This article contains descriptions of abuse that may be triggering. Support for survivors and their families is available. Call the Indian Residential School Survivors Society at 1-800-721-0066, or 1-866-925-4419 for the 24-7 crisis line.
May Sam knew very little about what lay ahead as she stepped onto the school bus before her first day of Indian day school.
She was just six years old.
She didn鈥檛 speak English.
Sam was born in Mill Bay on Vancouver Island and never spoke English at home. So she spent the first few years lip-syncing God Save the Queen on the school steps every morning. She also didn鈥檛 know what nuns were.
鈥淚 didn鈥檛 know if it was a man or woman because of the, well, how the nuns dressed. It was really strange for me to see that.鈥�
But there was one fact Sam knew.
鈥淢y father, he says 鈥榶ou get up and you be ready for the bus and you get to school. If you don鈥檛 go to school, they鈥檒l come and take you away.鈥� And back in those days 鈥� he called it the Indian agent 鈥� 鈥榯he Indian agent will come and get you and take you away.鈥� He didn鈥檛 want that to happen to me and my sister. And so while my dad was at work, we had to do our chores and be ready for the school bus.鈥�
When Sam got onto the school bus, leaving her home by the water of the Saanich Inlet, and headed to St. Catherine鈥檚 Indian Day School in Duncan for the first time, she didn鈥檛 know what was in store.
What she found was an alien, hostile and cold world.
鈥淭he nuns hated me,鈥� Sam recalled. 鈥淭here was no care, no love or no affection or nothing. They didn鈥檛 care. They did that to everybody.鈥�
Sam鈥檚 struggles to learn English left her feeling isolated, even with her sister also at the school, because she couldn鈥檛 talk in her language for fear of being punished. The nun who taught Sam kept a bar of soap on her desk and would use it to scrub the tongue of any child who spoke another language. It happened to Sam multiple times. Other times she was whipped with a long canvas strap.
The worst instance of physical abuse left Sam with a scar on her leg that鈥檚 still visible today.
Part of Sam鈥檚 鈥榚ducation鈥� involved being forced to make hot chocolate for the hundreds of other students in a dank basement.
The work involved building a fire and pouring big cans of cocoa powder, powdered milk and molasses into a massive galvanized pot. She would stir and stir the pot for hours and then pour the mix into hundreds of cups for the other students.
She was in Grade 3.
Forced labour was commonplace in residential schools. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission said some schools that operated using the 鈥榟alf-day system鈥� 鈥� where students worked for half the day and learned for the other half 鈥� came close to turning schools into child labour camps.
One day, Sam was preparing the hot chocolate alone when a nun snuck up on her. One of the nun鈥檚 favourite punishments was to twirl her finger through Sam鈥檚 hair and jerk her head backwards. Distracted by breaking up kindling for the fire, Sam didn鈥檛 hear the nun come up behind her. The nun jerked her head backwards and Sam lost her balance, stumbling onto a broken bottle, the sharp edge of the glass cutting into her ankle.
鈥淚t was so painful. I fell down. I looked and my ankle was honestly, it was pure white on one side, and I didn鈥檛 know it was my flesh 鈥� it was dark maroon like my flesh. But I really believe it went right through halfway in my ankle. That鈥檚 the scar I have on my leg.鈥�
The nun dragged her to the nurse鈥檚 office, who dabbed the wound with some iodine, wrapped it in gauze and sent Sam on her way.
鈥淚t was so thick with blood. But I was hopping when I got off the bus and my sister helped me to get in the house. My father got home and he was so mad. He didn鈥檛 understand why they didn鈥檛 bring me to the hospital to get stitches because I needed stitches.鈥�
Even while wading through painful memories, Sam brightens when she talks of her father. He raised Sam and her sister on his own after their mother walked out on them. The day Sam came back with her ankle bleeding, he cut down branches from a cherry tree and made crutches. When Sam was an infant he made a pacifier out of a horse clam.
鈥淗e was a great man. He was a wonderful man 鈥� it was just how creative he was and how he protected me and my sister.鈥�
It鈥檚 clear that strength and protectiveness are some things he passed on to Sam.
She never told her children or her husband what she experienced, and her father never talked much about his own struggles. Sam heard stories from other family members and neighbours.
She saw children go off to residential school and never saw them return and saw what that did to the family members who were left behind. But her own stories were something she kept inside. She鈥檚 unsure if this is her inherited protective nature of sheltering others, or because of the humiliation the nuns inflicted on her.
鈥淭he nuns made us so timid and ashamed. All my young life, I kept my hair over my eyes and I would never look up 鈥� They made us really, really timid 鈥� so ashamed of who we were. They told us not to talk about their abuse when we go home. 鈥楧on鈥檛 tell anybody. Don鈥檛 talk about it.鈥� It was hard. In all my lifetime, I never told my children. I never talked to my husband about it.鈥�
Sam now lives in Tsartlip First Nation with her children all living nearby, one just down the road and the two others living in Tsawout First Nation, both on the Saanich Peninsula.
鈥淚 never told my children, I wish I did. Maybe they would have opened up and told me what happened with them in school, at the tribal school here. Maybe they would have told me 鈥� maybe it would have saved them 鈥� but I didn鈥檛 talk about it.鈥�
Getting to the point of telling her story has been a struggle for Sam. A dichotomy exists within her. The urge to protect others and help battles against the shame that still scars Sam decades after the abuse she suffered in that Duncan day school.
鈥淭hose that have passed away with the hurt and pain of losing their child and never coming home 鈥� you need to hear that. Those that are still here are still drowning themselves with alcohol and have so much anger with their family at home, the hurt and pain is the anger from what they went through in school and now they just can鈥檛 let it go. They can鈥檛 stop being so angry because they have that shame and that hurt, those that were sexually abused 鈥� they have a real, deep anger.鈥�
Protecting future generations is particularly important to Sam. Intergenerational trauma has hurt families 鈥� her own included 鈥� and spread the hurt to younger generations. Sam said she鈥檒l always stand up for younger people to try and stem the spread of trauma and pain.
Part of that work is done by helping others navigate that shame and hurt. Sam works as an Elder in residence at the University of Victoria and Camosun College. Her late husband, Gabriel 鈥淪kip鈥� Sam also worked at UVic.
鈥淚 talk to people and say that I love you. Complete strangers, I meet them and I talk to them and I say 鈥業 love you from my heart to your heart.鈥� This is what I truly mean.鈥�
Sam鈥檚 warmth and loving nature are readily apparent, she鈥檚 quick to laugh or rest her head on the shoulder of Kristin Spray or Katie Manomie, who flanked her during the interview. The pair have sat rapt throughout Sam鈥檚 telling of her story.
With more people telling their stories and with the federal recognition that has finally come for Sept. 30 鈥� 鈥渋t鈥檚 about time they did that,鈥� Sam added 鈥� some progress is starting to be made.
鈥淚t鈥檚 out in the open now. It鈥檚 out. It鈥檚 helping us to heal to have it out in the open.鈥�
This is part two in a special series prepared by Black Press Media. You can find more of the series and other articles on truth and reconciliation
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