16 Concluding Voices: Survivor Stories of Life Behind the Bricks

Richard W. Hill, Sr.

“We, the boys of the Mohawk Institute desire to take this opportunity to gratefully acknowledge the services rendered by you to us,” begins a handwritten memorial presented to Mr. O. R. (Roy) Pengelley, boys’ master at the Mohawk Institute in the 1930s. “We have always expected and received fair treatment from you, in right or in wrong,” the memorial goes on. Seventy boys signed the memorial to express their appreciation for Pengelley’s interest in sport and sportsmanship.¹

It is a brief and shining moment that stands in contrast with the majority of the memories of other survivors whose time at the Mush Hole was not so rewarding. This memorial reminds us that not everyone who worked at the Mohawk Institute was a sexual predator or mental punisher. Yet, for many, their memories of the hard times at the school have lasted a lifetime. Most of the children who attended the Institute did not leave a record of their time at the school. The current generation of survivors, however, have informed us of their experiences. Their recollections tell of a very different story than that which was reflected in sources such as New England Company reports, Anglican Church records, or federal government documents. While some students have positive memories, such as skills learned, or the shelter provided by the Mohawk Institute when their own families were unable to do so, most of the interviews with former students consist of stories about negative experiences and even abuse.

When reading the testimony left by some survivors, remember that they were children when these things happened to them. Until recently, many carried their stories in silence, afraid or ashamed to share what really happened. Some were punished by school officials or even their own parents for telling their truth. Except for a court conviction of excessive punishment for Principal Nelles Ashton in 1914, no one was ever publicly condemned for the abuse they committed on the wards under their care at the Mohawk Institute.

Collecting Stories

One of the very best sources for stories from former students is The Mush Hole: Life at Two Indian Residential Schools.² Compiled by Elizabeth Graham, the book is an invaluable source that includes transcriptions of many primary documents and interviews with over thirty former Mohawk Institute students. This chapter cites many of the interview transcripts in The Mush Hole, but for a complete picture readers are encouraged to consult Graham’s work. In addition to the interviews in The Mush Hole, since 1986 the Woodland Cultural Centre has been recording the recollections of the Mush Hole “survivors.” There were three survivor gatherings during which interviews were conducted. I interviewed a number of survivors between 2018 and 2020. While every student had their own experience, and experiences varied over time, several themes emerged from these recordings.

First and foremost, students recalled that they were always hungry, never having enough food, and the food they did get tasted terrible. Consequently, they learned to steal food from the local dumps, from the kitchen, or the farm fields. Other themes include:

• Feelings of loneliness: They speak of the lack of love or affection within the Institute, leading to countless nights of crying, wondering why they were left alone in this foreign place.
• Sexual abuse: Some tell of their own abuse or witnessing it happening to others. The staff, principals, and older students committed these crimes. This kind of trauma affects a person their entire life, and creates fear and distrust, which can affect ongoing relationships.
• Fist fighting and abuse from other students: Sometimes the staff forced students to fight one another. Other times, student “gangs” would use violence to obtain favours. One way or another, students had to learn how to fight.
• Extreme discipline: Punishment at the Institute was often brutal and unnecessary. Strappings top the list, but there were many forms of violence used on children, sometimes causing bodily scars, hearing loss, and emotional abuse.
• Resiliency: Students learned to make the best of the situation or ran away to express discontent. Students learned how to survive. Sometimes these lessons would be internalized, and students stoically took their punishments. However, not all survived their time at the Mohawk Institute, and there were stories of fellow students or babies that disappeared, no one knowing what happened to them.

Taken together, these interviews shed considerable light on the more recent history of the Mush Hole. Below, I have grouped excerpts from these interviews by theme to provide a sense of what life was like at the school in the decades leading up to its closure in 1970. They are not meant to be exhaustive, but rather to give a sense of what life was like behind the bricks of the Mohawk Institute.

On Arriving³

“We’re put into a dorm. We’re not sure where we’re going, but we realize it’s full of sleeping people, and we’re put into a bunk bed, and then we were there still trying to get some rest or sleep, and at six o’clock, the lights are switched on, and there’s this heavy bell that rings, like a school bell, and then suddenly we’re awake—and as we look on either side of us, there’s these dozens of six-, seven-, eight-year-old boys, who we don’t recognize, that are surrounding us, and they’re just staring at us, because they didn’t know who we were, where we came from, why we were there.” Doug George, Akwesasne Mohawk, 1967–70⁴

Sara Jane Cromarty (1968–9) finally remembered her first day, after she had blocked out her recollections, when she began to see a series of flashbacks of a young girl being transported to a strange place with big pillars and massive front steps. After being drawn to the Mush Hole, her memories of what took place came rushing back to her: “As soon as I went in, the lady was standing there already. Right away they grabbed me, took me to the washroom, totally just ripped my clothes off, and threw me in the shower. That’s when I first felt, I must be very dirty. Seems like she acted as if I’m really dirty. She even cut my hair short. That’s when I knew I lost myself, cause I had the long black hair, and I remember my kokum used to say, ‘Don’t ever cut your hair.’ I just cried, cried, and cried, cause I was very homesick. Cause I didn’t know where I was. When I went home, it was so different. I didn’t feel at home at all. I wanted to leave, I cried every night, because I didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t even feel, you know, the love and care, what I had before. They get mad at me because I couldn’t speak their language. My mom used to get mad at me because I couldn’t understand her. So, I didn’t know what to do, and then I just left. There was a big void in me that I was searching. I was looking for somebody to care for me. To love me. Somebody to give me a hug, cause my mom and dad never gave me a hug when I came back.”⁵

“I was very lonely. You think you’d get over it, but you never do. I just felt so alone, and I thought, ‘Oh my gosh, this is going to be my life now.’” Geraldine Maness Robertson, Aamjiwnaang Anishinaabekwe, 1947–50⁶

“I was three years old when I arrived here in the middle of the night. I can still remember when I woke up in a strange woman’s arms, only to see my mother disappear into the night. I lived here for eleven years. My mother never came to visit.” Robert Gary Miller, Tyendinaga Mohawk, 1953–64⁷

“I remember the first day I went there were steps that you go up into the Institute. I remember there was a little boy sitting on the steps, and I was waiting for someone to come and get me to tell me where I had to go. He gave me a hug and gave me a kiss on the cheek, and he goes, ‘You’re going to be all right.’ I didn’t even know this boy.” Beverly Albrecht, Grand River, 1966–70⁸

On Crying

“When I first went there, I cried and I cried and I cried, but it didn’t help any. . . . None of the rest of the kids are going to pity you or nothing. . . . It didn’t matter you could cry to the Principal, you cried and they never even heard you.” Harrison Burning, Grand River, 1920–8(?)⁹

