My Métis connection to Truth & Reconciliation

September 30th 2022, marked the second national Day for Truth and Reconciliation in Canada.
Like many others in Canada, I spent the day reflecting on the horrors of the nation’s past and present relationship with Indigenous peoples.

The purpose of this day is to honour the survivors of Residential Schools, as well as the thousands of children who did not survive them.
If you aren’t familiar with the Residential School System, it was a program designed to assimilate or otherwise erase Indigenous communities in Canada. The schools, which were glorified prisons, were run by (mostly Roman Catholic) churches and funded by the government of Canada.
Between the 1870s and 1990s over 150,000 children were forcibly removed from their homes and held against their will in Residential Schools.

Since the program was designed to fracture and “Christianize” Indigenous communities, parents of the seized youth were not told where they were taken. As such, they had no way to communicate – or even confirm if their children were still alive.

Once taken into custody, those in the Residential School System (who were referred to as savages) were assigned numbers, which were used in place of names. They were forbidden to speak their native languages or practice cultural traditions. Many of these children were mentally, physically, and sexually abused. An estimated 4000-6000 Indigenous children are recorded as having died in the Residential School System. In recent years, ground-penetrating radars have identified a staggering number of mass burial sites on the grounds of many Residential Schools.

The first official National Day for Truth and Reconciliation (also known as ‘Orange Shirt Day’) was declared in 2021 after the discovery of the bodies of 215 children in unmarked graves at a Kamloops Residential School. To commemorate the day, the  Prime Minister of Canada Justin Trudeau was invited by several Indigenous communities to attend their ceremonies.
Not only was Trudeau unresponsive to these invitations, but as if to rub salt in the wound he was seen instead surfing in Tofino, British Columbia, which is home to the Indigenous Tla-o-qui-aht First Nation of the Nuu-chah-nulth peoples.

Trudeau’s actions ooze with the type of thoughtlessness that often comes hand in hand with privilege – but growing up in an affluent white family is no excuse for a lack of self awareness. As an adult in a world with limitless information at our fingertips there is no way to justify his ignorance.

Privilege is not a foreign concept to me. Because I am not a visible minority, I have not experienced racial profiling or discrimination. I grew up in a sheltered suburban neighbourhood without water or food insecurity.
In contrast, 73% of First Nations’ water systems are at high or medium risk of contamination. There are now more than 45 long-term ‘boil water’ advisories in over 32 Indigenous communities. As a sick child I had free and unlimited access to medical care. Conversely a large number of Indigenous peoples in Canada are known to experience major structural barriers in accessing healthcare.

My privilege and my Indigenous identity are not mutually exclusive; I understand the importance of acknowledging both. I recognize how privileged my life has been – largely in part due to the whiteness of my skin. I have no right or desire to be a focal point in the discussions of Truth and Reconciliation. Yes, I am a product of generational trauma. My story matters, but I also recognize the many Indigenous spaces that do not belong to me; our experience is not the same.
I feel responsible as a young member of Métis Nation to amplify the voices of the Indigenous people around me. Speaking from experience, I’ve found that having white skin means that other white people are more likely to listen to me. By using my white privilege in combination with my first hand experience of intergenerational trauma, I have the advantage of reaching an otherwise untapped audience. The kicker? This is often the audience who needs to hear it the most.

I sometimes feel that I exist in the margins between ‘Indigenous’ and ‘not-Indigenous’. I am proud of my Métis heritage and have a deep desire to share it with the world. Despite this, I struggle to connect with my culture as a direct result of assimilation caused by the residential school system. Families like mine were made to unlearn their language, religion, and customs. As a result, much of our way-of-life was lost over the years. My matrilineal lines are just one example of how devastatingly effective this was. Even when our traditions were retained,  they were hidden from the public eye. Our language was whispered out of ear shot, and our stories were stitched silently into the colourful floral beadwork that became synonymous with the Métis people.

In a time when it was unacceptable to be seen as an ‘Indian’, a great deal of light skinned Métis people had the ability to hide in plain sight. When asked, many denied their culture in order to avoid prejudice, gain access to the benefits of society, and provide better opportunities for their children and families. Generations of my family were forced to deny their Indigenous identity in order to survive. The whitewashing of my family tree was both a symbol of colonial violence, and simultaneously a choice that my matriarchs were coerced into making in order to survive. This begs the question – if they were forced to abandon their identity, is that not another trademark of white imperialism? After all, the purpose of the Residential School System was to “remove the Indian from the child”. As a result, a history of camouflage is something that many (though not all) members of my Nation share.

In a strange way, the invaders who worked so hard to assimilate and christianize turtle island are largely responsible for the white privilege I have today. That privilege is a key factor in why my voice has been able to reverberate so far. Ultimately the process of assimilation that fractured my cultural identity also provided me with the ability to more easily disrupt spaces that incubate white supremacy. Subsequently I feel a responsibility to amplify the voices of Indigenous people who are facing ongoing oppression today.

I still see myself in the grey area between cultures – collecting bits and pieces of my story like beads spilled on the floor. My arms are open, as I reach in all directions past and present for what was taken from my family. Our history is consumed by tragedy and loss, but one thing they have not taken from us is our voice. I am still here to tell my family’s story, alongside the powerful and resilient Métis, Inuit, and First Nations people around me. Maarsii.