Tikinê

Before we begin, we want to let you know there are references to violence and sexual abuse against children in this episode. Please take care while listening. Previously on Stolen, Surviving St. Michaels. I am just arriving in Duck Lake and I'm on my way to meet my brother, Hal. My dad and I were pretty close. My dad passed away and the only way I can get to know him now is through these interviews and these conversations with people who knew him better than I did. What did he say happened? He recognized him as being one of the priests that, and he said, one of the priests that abused me in residential school. I don't remember the priest. Even to this day they don't talk about what happened to the president in his school. And stuff like that you just try and be rude. Did he tell you who the priest was or anything about him? No, he didn't. No. I've only just created this image in my head of what this person looks like. Big intense highs. You see people who have just hate in their eyes like that. 10 days after she turned 17, my mom woke up in the middle of the night. She didn't feel well. The pain and cramping in her abdomen was so intense it frightened her. She went into her parents' room and gently shook her mom awake. "Mom, I'm getting sick," she said. My grandma turned over and nudged my grandpa. "Dear, wake up. This girl is going to have her baby." My grandpa woke up and went outside to start the car. It was a cold snowy night in late March. My mom and her dad drove the 20 minutes from our reserve to town in silence. He hadn't spoken to her since he found out she was pregnant. When they reached the hospital in the small town of Belcaris, my grandpa drove past the parking lot up to the brightly lit entrance. The doors were locked, so my mom rang the buzzer and a nurse appeared. As she was inside, my grandpa drove away. My mom was alone in labor in a small room behind the nurse's desk for 18 hours before I was born at 1.20am on March 25, 1979. I have no idea where my dad was that night, but less than a mile away in a nondescript one-story building is a police station where he worked as a special constable with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Why wasn't my dad there on the night I was born? Did he know my mom was at the hospital? Did he visit us? Probably not. Because even though he was only 24, my dad already had two kids, and he was married to someone else. I don't know when he first saw me, and it's kind of a sensitive subject with my mom, so we don't talk about it. But after hearing the story of my dad in the priest and thinking more about my relationship with him, I want to know, did he hold me when I was a baby? Did he think that I looked like him? What did my dad think about me? I don't have any photos with him from when I was a kid. My parents' relationship was on and off throughout my childhood, and we moved around a lot. I remember bits of all these places, and bits of him. And I never remember hugging my dad, or him showing me any kind of affection. Did those things happen, and I just forgot? Or is it that my bad memories of him have pushed the others out of my mind? And if I learn more about him, can I get any of those memories back? If I find out what happened to my dad, will it change the way I remember him? I'm Connie Walker. From Gimlet Media and Spotify, this is Stolen, surviving St. Michaels. Where was this one taken? Where you smiling at? Looks. Well, see, that would go to a lot of these elder gatherings and stuff, eh? Yeah. And I'm pretty sure that's from one of them. That's such a good picture. I'm in my brother's house, looking at a framed photo of my dad. The photographer caught him mid-laught, and there are deep lines around his eyes and mouth. He looks so happy. Standing next to me is the person who probably knew my dad better than anyone. His wife, Norellane. This was their home before she passed it on to Howe. I don't come back here too often, but it'll always be a part of home, right? Yeah. This is where your siblings raise. This is where your dad lived. Like that, you know, so it'll always, and I'm glad that, you know, how it took it over. I knew that he wouldn't disturb anything that your dad had already. Yeah. I don't, but this boy's not much of a housekeeper. I love Norellane. She's always been so warm and welcoming. And when she married my dad a few years after my mom and I left, she embraced becoming a stepmom to all of my dad's kids, and they had four more together, including Howe. They raised them here in this house. I saw the best of my dad in the 26 years he was with Norellane. They were together until he passed away. Yeah, so I was here with Howe yesterday for a couple hours, and then I went to Aunt T.I.D. these last night. Oh, yeah. And so it was nice to connect or even make those connections again, and then remember, yeah. So what are you working on? What are you doing, like, with? Yeah, so I'm not sure yet. Okay. Okay. Before coming home, I messaged Norellane and asked if she'd meet me for an interview. I told her I was thinking of doing a story about my dad. She and I hadn't talked in a few years, but she responded right away and said absolutely. And then Howe shared that post about