“My sister was there too with me when I was there. To hear her lonesome cries—my goodness! It would have been better if I was there by myself. She was my father’s baby. She had turned five when she went. To hear her cry and to hear her holler “Daddy,” was worse than my lonesomeness. I used to put my arms around her and say “Don’t cry, don’t cry,” and I’d be crying. Then we’d both be crying.” Lorna, Grand River, 1940–5¹⁰

“I remember my brother crying really loud that night they took us, and even at that young age I was, I just told him ‘There’s no need to cry—they don’t care about us. If they did, they wouldn’t be sending us away.’” Name withheld, 1953–60¹¹

On Hair Cutting

“I still remember the first day I went there. They took me downstairs and into the boys’ playroom, and it was just like they put a cereal bowl on everybody’s head and shaved right around it. That really scared me.” Bill Monture, Grand River, 1963–9¹²

“The second day I was there I got in a big fight. I had beautiful long hair and because I was new, they hadn’t cut it off, and the other girls were jealous and pulled my hair. The day they cut my hair—short like a boy’s—I cried.” Peggy Hill, Grand River, 1955–7¹³

On Hunger

“You’d get a bowl of porridge and a slice of bread in the morning, then at noon you’d get bread and soup, and at night biscuits and potatoes. It was a treat if you got meat . . . we were hungry all the time.” Peter Smith, Grand River, 1926–35¹⁴

“We was hungry all the time we was there. . . . I was so determined that I’m going to eat it I don’t care what it tastes like. Even with that I couldn’t eat it—you had to starve. The food—the whole supper or three meals anyway—you couldn’t eat it—don’t care how hungry you were—how determined you was that you was going to eat it—the taste greets you—you couldn’t—you couldn’t eat it.” Harrison Burning, Grand River, 1920–8(?)¹⁵

“They sold the cream, and gave us the skim milk. Not very often we got whole milk—never, that I can remember. . . . The porridge was just like glue in the morning. . . . One of the senior girls used to sneak me sandwiches. . . . The food there in the summertime was as terrible as in the winter.” Emmert General, Grand River, 1932(?)–8(?)¹⁶

Lorna recalled stealing turnips with a group of girls and being forced to eat them for several days, causing them all to be sick. She also said that she couldn’t eat apple pie anymore, as the stress over stealing apples for older girls, and the fear of being caught, caused negative associations in her mind that have lasted decades.¹⁷

“One time they brought us cereal in the morning and the darn stuff was moving—it had maggots in it. They expected us to eat it.” Lonnie Johnson, Grand River, 1948–56(?)¹⁸

On Fist Fighting

Mush Hole survivor Tony Bomberry remembers being forced to fight. He said that they would often fight in teams of two. Once, his brother was on his team. During the initial shoving and roughhousing he got knocked out because someone grabbed him from behind and he fell backwards on his head. He just remembers waking up in the dispensary. While fighting was against the rules, the staff would often let boys fight.¹⁹

“I lived here for eleven years. I spent the first three years on the girls’ side and they pampered me. Then I went over to the boys’ side, but it was a very different experience. Because I have blue eyes, the boys said I looked white, and they would beat me up. The older boys would wrap towels around my head and turn me around until I choked on the towels and almost passed out. They would hang me on the hot water pipes and make bets on how long I could stand it.” R. Gary Miller, Tyendinaga Mohawk, 1953–64.²⁰

“Because they didn’t want us to get along with the other girls, they [house mothers] would have boxing matches to make us fight just so that we wouldn’t like the other girls. They thought if we fight with each other we’ll end up taking our anger, or whatever we have, out on the other girls. I remember fighting with my sister. She’s two years younger than me, but we never beat each other. We just did it. You don’t do it just because you want to.” Beverly Albrecht, Grand River, 1966–70²¹

“By the time you came out of the Mohawk you were a scrapper. Your culture was taken away—you were nothing. All you knew how to do was fight. You had a chip on your shoulder.” Salli General, Grand River, 1940–5²²

On Love and Hate

“The Mush Hole did not teach us how to love. I didn’t think I had a heart, and it was because of this school.” Harrison Burning, Grand River, 1920–8(?)²³

“All I learned in there was to hate people—I learned you never have friends, because I had two friends and all they do is squeal and get you in trouble, and I learned you never have friends.” John Martin, Grand River, 1949–54²⁴

Imagine never seeing your mother for eleven years. Geronimo Henry (1942–53) experienced just that. “All the time that I was there, my mom never even come to see me, and she never come and took me out for the summer holidays either. And there was always eight, or ten, sometimes fifteen kids that wouldn’t go home. I remember like the last day of school we’d run around from our classrooms, and go down the playroom and look out these two windows, and you could see right down the laneway, right down to the street, you know, and you could see the people coming up to get their kids. But we were all at that window just waiting for my mom to come and get me, but she never did. So, I had to stay there all summer, so actually I was one of the guys that stayed there 365 days of the year.”²⁵ Geronimo spent eleven years looking out that window, watching his classmates going home. He stood there so often the other children called it “Geronimo’s Window.” Once I asked Geronimo how he felt about his mother given what happened. He looked down at the floor and took a few moments to collect his thoughts, then he said that he hated his mother for abandoning him there. “I spent my whole childhood there, right from six till sixteen. So, you don’t get no parental guidance from like your parents. So, nobody told me they loved me. I imagine that’s about the most important part of your life. Nobody hugs you, and nobody tells you they love you. There’s no bonding. . . . When I left there, I had a lot of anger, resentment. Just kinda started drinking. I just drank more, and that lasted about twenty-five years. Finally, I sobered up, and I wanted to help other survivors of the residential school.”²⁶ Today, you can find Geronimo at the Mush Hole, sharing his story, healing from doing so, one day at a time.

“You were basically alone. And your family wasn’t there, you weren’t encouraged to be with your family. It was just lonely. It was a very lonely place. . . .
You weren’t allowed to grow the way you should have been able to grow as a child. There was no love. There’s no nurturing. You don’t have that ability to sit on your mother’s lap, to get those hugs, to get those stories. You can’t get that love that’s missing in your life, and the only thing that you got was . . . somebody like the minister, who was very abusive in many ways.” June Shawanda²⁷

On Being Punished

“They had one little room—it had just had room to crawl in and go in the bed if you done anything wrong. That’s how he’d punish you—he’d make you go in that room. No light—shut the door and lock it from the outside. You couldn’t get out of there and you had to stay in there so many hours.” Martha Hill, Grand River, 1912–18²⁸

Lorna and her sister Salli entered the school in 1940. Lorna recalled a girl who was caught out of bounds in the dorm because she was having her period and wanted privacy. The girl was nineteen years old, but still in grade 5. Principal Horace Snell sent for her to come to his office, but she refused. The principal then went to the girls’ playroom and strapped the teenager in front of the others. The girl was beaten so severely that she had an epileptic seizure. When the other girls intervened because the principal kept strapping her, Snell became enraged and began shoving and knocking the girls down. When he recovered the strap, he began to beat all of the girls. The principal’s wife came down and threatened the girls that if they told anyone what took place, they would “get worse.” The other girls asked the girl, who was covered with welts on her back, head, face, legs, and rear end, why she refused to go with Snell. She replied, “I don’t know, but I didn’t want to get raped.”²⁹

