The First Day of Discovery: An essay and poem

This First Person article was written by P.E.I. poet laureate Julie Pellissier-Lush, an actor and writer. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

When the news started talking about the first discovery of the lost graves of the children I was in shock.  

What did it mean? We, as Indigenous people, knew the stories, we knew the hurt our survivors endured in residential schools all over Turtle Island, but now it was all so real.  

I felt a pressure in my chest, like a heavy weight pushing all the air out of my lungs, slowly but steadily. I pushed those emotions down, compartmentalized the emotions I didn't feel I had the right to feel so deeply.   

I had not gone to residential school, but I sat and cried with survivors as they spoke of their experiences.   

Day one after the news was a blur, struggling to stay focused and get my work done, but I did it. It was the same for the next few days: I went to our communities where we gathered to drum and sing for those lost young ones. They set up a memorial with 215 little white crosses, each draped with a tiny pair of shoes.  At sundown, we drummed for the spirits of those little ones, so they knew we cared, so they knew we knew they were there and welcomed them all home.  

There were a few tears on those nights, as we drummed and supported each other's pain, but it wasn't until exactly a week later that I allowed that pain to hit — and it hit hard.  

I have children, I have a grandchild. I wondered, what if I had been born earlier, and my beautiful children were taken from me? And I cried.   

I cried for hours without stopping, thinking of the hurt and pain those young ones went through, thinking of how fortunate I was to have not experienced it. And that is when I started to write.  

I took everything I had heard in the news, from the families and communities, and created a poem, my poem.   

I wanted people to keep talking.

This isn't just a headline that will dissolve in a day or two — this is our history. 

I may not have been forced to attend residential school, but my grandfather did, and his pain and trauma were passed down to my mother, and passed down to me, so in some ways, I am a survivor too. This was a trauma that was so terrible that it was passed down through everything we did: how we parent, how we create friendships, how we deal with hard situations, and even in our very DNA from generation to generation. 

That hurt still resonates in our communities, and elders say it will take us seven generations to work through it.   

I am only three generations away from the hurt. My line has four more to go before we are healed, so I must do my part in that healing for my children, my grandchildren, my great-grandchildren and my great-great-grandchildren. That is my path, and I must walk it. 

When I can no longer walk this path I will pass on my teachings and responsibilities to my children as they walk their path. This is our history,  without any intention to create guilt in others — it is just making sure we all know the truth. This happened, it is real, and that is just one of the things our survivors need you to know as they start their healing path.

This is my poem that I wrote to help start my healing. 

The Apple Trees

In the wind I hear their voices: 

Look for us now so we are not alone

It is time for us all to finally go home.

Children taken from our families and homes

We had no choice but to cry goodbye and go    

These places were always dark, scary, and bad

Whatever we did, someone always got mad.

At night, our sobbing began without end

All of us children just needed a friend

We were not seen as human, so easy to be hurt 

When we died, we were buried deep in the dirt.

They ended the lives of us little ones time and again

There was no sadness when our bodies shut down

They buried us always late, late at night

There was no one to tell them this was not right. 

An elder told me what he learned as a boy

Something that slowly took away all his joy —

Apple trees they planted on those sad little graves

Those trees hid their crimes, no need to be afraid.

Look for the trees full of apples near the schools

These helped those monsters break all their rules

The tree[s] roots run so deep in the ground

They hide all those bodies, so they wouldn't be found.

Indigenous people all over this land

All know the stories. We have taken a stand —

It is now, it is time, come listen to our truths

Bring all our children home from beneath those choking roots.

Creator help us, let the winds of change blow

This is our living history, not long ago

Listen for the little voice screaming, "Please remember me."

We must now go and look for those sad old apple trees.

For those children who never made it home

My heart shatters that you were so alone

For those children full of trauma, who are still alive

Please don't ever feel guilty for being able to survive. 

It is the time to sit with our survivors now

And if they need help do not be afraid to ask them how —

They hold the truths they would much rather hide

Of all those other children who did not survive.

In the wind I hear their voices, 

"Look for us now, so we are not alone

It is time for us all to finally go home.

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