Closing Poems

There is a place I know far, far away

Where we get mush and milk three times a day

Oh Canada do you think we should be proud

Oh Canada to sing your name out loud

The forgotten ones you scattered in the wind

Have come back to haunt you now my friend

Oh Canada your home upon my home

I grew up in the school of racial genocide

Self-hate and shame always walking by my side

You stole my tongue tried to chain my mind

To turn me into a different kind

Oh Canada your home upon my home

Many scars covered over many here to stay

On our children now and those who are on the way

Many struggle each day trying to find the door

To Grandmother’s voice as we did before

Oh Canada your home upon my home

The so-called men of God who gave us care

Many were perverts and I’m sure you were aware

They preyed on us both girls and boys

Fulfilling their fantasies but left us destroyed

May you hang your head in shame Oh Canada

So many brothers gone now, so many sisters too

Who were chained in the mind from the residential school

When you broke our families you sealed our fate

We hope for our children that it is not too late

Oh Canada your home upon my home

Reconcile with you I cannot do

You have everything now how your wealth grew

What we have broken treaties and church crap

Many men, women, and children who will never come back

Oh Canada your home upon my home

When I came home I knew no one there

Ten years in the Mush Hole but a lifetime of despair

Still I struggle each day trying to find the door

To speak in Grandmother’s tongue as we did before

May your God forgive you, Oh Canada, for I cannot

Jimmie Edgar, Anishnaabe, Scugog Island
Mohawk Institute (Mush Hole), 1950–60

***

Lonely are these frightening spaces

Dark and dreary, evil places

Babes of innocence and gentle ages

Soon are gone as pedophilia rages

Silence cut deep by unmuffled wailing

Guiltless progeny asleep yet waiting

Upon them leapt the dauntless rout

The child fights to no account

Tears and sweat are the boys’ reward

For having fought to no accord

The bigger foe filled with lust

He penetrates the boy’s sacred trust

Tho’ the child no longer weeps

He’s still afraid and longs for sleep

Stillness of the dorm’s dark chamber

T’is again roughed by cries of pain and anger

Time stood still for students yearning

For release from this unclean dreaming

Tears still fall from rustic faces

Yet still move with youthful graces

Bud Whiteye, Delaware-Turtle Clan, Moraviantown
Mohawk Institute (Mush Hole), 1955–61