Frank Hill (1945–7) recalled how older boys suspended a little boy from the hot overhead pipes, just to see how long he could hang there. Some boys would hang themselves with their towels from those same pipes until they passed out. Boys would steal potatoes, cabbage, and carrots from the root cellar. Boys would convince the kitchen help to become their girlfriends so they could get extra food. On a sad note, Frank, who worked in the barn, found a collie that he called Lassie. The dog would help him round up the cows. One of the staff members, always trying to break the boy’s spirit, shot and killed the dog out of spite.³⁰

Vera Styres, attended twice, first in 1942–3 and again in 1946–7. Vera recalled that captured runaways were punished by the other students by crawling through a lineup in which each student would give them a whack on their behind. The girls wore handmade striped work aprons and denim tunics. Button-up underwear was made of stiff, itchy cotton from recycled sugar bags or flour sacks. Vera said she was punished if she got sick, and that the nurse would not treat the students. She got so sick and skinny that her mother, who visited once a month, marched up to Principal Zimmerman and punched him right in the face for letting her daughter get in such a condition. In response, he began to force feed Vera.³¹

“I ran away once and when I got back there I really got the strap—right to (forearm)—cut my wrist open. I seen a lot of them like that, getting the strap, and they wouldn’t even cry. They punished us for practically nothing. . . . I couldn’t even go and talk to my sister. . . . I’d get the strap just for talking to my sister.” Emmert General, Grand River, 1932(?)–9(?)³²

Peggy Hill (1955–7) recalled her life behind the bricks as a series of fights with other students, or punishments from the principal. “Our only crime was being poor—our parents couldn’t feed us the way the Indian agent thought we should be fed.” Two runaways got caught and were strapped in front of all the students. Peggy got caught stealing food to sneak to her brothers, who were also in the school. For that she got strapped. Once a teacher knitted her a sweater, but a jealous student cut a big hole out of the back. Peggy got blamed and was strapped.³³

Blanche Hill-Easton(1943), tells of a time when a teacher who she thought was a friend beat her and damaged her back when she was ten years old: “I was in the sewing room when the teacher got really upset with me because I was crying, and the more she told me to not cry, the harder I cried—and she grabbed me by the hair, and grabbed me by the back, and we were on the bench, and she pulled me right over onto the floor, and then started beating me with the strap. They had a big strap, it looked like those straps that they do with the razors, the men’s razors straps. But it had a point on it, and when she hit me with that, she hit me in the middle. Struck me from behind and wrapped around the front of my head and everything, but she kept right on beating me. I hit my head, and hit my shoulder on this side, and I passed out. To this day, I still have that problem, I have a fused vertebrae in the back, and now this whole side has gone.”³⁴

Jo-Bear Curley was a student twice, from 1955 to 1958 and from 1962 to 1964. She used to sneak out of her dorm to watch television in the girl’s playroom in the basement. She was punished for stealing apples and getting caught kissing her boyfriend. For her punishment, she had to scrub the floor with a toothbrush. Jo-Bear recalled some darker moments. The girls would challenge each other to choke themselves with the scarves that they would wear on their heads. She choked herself until she blacked out. One girl was being punished by an Indigenous staff person and was beat so badly with a strap that her arms and shoulders turned black and blue, yet she would not cry out in pain.³⁵

I interviewed Pat Hill, an eighty-two-year-old survivor who lives in Buffalo, New York. She supplied this photo of herself (she is on the right) with an unknown school mate. She attended from 1946 to 1950. Pat had worked at cleaning the principal’s apartment, which was next to the girls’ dorm. She also had to serve food in the officers’ dining room in the basement. She recalled that Principal Zimmerman was brutal, and he beat her repeatedly, for which she confesses that she never knew why. “He had no mercy on anybody. . . . I often wonder, after I left, that whatever possessed him—how he could do it and get away with it, but he did. . . . He knew you couldn’t go anywhere, even if you told somebody. Didn’t make any difference.”³⁶ Once she was locked in the third-floor attic for a few days as a punishment. When Zimmerman tried to punish her, he insisted that she drop her pants so he could strap her bare bottom: “I used to have to fight with him, cause he wanted me to take my . . . dresses, he wanted me to take it down.”³⁷ Pat found it ironic that Zimmerman would always preach to the students about the sins of sex at the Mohawk Chapel every Sunday, yet his own conduct made that seem hypocritical. Pat ran away but was caught by Zimmerman. “I had had so many beatings, I wanted to get out of there. You know when you’re a kid and somebody is beating you all the time, you try to get away as far as you can.”³⁸ One night a couple dozen girls ran away. Pat recalled how the girls used to scale the outside of the building, at the corners with small ledges in the brickwork, to sneak in and out of the second-floor dorm. Inside, there was constant fighting. Her younger sister was always fighting, and sometimes she would have to jump in to defend her. When asked what she would say to Zimmerman after all these years, she replied as follows: “I don’t think I’d ever talk to him. He ruined my life. He made me a hateful person when I was younger, and as you got older, it stayed with you. Never goes away. I never forgot those years. But like I said, I’m a survivor.”³⁹

“When we little kids wet our bed, we’d really get it. We had to wear the sheet like a diaper during lunch, and then had to wash the sheets. They used to march us into breakfast with these sheets around us.” R. Gary Miller, Tyendinaga Mohawk, 1953–64⁴⁰

Beverly Bomberry (1943–6), Mohawk, now Beverly Albrecht, recalled her worst memory: “We were running around the bunk beds and we got caught [by the house mother]. And so, we got sent downstairs, and they had the playroom, and then there was a little office, and in the office was lockers, and they put us in the lockers. I was screaming and screaming to get out. . . . I don’t even know how long I was in there, but to me it seemed like a long time because I’m young. And then I realized, oh if I stop screaming, they’ll let me go. But to this day, I can’t leave a door locked. Like, in my bedroom, I gotta have it open, because I always think I’m trapped. I know I’m not, but that’s just in my mind.”⁴¹

Marguerite Beaver (1940–8) recalled that a female student had a baby that was rumoured to have been fathered by one of the teachers. While Marguerite suffered no sexual abuse, likely because her mother, also a graduate of the school, worked for the Crown attorney, she was caught smoking and had her hair cut short as punishment. She also recalls getting the strap several times for offences such as running away: “The strap was about a foot long and about four inches wide, and they hit you with that and naturally it stings for the first two or three times and after that it goes numb.”⁴²

On Language Loss

“The thing that shocked me most was when I was told I could not speak my native language. I was birthed into this language, yet was told I was being rude. . . . My inner emotions could not accept this, but I could not express myself enough to say what was in my heart in the English language.” Jennie Blackbird, 1942–6⁴³

