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  My Cheechum used to tell me that when the government gives you something, they take all that you have in return—your pride, your dignity, all the things that make you a living soul. When they are sure they have everything, they give you a blanket to cover your shame. She said that the churches, with their talk about God, the Devil, heaven and hell, and schools that taught children to be ashamed, were all a part of that government. When I tried to explain to her that our teacher said governments were made by the people, she told me, “It only looks like that from the outside, my girl.” She used to say that all our people wore blankets, each in his own way. She said that other people wore them too, not just Halfbreeds and Indians, and as I grew up I would see them and understand. Someday though, people would throw them away and the whole world would change. I understood about the blanket now—I wore one too. I didn’t know when I started to wear it, but it was there and I didn’t know how to throw it away. So I understood about those boys’ parents—it was easier for them to stay in the car. If they came out from under their blankets, they’d have to face reality, ugly as it was.

  Chapter 22

  ONE AFTERNOON WHILE I WAS working, a man came into the restaurant. His hair was black and curly, and so clean I was sure it would squeak if touched. He was very dark, sun-tanned, with white teeth and sparkling eyes. He walked like the whole world was a happy place, and he was the happiest in it. I had never met anyone like him in my life. I fell head over heels in love, and finally understood what Cheechum meant when she told me, “Someday, somewhere, you’ll meet a man who’ll grow old with you and you’ll know him when you meet him.”

  His name was David, and talking with him that day I learned a little about him. He was twenty-eight and single; he had been a truck driver since he was seventeen; he liked driving. His parents were both dead and he had been on his own since the age of fifteen. He was an only child, and had no aunts, uncles—no one.

  I saw David often after that. He met Lisa and Laurie, and soon he was taking us for drives and spending his free days with us. I told him that I had been married and separated, but couldn’t bring myself to tell him any more. The girls loved him and I felt as though I had known him all my life and that the past was just a bad dream. His job in the town was nearly finished, and I knew he would be leaving soon, but I tried not to think about it. When he left he promised to write. He didn’t know I was pregnant.

  In August 1962, Robbie was born at the High River hospital. I had very little to be happy about, but I was happy when I looked at my son. The nurses took him away and I fell asleep, only to be wakened and told that my husband wanted to see me. My whole world collapsed. I didn’t want to see Darrel, but there was little I could do to avoid a scene. I felt numb when I heard him coming down the hall. I looked up and David burst into the room. He said that I should have told him I was pregnant, that he loved us and that we were to go with him.

  Our life was wonderful for the first few months, and in my happiness I completely forgot the past. We were living in a trailer at a construction site in northern Alberta. Spring was approaching and the job almost completed, so we prepared to move on. We moved to Leduc to another job-site. One day I picked up the newspaper and read that Lil had been arrested in Calgary, and had been put on trial. Her books had been seized, and girls who had worked for her, as well as some of her clients, were being called up as witnesses.

  (I learned later that Lil died of cancer in a federal penitentiary. The real estate, race horses, and businesses that she owned in both B.C. and Alberta were taken over by many of the men who had been her clients and her business partners. She never kept anything in her own name—instead she held shares in various companies. She always believed her property would be protected if she left it in the care of influential men. Then if she were sentenced she would have money when she was released, and be able to retire.)

  I was sure I would be picked up in a matter of days, and was constantly terrified. I kept the doors locked and curtains drawn when David was away, and when he was home I was a mass of nerves. I never went out of the house, and did the shopping by phone. I started to drink again, and as soon as David had gone on a trip I would phone a cab driver to pick up a bottle and deliver it to me. David knew nothing about my past, and I was so afraid he’d find out somehow. I began losing weight, and had no appetite. Finally a doctor prescribed tranquilizers and sleeping pills for me. So I was back on pills—along with the whiskey they kept me going for a while. Finally the trial ended, and I should have been able to relax, but I couldn’t. I never laughed anymore, and David felt that I didn’t love him. He knew I wasn’t the same girl he had met, but didn’t know what was the matter with me.

  It’s a wonder that my babies ever survived through it all. I kept them clean and fed, but I completely neglected them as far as playing with them or letting them know they were loved. Instead, Lisa would do for me what I should have been doing for them. She would come to my bed at night when she heard me crying, and hold me close, patting my shoulder and telling me, “It’s OK Mommy, it’s OK.” Finally I made up my mind to commit suicide, and to take my children with me. I was afraid no one would want them and they would only be pushed around. One day I gave them each a sleeping pill and laid them down on the chesterfield. Then I locked the doors and windows, blew out all the pilot lights on the stove and furnace, and turned on the gas. I decided to wait for about half an hour, to be sure they all died first, before I took the rest of the sleeping pills.

  Suddenly I seemed to wake up and realize what I was doing. I shut off the gas and raced around opening the doors and windows. I was sick at what I had done. I cried as I put them to bed, wondering what in God’s name was wrong with me. I was determined to straighten myself out, and to stop drinking, and to get off the pills.

