On this solemn day of remembrance I welcome you to two very different stories of two Maritime women's experiences with dolls. The first story is of a Mi'kmaq woman having her doll taken away after she herself was taken away from her family and brought to Shubenacadie Residential School at age four. The second story is of a little white girl having the best Christmas of her childhood, thanks in no small part to the kindness of two of her Mi'kmaq neighbours. It is startling how contradictory these two stories are, paralleled only in their childhood desire for a plaything.
I first learned of the video Ma'kit's Doll through my sister Julie. In honour of Truth and Reconciliation Day (Sept 30th) Julie (a PEI elementary school teacher with a heart of gold who cares deeply about all children) had her students watch a short video on a local Mi'kmaq woman's experience at Shubenacadie Residential School and then make a craft based on the woman's story. In the video, the viewer learns about Mi'kmaq elder, Ma'kit Poulette, being taken from her family as a very young child (aged 4 yrs) after her mother got sick with TB and how devastating and bewildering the experience was for her, as well as how she used her own ingenuity and creativity to get by. Ma'kit's Doll is a heartrending tale of loss and survival told from the perspective of Ma'kit as a young child.
From the vimeo site:
Elder Ma'kit Poulette shares a story with students at the We’koqom’a Mi’kmaw School in Waycobah Cape Breton about her experience at the Shubenacadie Residential School. When she arrived at age four her doll was taken away from her so she created dolls from her cleaning rags. As an adult Ma'kit searched for a doll that reminded her of the doll that was stolen from her. Ma'kit tells her story and teaches students how she made her rag dolls.
Watching the video this morning, I couldn't help but cry for Ma'kit and all the lost children.
I cried for the heartbreak of how gently Ma'kit spoke of her love of dolls and her desperate need to find comfort in a situation completely devoid of love and caring. I cried at her thinking her father would come for her. I cried for the untold numbers of children lost to such depravity. Each time I hear another story from the horrors of the Residential School System, my own heart breaks all over again for the loss of so much innocence, for the disgusting awfulness of the Canadian government's genocidal intentions and for the Roman Catholic Church's continued silence.
Another of my dear sister's spoke to me about how our own education as children was so calculated in its portrayal of Indigenous cultures and how incredibly wrong it was to have inculcated so many young minds towards continued oppression of First Nations Peoples.
So much grief it overwhelms me and yet to honour the reconciliation process we must be willing to breathe with the enormity of the pain. We must be willing to acknowledge the gravity of the loss. We must each pay our due respects to Indigenous persons so they can truly heal.
While vastly different, Ma'kit's story reminded me of a story my own mother told from her childhood in rural PEI and about how universal the need for playthings is for children--which Ma'kit speaks of in her video. My mother is the little white girl in the story I referenced above. Hers is the second story which I will share below.
And for my mother, instead of unimaginable loss, a great gift came with the appearance of a person walking in wet snowflakes with a package under each arm coming down the east hill on Christmas Eve to her place and what magic was in store for her thanks to this Mi'kmaq man and his skillful wife's generosity to two little girls.
In my mother's words:
The Doll with the Blue Hair
As a little girl, I absolutely loved dolls and playing “house”. The dolls I got from Santa were always the same – hard head with a loop on top to put a ribbon through, hard hands and feet and a cloth body. I yearned for a doll with “saran” hair – hair you could comb and a plastic body you could bathe.
I knew such dolls existed because I saw them in the catalogues and a neighbor girl had not one, but three! The same girl whose sins were plenty. She swore and lied but still ended up with everything I coveted, year after year.
What was wrong with Santa?
So much for being good. Anyway, the year I was ten, Santa finally came through. Never mind that her hair was not blonde, but blue! She was the most beautiful doll I had ever seen. She was wearing a blue silky dress, silky undies and socks and little white plastic shoes with a little strap and closure.
I loved her instantly and with all my heart.
I bathed her more times than you could count and became expert at wrapping her up snugly in a baby receiving blanket which mom didn’t need at the moment.
And that wasn’t all!
Just the day before, on Christmas Eve, through thick wet snowflakes we could see someone walking down the east hill. Walkers were common then and were usually quickly identified by whomever was peering out the east window.
As the person got closer, it was noted that he was carrying something under each arm.
When he turned in our lane we saw that it was Gus Nicholas, a local Indigenous man, who lived in a camp near Naufrage with his common-law wife and a son who was my age. The items he carried were covered with newspapers to protect them from the wet snow.
Once inside, he uncovered two items so exquisite in their perfection, that they took my breath away! His wife who was an expert basket weaver had made two hooded doll cradles, one each for my sister and me.
I then recalled how, when he was digging potatoes at our place that fall, he asked me if I would like a bed for my doll, and I said yes.
I had totally forgotten.
The next day when Santa delivered the perfect doll, the doll and the cradle (which I still have- the cradle, not doll) became the foundation for the best Christmas I ever remember.
The pleasure I was to get from those two gifts has carried through all my Christmases since, and became the basis of my belief that Santa Claus and Gus Nicholas were, for me, that year, the instruments of God’s abundant love and generosity.
by Arlene McGuigan
Wishing you hearts cracked open to the healing power of shared stories.
Thanks for reading!
Jill