“I remember this teacher, she had a big clock and she was asking me what time it was, and I must have been speaking my language instead of English, and she really smack[ed] me around with a ruler. I finally realized I was speaking my language, so after that I didn’t speak my language.” Kenneth George, 1953–60⁴⁴

“When we went there we used to talk Mohawk, and when they caught us talking our own language they’d give you a strapping and you’d end up losing it—at a young age. You never got to talk it to nobody else. You never got to talk it to nobody else.” Lonnie Johnson, Grand River, 1948–56(?)⁴⁵

“There were three boys who came down from Bala and they spoke very little English . . . the smaller boy . . . he couldn’t speak English at all. His worst experience was the boys teasing him. . . . He got to the point in the end where he learned the English language and they didn’t pick on him anymore.” Edward (Russell) S. Groat, Grand River, 1930–9⁴⁶

“I lost my language. They threatened us with a strapping if we spoke it, and within a year I lost all of it. They said they thought we were talking about them.” Raymond (Ross) Hill, Grand River, 1929–37⁴⁷

“W] weren’t allowed to talk Indian at all, we couldn’t say a word in Indian, just speak English, and these children would come in and maybe have no English at all and they would get in groups like cattle, trying to understand English, because they would give them a licking—or they’d give you a scolding or something like that for not being able to say it in English, and they just wiped out the entire Indian language. . . . If we could have utilized our language, probably we would still have our language today. . . . The seniors today are dying off on the reserve and taking the language with them.” Peter Smith, 1926–35⁴⁸

On Running Away

“The first day I was there I ran away. I ran away about a hundred times. I literally hated that place. . . . I got a scar on my back where that guy—Reverend Zimmerman—strapped me. . . . He couldn’t make me cry so he hit me on the back. He even strapped the girls and he wasn’t supposed to do that—he would strip them and strap them. . . . I told him one day I was going to kill him, when they sent me to the training school. . . . My stepfather said the guy before him was even worse than that—I said nobody could be worse than Skin [student nickname for Zimmerman].” John Martin, Grand River, 1949–54⁴⁹

John R. Elliott arrived at the Mush Hole with two siblings in 1947. John was sent there because he was always truant at the reserve school. John and one of his brothers ran away soon after their arrival and made their way back to their grandfather’s house on the reserve, only to hear their grandfather say that it was the government that sent them to the school, not him. Sadly, the grandfather had to take them back to the school again. That did not stop John from running away again. Even though he knew he would get a strapping, he risked it. “They threw me in the hole. . . . [It] was two by twelve, about eight feet long, and that was your bed, and then there was a slop pail. You didn’t get nothing to eat, no water or nothing. So that wasn’t bad, it was only a day the first time. But the next time, they threw me in there for two days. But my buddy knew, and then he shoved me a couple of lavs, that’s what they called a slice of bread.” John told me he still gets shivers when he walks past that small cubbyhole under the stairway where he was imprisoned.⁵⁰

John made a point of running away every Christmas Eve. In fact, he ran away so many times, when the kids would see an old green panel truck leaving the grounds, they would say, “John’s on the loose again.” John recalled, “That one time we just got there [to a friend’s house in Muncey] and his mother had just cooked a big supper for us and everything, in come that damn green Mush Hole truck. They got us, but they let us finish eating anyway.”⁵¹ Then one time, in 1952, he ran away again, and they simply stopped looking for him. He was finally free of the abuse that he suffered at the Mohawk Institute. His recollections of the strappings he took from Principal Zimmerman are chilling. John had resolved not to cry, not to give Zimmerman that satisfaction, no matter how hard he was beaten. When you look at the photo of John as a student, it brings home the reality that these kinds of things happened to young children.

“It was corporal punishment by humiliation. They’d take your clothes off in front of everyone and bend you over in a chair and strap you. . . You’d have to cry right away, in which case you’d be a wimp, or you had to tough it out, in which case you’d be bruised . . . and severely. . . We were brought up to feel guilty or ashamed, ugly. To this day, I have feelings of shame.” R. G. Miller, 1953–64⁵²

The famed long-distance runner Tom Longboat ran away from the school twice. The first time he was caught and punished. Then he witnessed another student getting beat so severely that he ran away again. This time, a sympathetic uncle took him in and protected him. The truant officers stopped looking for him. Once he became famous, he was asked to return and give a pep talk to the students. He refused, saying, “I wouldn’t even send my dog to that place.”⁵³

On Dead or Missing Students

With the recent discovery of unmarked graves at other residential schools, the question has come up about how many children died, or went missing, at the Mush Hole. The Survivor’s Secretariat has identified at least ninety-seven children who died at the school or because of being at the school.⁵⁴ Some survivors talk about children getting hurt or ill and being taken away and never being seen again. Some children were sent away to other schools because they were considered incorrigible, not to be heard of again. Some runaways kept on running, making their way to places like Buffalo, New York, never to return.

One of the most-discussed deaths at the Mohawk Institute was that of thirteen-year-old student Effie Smith on 11 May 1936. Mohawk Institute teacher Susan Hardie described the event as follows: “The May-Pole swing had not been in use for nearly a year. A new wheel [made from a car wheel] was put up on a Friday. On Monday noon, some new ball bearings were put in & the accident took place that eve after supper. There were four chains & the girls had put a plank into three of the seats & five girls were on it. The wheel fell & struck poor Effie on the diaphragm. She herself pushed it off of her. One girl immediately came to report which came to me & I at once called for Mr. Lager who was still at tea, to help carry her up. Then Mrs. Smith was notified who immediately sent for Dr. Palmer who came in very few minutes. As soon as he saw her, he sent for Dr. Morrison who also came in a few minutes. They then sent at once for the ambulance which took her to the Brantford hospital where she passed away, half an hour after her arrival. The doctor found it was internal hemorrhage. The poor child looked deathly from the first.”⁵⁵

The official report of Smith’s death noted that Miss Hardie reported the accident at 6:15 p.m., the doctor was called at 6:20, and Effie was taken to the hospital at 7:15. Principal Snell reported that five girls were playing on the “giant stride or maypole” to which they added boards through the chains and were being pushed around, “throwing all the weight toward one side of the pole. This caused the . . . wheel to spit a piece out of the side of the pole at the top allowing the wheel to fall to the ground where it struck Effie Smith in abdomen causing the injuries from which she died.” Snell included a drawing to show the wheel as fairly large. Dr. Palmer reported that he treated Effie from 6:20 to 8:46 p.m. and that she died from bleeding caused by the rupture of the pancreas.⁵⁶

