I wake all groggy, when I get out of bed the warm smell of mother's homemade bread fills me with joy. I check the date on the clock downstairs, March 4, 1922. Despite having started the day well I can't help but feel that something's not right.
"Kariwase, nu chexw men wa ha7lh (Are you well)? did you sleep well?"
Mother greets me with questions, as usual. Whenever white men visit the village, they ask what our names mean, mine means "A new way of doing things". My mother looks extremely worried today. My father runs into the kitchen with my brothers, they are all older than me.
"Ah, Kariwase, you're awake come with me right now we must go."
I am dumbfounded, I've lived here my whole life, where would I go? I start to argue but before I finish my sentence my father cuts me off.
"Say huy̓ melh halh (Goodbye)to your mother, it might be the last time you see her."
Mother and father don't speak good English they mix in Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish) with their words. It does not bother me though, I've learned English since I was very young, it is second nature for me.
"Nu chexw men wa ha7lh?"
My mother asks again, waving her hand in front of my face. It takes me a moment to realize I was zoning. My father repeats what he said. The meaning of his words sinks in, and shock settles over me. I stand up from my chair, terrified.
"What! No, it does not make sense."
My father sighs, a long one that seems to rattle him to the bone. He shakes his and motions for me to sit down at the table.
"I hoped I would not have to have this talk with you and your siblings. We are all in danger."
We all look at each other astounded, well except father of course.
"Since the 1880's the white government have been rounding up our people to put them in so called schools. Kids are lucky to come back at all, your mother and I... we just want to wa chxw yuu (take care) of you. You are older now; this is the year that we must run."
Stunned, I turn to mother who is shaking, her hands over her face. Tears start running down my face, they taste salty. I try to speak but words fail me, I can only cough.
"You are six, Kariwase, your brothers are thirteen and seventeen, I have hidden your brothers since they were the same age as you. It is time for all of you to learn the truth."
Father tells us to pack a suitcase, I do it but barely, I don't feel anything as my brain does as I was told. Once we are done, my father grabs the key to the house, and we run.
We walk for hours, when I can't move anymore my brothers carry me. We eat bannock and dried meat, moose, we caught it ourselves. Every morning we set up camp and fetch water and fruits.
Time passes, years even and before I know it i have two beautiful children, my eldest daughter Juniper and my son Minahikosis (Little pine), my husband is Cree his name is Mistahi-Maskwa (Big bear).
We continue to run from residential schools in hope that future generations will put an end to this genocide and educate themselves on our ways of life.
