Table Of ContentMAGIC
WEAPONS
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MAGIC
WEAPONS
Aboriginal Writers
Remaking Community
after Residential School
Sam McKegney
Foreword by
Basil H. Johnston
University of Manitoba Press
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© Sam McKegney, 2007
University of Manitoba Press
Winnipeg, Manitoba R3T 2N2
www.umanitoba.ca/uofmpress
Printed in Canada by Friesens.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or
by any means, or stored in a database and retrieval system, without the prior written permission of
University of Manitoba Press, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence
from ACCESS COPYRIGHT (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency), 6 Adelaide Street East, Suite
900, Toronto ON M5C IH6, www.accesscopyright.ca.
Cover and text design: Grandesign Ltd.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
McKegney, Sam, 1976-
Magic weapons : Aboriginal writers remaking community after
residential school / Sam McKegney.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-88755-702-6
1. Canadian literature (English)—Indian authors—History and criticism. 2. Canadian literature
(English)—Inuit authors—History and criticism. 3. Indians of North America—Canada—
Residential schools. 4. Inuit—Canada—Residential schools. 5. Indians of North America—
Canada—Ethnic identity. 6. Inuit—Canada—Ethnic identity. I. Title.
E96.2.M325 2007 C810.9’897 C2007-904064-0
The University of Manitoba Press gratefully acknowledges the financial support for its publication
program provided by the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry
Development Program (BPIDP), the Canada Council for the Arts, the Manitoba Arts Council, and
the Manitoba Department of Culture, Heritage and Tourism.
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CONTENTS
Foreword by Basil H. Johnston vii
Acknowledgements and Permissions xvii
INTRODUCTION 3
1. ACCULTURATION THROUGH EDUCATION 11
The Inherent Limits of ‘Assimilationist’ Policy
2. READING RESIDENTIAL SCHOOL 31
Native Literary Theory and the Survival Narrative
3. “ WE HAvE BEEN SILENT TOO LONG” 59
Linguistic Play in Anthony Apakark Thrasher’s Prison Writings
4. “ ANALYzE, IF YOU WISH, BUT LISTEN” 101
The Affirmatist Literary Methodology of Rita Joe
5. FROM TRICKSTER POETICS TO TRANSGRESSIvE POLITICS 137
Substantiating Survivanace in Tomson Highway’s Kiss of the Fur Queen
CONCLUSION 175
Creative Interventions in the Residential School Legacy
Endnotes 183
Bibliography 221
Index 235
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FOREWORD
U
ntil I read Magic Weapons I didn’t realize that those of us who had at-
tended residential school and then written about some of our experi-
ences could cause such an uproar in the academic world so as to open
the floodgates of the sea of deep thoughts and let loose a torrent of words.
Reminded me of my father, Rufus’s, astonishment when I told him of my new-
found knowledge that I had gained upon joining the ranks of scholars at the Royal
Ontario Museum in Toronto in 1970. I told him that I had learned that our An-
ishinaubae words fell into two categories, animate and inanimate; and that our
verbs had a tense called “dubitative” that English didn’t have. Dad stood, as if
dazed, for some moments before remarking, “Gee Whitakers! I didn’t know that
we were that smart!”
Like my father, I’m taken aback to learn that our words had such impact as to in-
cite debates in the academic world. I didn’t know that we, myself included, meant
to heal, empower, and help people find their identities. If the works of Highway,
Thrasher, Joe, and myself bring about these results, well and good.
But I didn’t have such lofty aims when I wrote Indian School Days. Mine were
much more modest. It was simply to amuse the readers of The Ontario Indian,
a magazine of the Union of Ontario Indians that ceased publication in the
mid-1980s.
After graduation from residential school in 1950, I and ten other former inmates
of the school went to Wawa to work in the mines. There we formed a sort of com-
munity, often reliving some of our experiences while we were locked up in the
Spanish school. For five summers I worked in Helen Mine, consorting with my old
schoolmates; as always, we rehashed old memories.
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MMAAGGIICC WWEEAAPPOONNSS
Upon my graduation from Loyola College, Montreal, Quebec, I went to Toronto.