  David was laid off at the end of October, and we moved to Edmonton. I knew I was going to crack up. I could feel a scream of hysteria bubbling up in the back of my throat, and I had to keep swallowing to keep my sanity. If it got out I would go mad. It was impossible to talk to David, because whenever we tried we could only get so far and then we’d stop. Finally we agreed to separate. On New Year’s Day I felt great—packing was done and I was moving out the next morning. Everything was fine. I made some tea and sat down to drink it with David in the kitchen. I don’t remember anything after that.

  * * *

  —

  I came to in the Alberta Hospital two weeks later, strapped to a bed. A priest was in the room but I refused to listen to him. A doctor came around and explained that I had swallowed a lot of pills and had had a nervous breakdown. I resisted all their efforts to make me talk. All I wanted to do was shut my eyes and pretend no one was there, and that I was dead. They made me get up and walk. So long as they were around I did as I was told, but sat down as soon as they left. I had no will to do anything else.

  The hospital was a dull, lifeless place. They fed us, and made sure we harmed no one, otherwise we were left alone. My “B” Ward was full of women like myself, and some who were worse off. We read, talked, knitted and played cards. Some kept apart from the rest of us. Their greatest fear was being released. They would be all right until a nurse or doctor came along, and then they would feign insanity. Sometimes they were moved to another ward, and eventually some received shock treatments. One attractive lady in her late forties had been there for over seven years. She believed she was Cleopatra, and spent hours sitting on a chesterfield. Sometimes one of us would feed her and pretend to be her slave. Sometimes she would walk about with her long hair down her back, a crown of pearl necklaces on her head, and if one of us bumped into her, she would get hysterical. Another fairly stout woman, with the most enormous belly, believed that she was going to have a baby, and would discuss her pregnancy with us. She knitted baby clothes constantly, and complained about aches and pains only pregnancies could cause. She went into labour twice while I was there, and I could have sworn she was really delivering
. In the morning she had a doll beside her. The doll died the same day; she put it away and became pregnant again. One woman had huge breasts and she would stop and offer us milkshakes. Once I agreed to humour her, and she began to shake her breasts violently.

  The doctor decided one day that I needed something to occupy my mind and my time, so I was sent upstairs with some other women to feed the grannies. I will never forget that room or those people for as long as I live. There was one big huge room. The walls and floor were painted grey, and tied to a number of round pillars were old women in all stages of undress. Some just sat on the floor and stared at nothing. Some played with themselves, some were crying and babbling, and some were crouched as if they were afraid they were going to be kicked. They were all skinny and whitish-looking, with stringy hair and watery eyes. The smell of urine and disinfectant was everywhere. The nurse gave us each a bowl of thick mush and a tablespoon and told us to feed them. I went to one old lady, who was slumped down on the floor, and tried to feed her. She kept choking, so I gave her small spoonfuls at a time. The nurse came by, poked me with her foot, and told me to hurry up. I started to cry, because of the hopelessness of the situation. The nurse told me to leave if I was going to get all weepy. She said, “These people don’t know anything, they’re vegetables.” There was a woman working beside me who was calm and seemed to know what to do. She walked back to the ward with me and told me that she had been a psychiatric nurse, but was now a patient in the hospital too. She had slashed her wrists after the break-up of her marriage. She also had four children. Her name was Trixie and we became very close friends.

  We didn’t get much help in the hospital as none of the staff seemed to have time for the patients. The majority of them seemed as sick as their patients anyway. The doctor made only one more visit. He told me that I had to tell David the truth and make a clean break. David had been to the hospital nearly every day. I talked to David that night and told him everything. All he said was, “I’ve been blaming myself for your breakdown. I guess I can stop now.” Then he left.

  If it hadn’t been for Trixie and her friendship, I would have given up completely in that place. But slowly I got better, and I started to wonder about my children. Up until then I hadn’t even thought of them. The nurses all reassured me that they were fine.

  I could hardly wait to get out of there. However, the doctor told me that I had to attend AA meetings before even being considered for release. So finally I gave in and went to one. The meetings were held in one of the recreation halls. All those assigned to AA were called together and led by a male orderly, followed by a nurse. We went along two by two. We walked through corridors and more corridors, and doors that had to be unlocked and locked as we passed. Six members of AA were gathered in a group when we arrived, and they introduced themselves. One man called the meeting to order by saying, “My name is John, and I’m an alcoholic.” Someone from the audience read the Preamble, which starts out: “Rarely have we seen a person fail who has thoroughly followed our path….” Then one by one the other outside members briefly told their life stories. They related how AA had helped them find a normal way of life, happiness, peace of mind, and self respect. I came out of the first meeting thinking, “My God, it’s unbelievable.” I could stop using drugs and alcohol, but I could never achieve the serenity and peace of mind that these people had found. I continued going to meetings, as it was the road to release, but paid little attention to what went on. Before permission was given to leave the hospital, the doctor warned me that if I was to survive, I would have to belong to AA the rest of my life.

