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Indian School Days
This book is the humorous, bitter-sweet autobiography of a Canadian Ojibwa who was taken from his family at age ten and placed in Jesuit boarding school in northern Ontario. It was 1939 when the feared Indian agent visited Basil Johnston’s family and removed him and his four-year-old sister to St. Peter Claver’s school, run by the priests in a community known as Spanish, 75 miles from Sudbury.
“Spanish! It was a word synonymous with residential school, penitentiary, reformatory, exile, dungeon, whippings, kicks, slaps, all rolled into one,” Johnston recalls. But despite the aching loneliness, the deprivation, the culture shock and the numbing routine, his story is engaging and compassionate. Johnston creates marvelous portraits of the young Indian boys who struggled to adapt to strange ways and unthinking, unfeeling discipline. Even the Jesuit teachers, whose flashes of humor occasionally broke through their stern demeanor, are portrayed with an understanding born of hindsight.
“Spanish! It was a word synonymous with residential school, penitentiary, reformatory, exile, dungeon, whippings, kicks, slaps, all rolled into one,” Johnston recalls. But despite the aching loneliness, the deprivation, the culture shock and the numbing routine, his story is engaging and compassionate. Johnston creates marvelous portraits of the young Indian boys who struggled to adapt to strange ways and unthinking, unfeeling discipline. Even the Jesuit teachers, whose flashes of humor occasionally broke through their stern demeanor, are portrayed with an understanding born of hindsight.
256 pages, Paperback
First published March 1, 1988
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About the author
Basil Johnston
29 books53 followersBasil H. Johnston (13 July 1929 to 8 September 2015) was a Canadian writer, storyteller, language teacher and scholar.
For his work in preserving Ojibwa language and culture, he received the Order of Ontario and Honorary Doctorates from the University of Toronto and Laurentian University. Basil also received the Aboriginal Achievement Award for Heritage and Spirituality.
(from Wikipedia)
For his work in preserving Ojibwa language and culture, he received the Order of Ontario and Honorary Doctorates from the University of Toronto and Laurentian University. Basil also received the Aboriginal Achievement Award for Heritage and Spirituality.
(from Wikipedia)
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Displaying 1 - 26 of 26 reviews
July 8, 2021
The thinking by conquerors of colonized countries (including Canada), as stated by the author, was this:
"You can't live the way your ancestors did; you have to organize your time, your work, if you're going to get anywhere. You can no longer just move in together and live as husband and wife; you can no longer get names for your children from the first thing that you see or hear after the birth of a child; you can no longer ... you can no longer ... you can no longer ... From now on you must do things the civilized way, the lawful way, the moral, Christian way." (p. 128)
And the reasoning behind Canadian residential schools was this:
"When "integration" became the popular philosophy in the late 1880s and 1890s, (Reverend Mr.) Wilson began to preach that the Indians and whites should become 'one in language, one in pursuits, tastes, ambitions, and hopes ... we want them [the Indian residents] to become apprenticed out to white people and to become in fact, Canadians.'" (p. 7)
This was a very enlightening memoir of author Basil Johnston's time spent at St. Peter Claver's Indian Residential School (later renamed Garnier Residential School), an Indigenous boys' school in the small town of Spanish, Ontario during the early 1940s (an all-girls' school was across and down the road.) His "Introduction" is required reading, in which he recounts the history and culture of Spanish, how residential schools were run, the four areas of teaching, the expectations placed upon the Jesuits, among other things.
Within the book, Mr. Johnston describes: a typical day at the school; various peers and staff; the food they ate and the feeling of always being hungry; specific events at work and play; and, happy memories (e.g hockey, some compassionate staff) as well as some sad memories (e.g. the strong sense of abandonment, the severity of corporal punishment for various transgressions.)
Some of his memories are hilarious; some are cringe-worthy. Mr. Johnston points out:
"Even if by comparison with the abuse and maltreatment inflicted upon little boys in other institutions, the boys at Spanish received less malevolent treatment, the sense of hurt and alienation was not in any proportion diminished." (p. 7)
Due to the increase of media reports of the recent findings of unmarked graves near former residential schools in Canada, I thought it was better to read this particular book sooner rather than later. Since Mr. Johnston passed away in 2015, I wonder what he would make of these latest findings. Myself, I learned several things that I believe many people do not know and/or are misinformed.