A newspaper story said that the wheel weighed about one hundred pounds and fell from a height of between fifteen to eighteen feet. Other riders included Velma Powless, Laura Davis, and Hazel Van Every. Powless said that all the girls fell to the ground when the piece broke, and she was hit on the shoulder. When she stood up, she saw Effie, who had been sitting next to her, lying on the ground. At an inquest, Principal Snell said the pole had been there for nine years. The Crown attorney pointed out that the pole had an older break. Snell said that the maypole was of a makeshift nature. “I don’t think any of us ever thought of danger in connection with it,” testified Turnell. C. H. Lager, the boys’ master, testified that he had just erected the wheel days before the accident and that he did not notice the crack. Molly Johnson testified that she, Effie, Velma, Laura, and Hazel Van Every had put a two-by-six through three of the loops. She said the wheel fell as they started. The jury, while calling the equipment unsafe, ruled it to be an accident, but recommended that the playground equipment be inspected every three months. Effie’s mother did not blame the school, and in fact requested a spot for her younger son in her daughter’s place.⁵⁷ Over the years this maypole was used in various ways, sometimes as a form of peer punishment. An unpopular child was strapped by the arms to the device and swung round and round until they vomited.⁵⁸

Leander Snake (1963–5) lost track of his older brother, who was picked on by the other students. “My brother was five years older than me. . . . And he wasn’t like me. He was meek. I can remember him out there, and all the other boys would pick on him. . . . I think he got kicked in the kidneys or something, because around Halloween they took him to the hospital in Toronto, and he never came back.”⁵⁹

Martha Albert, Chippewa of the Thames (1950–8), says her worst memory was about two girls who committed suicide in 1956: “We’re on the second dorm, and there my bed was in the far corner, and these little girls, I seen them standing in the window, I thought I was seeing shadows. You know, I never forgot those little girls, to this day, I never forgot those little girls. . . . They took their lives. . . . They jumped from the second floor there, hanging on hands. They hit the cement, just where the staircase used to come down. . . . Their names was Cookie and Tammy. . . . They keep bothering me, all the time. For the longest time, I had to go to therapy, to see a psychiatrist, over this, for all those years, for many years. . . . I just couldn’t seem to get over that part, of these children, losing these children.”⁶⁰

Martha also witnessed another girl who tried to hang herself: “She put the thing [around] her neck, and she was hanging there. So, I just run out and got the nurse, cause the nurse’s station was just outside of our door. And they got her. They said she survived. You had to keep your eye on her because she was always trying to commit suicide in there.” Finally, Martha recalled another girl, Myra, who fell from the maypole and split her head on the cement. The girls carried Myra into the school, and she was eventually taken to the hospital. The girls were told that Myra was taken by her relatives, but they never saw her again. Images of these events kept flashing in Martha’s mind over the years.⁶¹

In early September 1968, after making it sixty miles toward his home in Golden Lake, thirteen-year-old runaway Joey Commanda, who was Pikwakanagan Anishinaabe, was struck and killed by a CN Dayliner train in Oakville. Joey had run away with his older brother Rocky. They were both caught by police, but Joey escaped from the police car. Six hours later his life came to an end. A train conductor testified that Joey crossed one set of tracks to avoid a westbound train, only to slip as an eastbound train struck him. In 2021 his community, including his brother Rocky and sisters Loretta and Jacqueline, led his spirit from the Mush Hole to his burial place on a three-day walk.⁶²

On Sexual Abuse

Stories of sexual abuse were also prominent. Some survivors, like R. G. Miller, Bud White Eye, Roberta Hill, and Paul Dixon, were explicit in sharing their recollections. They all highlighted that such abuse was not always at the hands of the teachers or staff but also came from fellow students as well.

From 1963 to 1967, she was known as Number 33. Mary Ann (Marguerite) Cooper was from Waswanipi, a Cree community in central Quebec, about 1,040 kilometres from the Mohawk Institute. Mary Ann recalled her first night at the Mush Hole: “It was lonely. Sometimes I would cry. In the evenings, they put us to bed, I’d be afraid to go to the washroom because I was afraid to go to the bathroom. I used to pee a lot on my bed. Afraid to go to washroom, get a strap. That’s how it was. And I would crawl in her [sister’s] bed sometimes, and we would sleep together, but the counsellor wouldn’t catch us. And sometimes it was hard, to not sleep with her, and not be near her. We tried to be close to each other, and it was hard to face that every night. I guess I was nervous, or I was scared, I don’t know. That’s how it was.” Her worst memory was of the night when she became paralyzed by what was happening to her as she was being sexually abused. “For two years it happened to me, but the first time it happened, I didn’t know, I didn’t want to, I didn’t want anybody to touch me. . . . After the sexual abuse, I didn’t know how to handle it. I knew how to write. . . . When everybody left [the swimming pool], I carved something. It was only a small, light carving. I just wrote ‘please help me,’ cause I didn’t know where to take it. . . . I walked away, but every time it happened to me, I carved it more, and more, and more. I carved deeper into it.”⁶³ That brick can still be seen on the back wall of the Mush Hole. Eventually, Marguerite, after some counselling, returned to see her words on the brick. Her healing journey allowed her to not only read the words she once carved, but to reclaim her original French name, not worrying about getting into trouble over using it.

“I can remember laying in bed wondering when it was my turn, at night. One of the staff was gonna come around, and I was wondering when it was my turn to take me down that aisle and back. My turn came but I never went. I wouldn’t get out of bed, and I kicked and screamed and cried, and the guy just left.” Kelly Curley, Grand River, 1969⁶⁴

“I remember laying in my bunk, I was on the top bunk. All of a sudden, I felt a hand, like, touch me. I’m a fighter. I remember just turning, using my heels and my feet and just started kicking. Nobody came back. They prayed on the weak. I wasn’t weak.” Leander (Lee) Snake, 1963–5⁶⁵

Mush Hole survivor Tony Bomberry remembers being in the boys’ dorm at night. One of the housekeepers was waking him up, taking him to the room where they kept the shoes. That’s where they would abuse him. To this day, when he smells the odour of new shoes, he recalls what happened to him when he was a child.⁶⁶

“I felt imprisoned by the thoughts of other boys finding out about that furnace room ‘thing’ [where he was molested], and at nine, I felt I had no choice but to return again and again to keep the secret. I can’t wash those moments or those feelings from my mind or off my body. We were lost, lonely, scared, and confused, but our biggest battle was to keep our secrets.” Bud White Eye, 1955–61⁶⁷

“A lot of the abuses—sexual—came from the older kids. A lot of the older kids would steal from the younger kids, and make the younger kids steal. If you didn’t come back with what you were sent out to get, or if you were to tell, you’d get worse. A lot of the younger kids lived in fear and terror of the older boys—it was a way of life to us.” Delbert Riley, 1950–5⁶⁸

Paul Dixon came to the Mohawk Institute in 1963 from the Cree community of Waswanipi, Quebec. “There were times when some of the older boys forced the younger ones to do things to them sexually. I saw that happen many times. I didn’t understand any of it and I’m still very angry when I remember those times. Nothing could have prepared us or any Indian child for what was going to happen to us in those years,” Paul recalled. “I didn’t know right from wrong as far as sexual abuse. How was I supposed to know what an adult can and cannot do to me as a child? . . . When you go through something like that you become very scared of intimacy and sharing your feelings,” he said.⁶⁹

