Truth and Reconciliation: It Matters to Me

As a white Anglican Canadian, I went to the four days of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in Montreal expecting to feel uncomfortable. Uncomfortable because I do not understand First Nations languages and rituals, as I have grown up in a culture that does not privilege or value such knowledge. Uncomfortable because of the political nature of what ‘we’ are doing, the delicate balance between receiving testimony as witnesses and the colonial impulse to assimilate what we’re given into a narrative that claims to understand, explain, and weave devastating personal testimony into a coherent whole. Uncomfortable because I belong to a country and church that has committed genocide, and that continues to thrive under systems that perpetuate the denigration of First Nations peoples. Uncomfortable, perhaps most obviously, because of the stories we are called to hear.

I came here believing that I knew about residential schools because I had studied this history as part of my education. But I didn’t know, and will probably never really know. The films, displays, stories, and even apologies that made up my experience here showed me that I did not understand. The anger with which people spoke about reconciliation at the town hall was a crushing reminder of my, and our, incomprehension. How can we ever grasp what we have done? The whole truth, while it must be told and listened to, is too large and painful to ever be really understood by people who have not lived it.

I came here believing that I knew what it would be like to listen to the stories of trauma, because I have sat and listened to stories from other kinds of survivors. But it wasn’t true: I did not fathom what it would be like. I have never listened to someone’s story before while sitting in the shoes of the perpetrator. It’s amazing the difference this made. This strange reversal made me feel more closed-off, more isolated from their stories, less automatically sympathetic. I think, as human beings, we have this impulse toward protecting ourselves from blame and from guilt by becoming detached and indifferent because we don’t want to feel those feelings, the shame and burden of our responsibility. I also believe that I and others like me have a responsibility to push past that and into the painful empathy that you will never fully leave behind. It is easy enough to feel the suffering of a victim, and infinitely harder to bear witness to your own horrific actions.

Although I was there for four days, and have committed to listening to statements given at the Commissioners panel while I was not present, I found that there wasn’t enough time to listen to the stories. If I live a hundred years, there would not be enough time.

There were moments when I wondered if I hadn’t made some kind of horrible mistake, if I was in the wrong place altogether, if I had any right to be part of these stories and expressions. After the screening of the film We Were Children I attended on Friday morning, almost all the white people left the room immediately, even though the animators said there was going to be a time for reflection afterward and had asked people to remain. We did not have a discussion, and no one talked: instead, there was a violent and heartbreaking outpouring of emotions from some of the participants. The animators called in traditional healers to try and dispel the energy in the room, and those few outsiders who had inexplicably stayed behind found ourselves holding hands with strangers in the midst of their grief. I felt like an intruder witnessing something intimate which was not meant for me. It was intensely emotionally disturbing, more so than the evidence the full room had witnessed. But ultimately, if I am unwilling to stand with people cracking apart from the burden of their memories then I haven’t really received the stories.  

The pain and sadness, the hurt and anger and fear, the stories: we are called to listen and receive because as Church and country we have a moral responsibility to know and face up to the truth of our history and the realities it creates today. The Commission is about truth in its collecting of testimonies and evidence, in its mandate to spread this knowledge to the people who are responsible yet largely unaware of the realities lived by First Nations peoples in this country. This Commission is about healing in the sense that telling one’s story and being heard is an important part of the journey toward wholeness. It is a step on the very long path of reconciliation, a journey that will never begin without these first steps. But as many participants have brought up, it is not about reconciliation because reconciliation will not happen because of truth, listening, or apologies, though they are all part of it. Reconciliation demands that we take action to address the issues and inequities facing First Nations as a result of the devastation that we have wreaked on them. It is not only for us that we need to do it but, above all, for the people who are coming after.

What the Commission has manifestly failed to do is bring ordinary white people and First Nations people together. As a random, unimportant white attendee, how many Native Americans did you have a conversation with? We were all in the same crowded venue but almost no one spoke with people they didn’t already know. We still aren’t actually having relationships, and to be honest I have no idea how to fix it. Maybe it just has to come later.

The TRC was also uplifting. It brought forward the courage and strength of First Nations peoples in the face of wrongs that can never be righted. A wealth of vibrant, living cultures were on display. Our hosts were humble and gracious and generous. At the end of the last day there was a Birthday celebration for everyone who hadn’t celebrated their Birthday because they were in residential school, some of whom had not even known when it was. We sang Happy Birthday in many languages, in a way reinforcing for us just how deeply Canadian culture has infiltrated Native American cultures. Everyone got a glowstick. Everyone got a cupcake. Everyone got a Birthday card made by a child. Everyone was included. Our hosts generously welcomed all of us to celebrate with them, including those of us who could never have earned the right to attend. It was humbling and beautiful. It is with this spirit of humility that we are honoured to receive all we have been given by the survivors, their families, and their communities.

What the Truth and Reconciliation Commission asks us to do is never forget the stories, the courage of the people who have shared their gifts with us, by calling us to carry forward what we have witnessed in our deeds and to cherish the discomforting guilt. During the Montreal portion of the Commission, 154 statements were gathered; there were over 12,000 visitors; over 5,000 views through livestream from 30 different countries; over 500 children came on education day. It’s a beginning. To add to the official wording, we are doing it

 

“For the child taken,

For the parent left behind.”

For the child today,

And for the children who are coming.

Re-Potting Plants

I had this glorious plant: its leaves were green with this kind of purple fuzz growing on them. It was so pretty, every time I looked at it, it made me happy. I had bought it at Wallmart, taken it home, and eventually replanted it in a pot that worked well. I gave it a place of pride on a windowsill where it could get lots of sun, and it flourished. It grew so very tall, its leaves extending to the sun, soaking up the warmth and light, their purple gleam settling upon my heart. I luxuriated it its growth, in its beauty, in the pleasure it gave me to look at it.

But, alas, my plant outgrew its pot somewhat. The top of the root structure started to protrude. And even though its leaves were tall and luxurious, they also had a definite lean and angle. Thus, my mother decided to re-pot my beloved plant and trim its stalks.

I was so sad when I saw it. My plant, its leaves reduced to pathetic stubs. Look how it doesn’t reach toward to sun any longer! Look how desolate and frail it appears! All its glory lost. I admit it, I was a little devastated.

I think it affected me so much because I feel kind of similar to my unfortunate little plant. I was let go from my job. I’ve been feeling pretty useless. I’m not entirely sure of my place in the world. I’ve been living with a resurgence of Posttraumatic symptoms and the depression that can come with that. I’ve been having doubts about my relationship with and place in the Church. Why am I going here at all? What am I bringing to this community, anyway? Is ‘church’ the right place for me to be if I’m trying to heal – among other things – from church? If you don’t feel trust or community or fulfilment deep inside yourself, if you’ve lost your connection and your way with God inside a relationship of fear and distrust, is it okay to admit that? I’ve been feeling displaced, un-rooted, like I cannot even begin to long for and lean toward the sun.

It’s never an easy place to be, the place you find yourself when circumstances uproot you. It’s uncomfortable, messy, less-than-ideal. But, like the plant, it might be that you need that displacement if, in the future, you want to thrive. It might be that, for a while, you’ll have to make do with less: less beauty, less utility, less leaves to long for the warmth and the light. Close to the dirt, you have time to regroup, to solidify, to recover before once more venturing out, finding yourself strong enough to seek the sun. It’s okay to just be surviving, for a time.

So here I am, not reaching for anything. It’s not beautiful. It’s not glorious. My plant is on the windowsill, short and squat and ignoble. But maybe, just maybe, we’ll be able to sink our feet deep into this new and unfamiliar ground.