Highly recommend!
"You can't live the way your ancestors did; you have to organize your time, your work, if you're going to get anywhere. You can no longer just move in together and live as husband and wife; you can no longer get names for your children from the first thing that you see or hear after the birth of a child; you can no longer ... you can no longer ... you can no longer ... From now on you must do things the civilized way, the lawful way, the moral, Christian way." (p. 128)
And the reasoning behind Canadian residential schools was this:
"When "integration" became the popular philosophy in the late 1880s and 1890s, (Reverend Mr.) Wilson began to preach that the Indians and whites should become 'one in language, one in pursuits, tastes, ambitions, and hopes ... we want them [the Indian residents] to become apprenticed out to white people and to become in fact, Canadians.'" (p. 7)
This was a very enlightening memoir of author Basil Johnston's time spent at St. Peter Claver's Indian Residential School (later renamed Garnier Residential School), an Indigenous boys' school in the small town of Spanish, Ontario during the early 1940s (an all-girls' school was across and down the road.) His "Introduction" is required reading, in which he recounts the history and culture of Spanish, how residential schools were run, the four areas of teaching, the expectations placed upon the Jesuits, among other things.
Within the book, Mr. Johnston describes: a typical day at the school; various peers and staff; the food they ate and the feeling of always being hungry; specific events at work and play; and, happy memories (e.g hockey, some compassionate staff) as well as some sad memories (e.g. the strong sense of abandonment, the severity of corporal punishment for various transgressions.)
Some of his memories are hilarious; some are cringe-worthy. Mr. Johnston points out:
"Even if by comparison with the abuse and maltreatment inflicted upon little boys in other institutions, the boys at Spanish received less malevolent treatment, the sense of hurt and alienation was not in any proportion diminished." (p. 7)
Due to the increase of media reports of the recent findings of unmarked graves near former residential schools in Canada, I thought it was better to read this particular book sooner rather than later. Since Mr. Johnston passed away in 2015, I wonder what he would make of these latest findings. Myself, I learned several things that I believe many people do not know and/or are misinformed.
Highly recommend!
September 30, 2014
In 2005, the Canadian Federal Government and the representatives of Canada's First Nations arrived at $1.9 billion settlement package to for members of the First Nations who had attended the residential schools operated under the guidance of the Federal Ministry of Indian Affairs and consequently suffered abuse. The fact that such a settlement was agreed to indicates that physical and psychological abuse did indeed occur in the schools up until the time the last ones were closed in 1998 to be replaced by Indian run day schools situated on reserves.
Having said this, I strongly recommend that anyone interested in the issue read Basil Johnston's Indian School Days. Johnston and his sister were essentially kidnapped by the local agent of the Ministry of Indian Affairs from their home on Manitoulin Island in order to be placed in Residential schools located across the road from each other in Spanish on the mainland. While Johnston does not condone what happened, he also acknowledges that he would never have published 30 books and become a curator at the Royal Ontario Museum if he had been left at home and received no schooling.
You read this book not because he presents a positive image of a now discredited system but because it is a tribute to Johnston, his sister and their friends who made the best of their situations. They worked hard to take advantage of the opportunity that had been thrust upon them. They emerged fluent in English and able to participate in English Canadian society. At the end of his book Johnston proudly lists the names of his friends at the school and beside each name he notes the trade or profession they later exercised.
He also has very fond memories of his priest teachers who all spoke English with French accents that were if anything worse than the Anishinabe accents of the students. Both teacher and students had to follow the same rules. English was imposed on both parties.
Johnston wishes that the schools had been more heavily subsidized than they were. The students could spend only half of the day in the class. The other time they had to grow and raise their own food. My favourite story is of the time that Johnston, an Anishinabe friend of his age and a death old priest with a marginal command of English set out to ferry the cattle across the channel separating Manitoulin Island from the mainland. The priest fell asleep. Johnson and his friend engaged in horseplay and tipped the barge sending 30 cows into Lake Huron. Johnston was horrified but the cows simply swan to shore and waited there for there for the priest and the two boys to lead them to the meadow.
This book is more charming than Goodbye Mr. Chips. It is a great tribute to the ability of the Anishinabe youth of Manitoulin Island to make the best of a bad situation and is appropriately gentle with their somewhat bungling but well meaning teachers.