Dad when he was in our CMP constable and pulling over with that priest. And that was like that really hit me, you know, because I, I never really thought about what his experience would be. I didn't know anything about it. I don't know anything about it. And in turn, I don't know how it impacted him, and I don't know how then it impacted me. Yeah. Ah, it's so important, you know, so important to know, to ask those questions and to get the whole story, right? You know, because there's a reason why things happen the way they happen, right? And there's a reason why people are the way they are. Your dad was very affected by the residential school, you know? And I knew that when I, you know, before we even, you know, got together, I knew that. I knew his history kind of thing, eh? And how did you know that? Because I knew him from before. Oh, really? I was going to be my first friend. How do you guys meet? And how did you? I knew him from like playing ball and hockey, you know? Like that's why I knew who your dad was, eh? And your dad was such a bug, like he was such a, you know, like, kind of rub me the wrong way. Narlai says my dad asked her out. She turned him down a few times, but he was persistent. And there was time he just like, come in, I was sitting in a restaurant and duck late, having fries and gravy. I remember that. And he coming sat down and was like, you know, like mad, you know, like, get away. And he just said, I'm going to ask you out one last time. Said he said, no, to me, he said, I'll never bother you again. But how are you going to know? He said, that's all I'm going to say is, how are you going to know if you don't take a chance? Yeah, and then I'm going on a date with him and then there was another one, then there was another date, then like that, and this. And then eventually you did like, eventually it did. Yeah. And then I asked forward, fast forward months, I'll say, and I wasn't sure, you know, I got to that point because I was, I was seeing him drinking. Yeah, when, when he was, when he was drinking, and it was, it was a different powered, you know, than the one that swept me off my feet kind of thing. We were good when he was like that, but he was different when he was drinking. And that's all what I wanted, you know, I was having feelings, but yet I was scared because I knew his, his history. Narlaine says she knew my dad was violent in his previous relationships. But he never tried that with me. You know, the physical. Really? No. I asked him, I said, how come, you know, you never beat me like that? You know, and then he said, he said, I lost two families by doing that. He said, I didn't want to lose another family, you know, and he said, you knew if you had to stop that, you know. Me and my mom and my two younger siblings were one of the families my dad lost. I was seven years old. We picked up and left in a day. We didn't even get to say goodbye. I didn't see him again until I was 14. This is the first time I'm getting insight into what my dad felt. The first time I'm hearing of his regret. Because your dad talked about that, you know, he hadn't seen you guys for years and years. And I know it weighed on him, you know, but you guys were always talked about, you know, because you were part of the kids. Yeah. So like that, so our kids grew up knowing you guys. If my dad missed us, I didn't know it. For me, it felt like seven years of silence. I feel like I have a memory of him sitting on a chair like that, like a big kind of chair that was like rocking almost, eating a bag of radishes. Oh, yeah. Yeah. Yeah. He ate. Yeah. So because he could just sit there with a bag of radishes and you see, or a cucumber and salt. Yeah. Oh, my God. It's a small thing. This memory of my dad eating radishes out of a bag. But it feels significant because it's one of the few memories of him that I have. It feels like Nourlein is validating those impressions that I've held on to. And it's nice to be able to ask her more about my dad's life. Do you know much about the dad's experience in the RCMP? I'm going to check this cabinet here because he has it. Nourlein gets up and walks out to the porch to grab something to show me. Oh, wow. Because he had his badge was here, but his badge, in case. There's a wooden cabinet there with glass doors where she's kept a lot of my dad's RCMP stuff. She digs out an old beer mug engraved with some dates. See, look, your dad was right here. He was in Belkhar's first, I think, eight and then shellbrook. Oh, okay. Okay. Yeah. What does that tuck say? The sword just came in. From 78 to 79. So this wasn't when he was in shellbrook. I'm surprised to find out that my dad was only an officer for a brief time. To join the RCMP in 1977 and left in 1979. So there's just a two-year window when he could have pulled over the priest. And there are only two places where it could have happened. Nourlein tells me that he was first stationed in Belkhar's. And before I was born, he transferred to shellbrook and was there until he left the force. Okay. So do you think that's where. Like he pulled over that priest? I think so. Yeah. It would have been because that would have been a priest from the surrounding area I would