Number 34, Roberta Hill, Grand River Mohawk, wipes tears away after describing her memories of Principal Zimmerman, now long dead, who had sexually abused her twice, once in his office and once inside the white, clapboard Mohawk Chapel down the road. At one point, her mother came to visit: “Zimmerman welcomed her at the front door, transforming from a Machiavellian monster into a genial host, the miracle worker responsible for moulding neglected children into polite young adults who opened their mouths only to say ‘Yes, sir’ and ‘No, ma’am.’ The charade worked. No one doubted or questioned him. As an Anglican priest, he lived on a pedestal, one step closer to God.”⁷⁰ Roberta details what happened after this visit: “When the visit ended, Zimmerman warmly bade my mom farewell and then, as soon as she was out of earshot, he took me by the hand and brought me into his office, a barren room with a desk, a chair and sickly green walls. He closed the door and got uncomfortably close. Then he reached his hand up my dress and placed it inside my underwear. I couldn’t breathe. I felt frozen in place. I was only seven or eight years old, and I didn’t understand what was happening, but I knew something wasn’t right. I don’t remember how I got out of his office, just that I never wanted to go back in.”⁷¹

The second time was even more devastating: “I lined up with the rest of the girls and marched to the chapel. I sunk into the pew, trying to avoid his gaze. In a haze of incense, I dozed off. When I awoke in a start, Zimmerman’s eyes were fixed directly on me. My heart started pounding. I knew I was in trouble. After the other girls left church, Zimmerman kept me behind. He took me to a separate room and closed the door. This time, there was no surprise. I knew what he was going to do. I don’t remember if he ordered me to take off my clothes or if he took them off himself. I just know that I was naked and terrified. Then he molested me again, more roughly this time. Just like before, I was paralyzed, helpless against his hulking body and violating hands.”⁷² When Roberta got out of the Mush Hole in 1960, she was sent directly to a foster home. She eventually made her way back to Six Nations after she graduated from high school, but she felt out of place, a stranger. She tried to forget what had happened to her. It was when she met other survivors after the class-action lawsuit was launched that she realized many others had suffered the way she had.

On Memories and the Road to Recovery

“Looking back on it now, seeing this man beat up this girl, I lost my identity. I think not only seeing her get beat up was a denial of my own self, but not having a role model. There was a lot of feeling of being abandoned—aloneness. . . . That feeling of not having anybody, of being so lonesome. . . . The more counselling I’ve had, the more I realise the traumas—the effect the residential school had on me.” Lorna, Grand River, 1940–5⁷³

“When you’re a child, and . . . whatever it be, a grown woman, or a grown man picking you up, they give you some affection, and that, you know, makes you feel good. And then, they beat the crap outta you, and they do things to you, and it, like, confuses you. I guess with myself, it affected me in a way where I basically didn’t deal with any of it, and I carried that shit with me. I didn’t really start dealing with it till about six years ago. And still, you know, like today I’m still seeing a therapist. That’s probably what I’ll be doing for the rest of my life.” Johnny (last name withheld)⁷⁴

“The harsh truth was that the beatings led to a lessening of empathy toward those who were victims because the expression of sympathy led to more cruelty, more strappings. We had no mentors, no adult protectors. We saw kids desperate for affection who willingly allowed themselves to be molested. We learned to position our bodies in places where the older boys could not attack. We learned quickly that the threat of violence and the resulting fear was the most effective way of controlling others.” Doug George, Akwesasne Mohawk, 1967–8⁷⁵

“The little girl whose long braids were hacked off before a delousing and whose pretty white dress was thrown in the trash by the nurse at the Mush Hole will always be there, making sure I don’t forget.” Ramona Kiyoshk, 1956–60⁷⁶

“I still have suicidal thoughts. My psychiatrist calls them suicidal idealizations. I have a tendency to ponder the dark side. I suppose it cannot be helped; all things considered. . . . When I drink, I drink too much. Or I just float in self pity. I’m on the dark side a lot. But that’s also where I do my best work. My best work is found on the dark side. You have to get down and dirty with the devil to go to those dark places.” R. G. Miller.⁷⁷

His number was 73, and this was his “name” from 1967 until 1970, when the Mohawk Institute closed. His real name is Doug George (now known as Kanentiio) and he and his brother Deane came from the Mohawk Community of Akwesasne, about 540 kilometres east from Brantford. He calls his thoughts “photo memories” because he can recall in explicit detail what took place fifty years ago. His total recall keeps the wounds fresh. They arrived at the Brantford train station late at night, with no one to greet them. They did not know where they were headed. Someone called the Mohawk Institute, and they were finally taken behind the bricks, into an altered state of being. He returned to the Mush Hole only to dredge up painful memories: “I thought that I had reconciled with it, intellectually, you know, that I [had] written about it, I commented about it, I’ve done interviews about it. I thought that I made some kind of accommodation with it. . . . The first time I remember seeing it, it looked like it was bringing you in, because of that long driveway with those beautiful trees and orchards on either side, and outwardly it looked like an attractive place. But behind the walls . . . there’s things we left there. There’s a DNA trail, there’s semen stains, there’s excrement, there’s urine. That saturates that building. Our DNA is in there, it’s not just benign walls. . . . I’ve been back to the institute maybe a half dozen times. . . . and I thought, I’ll put this intellectually in a place where I can understand it. But I can’t. I go there and I feel like physically as though I wanna climb back into a shell, I wanna vomit, I want to scream at the spirits that are in that building, ‘I understand you, I’m with you.’” One part of Doug wants to see the building obliterated. Another part wants it to stand in testimony to what really took place: “We realize there’s a very powerful spiritual presence inside that building, and on the grounds, that people have heard kids going up and down, either playing, yelling, or screaming, or crying, and you just want to enter into that. Maybe by entering into that, by being enveloped into that, you can help them, and lead them to a place of peace, so they can continue on with their journeys. But that’s not possible—and so once again you’re confronted with this thing, you’re almost helpless against it again.”⁷⁸

Conclusion

I also interviewed Geraldine Maness Robertson from Aamjiwnaang First Nation, Sarnia, Ontario, who attended the Mohawk Institute from 1947 to 1950. Geraldine, small in stature, faced big violence and extreme punishment almost daily. This photo was one of two photos she had of herself when she was young (standing on the right with Violet Riley). It was taken while at Mount Elgin, and given to her seventy years later by Marie Strapp, a former worker at the school.⁷⁹

