Aggie and Mudgy Read online

  Praise for Aggie & Mudgy

  “In Aggie & Mudgy, Wendy Proverbs skillfully weaves a story that invites young readers to engage in a learning experience articulated within a structure reflective of traditional storytelling. Proverbs’s story not only provides insight into the reality of the removal of children to residential schools, but also gives insights and examples of Kaska Dena culture and traditions. These characters will stay with young readers and inspire them to embark on further learning.”

  MICHELLE GOOD award-winning author of Five Little Indians

  “This is a beautiful book. This story captures the warmth of a family, then the heartbreak of a family, and finally comes full circle to the love in a family. The new sights and experiences on their journey keep one interested. The ending made me cry in a good way. I highly recommend this book.”

  BEV SELLARS author of They Called Me Number One: Secrets and Survival at an Indian Residential School

  “An important recounting of the Kaska Dena experience where children were removed from their families and taken impossibly great distances to residential schools. Aggie & Mudgy highlights how imperative it was for even the very young, such as these two Kaska Dena girls, to become their own heroes. An example of the enduring legacy of intergenerational memory and of honouring and keeping the stories of these children alive.”

  CHRISTY JORDAN-FENTON co-author of Fatty Legs: A True Story

  To all the children finding their way home.

  Author’s Note

  THIS IS a story of two young Kaska Dena girls’ journey from their homeland on the BC–Yukon border, to the steps of Lejac Residential School, in central BC, in the 1920s. It is based on my aunt’s memoir depicting the journey she took with my birth mother. The story unfolds in contemporary times told by a fictionalized grandmother, Nan, to her eight-year-old granddaughter, Maddy.

  In keeping with the oral tradition of her ancestors, Nan teaches her granddaughter about her past by way of story. It slowly unfolds over several days as Nan and Maddy go about their daily routines. This is my way of telling my personal history to a fictional granddaughter living in today’s world. As Maddy listens to Nan tell her about the girls’ journey, she learns how it changed their lives forever, and her young mind asks questions that any child might ask. For example, Maddy wonders why they had to change their Kaska names to anglicized names, providing Nan an opportunity to teach her granddaughter about this dark aspect of her ancestors’ past. The story offers a glimpse into the impacts of colonization at a level Maddy can begin to understand. It also provides a lovely example of how the sisters fashioned their anglicized names into ones that they could own and like. Renamed by the church as Agnes and Martha, the girls decided to call themselves Aggie and Mudgy.

  The story Nan tells Maddy is not, however, about what Aggie and Mudgy experience at residential school. It focuses instead on the expedition that takes them from their home in Daylu (Lower Post), near the BC–Yukon border, to Lejac Residential School on the shores of Fraser Lake in central BC. The girls, aged eight and six, travel approximately 1,600 kilometres by riverboat, truck, paddlewheeler, steamship, and train—an exceptionally long journey even by today’s standards, let alone for two young girls who had never been outside their remote village.

  A priest wearing a long black robe accompanies them, an unkind man who physically abuses them when they don’t do as they’re told. At one point, they try to escape but are unsuccessful. The story of the journey ends just as the huge residential school doors bang shut behind the girls.

  To my knowledge, the literature published about Indigenous children’s travels from their home communities to the schools is not extensive. My mother and aunt’s residential school experiences were like those of their peers—comprised of well-documented injustices, now widely acknowledged as a national shame.

  Exposed to daily Christian indoctrination, they were punished and deprived of their culture, language, and families. This has been recognized as a form of cultural genocide by former Supreme Court justice Beverley McLachlin. Thankfully, these heartbreaking stories are coming to light more and more often, educating people about the tragic consequences and intergenerational trauma that continues today.

  My story offers a slightly different way into learning about this past by detailing the exceptional journey of my aunt and birth mother during a time when travel was an arduous undertaking. It also offers a glimpse into the transitional period of post-European contact, when small towns emerged and grew as a result of booming resource development.

