I am the daughter of a day school survivor. In saying that, I honour my father's legacy

This First Person column is the experience of Jolene Saulis Dione, who grew up in New Brunswick and now lives in Ottawa. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

For many Indigenous Peoples, the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation is a chance to remember the family members who never returned from residential schools — and for others, it's a moment to reflect on this country's dark past. 

Known as Orange Shirt Day, it now also encompasses the experiences of those who attended Indian Day Schools, like my father and my grandparents. It's unclear how many children attended the 699 Indian day schools in Canada, but there are more than 150,000 survivors who have applied for compensation in a class-action settlement. 

That often makes me think about a post I saw on social media: "Not one of your Indigenous friends doesn't know a residential school survivor." This hit home; I now introduce myself not only with my name but by saying, "I am the daughter of a day school survivor."

Each time I say it, I honour my father's legacy.

Strength to overcome

My family is from Tobique First Nation (Neqotkuk), a small but resilient Maliseet community in New Brunswick. Like many Indigenous families, we faced intergenerational trauma from policies aimed at assimilating Indigenous children, including Indian day schools. Growing up in Fredericton, I learned about my Maliseet culture by regularly travelling to Neqotkuk, but it wasn't until adulthood that I began to grasp the full extent of the hardship my family, and many others, had endured. 

The relationship I share with my father is built upon a foundation of love and resilience; he has been my idol throughout my life. His own childhood was shaped by trauma, yet he always showed immense love to his children. As I grew older, I came to understand not only the toll his childhood experiences took on him but also his incredible strength in overcoming them.

My father was forced to attend Mah-Sos, an Indian day school on the Tobique First Nation that operated for more than 100 years. There, he was among the children who faced physical and emotional abuse. And even though he returned home each night, the trauma inflicted at school lingered.

Over the years, my father shared some of the stories with me. He described the cruelty of the "torture chair," where he had nine teeth removed without sedation. Other physical punishment was also routine — students were slapped for speaking their language, and my father was strapped at least once a week.

Despite this, he rose above these experiences, left the reserve and pursued higher education. He eventually became a professor of social work, teaching at universities in New Brunswick and Ontario.

My paternal grandparents were similarly marked by the Indian day school system. My grandfather, a Second World War veteran and the first RCMP officer in our community, was a joyful man who loved life. I remember his laughter, how he loved lobster dinners and how his smile would find you across the room. 

In contrast, my grandmother was strict and often distant. She passionately passed down the Maliseet language but struggled to show me affection. Her teachings about culture and spirituality were meaningful, but there were days when I wanted to escape her negativity. 

That early rejection had a profound effect on my childhood. Yet in my grandmother's final days, she told me she loved me, and that small gesture brought peace to a lifetime of difficult emotions.

It's often as adults that we come to terms with the hidden stories of our families. My grandparents' experiences at Indian day schools deeply affected them and shaped their behaviour. These schools, designed to erase Indigenous culture, left scars that were passed down to their children.

A ripple effect

The legacy of these schools is a painful chapter in Canadian history. The trauma they caused reverberates across generations, rippling through families like mine in profound ways. Yet my father's journey is one of incredible resilience. He built a life filled with love and success, raising four children and becoming a role model in our community. As a professor of social work, he was instrumental in advancing Indigenous child welfare.

The relationship between my parents is another testament to strength. They came from different worlds — my father from the reserve, my mother from a small town in New Brunswick. Despite their differences, they built a strong, loving family. Growing up in 1980s Fredericton, I felt my father sheltered us from the abuse and other hardships he faced. Though I experienced racism, including being called a savage, it wasn't until I was in high school and university that I truly began to connect with Indigenous issues and appreciated the contrast between the life my father created for us and his own childhood.

Healing as a family

The love and support my father received from my mother were crucial in his healing journey. Together, they faced the challenges of raising a family while grappling with the lasting effects of colonial systems. My father's ability to overcome his early traumas and become the husband, father and elder he is today is a powerful symbol of resilience and hope.

As a family, we span four generations — in those nine decades, we've witnessed change and continuity. 

My grandparents lived at a point when being Indigenous was something to hide, while my father's generation felt the heavy burden of intergenerational trauma. My generation has been focused on confronting and understanding that trauma, and now my daughter's generation will focus on healing and reconciliation. 

Through the hardship and healing my family has experienced, today I am proud to see my child, a Maliseet-Mohawk girl, walking confidently in her identity. One day, I asked her what it means to be Indigenous. With a smile, she replied, "It means to be you everywhere you go." 

In that moment, I realized we are no longer bound by trauma; instead, we are united in strength and honour. My family's new generation carries forward the resilience of our ancestors, transforming our shared history into a powerful narrative of pride and hope for the future.

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