When she was seven years old, her white teacher told her that she was too stupid to learn anything. Her father then enrolled her and her sister in the Mount Elgin Residential School, near London, Ontario. She did well and returned to her home community, but was picked up by an Indian agent and shipped to the Mohawk Institute when she was eleven years old as her father, himself a residential school survivor, had recently died and her mother was suffering from tuberculosis.⁸⁰ “That began my life in hell,” Geraldine recalled in a newspaper interview.⁸¹ She remembered that her time was spent working, getting beat up by other students, or trying not to get strapped by Principal Zimmerman. “From the moment I first saw that man, I didn’t trust him,”⁸² she told the reporter. She had good reason. When Zimmerman began strapping children, he did not stop at the four-strapping limit imposed by Indian Affairs rules. Instead, he often hit the children ten to fifteen times on each hand or across the arms. “I was always afraid I would faint. I would put my back against the door so I could feel the doorknob at my back. I thought if I got close to fainting, I would just turn that knob and run,” Robertson recalled. “I was afraid of what [the principal] might do if I passed out.” She says she did not know why she would get the strappings. “Maybe he was just trying to break my spirit,”⁸³ she concluded. If you were to meet her, tiny and somewhat frail, you can tell those beatings wounded her spirit, but it was never broken. Emotionally, Zimmerman would constantly tell the students that as Indigenous people, they were “evil” and “were good for nothing, meant to burn in hell for eternity.”⁸⁴

Geraldine had toughened up so as not to cry when she was strapped. She said that if she did, the older girls would catch her, surround her, and force her to fight another girl. If she refused, the older girls would attack her. She learned how to fight. “When I first came here, there were two girls who used to beat me up every day, and sometimes several times a day. . . . It started my life here on a very bad footing. So, it coloured my outlook a lot, until I was strong enough that they couldn’t beat me anymore, then they didn’t bother me. But it was a miserable first three months, until I toughened up.”⁸⁵

By the time she got out of the Mush Hole, she was angry with everyone and everything. “I had to work hard, learn to be introspective and sort out my feelings, to get my life back in order,” she says. Geraldine turned to reading and music, two things she did not experience at the Mohawk Institute. Yet she still dropped out of high school. She was employed at a local medical clinic, and she experienced such kindness and goodness that she made a career of it. Eventually, she moved back to her home community but could not help but notice the community dysfunctions, which she saw as directly attributable to residential school experiences. Geraldine then dedicated her life to telling the truth of what happened, to revealing the harsh treatment, sexual abuse, the constant hunger, and the mental abuse that took place. She started conversations that most were reluctant to engage in, bringing back too many bad memories.⁸⁶ “People were asking me, how come their parents were so mean to them? I had to explain to them what it was like living here, and how you become so angry, and don’t have role models to follow, and it’s so completely opposite to what you learn when you’re at home. You don’t learn the values that you should. You learn to steal, to lie, to cheat. All the bad things that are not conducive to being a good human being. . . . They say one thing, but you’re treated another way, so there was a conflict of what’s right, and what’s wrong. And when you’re a very young child, to be exposed in that environment, you don’t have the benefit of a home atmosphere at all. . . . They still needed to find that forgiveness, to be at peace with everything, and to go on with their life, and not to blame their parents with how they were raised, they needed to know that it was beyond their capacity to show love, and to treat them in a gentle, kind way.”⁸⁷

Geraldine later returned and had tea with Principal Zimmerman. I asked her what she said to him. “Not much,” she said. “I just wanted him to see me, to see that he had not beaten me.” She told the reporter that she wanted to show him that she forgave him. But no words were exchanged to that effect.⁸⁸

Geraldine was one of the reasons that I wanted to write this piece. Her story really struck me in the heart. As she talked, her tears would come and go. I realized that the pain she suffered left lifelong wounds. She had become an advocate for survivors and lectured young children about residential schools. In 2018 she was awarded the Order of Ontario Lifetime Achievement Award for her advocacy. From this tiny powerhouse of a woman, the life within the bricks of the Mohawk Institute became real. The abuse against children was real. Their memories are real. Sadly, Geraldine passed away on 4 December 2020, while I was conducting research for this book. She once told a reporter, “If you don’t learn about history, you tend to repeat it.”⁸⁹ Knowledge of her and the other survivors’ experiences are retold through this publication. We owe it to them to never forget. Geraldine, you have earned your rest, and we will never forget how you overcame your experiences and retained all that the Mush Hole tried to take away. Let these stories serve as a testament to the resilience of the survivors who, despite all odds, shared their stories with us so that we can better understand what took place behind the bricks of the Mohawk Institute.

Notes

1. 1 Tara Froman, Wadrihwa, vol. 29, no. 1, artifact collection, Woodland Cultural Centre, 2020.

2. 2 Elizabeth Graham, The Mush Hole: Life at Two Indian Residential Schools (Heffle Publishing, 1997).

3. 3 Some quotes in this chapter have been condensed for readability.

4. 4 Doug George, interview with Rick Hill, 2018. The dates listed after each student’s name refer to the period—if known—when they attended the Mohawk Institute.

5. 5 Jane Ash Cromarty, interview with Rick Hill, Survivors’ Gathering, Thru the Red Door, 2018.

6. 6 Geraldine Maness Robertson, interview with Rick Hill, 2018.

7. 7 Brantford Expositor, 6 June 1991.

8. 8 Beverly Albrecht, interview transcript, Legacy of Hope Foundation, accessed 1 July 2024, https://legacyofhope.ca/wherearethechildren/stories/albrecht/.

9. 9 Interview with Harrison Burning in Graham, The Mush Hole, 358–9.

10. 10 Interview with Lorna (last name withheld) in Graham, 377.

11. 11 Interview with anonymous in Graham, 409.

12. 12 Interview with Bill Monture in Graham, 423.

13. 13 Interview with Peggy Hill in Graham, 413–14.

14. 14 Interview with Peter Smith in Graham, 361.

15. 15 Interview with Harrison Burning in Graham, 357.

16. 16 Interview with Emmert General in Graham, 374–5.

17. 17 Interview with Lorna (last name withheld) in Graham, 376, 383.

18. 18 Interview with Lonnie Johnson in Graham, 396.

19. 19 Tony Bomberry, interview, Survivors’ Gathering, Thru the Red Door, 2017.

20. 20 Brantford Expositor, 6 June 1991.

21. 21 Beverly Albrecht, interview transcript, Legacy of Hope Foundation, accessed 1 July 2024, https://legacyofhope.ca/wherearethechildren/stories/albrecht/

22. 22 Interview with Salli [Lorna’s sister] in Graham, 382.

23. 23 Interview with Harrison Burning in Graham, 357.

24. 24 Interview with John Martin in Graham, 403.

25. 25 Geronimo Henry, interview, Survivors’ Gathering, Thru the Red Door, 2016.

26. 26 Geronimo Henry, interview with Rick Hill, 2019.

27. 27 June Shawanda Richard, interview, Survivors’ Gathering, Thru the Red Door, 2017.

28. 28 Interview with Martha Hill in Graham, The Mush Hole, 356.

29. 29 Interview with Lorna in Graham, 375–6.

30. 30 Frank Hill Interview, Woodland Cultural Centre transcription, 1986.

