Welcome to the Corner Tapes, I’m Brian Rougeau. Today, I want to share a story that originates from the corner of Goulet and Enfield. My grandparents, we called them mémère and pépère, lived in an apartment block there for all the time that I have known them. As a kid, I visited them regularly because they took care of me after school while my parents worked. Pépère died when I was a little boy, but the story I want to share today originated sometime before mémère passed away, many years later. It is a story about how she revealed that we have indigenous roots in our family. This news affected me greatly because I was completely unaware of this fact as no one ever mentioned it. I thought maybe it’s time to share the story, so here it is. I chose to write it in rhyme—I hope you enjoy.
Is a story enough
To resolve my affinity?
To seal my identity?
If the Blood flows
Through my heart
Where does my story start?
My sister told me what mémère
Had to say that day
She sat by her side
A deep look filled her eyes
Then she opened the sky and said
Your pépère had an Indian mother
That’s all that she said
Now, questions spill from my head
I need to know more because
I thought I knew who I was
Her final words, she was Cree
This was the birth of the mystery
I sit idling in the park
Rain oozing downward, sky dark
Mom, Dad, can I call you right now?
Please, tell me how
I fall into despair, but not for long
Afterall it’s been years since they’ve been gone
Though they’ve been my trusted guide since birth
Answers do not appear from beneath the earth
But, an internal voice appears
Recall the days under the sun
Family times, where you had the most fun
Only then will you truly know
The kinship, the endless flow
But how is it that nobody knew?
Now is the time, put together two and two
I turn on the lights, sky open
I drive away, confidence broken
I attempt to lead from the inside
Removing the masks, I no longer hide
I remember the music, the dance, the food
Summer parties, lifting the family’s mood
Old time sounds filling the night-time air
Family jumping and spinning without a care
I dream of connections to distant memory
Long before the arrival of misery
Inside, a being resonates with the drum
It is a sign, the quest has begun
Feelings of doubt fuel the anxiety
How can a story define my reality?
Seasons pass, hard answers left unfound
Still hoping that my luck will turn around
I chase the wish to know my story
Not knowing only feeds the worry
I search for new leads, examine every clue
Driven by a heart that yearns to be true
My brother visits, slides the report across the table
A historian claims it’s likely just a fable
At the bottom it reads, No Metis ancestry
But, this does not quell the curiosity
There is a different question we need to pursue
Yes, we are French, we are British, but are we Indigenous too?
A bit of research justifies my position
Métis status comes with a condition
Indigenous blood is not enough
They will say we don’t have the right stuff
Our ancestors did not accept scrip
That official government certificate
The one meant to extinguish all future claim
To any land in a family’s name
What I say is purely speculation
But, our elders may belong to a hidden population
On the sidelines of the 19th century North West
This revelation only deepens my quest
This story is personal interpretation
Any claim would be denied by the Nation
Identity has become political
The dynamics, psychosocial
But, the man in the graveyard crystalised my inquisition
What is in your heart? Not the definition
Is a story enough
To resolve my affinity?
To seal my identity?
If the Blood flows
through my heart
Where does my story start?
She opened the sky and said
Your pépère had an Indian mother
Days before, my concern started to simmer
My chance at truth would take place at a dinner
The person was a direct link to mémère and pépère
And now it was my turn to share
So, I jumped in and told the story
My throat tightened, I began to worry
I told them about memere’s confession
Followed by a simple question
Is this true?
I received a quick reply
A straight look into the eyes
I don’t know much about that
I don’t know much about that
Coming from an honest place
I don’t know much about that
Maybe the question comes too late
I don’t know much about that
Still a mystery, to date
I ask myself
Why do you require a confirmation?
Do mémère’s words force a separation?
No need to deny, to deepen the scar
You only add to the man you already are
But, I thought I knew who I was
I need to know more, because
French Canadian was all that I knew
Can I now claim that I am indigenous too?
Over time, the mystery began to make sense
Indigenous people suffered tough discrimination
Some chose to blend in with the population
For those whose secret was revealed to be true
Intolerance was twofold from opponents who knew
The rule was, keep it hidden
To speak of it, forbidden
As the pain carried over from generation to generation
The disguises deepened with vague refutation
Some would say lack of grit
But if you could ask them now, they might say, legit
Is a story enough
To resolve my affinity?
To seal my identity?
If the Blood flows
Through my heart
Where does my story start?
She opened the sky and said
Your pépère had an Indian mother
We all want to save our kin from harm
A deep instinct rings the alarm
I understand the generations of protection
But, maybe it’s time for a new direction
Without healing, the suffering will thrive beyond our day
Future sons and daughters will struggle to find their way
Although the story remained adrift for generations
The Love flows through my veins with reclamation
So, I share this with you if it’s all the same
This is my truth, and it shall remain
Her story is enough
To resolve my affinity
To seal my identity
The Blood flows
Through my heart
This is where my story starts
This is a story about my great-grandmaman
Everyone called her, Amanda
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