Lost & Found
Taken from her family and stripped of her cultural identity as a child, finding happiness later in life seemed impossible
Inot only lost my culture, I lost my identity, and had to use the surname of my foster parents so they wouldn’t feel embarrassed about explaining why my last name was different. I remember how close I was with my grandmother and the comfort I felt just sitting on her lap with her arms embracing me. Sadly, when I was taken away at the age of five, it would be the last time I would see her. I found out later that she never gave up hope of finding me. On her death bed in 1971, she asked my older sister to never give up trying to locate me. As it turned out, that year my grandmother was in Vancouver and I was in Chilliwack, only an hour away.
I have since reunited with my siblings but in many ways we are strangers. I know nothing of my own culture; actually, I don’t fit in with either culture. Am I Native or white? What am I? I am in a constant battle of anxiety over that question. I carry this guilt that I grew up denying my identity and was always trying to fit into the white culture. I’m so ashamed—why didn’t I stand up for myself ?
It was June 1961 that I last saw my family all together. I never stopped thinking of my big brother who always watched out for me. I’ve tried to give my own kids a better home, and lots of love and support. My closest friends who helped me through many tough times are still my friends today, although I don’t know why. I’m such a troubled soul. I tried to cut my wrists when I was 15 but didn’t succeed. I just didn’t see a future where I could be happy. Does anyone really understand the long term effects of removing a fiveyear-old from her family of nine? Adding to the trauma was then being placed in foster care with abusive parents, people who denied me my heritage and decided that I could never mention my ancestry to anyone, because, after all, the social worker had described me as “light skinned, someone who could pass as white.”
Troubled Times
I went from that upbringing into an abusive marriage. Although I knew he would never hurt our kids, I became a convenient target for my first husband’s rage. I found myself defending his actions, believing I deserved his wrath and trying to make excuses for the bruises, black eyes and swollen lips. This went on for six years, and the last straw was being choked and feeling my life was going to end. That’s when I called the crisis centre. They put me up in a hotel for a while, but I was essentially homeless. Meanwhile, my husband put in for a job transfer to the other end of the country to keep me from our two boys and denied me phone calls to talk with them. I was at the end of my rope. I eventually reconnected with the boys later in life, but at the time, if not for good friends, I would have been out on the street.
Happy at Last
Despite the odds, I am now blessed with a wonderful husband of 35 years and two beautiful daughters. The experiences of the past never really leave you; they become a part of who you are. Had I not gone through what I did, I may not be where I am today. I was determined that my daughters would have all the advantages not afforded to me. I am proud of them and grateful for a very supportive, understanding husband. Now retired from working as a hospital cleaner, I enjoy spending time with my family, whose patience and support help me survive the difficult episodes as I continue to battle with PTSD, anxiety and depression. Thanks to them, I am a survivor who has achieved what once seemed impossible to me—a measure of happiness in life. n