Growing up in
small communities in Ontario, my friends would always talk about their family
history. Their aunts lived around the corner, their uncles lived down the
street, their great-grandma was the first lady to work in the general store
that’s still standing….. They could go on and on about their family history.
All I had was a
handwritten version of my maternal grandmother’s family tree going back a few
generations, and the knowledge that my paternal grandparents grew up in
Dunnville after their parents immigrated to Canada from the UK. Granted that’s
a lot of information, but it wasn’t at the same time.
When I was in
grade 4 we moved to a super small community called Lafontaine. My maternal
grandfather stayed with us almost all the time. He’d take us for hikes and
walks, and bike rides into town. When we’d go into Penetang it was often for
fishing on the docks. Grandpa would often see people he grew up with and stop
to chat. – this was when I first learned where my grandfather came from. A few
times, he’d start talking to someone quietly in what I thought at the time was
broken French. Whenver I’d ask him why he spoke the French funny, he’d get
offended and say I just misheard him. I never pushed it. At school one of our projects
was a small family tree. I drew out my maternal grandma’s side, and my paternal
side going back to great-grandparents with ease, then I went downstairs one day
to ask my Grandpa about his parents. He asked me why, I told him, and he
absolutely refused to tell me anything. I still remember how mad he was when
after asking their names, I asked their nationality. Our class had a “medieval
times” theme that month, so we made “coats of arms” out of where we came from.
He flat out lost his mind on me saying that they don’t “need to find us” and
that was the end of that discussion.
Being the
moderately curious and pushy child I was, I asked my teacher if she knew
anything about the Beausoleil family in Penetanguishene. When she asked me why,
I explained to her how my grandfather refused to tell me anything. Her only
response was, that he has his reasons, and it’s best not to ask those
questions. I never asked those questions again until grade 10.
For my grade 10 history
class we had to write some sort of essay or something on where we came from.
I
definitely took that one a little too far.
My paternal grandparents were
starting to get older and dates were confused… so instead of asking my nanny
any more questions.. I may or may not have mailed over 100 letters to everyone
in Dunnville with the last names Foster or MacIntee. Let’s just say I got the
information I needed to and my Nanny didn’t talk to me for about a year.
I still had the
copy of the Italian family tree so that side was done, my paternal side was
done after a very irate Nanny called me with every date I had ever requested…
that left my maternal grandfather’s side of the family.
I convinced one
of my friends to drive me to the Penetang library and then I walked to the museum and
sat down in their very-minimally-stacked records room. I used the old microfilm
reader and constructed my very first version of that side of my family tree. I found out
that my grandfather’s twin brother was killed when he was 7-8years old while
tobogganing and that my grandfather’s entire family going back 2 generations were
all devout Catholics baptized, married and buried at St. Ann’s
Parish in town. Then I went to the graveyard and was lucky enough to find one
of the staff there, who showed me where his twin was buried, and where his
parents were buried as well as several other family members. I noted all of
this new and exciting information down on my newly created family tree. Based on all of the information I found, I
believed that my grandfather’s family was French. They all had French sounding
names, so it seemed like a fair assumption.
After my second
trip to the library that day, the librarian came over and asked me what it was
I was working on. I remember telling her that I was creating a family tree, and
asked her if she knew anything about the Beausoleil families in town. She
looked at me with this confused sort of look on her face and told me that they
were one of the “half-breed” families in town and walked back to her desk. I
sort of just stood there for a few minutes trying to figure out what the hell
that meant, then went out to find a payphone to call for a ride home.
I included all
of the information I had found, minus being a half-breed, and handed in my
assignment. I knew it meant something bad, but I couldn’t figure out what. I
wasn’t about to ask my grandpa or my parents so I just sort of sat on it. I was
instantly embarrassed and ashamed. I never told anyone.
Later that
semester, we learned a bit about Canadian History and the Red River Rebellion.
It was there in my grade 10 history textbook that I first read the words
“half-breed”.
We were some
sort of half-breed Indians.
What the hell
was an Indian? What’s a Métis?
“I think I’m a
half-breed”
Is not a phrase
you blurt out in Grade 10 History. However, I’m not always one of those who think prior to speaking.
Let’s just say
that all I accomplished by blurting that out was adding to my already ridiculed
persona.
I didn’t
mention anything to my family until after my grandfather died in 2010. I
reached out to his still living sisters in 2011 and asked them if they were Native on a
voicemail. Neither of them returned my call, and neither of them have answered my calls since.
I began my
research slowly, the more I learned about our family history the more I was
confused. Every time I’d bring it up to a relative I was met with annoyance or
ignorance. “I don’t want free stuff” was a common response when I asked family
if they were interested in learning more about what it means to be Métis and becoming a part of the Métis Nations of Ontario.
I didn’t learn
a whole lot on what a residential school was in high school, and felt too
uncomfortable about just researching it on my own until I moved away from home.
In 2012 I was
invited to be a part of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in Toronto as
an Honorary Youth Witness. It wasn’t until that exact moment that I truly
understood why my grandfather and his sisters absolutely refused to talk about
their ancestry. I sat through First Nations, Inuit and Métis survivors recounting their stories for hours. I couldn’t
believe what I was hearing, I couldn’t even process the photos I saw, I scanned
through the names on some of the photos in the one room and recognized some
from my family tree.
No wonder they
never returned my phone calls. No wonder my grandfather lost his shit on me at
9-years-old. He wasn’t speaking broken French in hushed tones, he was speaking
Michif.
It took me a
solid two-years to get over myself and continue my research, except at this
point it wasn’t just a family tree. I was aiming to create a genealogy book for
my children so they knew where they came from. So they understood why they grew
up far from their “home communities” and why they never learned to speak
Ojibway or Michif.
In 2016 I was
finally ready to step out into the “Métis world”
and embrace my culture and heritage, regardless of the scorn that I faced from
some of my family members. I’ve learned SO much over the past year and a half.
I’ve learned that I’m not the only one who grew up with unanswered questions, I’ve
learned that many of us didn’t even find out WHO we were until we were in our
20s and took matters into our own hands.
Our Métis history and culture was hidden from us out of fear
for generations after Louis Riel hung and our people were declared enemies of Canada. It’s time for us to take our culture
back, to trace our homelands and to finally be accepted as a people. This isn’t
about “getting free land” or “no taxes” or “free school”. It’s about Canada’s
government finally acknowledging that we ARE a people, we HAVE ancestral
homelands, WE ARE NOT HALFBREEDS.
From Riel, to
Powley to Daniels. We’re not going anywhere.