think. Right? Yeah. Shellbrook is only about 30 minutes away from deck like. So Nourlein thinks maybe my dad pulled over a priest who lived nearby. Did he ever say who it was? No. No. Did you ever hear the names of anybody from? I've never heard him mention names of priest or whatever that. I knew he had stories. Nourlein and my dad were together for decades. Despite their closeness, she says my dad rarely talked about residential school. He didn't really talk a lot about the experiences, but it wasn't very good. He was abused. He was abused physically. He was abused sexually. That part he never really talked about, but I know it happened because he told me it happened. Didn't go into detail. That's all I wanted to know. But it made me understand better. Yeah. I actually. I want to try to find. I mean, I don't know if I'll be able to, but I want to try to find out who that priest was. And I want to find out. I want to try to find out if he could find out who it was, if he was ever held accountable for anything that happened. Have you talked to that guy? No. She would know. Yeah. Because I'm. You did talk to her about everything. If she doesn't know the Uncle Harris or Uncle Dodgy, you know, he was very close to those teachers. When I tell her that I want to try to find the priest, it's the first time that I'm saying it aloud to someone in my family. Finding the person who did this feels important to me. I don't know what will happen if I do, but maybe it's a chance to getting some kind of accountability. Nor Lane encourages me to keep going, to talk to my dad's brothers and sisters. I want to ask them about their memories of my dad, about what happened in residential school, and ask if they've heard the story of my dad pulling over the priest. Maybe they even know who he is. You might have to talk a little louder than normal. Okay. Yeah, I find that. I'm. I think I'm losing my hearing. Oh, really? No. Not much, but a lot. That's my Auntie Margaret. At 76, she's the oldest camera and the most traditional. Before I turned on my microphone, I gave her a pouch of tobacco, and she said a prayer and Cree. Can you introduce yourself and Cree? Oh, yeah. I don't know. What my name was till I went to the residence. Really? What did they call you at home before that? Tannish. Nathanas. And then his daughter? Yeah. Oh. Nathanas. Because I was the only girl in the Cameron family for a while for a long time. Did my dad have a nickname in Cree? Tiki-te. Tiki-te. What does that mean? Crazy woman. He played ball. He played hockey. And anything he needed, I used to supply it. He was crazy. My Auntie Margaret is 10 years older than my dad, and she helped raise him. Him and I understood each other, and he'd come and sit in the kitchen. Yeah. And we were able to talk to each other. My brother, how, he shared a post about-- I asked her if she's heard about my dad pulling over the priest. And the person who was the driver was a priest from the residential school who had abused him. Oh. And he told how that he beat him up. Oh. Huh? Yeah. Did you ever hear about that? No. Never heard about it. So my Auntie Margaret doesn't know the story. But Narleen also said to ask my uncle George, or dodgy, as my family calls him. Did you know that story? Yeah, he told me that, you know? Really? But I didn't know that you would happen. Well, you know, I think the rage came on in Emmy because of the straps and the lichens and stuff. And being in position that he was in, so he kind of had the upper hand. Whereas in residence, the priest had the upper hand. Did my dad tell you which priest that was, that he beat him? No. No. No. My uncle George is a year older than my dad. When we lived in Beardies, I remember we spent a lot of time with him. He and my dad were close. He was a rough and tumbling. Yeah, drinking and stuff and playing ball and hockey. And I did that too, you know? I have so many memories of being at the ball diamond as a kid hanging around while my uncle's played. And then after the game, seeing them all sitting around the dugout with a case of beer, sometimes the post game drinks turned into a weekend long bender. My dad did that too. And when he drank, he sometimes turned violent. He was a harsh individual. Your mum will have tested that and probably has a tested to that. My mum told me that one time she took me to my uncle George's house when my dad was being abusive. My dad followed us there, but my uncle George went outside and told him to leave to go sober up. My mum was grateful when he listened to him. I didn't realize that my dad's family knew how abusive he was, and they not only witnessed it, but maybe understood it because they knew where it came from. But yeah, your dad would have been strict too. He was very strict. Yeah. And me. Short fuse. Oh man. Get mad at. like that. That's my uncle Bill and his wife, my auntie Lorraine. My uncle Bill is my dad's oldest brother. He's 75. When I visit with them, my auntie Lorraine has cooked dinner, ribs and rice. Help yourself, Derek Connie. He's so much. That's so nice. As we eat, my auntie Lorraine tells me that it wasn't just my dad. All the Cameron men were stern. She points to my uncle Bill. Then now when we were sitting around the