Sâkihitowin
By: Charis Auger
Charis Auger
Historical Contributor
Old Lady Bear That Beautifies Where She Walks In The Bush is a two-spirit nêhiyaw-iskwêw and member of the Bigstone Cree Nation. She holds a B.A. in Native Studies with a certificate in Indigenous Governance and Partnership as well as a B.Ed. in Secondary Education. Currently, she holds space as the kiskinwahamakew within the Aboriginal Teacher Education Program at the University of Alberta.
tanisî, charis auger nitsiyhkâson. Bigstone Cree Nation ochi niya mâka, amiskwaciwâskahikan, ni-wîkin. nikosis Pheonix. okiskinahamâkew niya ekwa nehiyâw iskwêw niya. (Hello, my name is charis auger. I am from the Bigstone Cree Nation, but I currently live in Edmonton. I have one son named Pheonix. I am a teacher and a Cree woman.) I would like to start by introducing myself in nêhiyawêwin in order to ground myself and remind myself of who I truly am as Old Lady Bear That Beautifies Where She Walks in the Bush.
I want to begin by expressing gratitude to the Creator for allowing me this opportunity to share my story with you all. My story is not linear and does not follow one path. I am sharing my story with you all as an effort towards the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada: Calls to Action, more specifically under Education for Reconciliation, Action #62:
We call upon the federal, provincial, and territorial governments, in consultation and collaboration with Survivors, Aboriginal peoples, and educators to:
i. Make age-appropriate curriculum on residential schools, Treaties, and Aboriginal peoples’ historical and contemporary contributions to Canada a mandatory education requirement for Kindergarten to Grade Twelve students.”
It is my hope that my story can be used as a teaching tool that honours this specific call to action. Please read with care as I unpack some of my experiences as they relate to the impacts of intergenerational trauma. As an Elder once shared with me, “Take what you need and leave what you don’t,” and since my story is one story of many intergenerational survivors of the Indian residential school system, please leave here what you do not need. Although I did not know what an Indian residential school was growing up, or what the impacts would be on me, I am continuously unlearning, relearning, and healing while here on my Earth Walk.
In 2010, while I was a first-year student in the Transition Year Program (TYP) at the University of Alberta, a Cree auntie by the name of Darlene Auger came to visit our class and to share her story. I remember sitting in the back of the class and watching her as she unpacked a small suitcase filled with many different traditional medicines and items. Before she started sharing her story, she carefully placed the traditional medicines on the table in front of her and pulled out an eagle feather. At the time, I did not know the significance of any of this. I did not know because I did not grow up with access to my traditional culture, language, or a sense of identity. Although I do not remember everything that she shared in that class, I remember how she made me feel. I remember the story she shared about being a young mom and how this affected her while going to university. This resonated with me because I too was a young mom who had just moved to Edmonton the year prior with my young son. Within her story, she shared how she would often go to the trees on campus and sit with the trees when she was having a difficult time. She talked about healing and the importance of culture, language, and identity. At the end of the class, she wrote her contact information on the whiteboard and shared that she would be available to talk more if we needed. Up until that moment in my learning journey, I had never met anyone with an Aboriginal background who was so vulnerable in sharing his or her experiences of going to university. Nor had I ever met anyone who extended the opportunity to remain in contact after sharing his or her story. I left that class feeling hopeful.
When I started university, I was 23 years old and only gained access through the TYP under “mature student status” because I did not meet the requirements for the “regular” route as a result of being streamed into “lower” academic coursework (i.e., English 10-2, 20-2, etc.). The year prior, I had been upgrading my high school classes at MacEwan University, where I met a Métis academic adviser who encouraged me to apply to the University of Alberta. She was the one who believed in me and walked with me around the U of A campus; she introduced me to various spaces, places, and peoples such as the Aboriginal Student Services Centre (now known as First Peoples’ House) and the Faculty of Native Studies. I met many different people (Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal) who worked within the University of Alberta in a wide array of different capacities. At this time in my life, I still had my son with me, and I knew that I needed to stay in school to create a better life for us. However, I never thought I could go to university.
Growing up in a small town in Northern Alberta, I did not have any Aboriginal teachers or know of any Aboriginal person in a position of power or privilege. I attended a Catholic school from kindergarten until grade 6, and then was placed into an alternative learning program from grade 7 onward. Once I started high school, I was eventually streamed into the “lower” academic classes. I did not complete high school because I became a mom at 16 and, at the time, did not see the value in continuing school. My parents chose to raise my younger brother and me in a small town away from extended family. I never met my father’s side of the family, but I was lucky enough to know my mother’s. When I was younger, my grandmother and my auntie would often travel hours to pick me up from my parents because it was not always safe in my home. I never understood the complexities of my parents’ unhealthy relationship until I became an adult and then had my own experiences with unhealthy relationships. I never knew that my parents were simply role-modelling the same behaviours and actions that they were subjected to as young people. How were they to know anything different if they were not shown?