Having said this, I strongly recommend that anyone interested in the issue read Basil Johnston's Indian School Days. Johnston and his sister were essentially kidnapped by the local agent of the Ministry of Indian Affairs from their home on Manitoulin Island in order to be placed in Residential schools located across the road from each other in Spanish on the mainland. While Johnston does not condone what happened, he also acknowledges that he would never have published 30 books and become a curator at the Royal Ontario Museum if he had been left at home and received no schooling.
You read this book not because he presents a positive image of a now discredited system but because it is a tribute to Johnston, his sister and their friends who made the best of their situations. They worked hard to take advantage of the opportunity that had been thrust upon them. They emerged fluent in English and able to participate in English Canadian society. At the end of his book Johnston proudly lists the names of his friends at the school and beside each name he notes the trade or profession they later exercised.
He also has very fond memories of his priest teachers who all spoke English with French accents that were if anything worse than the Anishinabe accents of the students. Both teacher and students had to follow the same rules. English was imposed on both parties.
Johnston wishes that the schools had been more heavily subsidized than they were. The students could spend only half of the day in the class. The other time they had to grow and raise their own food. My favourite story is of the time that Johnston, an Anishinabe friend of his age and a death old priest with a marginal command of English set out to ferry the cattle across the channel separating Manitoulin Island from the mainland. The priest fell asleep. Johnson and his friend engaged in horseplay and tipped the barge sending 30 cows into Lake Huron. Johnston was horrified but the cows simply swan to shore and waited there for there for the priest and the two boys to lead them to the meadow.
This book is more charming than Goodbye Mr. Chips. It is a great tribute to the ability of the Anishinabe youth of Manitoulin Island to make the best of a bad situation and is appropriately gentle with their somewhat bungling but well meaning teachers.
July 21, 2015
After reading Basil JohnstonsMermaids and Medicine Women: Native Myths and Legends I went on to read Manitous: The Spiritual World Of The Ojibway. Intrigued to read more, I discovered that he had written his memoirs of his time in a residential school in the 1930s and 40s.
Although Johnston does not mention any incidences of sexual abuse, it is still heart wrenching reading about how he and his school mates were taken away from their families, often not seeing them again for years.
In spite of the sadness there are also very touching as well as hilariously comical parts in this book. It is a book that I highly recomend to everyone.
Although Johnston does not mention any incidences of sexual abuse, it is still heart wrenching reading about how he and his school mates were taken away from their families, often not seeing them again for years.
In spite of the sadness there are also very touching as well as hilariously comical parts in this book. It is a book that I highly recomend to everyone.
December 9, 2020
My father was a young school boy at this school in Spanish, I liked reading the book-I am glad there was no terrible mention of abuse. Boys worked hard all their time there.
August 14, 2021
This is a bittersweet account of "Indian" residential school life according to Basil Johnston, who from 1939 to 1950 attended the only such school run by the Jesuits in Canada. Located in Spanish, Ontario, the school was called "St Peter Claver" prior to 1945, but its name was changed to "St Charles Garnier" when it became the first Indian residential school to offer high school classes. (The former namesake was an apostle to black slaves in South America, while the latter was a missionary to the Wendat / Huron in Canada.)
Johnston was taken away from his family at the age of ten because his father was not around and an agent from the Department of Indian Affairs concluded - whether rightly or wrongly - that his mother could not handle five children on her own. One of his sisters accompanied him to Spanish, where she attended the all-girls school that was run by the Daughters of Mary across the street. Johnston later returned to the boys school voluntarily to receive a high school education.
As you would expect, Johnson describes the hardships that are common to all residential school students, from homesickness to having to adjust to a very regimented schedule. Everyone's hair gets cut off on the first day of school to prevent the spread of lice. But worst of all, students are always hungry, even if not so hungry as to have their growth stunted. Since the Department of Indian Affairs wanted to make these schools as self-sustaining as possible, it fell on the students to grow much of their own food and to make much of their own clothing. Whether they actually learned anything useful in the process is debatable.