table here and you have supper with our kids, he used to be so strict with those kids. You finish what's on your plate. Don't drink while you're eating. You know elbows on the table? Being overly strict with the kid with our kids. I feel like that's how my dad was when I was a kid. I was like, you had to be really careful about how you were. You couldn't sit like this. Your own same. My uncle Bill is so different now, but I know exactly what my auntie is describing. Meals with my dad were also tense. No elbows on the table. Hold your fork properly. Eat all the food on your plate. And now as I'm sitting across from my dad's brothers, I'm struck by how much they look like him and sound like him. And that so many of the things I remember about my dad from childhood, their kids would have gone through too. My uncle George tells me they still live with regret about the fathers they were to us. He did was not as nice as God, you know. He had a lot of issues that he had to deal with. Just like me, I guess. I had a hell of a time expressing love. And it's only in the last that I was able to say to my kids, I love you, the grandkids. But with my first wife, there was a disconnect there. And that's the same thing I think your dad went through. We had to be tough, I guess, really. It's not to be not to show that we were broken, really, I guess, that's. Was there from the residents and from those experiences? Yeah, like in residence, boom, you know, you get the strap. So you learn to just take it in. Mentally, I guess, it toughened you up to the point that he broke you inside. Coming to talk to my dad siblings about him has reminded them of their own experiences at residential school, which I know is difficult. When I spoke with my anti-IV and anti-lionna, they made it clear that they never really talked about what happened there. This silence is part of my family's history on both sides, and it goes all the way back to my grandfather, my mom's dad. In university, I took an Indian studies class, and one of my assignments was to interview a family member to record their oral history. I decided to interview my grandpa, the one who was mad at my mom for getting pregnant with me. We ended up being extremely close, and in many ways he was a father figure to me. When I was a kid, my grandpa was my bus driver, and then when he got older, I drove him around. We spent so much time together, but it wasn't until I was interviewing him for my class assignment that he told me he went to a residential school when he was six years old. He told me how when he was a kid, he was also really close to his grandfather, and that he died when he was in residential school. My grandpa remembered that he wasn't allowed to go home for his funeral, and that he cried underneath a staircase. I don't think he had ever told anyone about that before, and if I hadn't had this assignment, even that story would have gone with him when he passed. I wish I could go back and talk to him again, that I would have taken the time to learn more when I had the chance. I never talked to my dad about residential school either, but now I feel like I do have a chance to not let the questions go unasked, even if my dad isn't here to answer them. There's still time to learn the truth from his siblings. Like me, they knew him at his darkest moments, but they also know what came before. We all grew up at the residence. I entered something kindergarten, and I stayed there until I was sixteen. But boy did I ever miss my family. All of the Cameron kids went to the St. Michael's Indian residential school. Michael Bell says that when he started, it was the only place for kids from the reserve to go to school. Do you remember? Going there? Yeah, vividly. We went by a horse and buggy. Wow. How did you feel? Lonely. Though your whole family structure is taken away. You know? It was tough. There was a lot of loneliness, but we didn't complain. We never questioned. I entered residential school at five years old, and then it was five months before I see my mom and dad for Christmas. And then it was six more months before we see them again. I want to know what it was like for my dad and my aunties and uncles at St. Michael's, and I'm listening for any kind of insight into the priests who round the school. The longer we sit and talk, the more they share. The sloped ears to give a state unbelievable. I said, "I wouldn't even give it to my dog." Then after classes were over, they were supposedly supposed to have been given a smack. And it was apple peels or breadcrumbs. And then they threw it on the floor to them. No. Just like a bunch of little animals. And he said, "If you weren't quick enough, then you went without a smack." "How old would you have been?" Started when I was six years old. The image of kids scrambling on the floor, fighting over scraps of food is horrific. And it hurts to think of my aunties and uncles and my dad as those hungry children. What were the punishments, if you. Strap? The nun used to have a strap hanging from underneath her apron. I think of what my uncle George said. That the rage came out in my dad when he confronted the priest that night. Rage caused by the straps and licking and abuse at residential