  I felt good and strong—no longer confused—and had gained weight during the three months of my stay. Trixie was released two days before me, and we planned to join forces and start again. At the hospital they gave me a new hair-do, returned my clothes and personal things, and gave me my Family Allowance of eighteen dollars. That was all the money I had when I left.

  My first couple of weeks flew by. I visited Virginia, who ran the local AA office, and met Don, who became my sponsor. Whenever I got mixed up I called Don, and he would come right over—which seemed like every four hours. He took me home, and I met his wife Edith. She was part Indian, young looking, friendly but brisk, with a no-nonsense attitude about her. I liked her instantly and we became good friends. She helped me as much as Don, and even more. She helped me to get over my mental block about Indians in suits—perhaps not completely, but at least so that their ways no longer upset me. She taught me to look at myself as critically as I looked at them, and to believe that the same thing that drove me, drove them to being what they were, that basically we had all suffered trouble and misery, and that their problems were as big and as important as mine, regardless of how unimportant I thought they were. She was very honest, almost to the point of hurting me, while Don was very easy, and consoled me, and was very careful not to upset me.

  Because of Edith I began to understand what Cheechum had been trying to say to me, and to see how I had misinterpreted what she had taught me. She had never meant that I should go out into the world in search of fortune, but rather that I go out and discover for myself the need for leadership and change: if our way of life were to improve I would have to find other people like myself, and together try to find an alternative. Edith had grandparents like my Cheechum, so she understood, and tried to explain it to me realistically. Because of her I eventually attended meetings at the Native Friendship Center. She said that if I was ever going to become strong inside, I would have to face reality.

  I joined an AA group I liked and attended meetings regularly. It was a mixture of real down-and-outers, some white, some Native, drunks from skid-row, ex-cons from various institutions and women like myself. It was good: I understood these people, and they understood me. It was here that I first met the people that would play an important role in the Native movement in Alberta.

  Chapter 23

  ONE OF THESE PEOPLE WAS Eugene Steinhauer. He had nothing when he came to AA except the clothes on his back. He had lived on various skid-rows and his family had given him up as a derelict. Now he was finding sobriety, as well as hope for himself, and a future as something more than just another drunken Indian. I admired him because he was the first Indian I had ever met who let white people know how he felt about them, not just by his attitude, but verbally as well. I’d hated those nameless, faceless white masses all my life, and he said all the things I had kept bottled up inside for so many years.

  At this time, I felt Eugene could do no wrong. He was one of the “brothers” Cheechum had talked about. When, following his example, I too began to speak out, his attitude towards me changed. At the time I was hurt and discouraged because to me he was a special person, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Since then I’ve met many Native leaders who have treated me the same and I’ve learned to accept it. I realize now that the system that fucked me up fucked up our men even worse. The missionaries had impressed upon us the feeling that women were a source of evil. This belief, combined with the ancient Indian recognition of the power of women, is still holding back the progress of our people today.

  But then I met Stan Daniels, a Halfbreed from St. Paul, Alberta. He was one of many children in a family raised on bannock, rabbits and tea. The French kids used to kick his ass home from school, as he said, and his sanctuary was a sixteen-by-twenty-four-foot mud shack where he’d hide and cover his ears from the taunts of “Sauvage! Sauvage!” He had never slept in a bed until he joined the Army at sixteen.

  Stan was married and had a very close relationship with his family. He could feel people’s needs, whether it was an empty space inside oneself or the need for fun. He was both compassionate and tough. Being with him brought back memories of Jim Brady, my childhood, and my people, for he was a Halfbreed through and through. He could sit down at his table with authority, his wife and children around him, and the room full of noisy, shouting people. He would eat up food as if there would be n
one tomorrow, slurping up coffee, belching, children climbing all over him, shrieking and laughing. The whole room would revolve around him and there would always be lots of music.

  Stan didn’t get involved in the same way as Eugene and some of the others who were involved at this time. He was really concerned about the plight of Native girls on the street. He was bitter about what the white system had done to our men, causing them to leave their women. He understood how the men in prison felt—it was good to get temporary relief away from their problems. He understood how women ended up on the street, and the things that they could not talk about, and how the Indian women felt about being abandoned by their men.

  This man was to play a traumatic role in my life and in the lives of Native people in Alberta and Canada. He worked to draw attention to the plight of Native people and motivated many others to do something as well. As government money became available, as well as public recognition, the seemingly inevitable changes which come to leaders happened.

  Today, although Stan and I each go our separate ways, he is still an important person to me, and I love him as a brother. Sometimes I feel sorry for him. I know that he sees what is wrong, but he can’t or won’t do anything to try to change it. Maybe he’s just too tired to continue. The pain I feel is without the bitterness I felt as a young idealistic Native woman, and I don’t blame him. I can only hate the system that does this to people.