When I turned 15, I moved in with my first boyfriend, who later became the father of my son. Although I did not know what a healthy relationship was at the time, I knew that I could no longer live with my parents and decided that moving in with my boyfriend and his family would be a better option. So I did. I thought I was “grown up.” I stayed with him until I turned 18, and then decided that I could no longer stay in an unhealthy relationship. I wanted something better for myself, and my son was now living with his paternal grandmother. I was able to move around and figure myself out, so I moved back in with my dad in the same small town where I was raised. I realized quickly that living with my dad was not healthy, and my mom was hospitalized and no longer able to care for herself or others. My brother had just been returned to us from Children and Family Services, but my dad did not know how to be a parent. How could he know how to be something if it was never shown to him? So, I moved out again, but this time I decided to move closer to my mom’s family. Living in the small town closer to my mom’s side of the family was good for me at the time, and I am grateful to my mom’s family for taking care of me during this difficult period.
While living in my maternal family’s hometown, I knew that I needed to return to school because I wanted stability for myself and I wanted to take care of my son. Therefore, I enrolled at the local college and met an Aboriginal academic adviser who, at the time, saw something in me that I had not yet seen in myself. She encouraged me to think about the education field and told me about the teacher assistant program offered through the college. I never thought that I would work within a school because I never saw myself represented at school. However, I took her advice and eventually enrolled in the program in 2007. I remember when I started the program it was only offered through distance learning, which meant that I was logging into a computer and accessing classes virtually. Since I was the only one from the local community who was enrolled in the program, I sat alone in a small classroom with a computer and small workstation that reminded me of my earlier experiences of school where I was placed into a small classroom alone to complete modules. Oftentimes, I would interact with other in-person students from the college who were also upgrading or attending other programs. We all had different stories and experiences, but we connected on the common goal of wanting better opportunities for ourselves. One day, I noticed a poster on campus advertising the Aboriginal Teacher Education Program. The program was being offered on other campuses and not the one I was currently attending, but I still wondered about the program and if I could ever be a teacher.
In 2008, I completed the teacher assistant program and walked across the stage to receive my certificate in the same small town where I lived as a child. I had completed the program with honours but wished my parents could have been there to witness my achievement. I no longer had a relationship with my parents at the time. Once I received my certificate, I needed to find work, but it was difficult since there were only a few schools in the small town where I was living. I started working at an early childhood centre, until an educational assistant position opened up in a smaller community, approximately half an hour away. I remember borrowing a coworker’s vehicle to drive to my interview, thinking to myself, “Can I even do this?” and “How am I going to get to work every day if I get this job?” Well, I got the job and I met a colleague who drove into work every day from the same small town that I lived in. Eventually, my son’s paternal grandmother asked if I wanted to take care of my son for kindergarten, and I readily accepted. My son attended kindergarten in the same school that I was working at, which meant that I was finally taking care of my son and spending every day with him; it was the best feeling ever to finally feel like a mom. While working at the school, I immediately noticed how the students who were from the local Métis settlement easily connected with me. My homeroom teacher at the time told me “You would make a good teacher” and asked if I ever considered going to university. I honestly never thought that I could go to a university, let alone become a teacher, because I did not think I was smart enough, nor did I know of any Aboriginal teachers. One day I finally had the courage to do some research on what it would take to become an educator. It was overwhelming thinking about all the hurdles; how I would need to move again, to upgrade my high school courses, and then apply to a university that had a teacher education program, which I would then need to successfully complete. Eventually, I mustered up the courage and made the decision to apply for the College and University Entrance program at MacEwan University in 2009. I was accepted and moved to the big city with my son.
There are parts of my story that I have chosen to not share, such as the transition periods between moves. It is not because I am ashamed that I chose not to share these parts of my story; rather, I am choosing to not share because I do not want to cause unintentional trauma to those reading my story. In addition, I do not want to talk about the people who were in my life who were also healing from the ongoing impacts of intergenerational trauma. I was engaging with many unhealthy relationships and subjected my own son to many things that I still regret to this day. Despite these traumas, I believe that all those hard experiences made me the human being I am today, and I am grateful to be alive. I acknowledge my privilege in having the opportunity to survive and thrive within my life here in the city. I know for many folks the transition from living in smaller communities to the larger urban spaces can be difficult. Looking back on my life’s journey thus far, I am grateful to my parents for the hard choice they made to live in a small town instead of their home communities. Especially at a time in society when racism was more blatant. I have come to understand that my parents did the best they could with what they had; therefore, I forgive them and I forgive myself.