31. 31 Interview with Vera Styres in Graham, The Mush Hole, 390–1.

32. 32 Interview with Emmert General in Graham, 374.

33. 33 Peggy Hill, interview, Survivors’ Gathering, Thru the Red Door, 2017.

34. 34 Blanche Hill-Easton, interview with Rick Hill, Survivors’ Gathering, Thru the Red Door, 2018.

35. 35 Jo-Bear Curley Interview, Woodland Cultural Centre transcription, 198?

36. 36 Pat Hill, interview with Rick Hill, Buffalo, NY, 8 December 2019.

37. 37 Pat Hill, interview with Rick Hill, Buffalo, NY, 8 December 2019.

38. 38 Pat Hill, interview with Rick Hill, Buffalo, NY, 8 December 2019.

39. 39 Pat Hill, interview with Rick Hill, Buffalo, NY, 8 December 2019.

40. 40 Vicki White, “Breaking the Spirit,” Brantford Expositor, 6 July 1991, 5.

41. 41 Beverly Albrecht, interview, Survivors’ Gathering, Thru the Red Door, 2017.

42. 42 Interview with Marguerite Beaver in Graham, The Mush Hole, 384–7.

43. 43 Interview with Jennie Blackbird in Graham, 388.

44. 44 Interview with Kenneth George in Graham, 410.

45. 45 Interview with Lonnie Johnson in Graham, 396.

46. 46 Interview with Edward Groat in Graham, 364.

47. 47 Interview with Raymond Hill in Graham, 368.

48. 48 Interview with Peter Smith in Graham, 360.

49. 49 Interview with John Martin in Graham, 401.

50. 50 John Elliot, interview, Survivors’ Gathering, Thru the Red Door, 2016.

51. 51 John Elliot, interview with Rick Hill, Survivors’ Gathering, Thru the Red Door, 2018.

52. 52 White, “Breaking the Spirit,” 5.

53. 53 Gerry Burnie, “Tom Longboat,” In Praise of Canadian History, 9 January 2014, https://interestingcanadianhistory.wordpress.com/2014/01/09/tom-longboat/.

54. 54 Stephanie Villella and Daniel Caudle, “Survivors’ Secretariat Identifies 97 Deaths in Connection to Former Brantford Residential School,” CTV News, 1 September 2022, https://www.ctvnews.ca/kitchener/article/survivors-secretariat-identifies-97-deaths-in-connection-to-former-brantford-residential-school/.

55. 55 Susan Hardie to Mr. Kidd, 25 May1936, Archival Collection of Woodland Cultural Centre.

56. 56 See File 466-23, Pt. 1, Vol. 6202, RG 10, Library and Archives Canada (LAC).

57. 57 Brantford Expositor, 16 May 1936; Snell to Secretary of the DIA, 25 May 1936, File 466-1, Pt. 2, Vol. 6200, RG 10, LAC.

58. 58 Internal school memo, File 451/1-13, Pt. 1, Vol. 8605, RG 10, LAC.

59. 59 Leander Snake, interview, Survivors’ Gathering, Thru the Red Door, 2017.

60. 60 Martha Albert, interview, Survivors’ Gathering, Thru the Red Door, 2017.

61. 61 Martha Albert, interview, Survivors’ Gathering, Thru the Red Door, 2017.

62. 62 The information from this paragraph is based on notes from Doug George, classmate of Joey at the Mohawk Institute. For further information see Ka’nhehsi:io Deer, “Family to Follow Footsteps of 13-Year-Old Who Died Fleeing Mohawk Institute Residential School,” CBC News, last modified 9 August 2021, https://www.cbc.ca/news/indigenous/joseph-commanda-memorial-walk-runaway-mohawk-institute-1.6132242.

63. 63 Mary Ann (Marguerite) Cooper, interview, Woodland Cultural Centre transcription, 1984.

64. 64 Interview with Kelly Curley in Graham, The Mush Hole, 424.

65. 65 Leander (Lee) Snake, interview, Survivors’ Gathering, Thru the Red Door, 2017.

66. 66 Tony Bomberry, interview, Survivors’ Gathering, Thru the Red Door, 2017.

67. 67 Bud White Eye, interview, Survivors’ Gathering, Thru the Red Door, 2017.

68. 68 Interview with Delbert Riley in Graham, The Mush Hole, 404–5.

69. 69 Paul Dixon as quoted in Steve Bonspiel, Nation Archives, 18 February 2005, http://www.nationnewsarchives.ca/article/residential-school-one-mans-story/.

70. 70 Roberta Hill, “Survivor,” Toronto Life, 27 July 2021, https://torontolife.com/life/how-i-survived-canadas-residential-school-system/.

71. 71 Hill, “Survivor.”

72. 72 Hill.

73. 73 Interview with Lorna in Graham, The Mush Hole, 377.

74. 74 Johnny, interview, Survivors’ Gathering, Thru the Red Door, 2017.

75. 75 Doug George, interview with Rick Hill, Survivors’ Gathering, Thru the Red Door, 2018.

76. 76 Ramona Kiyoshk, “Why White Guys Shouldn’t Be Writing Native Stories,” NOW, 17 May 2017, https://nowtoronto.com/news/why-white-guys-shouldnt-be-writing-native-stories/.

77. 77 Mark Bonokoski, “The Injury-Packed Road of Indigenous Artist R. Gary Miller,” Toronto Sun, 19 July 2021, https://torontosun.com/opinion/columnists/bonokoski-the-injury-packed-road-of-indigenous-artist-r-gary-mille

78. 78 Doug George, interview with Rick Hill, Survivors’ Gathering, Thru the Red Door, 2018.

79. 79 Colin Graf, “This Residential School Survivor and Worker Reunited 70 Years Later,” Buzzfeed News, 21 July 2017, https://www.buzzfeed.com/colingraf/this-residential-school-teacher-and-survivor-reunited-70.

80. 80 Mary Alderson, “Geraldine: Her Life Story and Her Achievements,” Entertain This Thought, 17 March 2017, https://www.entertainthisthought.com/geraldine-robertson/.

81. 81 Graf, “This Residential School Survivor and Worker Reunited 70 Years Later.”

82. 82 Graf.

83. 83 Graf.

84. 84 Alderson, “Geraldine.”

85. 85 Interview by Woodland Cultural Center staff and Thru The Red Door, 2017.

86. 86 Alderson, “Geraldine.”

87. 87 Geraldine Robertson, interview with Rick Hill, 2018.

88. 88 Graf, “This Residential School Survivor and Worker Reunited 70 Years Later.”

89. 89 Barbara Simpson, “Aamjiwnaang First Nation Elder Finds Healing in Sharing Her Residential School Story,” Sarnia Observer, 10 April 2017, https://www.theobserver.ca/2017/04/10/aamjiwnaang-first-nation-elder-finds-healing-in-sharing-her-residential-school-story.