In the late 1950s there may have been fifteen former Spanish residential school stu-
dents working in Toronto. We found each other and kept in touch, drawn together
by our common background and heritage and training in residential school.
At home in Cape Croker, there were more than thirty people who had gone to
residential school: my father, mother, uncles, and many others, who said not a
word about their years at Spanish to us, their children. Eugene (Keeshig), Hector
(Lavalley), Charlie (Akiwenzie), and I talked about residential school, but not to
our children.
When I started writing some of the stories that originated in Spanish and its
residential school, former students came to me or called me to tell me more sto-
ries. “Write a book! Why don’t you write a book?” they said.
And that is how Indian School Days came into being. First, it was intended to
amuse readers, to recount and to relive some of the few cheerful moments in an
otherwise dismal existence, a memorial to the disposition of my people, the An-
ishinaubaek, to find or to create levity even in the darkest moments. And this is
how I would like my book to be seen.
Had I known what I now know, perhaps I might have written an entirely dif-
ferent text. But I didn’t know what I know now, and not knowing would have
trivialized the residential school experience. But it’s not likely that I would have
changed the purpose I had in mind in setting pen on paper to write about my
schoolmates and friends.
When word got out that I was writing about Garnier Residential School, I’ve
reason to believe that there were a few uneasy Jesuits. One day Father Felix, then
pastor of St. Mary’s Catholic Church on the reserve, remarked with a smirk,
“Heard you’re writing about Spanish. Please don’t exaggerate as writers are in the
habit of doing!”
“You needn’t worry, Father!” I replied. “My account is a model of restraint!”
Even afterwards, I heard from Father Wm. Maurice that none of the stories were
documented or dated, and from Miss Alice Strain that they were all lies.
In 1959 the former students of the Spanish Residential School held a reunion.
Many did not come, too bitter to come to the scene of their degradation and hu-
miliation. After two days of speeches, religious exercises, eating, and reliving hor-
rors and capers, we went home. That so many came may be seen as customary
among Indians; they like to visit and to revisit old times.
viii
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FFOORREEWWOORRDD
I think it was around 1995 that I heard rumours of a lawsuit being launched
against the Jesuits and the federal government by former students of the Spanish
Residential School. I heard that a lawyer from Meaford, Ontario, had been retained
to represent the plaintiffs.
I wasn’t interested. I wanted to get on with life. Besides, I didn’t want my wife,
Lucie, to know that she had married damaged goods and that I had not trusted
enough in her love to confide in her what had been done to me at school.
One Saturday afternoon I left the house to drive around the community and take
in the sights of home, my roots. Around the band administration building were cars.
Must be important, I thought, for so many people to give up going to town on a
glorious Saturday afternoon; there must be something special going on.
As a rule I avoid public meetings. But something drew me to stop and drew me
to the building.
Inside was a large crowd. As I stepped into the dim interior, the gentleman
standing at the head of the table asked what I was doing at the meeting meant only
for residential school survivors.
“He’s one of them, one of us,” the people sitting around the table spoke before
I could explain.
I gave my name, then sat down as invited.
The gentleman conducting the meeting, which was primarily an information
session, was John Tamming, a lawyer from Meaford, Ontario, who had been re-
tained first by Renee Buswa and his wife of Whitefish Falls, Ontario, back in 1996.
When the lawsuit was converted into a class action lawsuit, Mr. Tamming was
retained to represent hundreds of complainants from the Spanish Residential
School.
I was, as it were, roped into the class action lawsuit.
As one of the parties in the action against the Jesuits and the federal govern-
ment, I had to make an affidavit declaring that the violations inflicted upon me
during my incarceration in residential school actually occurred.
In preparation for the interview with Mr. Tamming, I girded myself to tell the
story that I’d never told anyone before, without breaking down. But I broke down.
I wept.
Why did I weep? Shame! Guilt! I don’t know. Did I feel relief? I don’t know. Did
I feel better? I don’t know.
For years I had laboured under the conviction that I was the only one to be
debauched in Spanish Residential School. But during the course of the meetings
ix
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