Circling back to my experience of starting university, this period in my life provided me an opportunity to learn things that I did not know. I was exposed to a completely different way of looking at myself and was able to make sense of my experiences. I did not know what the historical Numbered Treaties were, what an Indian residential school was, the impacts of colonial policy (disenfranchisement), the impacts of homophobia/transphobia (and internalized homophobia/transphobia), and about frameworks such as the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP). How were my teachers supposed to teach me something if they themselves did not receive this knowledge during their teacher education programs?
I did not have access to my Aboriginal culture, ceremony, or traditions while growing up. Nor did I have a sense of identity at the time. While attending my first year of university, I was given the opportunity to build a relationship with the late Elder Marge Friedel. She was a passionate Métis elder who created a safe space for me to acknowledge my gender identity and sexual orientation. Prior to university, I did not have the language to express who I was as a Two-Spirit person; growing up I didn’t know that I was allowed to be anything more than what the heteronormative and deficit-based messaging provided me through education and mainstream media. Elder Marge left a profound impact on my life. She was the first Elder who shared teaching around traditional medicines and how to smudge and who made me feel loved. I remember one day she was speaking to our class about the importance of our journey in university and how, when we completed our programs, we would receive an eagle feather. At the time, I did not understand the significance of this. However, I came to realize through her teachings how significant an eagle feather is. It is my understanding, through the teachings that have been shared with me, that the eagle flies the highest and closest to the Creator; this means that the eagle carries our prayers and intentions to the Creator. Despite my first degree taking me eight years to complete, I finished and received my first eagle feather in 2017. Again, I wish my parents could have attended to watch me receive my first degree and cross that stage, but at least my son was there to witness it.
Once I completed my Bachelor of Arts in Native Studies at the University of Alberta, I worked at the University of Alberta in various capacities. First within national recruitment as an Aboriginal student recruiter, where I travelled across central Alberta attending and presenting at various recruitment events and schools. During my travels and while visiting schools, I saw how there was still a lack of representation of Aboriginal teachers and perspectives. This reminded me of my own lived experience of how I did not have an Aboriginal teacher growing up and how this affected me. In fact, my first experience with an Aboriginal educator was not until I was in university, where I was ultimately exposed to a vast array of different worldviews.
I quickly realized that this type of work was no longer for me, and I decided to apply to a different position within the university, through the Faculty of Education. More specifically, I applied for a position at the Institute for Sexual Minority Studies and Services (now known as the Fyrefly Institute). In this line of work, I facilitated 2SLGBTQIA+ awareness workshops for high school classrooms across Alberta and supported Camp fYrefly (a summer leadership camp for 2SLGBTQIA+ youth). I was privileged to work as an Indigenous peer support worker with the CHEW (Community, Health, Empowerment & Wellness) Project, where I provided front-line support to 2SLGBTQIA+ folks. Although this opportunity challenged me, I am grateful for the experiences it fostered and, most importantly, for all of the youth that I met while working there. Meeting them and hearing their stories changed my perspective of self, and through this experience I was able to live my life more authentically.
In 2018, I started the Aboriginal Teacher Education Program (ATEP). The program had recently opened a secondary urban cohort, which meant that in two years’ time, I could finally become a teacher. Through ATEP, I was able to attend an on-campus cohort alongside Aboriginal students that was taught primarily by diverse Aboriginal professors, instructors, and allies. Within my ATEP courses, a safer space was created where I could unpack my experiences at school and learn more of the ongoing impacts of residential schools. It was during this time that I was given the opportunity to support a Teaching Lodge alongside Dr. Sharla Peltier, Elder Stan Peltier, Dr. Trudy Cardinal, Dr. Janice Huber, and many other folks who work and study at the university. It was also at this time in my program when I began to wonder why I was brought back and if I even wanted to be a teacher. I did not realize how much grief my body was carrying. However, within the Teaching Lodge, I felt like I was being “put back together,” meaning I was given access to ceremony and rites of passage, which subsequently created healing. Most importantly, I felt loved and cared for by all of the academic relatives within the Teaching Lodge.
Now the Creator has brought me back to ATEP, but in a different capacity. I have returned to reciprocate all of the love and support that I was given as a student. Sâkihitowin is a Natural Law and it grounds us as nêhiyawahk. Some days I still cannot believe that I get to do this work. I feel grateful to be able to provide space where students, staff, and friends can come to my office for a safer space to unpack the “stuff” they are carrying. I work in an office space where I feel love, have access to traditional medicines, where I don’t have to ask for permission to smudge, and get to work alongside Elder Cal Cardinal, from the Saddle Lake Cree Nation, who provides our students and staff with spiritual guidance and support.
So what does all of this have to do with the TRC Calls to Action? Well, historically speaking, we are not even supposed to know who we are or where we come from as Aboriginal people. Colonial policy attempted to eradicate us of our identities, languages, and cultures. However, education can be transformed to create a safer space where we can collectively heal and move forward. This is just one story of how this can transpire.