  MY AUNT’S memoir planted the seeds of this story long ago. Writing Aggie and Mudgy’s story has drawn me closer to my ancestral roots. Like thousands of other Indigenous children in Canada, I’m part of this story. I was an infant during the sweeping scoop of Indigenous children taken from their home communities and placed with non-Indigenous families.

  I was a young adult when I began to search for my birth family. My search led me to some siblings, but I was too late to meet Mudgy, my birth mother. She had passed away several years earlier. Had my mother and aunt lived out their lives in the small northern community where they were born, who knows where life might have led them and me?

  Weaving my story through this fictionalized narrative enables me to share my ancestors’ historic journey, thereby offering readers insight into what it might have been like for young children to travel so incredibly far from their homeland and loved ones so long ago. My goal is to help younger generations, both Indigenous and non-Indigenous, learn more about our country’s past. By learning about where we came from, we can begin to see how these stories shape who we are today.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Rupert Lane

  A MATURE woman waits silently. Her dark hair is peppered with silver streaks and tied back in a ponytail. Her brown eyes twinkle with mischief. She eases herself onto a plush, dusty rose–coloured loveseat and delights in the comforting glow of the late afternoon sunshine.

  Off to the side of the room, near a large bay window, is a round wooden table with a nest of four chairs, each covered in pastel suede. In the centre of the table, a large turquoise tea towel covers an easel. Underneath, a canvas painting rests alone on the table.

  Inhaling deeply, the woman whispers to herself, “Remember, it is the process and not the final outcome that’s critical to all emerging artists. The process.”

  Low murmurs seep from under the tea towel: “Set me free . . . Uncover me . . . It is time . . .” The draping jerks amid a mournful “Set meeee freeeeeee . . .” Then the whispering morphs into a high pitch, and the tea towel moves erratically: “UNCOVER MEEEEEEEEEE. . .”

  “All right, Maddy. Let’s uncover your masterpiece now. Please use your inside voice,” the woman says with a mock-stern face.

  “Yeaaaaah, thank you, Nan.” Eight-year-old Maddy grins as she emerges from under the table, where the easel stands. “You’re gonna love my painting. It is one of my best ones yet, and I need you to like it times one hundred, ’cause I wanna give it to Mommy for Christmas. You need to look at it very closely.”

  Maddy started calling her grandmother Nan a long time ago. It was just so much more work to say “grandma” or “grandmother” all the time, and despite her creativity, Maddy is a practical girl in many ways. Her Nan looks down at her and tenderly cups her small face in her fine brown hands.

  “Hear ye! Hear ye!” Nan gleefully announces. “To all in this house, the unveiling will now commence of Miss Maddy’s latest work of art. Come forth and witness this great occasion!”

  Maddy beams and then cocks her ear. She hears a click, click, click on the floor. It’s Buskers, her rescue dog, coming to see what the fuss is all about. Buskers is not the most handsome of animals; his pedigree is questionable, and his stature is squat. He has one lopsided ear that shoots straight up when he spots potential prey, especially squirrels with twitchy tails.

  With Buskers by her side, Nan turns to Maddy and says, “Miss Maddy, please do us the honour and unveil your latest work of art for all to witness.”

  “Why, thank you, Nan and Buskers,” says Maddy, mimicking the dignified tone she’s often heard artists use at Nan’s gallery openings. “I am really, really happy to be here to share my latest painting. Here it is. TA-DA!” With a flourish, Maddy pulls the tea towel off of her painting.

  Nan examines it closely. After all, she is an experienced art critic and gallery owner, who specializes in discovering new artists. Nan is almost as passionate about her gallery as she is about Maddy.

  The painting looks small on the easel, but it shines with a rainbow of vibrant colours and pleasing composition. It’s similar to the folk art of a Maud Lewis painting—simple but striking. Purple and yellow dominate much of the space. Buskers is in the foreground with a family and a fountain in the background.

  “Well? What do you see, Nan? Do you like it? Is it good? Do you think Mommy will like it? What do you think, Buskers?” Maddy scratches her dog’s crooked ear before slowly turning her head toward Nan and eyeing her evenly. “What do you think, Nan?”

  Nan gazes at her granddaughter. Her raven-black hair frames inquisitive green eyes, and her upturned nose houses a small family of freckles.