school. It makes me think of how I imagined the night he pulled over the priest. About how when my dad realized who he was looking at, he lost control. And it wasn't just my dad who's trauma from residential schools stayed with him his whole life. It was all of them. My auntie Margaret tells me a story about a time at St. Michael's when she was accused of trying to run away. She says the priests and nuns gathered all of the girls in the playroom. And they were all put in a circle. We used to sit on benches. But they put a bench by the door away. And one nun took by. We used to wear bloomers. She pulled it down, laid me on a bench. And she back into the priest. And he came and he whipped me with a belt about that wide. Sometimes it's hard to talk about it. I blocked it out for years and years. Then one day I remembered it. And at that time when I was being beaten I don't know if I cried. But when it came back to me I cried and cried and cried. How do you feel talking about it now? Are you feeling okay? Yeah. The one that beat me. His name was Father Doham. My auntie Margaret says this happened to her more than 60 years ago. And she still clearly remembers that priest. Father Doham. Hearing the name of a priest is a reminder of the priest. reminder that the abuse my family endured wasn't at the hands of some institution. People carried out this abuse against the children they were supposed to take care of. That's tough we had to go through as kids. I wouldn't even consider my grandchildren going through that. No. Like put your daughter in there. No, I can't even imagine. My daughter is 10 years old and hasn't been away from us for more than a night or two in her entire life. I don't even want to think about her having to go to a residential school. Then my uncle Bill and auntie Lorraine tell me that one of my dad's brothers was sent away even before he had to go to St. Michael's. Uncle I want something happen to him. He was at Fort San from three years old. They say my uncle Ivan got tuberculosis and was sent to a sanatorium four hours away. At just three years old he had to stay there by himself. They'd go and visit him but he didn't know. There's his parents. They say he forgot how to speak Cree and that when he got home two years later he didn't recognize his own family. Like Ivan was a stranger, you know? He didn't know anybody. I think he had a tougher than anybody else. Does anybody had to come home and go to a residential school? Yeah. And he's one that said he got really really bad treatment that the residency was sexually abused by a priest. No. Yeah. Did he say which priest? Hmm. Was it Gucci? Gucci. J. A. L. D. H. I. E. R. R. R. Oh. What does his first name? For Dillus? Dillus Gucci? No, I don't know. I don't care. My dad wasn't the only one in his family who was sexually abused by a priest. His younger brother, my uncle Ivan was also abused at the same school. I'm left with the same feeling I had when I first heard the story about my dad and the priest. Like I can't look away. I have to do something. I'm here as a daughter in Denise but also as a journalist. And now I know the names of two priests who were alleged abusers at St. Michael's. Father Goche, who my uncle Ivan accused. And father Duhan, who my anti-Margaret accused. Were they at the school at the same time as my dad? Did one of them abuse him? Okay, and just arriving at the provincial archives of Alberta. And I'm here to look at the Oblates records for St. Michael's. Father Goche and father Duhan remembers of the Oblates of Mary Immaculate, an order of Catholic priests. The oblates ran 48 of Canada's residential schools, including St. Michael's. Historically, they've kept their residential school records private. But survivors have been fighting for transparency from the church and government for decades. In recent years, the oblates pledged to be more open about their role in the residential school system. They say they're working to ensure their records are available to survivors, their communities, and families. In 2018, the oblates gave hundreds of thousands of pages of their records to the provincial archives in Alberta, making them accessible to the public. That's where I am now. I said that I can record, so I'm rolling. Before coming here, I requested 21 boxes of records. The archivist wheels them over on a big cart, and I see just how many there are. Each box is filled with file folders, which are filled with pages and pages of documents. I know that I can't read all of this in one day, so my plan is to take as many photos as I can and look through them later. It's like a time capsule of what went into the day-to-day running of a residential school. I'm looking at attendance records for over 100 years at St. Michael's. I see family names that I recognize from Beardies, Gardepie, Cicequases, Yappes, and Gamble. The federal government paid the oblates for every student that was in their care, so the priests kept extensive records. But there's no mention of neglect, hungry children, straps, or abuse. The horrors of residential school that I heard from my aunties and uncles aren't reflected in these pages. But I find their names written on attendance sheets, Ivan, Ivy, George, Margaret, Bill, and