"Indian School Days" was the first memoir to be published by an Indian residential school student. The year of publication (1988) is significant in that it predates the politicization of these schools. It was not until the 1990s that lawyers began to turn abuse in residential schools into a multibillion dollar industry, and it was not until the 2000s that it became politically incorrect to say anything good about them at all.
But Johnston does indeed have good things to say. He is grateful that the education he received allowed him to pursue a professional career, and he even has good things to say about his Jesuit teachers. Although the students were made to speak English, so too were the Jesuits, who spoke broken English in their French and German accents.
However, Johnston has negative things to say as well. Although there is no mention of sexual abuse, he does describe multiple strappings. In the opening chapter, for example, he describes being strapped in the hands by his lay teacher, Miss Burke, after skipping class and mooning the girl who was sent to bring him back (P. 17). Although strappings may may have been normal at schools across the country, corporal punishment was not normally practiced by Indigenous parents. These strappings contributed to a culture shock that led some students to try to run away from their schools.
An excellent companion to this memoir is Professor David Shanahan's history, "The Jesuit Residential School at Spanish: More than Mere Talent," available for purchase at the Anishinabe Spiritual Centre in Spanish, Ontario. You can also purchase a publication of experts from the school diary, focusing on the flu epidemic of 1917-1918.
In addition to writing the most balanced account of Indian residential schools you can find, Basil Johnson will also have you laughing out loud from time to time. The writing style is playful and the content is safe for high-schoolers, who will relate to young people rebelling against authority and occasionally breaking the rules.
Quotations:
Most of the 135 inmates of Spanish, ranging in age from four to sixteen, with the occasional seventeen-year-old, came from broken homes; some were orphans, having lost one or both parents; others were committed to the institution as punishment for some misdemeanor; and a few were enrolled by their parents in order to receive some education and training.
The reason for and the mode of my own committal were typical. My parents had separated, and, following the break-up, Mother, my four sisters and I lived with my grandmother for a while.
But unknown to either my mother or my grandmother, the Indian agent and the priest had conferred - with nothing but our welfare in mind, of course - and decided that not even the combined efforts of Grandmother and Mother were enough to look after five children and that they ought to be relieved of two of their burdens. (P. 19)
Lastly, in reply to the inevitable question, "Is there a place for residential schools in the educational system?", I respond with a qualified yes. Some who attended Garnier after 1946 have said, "It was probably the best thing that could have happened to me." However, for those going to St. Peter Claver's in the pre-Garnier days, it was "the worst possible experience." Just as private schools have a place in the educational system, so too do the residential schools, but under vastly different terms, conditions and formats from those that existed in the residential school as I first encountered it. (P. 12)
The women, mothers in their early twenties and thirties, along with the grandmothers, must have suffered as much anguish as their sons and daughters. Many did not speak English, many had little more than Grade 3 education, and even those with Grades 7 and 8 could not understand the Indian Act and the powers that it conferred upon the Indian agent, who one day, any day, could come to a house to announce, "We've decided that it's best for you and your children that they be sent to Spanish. There they'll be well taken care of, clothed, fed and educated. Here, they have little to eat and little to wear. Get them ready. The priest has already made arrangements for their admission to Spanish. I'll come for them next Monday. Now, if you and your husband should get back together..." (P. 8)
Even if by comparison with the abuse and maltreatment inflicted upon little boys in other institutions, the boys at Spanish received less malevolent treatment, the sense of hurt and alienation was not in any proportion diminished. Most of the boys were already hurt; they were orphans, waifs, cast-offs, exiles from family and home, who needed less of a heavy hand, a heavy foot, heavy words, and more of affection, approbation, companionship, praise, guidance, trust, laughter, regard, love, tenderness. (P. 7)
The entire institution was as nearly self-sufficient as the mid-north would allow. Under the guidance of priests and brothers, between 130 and 135 boys, with the exception of the four- and five-years-olds, ploughed, seeded and harvested potatoes, beans and other produce; milled the wheat and corn and baked the bread; forged the shoes and shod the horses; mixed the paints and painted the buildings; measured planks and repaired floors; cut the hides and made shoes; cut the bolts of textiles and tailored shirts and pants and pyjamas; fed and tended cows, horses, sheep and swine and even slaughtered them; and swept, dusted and polished floors and furniture. There was little in the entire institution that was not done by the inmates.
