestella]

[myindigenous]

My Grandmother.

Written shortly after visiting my great grandmother’s unmarked grave. A women who my grandmother never met, having been a victim of the sixties scoop.

The thought of how none of us spoke of Charlotte St Denis. We had just visited the grave of our close relative who none of us had ever met, but acted as though we did. I stood above her. I stood upon the soft soil which looked nothing out of the ordinary from my point of view, until you see the flowers reaching for the tips of your toes screaming that they are the cheap fix to an unmarked grave until further action can be taken. Beneath me lied a person. A human being who I shared blood with. As we drove the car was silent for a while. It was that day I realized how loud silence really is. It’s deafening. The farther we drove from the cemetery the more relaxed the cars atmosphere became. My mother and cousin spoke of an upcoming Pow wow on the reserves grounds, while I remained watching the election boards we passed that flooded the sides of the road. My mind, on my grandmother. She sat beside me with her coverup smile, starring out the window same as I, except she did not fight for a clear thought. Subtly, she uses her left hand to wipe a tear falling down her cheek, and my stomach turned with feelings of sadness. I couldn’t help but wonder how long she had kept those tears. Having never met her mother, these tears were different from others. A grateful tear perhaps. Or perhaps a tear of overwhelming feelings. The kind that leaves you angry for crying, but also confused and exhausted as to why you are doing it. I never knew, and I never asked. I’ve always hoped that the short period of time standing in between her mother and father brought her peace of mind. They rested side by side, they were safe.

[enchanting-landscapes]