  “I think you have captured a wonderful image worthy of framing, and your mommy is going to be very, very pleased with her Christmas present this year.” Nan hugs Maddy, and they both appraise her work of art.

  “It’s Buskers, you know—Buskers in the park running near the fountain—and
there is a family having a picnic, watching him. Will you help me frame it? Can we go to your gallery and frame it nicely, pleeeaasse?”

  Nan winces at the image of the family; the three of them look very much like Maddy, her mom, and her absent father. Nan doesn’t harbour any ill will toward her former son-in-law, for she knows relationships are hard work. However, it pains her to see Maddy missing him so. Nan knows that her daughter is also grieving the loss of her marriage, but Cherrie is resilient and her work at the university keeps her focused.

  “Of course we’ll frame it at the gallery. Think about what colour of matte and frame you’d like to use. We can do it tomorrow morning if you like. Now, what should we have for dinner, Miss Maddy? Crocodile stew or pigeon pie tonight?”

  “Oh, Nan,” giggles Maddy. “We ate that last night! I think dinosaur fingers and chips, and then later after dinner, can you tell me a story, pleeeaaasssee?”

  “Okay, if you insist, Miss Maddy, but only after we tidy up after dinner and take Buskers for a quick walky.”

  Dozing in his basket, Buskers’ tail wags as the words “Buskers” and “walky” echo through his canine brain.

  AS NAN and Maddy stroll down Rupert Lane, Buskers sniffs along the trees and hedges. The cedar boughs sway in the mild evening breeze. Nan loves early autumn evenings, when daylight lingers and she can hear families talking as they eat their grilled dinners outside.

  “Nan,” Maddy says softly, breaking the silence, “I love living here with you and Buskers and Mom. I wanna stay here forever!”

  Nan squeezes Maddy’s hand and they head farther up the lane.

  As they pass Mr. Rupert’s house, Nan notices a shadow in the window and gives a hearty wave. The figure jerks slightly, and slowly a hand waves back at them. Nan smiles. Winning over Mr. Rupert is taking longer than anticipated, yet she has time on her side—more than he has on his.

  Nan thinks about the first time she set eyes on their home. She clearly remembers following the curving lane to a small crescent with seven uniquely styled homes. They were not luxurious, but they were charming. Each home had its own architectural bent, yet they seemed to share a kinship to each other, like blood relations.

  The original builder was frugal, yet his handmade craftsmanship stood the test of time. The long-retired developer of this small enclave still lives in the second-to-last house on the lane. Despite his failing eyesight and hearing and his gnarled, arthritic bones, he keeps a keen watch on his neighbourhood. The street even bears his surname—Rupert Lane.

  Five years ago, Mr. Rupert watched when the house at 113 Rupert Lane went on the market. Within a few days it sold, and he wondered who his new neighbours would be. It wasn’t long before he peered out of his living room window one morning to see a moving van out front. A middle-aged woman appeared with an odd-looking dog at her side. As she directed the movers, Mr. Rupert strained to see her face.

  “She’s not unattractive,” he mumbled to himself. “She’s not a youngster, but she isn’t an oldster like me either.”

  A much younger woman walked up to her with a toddler clinging to her side.

  “Hmm. . .” hummed Mr. Rupert as he noted all three of his new neighbours’ raven-coloured hair. “A family of crows has moved in next door.” Having Scottish and Métis ancestry, Mr. Rupert had, over time, simply stopped connecting with his Métis heritage. Yet, there he was, wistfully recalling the voice of his cherished grandmother singing to him in Michif—a mixture of French and Cree—when he was a young lad.

  Nearing the end of their walk, Nan notices smoke from their neighbour’s grill and watches its shadows melting into the cooling evening. She watches Maddy, whose usual happy, open expression is suddenly serious, and it reminds Nan of another young girl, whose sepia-coloured photograph lies buried in a desk drawer. Nan shivers as she ushers Maddy and Buskers indoors.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Two Sisters from Daylu

  WITH THE Beatles playing in the background—“Yellow Submarine” is one of Maddy’s favourites—Maddy and Nan settle into the cushy loveseat with a bowl of lightly salted popcorn. Despite her daughter’s protests, Nan tends to indulge Maddy. It is a grandmother’s right to spoil her grandchild, and she sees no harm in it. In fact, she relishes in it.

