Dear mother, now I understand why you couldn't raise me — and it wasn't your faultThis First Person column is the experience of a Manitoba-based daughter of a residential school survivor. The CBC has agreed not to use her real name to protect her mother's identity. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
WARNING: This First Person column contains distressing details.Dear Mother,
It's your daughter. Remember me?
I was born during a thunderstorm (afternoon sometime). You and my father loved telling me that story.
I also remember when you'd sing me to sleep: "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are grey." I go to this memory when I'm having a bad day. This memory I keep — it is my memory of happiness, it comforts me.
Another memory I cherish is when you'd be doing laundry, and we would listen to music and dance.
I'm writing this because I wonder if you remember this memory. Or maybe some other memories?
Maybe one day we can sit down and talk, reminisce. I love hearing stories of me, you and my brother. I tried so hard to remember all the happy memories, but over time I seem to only have a few.
And so I cherish these memories, because it was all I had of you growing up — me, you and my brother — till that day I got picked up after school to go live with my father. It was the last time I saw you guys, until you finally came and visited me when I got a bit older.
But mom, throughout that whole time I didn't see you, I cried for you every single night. I waited for you to come get me, or at least come visit me.
You see, mom, I was just a kid. I didn't understand at the time that it was better for me to live with my father. I thought maybe you forgot about me or you didn't want me.
This made me angry and I started asking myself, "What did I do for my mother to not want me?" I started being angry toward you and taking it out on everyone around me.
You see, we never got to share the same bond you and my brother had, before he died.
Yet all I wanted to do was make you proud. That day finally came when your grandson was born. You looked so happy holding him. That day I made you proud of me, and you were proud to be a grandmother.
I understand I am probably not the person you imagined I'd be. I know I can't replace my brother.
It was really hard for me growing up with so much anger. And I'm sorry for being so angry and hateful toward you, mother.
But I still need my mother too.
And I didn't understand, mother. But now I do.
Mother, I'm writing this because I want you to know I took the time to understand why you weren't present when I was growing up. It wasn't your fault.
You see, I started researching the residential school survivor stories, yours included. So I know it wasn't because you didn't want me or that you forgot about me. It was because of what happened to you growing up.
When the government started that awful residential school system, they were the reason for all your trauma and hurt.
The reason why you're still struggling with what they've done, to this very day.
The reason why so many children do not have their parents present growing up.
The reason why so many children like me are growing up in dysfunctional homes, hearing the parties, the alcohol, the fighting, the loud scary arguments.
Pain that is still felt for generations after. That isn't right, mom. They deprived me of the very person I needed. They are why you couldn't be the parent you wanted to be.
Like, I had a wonderful father growing up, my stepmother is amazing, and I appreciate them both so much.
But I've been in and out of jail since I was 13. I haven't been out longer than a year since then. I also started doing drugs at this age.
Mother, you grew more distant with me after this. But I was doing it because it was the only way I got attention. I'm sorry you couldn't be there for me. It was because of this horrible school system that took you from me.
So mother, I don't hate you. I am sorry if I've ever said awful words to you. I was carrying so much pain, I didn't know how to express it, mother.
I'm sorry I didn't grow up the person you wanted me to be. But mother, after all that, I am working on myself, because I finally understand we can always overcome our pasts, like you did.
I'm happy you're sober now. I want to change my life around, as you have done. I'm sorry for not being a good daughter. I do not want to be that way anymore.
Maybe we can write together some day. I would love that.
I really miss you mom. I just wanted to share my thoughts with you. I love you.
Your daughter/danis (Ojibway for daughter)
Dear mother, now I understand why you couldn't raise me — and it wasn't your fault
