A rabbit on the doorstep

As times change and responsibilities blur, the role of school trustee is becoming more a calling than an occupation. The lives of many new trustees may take a dramatic turn in the next few months as they grapple with issues around possible school closures and declining budgets.  It's not an easy job.  I wish them all the best.

The new faces of the Ottawa-Carleton District School Board
From left to right: Trustees Sandra Schwartz, Shirley Seward (chair), Theresa
Kavanagh, Donna Blackburn, Erica Braunovan, Christine Boothby (vice-chair),
 Keith Penny, Lynn Scott, Chris Ellis, Anita Olsen Harper, Shawn Menard,
Student Trustee Jerry Yao and Director of Education Jennifer Adams.
Trustee Mark Fisher's arm is to the left of Trustee Schwartz -- my apologies.

I didn't run for trustee again and I've been repeatedly asked about my future plans.  I have been considering volunteer work overseas and my immediate response was to say, "I've had enough of afflicting the comfortable for awhile.  I think I'll try my hand at comforting the afflicted."  This usually drew a laugh and afforded me an opportunity to escape further questioning.

Here's the honest answer but first I'll start with a story.  I am holding a copy of a 50-page handwritten manuscript.  It was written by my great-aunt Edith about her childhood over a century ago.  Edith, her sister and younger brother grew up on a homestead in Saskatchewan.  The eldest, my grandfather Charles, was sent to live with his grandparents at about the age of six and as a result, he escaped the most crushing aspects of homesteading life.  The family was very poor and Edith talks about going barefoot all summer and wearing felt shoes in the winter.  Clothes were made from bleached 10-cent flour sacks.  For the most part, school was a luxury the family couldn't afford.  Their mother tended a small garden. The girls with the old-fashioned names of Edith and Ethel fished as they were growing up, "With willow wood we smoked muskelonge (muskellunge), a large species of pike."

This history is fascinating to read but there are parts that have been omitted, probably because they were too painful to tell.  The first is about Ethel, who was considered the beauty of the family.  Ethel was murdered as a young woman but in those days, people didn't talk about rape or even murder. Reading between the lines, this tragic event coloured the rest of Edith's life and her mother's final days.  Nostalgia is built on a foundation of secrets and selective memory.

The other is that the family had to accept charity to survive.  Edith says that her mother was ashamed to accept charity and turned it down.  What she doesn't talk about is the charity they couldn't help but accept and that part of the story was unknown to me until a few months ago.

My mother was very interested in Anita Olsen Harper's recent run to become a school trustee.  Anita is a member of the Lac Seul First Nation of northern Ontario. My mother attended Anita's fundraising event and asked regularly about the campaign. Finally I asked, "Mom, what gives? You never expressed interest when I ran for trustee."

My mother responded that she was interested because local Aboriginal people had helped keep her grandmother's family alive during those harsh Saskatchewan winters. They left anonymous gifts of rabbits on the doorstep for the starving family.  My mother's support for Anita's campaign was her way of repaying a debt.

I thought about this during the last few months.  It wasn't just my great-grandmother's family who was saved through the generosity and kindness of their Aboriginal neighbours.  There are many similar stories.

For some reason, a good number of Americans read this blog.  For my American readers, I hope you had a good Thanksgiving.

Allow me to tell part of your Thanksgiving story:

"Americans commonly trace the Thanksgiving holiday to a 1621 celebration at the Plymouth Plantation... Squanto, a Patuxet Native American who resided with the Wampanoag tribe, taught the Pilgrims how to catch eel and grow corn and served as an interpreter for them. Squanto had learned English during his enslavement in England. The Wampanoag leader Massasoit had given food to the colonists during the first winter when supplies brought from England were insufficient."*

Canadians have similar stories.  The passage below is from the book Roughing it in the Bush.  It was written in 1854 by Suzanna Moodie, an Ottawa-area homesteader:

"For many a good meal I have been indebted to them (Indians), when I had nothing to give in return, when the pantry was empty, and "the hearthstone growing cold," as they term the want of provisions to cook at it. And their delicacy in conferring these favours was not the least admirable part of their conduct. John Nogan, who was much attached to us, would bring a fine bunch of ducks, and drop them at my feet "for the papouse," or leave a large muskinonge on the sill of the door, or place a quarter of venison just within it, and slip away without saying a word, thinking that receiving a present from a poor Indian might hurt our feelings, and he would spare us the mortification of returning thanks."

Here's a short video that illustrates the power of simple acts of kindness. Kindness can change lives.

How have governments shown appreciation to First Nations people for the acts of kindness that helped keep many of our ancestors alive? Recently I read an Toronto Star opinion piece characterizing Canada's treatment of Aboriginal peoples as genocide.  First early governments took indigenous lands and consigned Aboriginal people to reserves.  Then they kidnapped First Nations and Inuit children and sent them to residential schools where they were separated from their families and forbidden to speak their languages.   Even if they survived residential school abuse, these children often lived lives of misery.  The scars remained and many turned to alcohol.  Children raised in residential schools never learned to love and become good parents and their children now pay the price. And today, our government is failing to provide adequate schooling on reserves while maintaining the right of oil companies to install pipelines that cross remaining Aboriginal lands.

I know I am not alone when I say that I am deeply ashamed by my government's actions toward Aboriginal peoples.  Individuals can make a difference and I am pleased that my mother showed her appreciation by trying to repay her family's debt. We should all do the same!

To answer the question, becoming older doesn't mean retiring to a rocking chair.  If you're healthy, it can mean more freedom than in your youth.  For the most part, the kids have grown and left home. There's no need for ambitions or a career.

I am your mother and your grandmother.  I am that nameless, underestimated middle-aged woman who has plenty to say about climate change.  I am the mother scolding her politician-son for undermining our democracy.  I am the grandmother standing up for missing and murdered Aboriginal women.  I stand for life and with Mother Nature.  I stand with many, young and old.   Look over your shoulder, Mr. Harper.  We are the majority and we are not happy with this country's direction.

It's impossible to know the future and planning one's life with any certainty is a fool's errand.  Wherever there is need is where you will find me.  Carpe diem -- seize the day.