finally I see my dad's name. Howard Cameron. With a number next to it, 829. It's on an enrollment form dated May 5th, 1961. He was six years old. It's heartbreaking to think of him being so small when he was sent to the school, and I can't help but wonder how long after he arrived did the priest abuse him. My dad was at St. Michael's for the 1961 to 62 school year, and then he seems to have left. By then, other schools had opened up nearby that weren't residential schools. I find my dad's name back on the St. Michael's attendance records from 1967 to 1968. And then when he was 13, he transferred to LeBrat. Another residential school run by the oblates a few hours away. He was there for a year and a half. I asked my uncles if they thought the priest could be from LeBrat, but they said they were treated much better there. And one of my uncles said that my dad told him the priest he pulled over was from St. Michael's. The records show my dad overlapped with eight priests during the time he was there, including the two my family named, Father Du Hayme and Father Gochie. They were listed as the principal and vice principal in 1968 when my dad was there too. Before coming here, I asked if they had any files on Gochie and Du Hayme. The archivist told me there are personnel files for each of them, but that the oblates won't allow those to be released until 50 years after a priest's death for privacy reasons. For 50 years, whatever is inside of them will remain a secret. Instead, the archivist hands me two manila folders, one for Gochie and one for Du Hayme. They're filled with personal photos and mementos collected by the oblates and given to the archives. What's inside looks like the contents of a drawer in someone's desk, postcards, photos, and keepsakes. Father Gochie has a lot of photos of himself and most of them look like professional portraits or headshots. In one of them, he's wearing chaps and leather gloves with a bandana tied around his neck and he's holding his steps in hat. Looks like he's in play playing a cowboy. Oh my god, what is that that picture of him walking down the street giving a piggyback to a native kid? It's weird. The picture looks like it was taken in the 1970s. Gochie is smiling at the camera. He's not wearing a priest's collar but has a large silver cross dangling from his neck and on his back is a teenage boy. He looks indigenous. I find it kind of disturbing. It's a priest who has been accused of sexually abusing a boy, giving another boy a piggyback ride. But it doesn't compare to what I find in Father Du Hayme's folder. This is it says Father António Du Hayme. Father Du Hayme's folder looks a lot like Gochie's except he's kept the sheet of negatives. I can't quite make out what I'm seeing so I hold them up to the light. But it looks like there's like one, two, three, four, five, six, seven of them getting dressed or getting undressed including one guy who looks like he's in his underwear. There are two photos of teenage boys changing in a locker room. Oh my god, one guy looks like he's completely naked in this picture. But why would he take pictures of them untrusting? There's not a single mention of abuse at St. Michael's in these archives but there is this picture of a naked boy in a priest's file. These are the records the oblates were okay to release to the public. And even though I set out to find an abusive priest, I'm surprised tries to see something so explicit sitting right here in one of their files. The records I found today show that father Goche and father Du Hayme, both alleged abusers, were at the school at the same time as my dad. They knew him and he knew them. This time on stolen, surviving St. Michael's. I've been trying to find out who that was, you know? You don't want to, Connie. No? No. Why? Because I feel like a big part of my understanding of residents is-- Because I think I know who it is. But I know it's not. I'm not going to say that. This thing. [MUSIC PLAYING] Stolen, surviving St. Michael's is a gimlet media and Spotify original production. The show was hosted and reported by me, Connie Walker, additional reporting by Betty Ann Adam, producing and reporting by Chantal Belvarshard, Max Green, and Anya Schultz. Our supervising producer is Ellen Franklin. Our editor is Devin Taylor. Our consulting editor is Heather Evans. Additional editorial support from Lydia Polgreen, Rayhan Hermansi, Jonathan Goldstein, and Saeed Tijon Thomas. Fact checking by Naomi Bar. Original music by Emma Munger, Chris Dirkson, and Raymond Cameron. Scoring sound design and mixing by Emma Munger. Music supervision by Liz Fulton. Legal support from Iris Fisher, Natalie Russell, Whitney Potter, and Rachel Strong. If you have information that you'd like to share about St. Michael's Indian Residential School in duck like Saskatchewan, you can write to us at [email protected]. If you're a survivor or intergenerational survivor of Canada's residential school system and you need help, there's a 24-hour support line you can call 1-866-925-4419. And if you or someone you know is dealing with physical or sexual violence, you can find resources in your area by going to spotify.com/stolen. Thank you for listening.