  “Okay, is everyone comfy now? What story would you like to hear this evening?”

  Maddy puts her index finger to pursed lips and thinks for a minute. “Nan, can you tell me the story about that old, crinkled photograph with the two little girls?”

  During the summer, Maddy discovered the photograph tucked away in Nan’s desk. Maddy is curious about the image of two young girls standing close together. The taller girl has her dark hair tied back and is obviously older than the shorter girl with braided hair. They each have a blanket—the older girl carries hers on her arm and the younger one has hers wrapped around her shoulders. Their feet are covered in soft moccasins. Their cheeks are plump. Their eyes glance suspiciously at the camera. Maddy asked her mother about the photograph, and Cherrie told her to ask her grandmother. When she asked Nan, she said she would tell Maddy one day when she had more time. Maddy wonders if Nan has enough time now.

  “Did you ever meet the girls in the wrinkly photograph?” inquires Maddy.

  Nan musters a smile. “No, my dear, I never met the girls in the photograph, but I do know some things about them.”

  She squeezes Maddy’s hand and closes her eyes briefly. It is important for her granddaughter to know this story, yet she feels uneasy sharing it. Nan takes a deep breath and begins.

  “A long, long time ago, there were two little girls who were sisters. The elder sister’s name was Mac-kinnay and the younger sister was Beep. They were very close, and Beep looked up to her big sister a lot. Their mother, Yanima, and their father, Long, named them. They lived far away in the north on the BC–Yukon border. They were Kaska Dena people.

  “Now, names are a funny thing and can change throughout one’s life. Certain people believe that names should be earned and honoured as one goes through life. So it’s possible that Elders might have given Mac-kinnay and Beep different names as they grew up.”

  “Do you think my name will change one day, Nan?” asks Maddy.

  “Well, it may or it may not. It kind of depends on how your life unfolds. I hope not, because I would miss calling you Maddy, my sweet. But today, I bet you could keep your old name with your new name.”

  “Okay, I’ll have to think about that,” Maddy says seriously.

  “One day, a tall man dressed in a long black robe came into Mac-kinnay and Beep’s community, which was called Daylu,” Nan tells Maddy, pointing to a map she laid out on her lap. He gathered the community together. ‘From this day forward, all community members must be baptized into the Catholic Church and everyone will be given new names,’ he announced in broken Kaska.”

  “Why did they need new names?” asks Maddy. “And what does ‘baptized’ mean again?”

  “Hmmm. . . good questions. First of all, I believe the Catholic Church felt they had to convert as many ‘Indians’—as they were called then—to the Catholic faith. So, this meant that priests and missionaries were sent to isolated First Nations communities to spread their religious beliefs. I think the Church changed their names for different reasons. One was to cut their connection to their old ways and beliefs and to make them think more like Christians. And baptism is a cleansing ritual to transform you into a Christian.”

  “What old beliefs?” asks Maddy.

  “Well, the Kaska Dena people needed to live in harmony with nature in order to survive. So, I believe they embraced an Indigenous belief system that greatly respected nature and the spirits that provided things they needed—like animals for fur and meat, and forests for homes and tools, and plants for food and medicine.”

  “Oh, I remember my teacher telling us once that some people give thanks to a tree’s spirit when they cut it down. Is that what you mean, Nan?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean, Maddy. You’re very clever, you know,” Nan says, smiling at how quickly Maddy catches on. “Also, the priests and the nuns didn’t want the Kaska Dena people speaking their own language because they didn’t understand what they were saying. Of course, it was easier for them to remember and pronounce English names, but just as importantly, I think they wanted them to stop thinking in the old ways. It’s hard to explain, but the language people speak tells us something about how they think about the world. Anyway, the priests and nuns thought their beliefs were better and that English was more civilized than Indigenous languages.”