For our shelter, food, clothing and education the government doled out forty cents per student per day. Hockey sticks, balls, hats and coats came from donors. (P. 26)
Meanwhile "the babies" gathered around Father Mayhew as chicks gather around their mother, cheeping "Father! Father! Father!" and following him around wherever he went. They were a sad lot, this little crowd of babies; they seldom laughed or smiled and often cried and whimpered during the day and at night. Having no one in this world, in this institution, except this young scholastic to look to, to call for, to touch, to hold, these little waifs were even more wretched than we were.
There were two young men who, by disposition and temperament, were well suited to look after the little ones. The first was Father "Barney" Mayhew, S.J., a man of tremendous compassion and understanding, who served the "natives" until his recent retirement. During those years of ministry, he even acquired an "Indian outlook." He was always like an indulgent uncle.
The other, Father Schretlin, S.J., who came some years later, was made of sterner stuff, with a strong predilection for law, order and discipline. In no time after his appointment to Spanish, Father Schretlin had the little guys organized. From the way he had his charges standing at attention and in soldierly posture and formation we believed that he had a military background. But from the way the little shots cheerfully stood at attention on command, "forward marched" and followed him around, Father Schretlin must have been father, brother and uncle all rolled into one. (P. 61)
The boys who studied under Brother O'Keeffe were twice fortunate; once, to have learned reading, writing and arithmetic from him, and again to have heard him narrate stories. There was not a boy who was not influenced or enriched by Brother O'Keeffe's knowledge and love of and reverence for the word. (P. 64)
According to the boys who worked in the shoe shop and who helped him in the garden on occasion, it was good to work for Brother McLaren. As evidence of Brother McLaren's compassion, it was said that he would allow the volunteers a tomato or a cucumber to alleviate their hunger. The reason, if a reason were needed, for this compassion may have been his own experiences as an orphan or of having to scrounge for a meal as a hobo. (P. 68)
The feeling of abandonment, never far from the surface, welled up and was intensified by each boy's inability to understand why his parents had given him up and turned him over to the priests. No one had bothered to explain, "You're here because your parents are dead and we've been asked to look after you until ..."; or, "You were sent to us to look after because your father is dead and your mother cannot care for you"; or, "Your parents are no longer living together. We're going to look after you until they are reconciled." Even if such explanations had been given, it is doubtful that the hurts felt on Christmas would have been assuaged by one degree. (P. 80)
Father Hawkins came out of his office. "You speak Indian, Martin?" he asked.
Martin didn't even bat an eye as he shook his head.
"No, Father. Not me. You tol' us not to talk Indian. It's against the rules, you said," and Martin continued to shake his head.
I knew Martin wasn't telling the truth. He had helped old Father Richard just the other day with a translation of the Bible. He read the Bible and provided translations and the meanings of words while Father Richard recorded the translations on a drafting board using letter blocks to spell out the words, which he then checked by means of a magnifying glass, so bad had his eyesight become. On the one hand we were forbidden to talk our native language, but on the other hand we were expected to assist Father Richard. It was a rule that was not too easily enforced. Many boys spoke their language without fear beyond the hearing of prefects. (P. 105)
As they had for many nights past, the boys assembled by the fire escape to sneak out and down the stairs, quietly. "Shshshsh."
From the dark a voice whispered "All right, boys! Where do you think you're going?!"
It was Father Brown.
"Well, we were thinking of going horseback riding," Alvin admitted resignedly.
"Okay, boys, the jig's up. This is the last night that you ride, is that clear? And I'm coming with you on this last trip. I've never ridden a horse, and it's something that I've always wanted to try. After this, you will ride no more. Promise? And I won't say anything."
The boys promised, then took Father Brown on a leisurely ride to Cutler and back. The rides ended that night.
As they discussed Father Brown's warning and advice, the boys expressed their admiration for the new prefect. "He's a good guy, him," they said. (P. 147)
Despite his confidence in the boys' ultimate acquiescence, Father Oliver still had much convincing to do. Right from the start he conducted personal interviews with the boys, which he continued throughout the year.
He called Boozo into his office and came directly to the point.
"Harold! If you were to quit school right now, what would you do?"
Never having given the matter any thought, Harold was speechless.
Father Oliver pressed on. "Come on, don't be shy. Surely, with your graduation just ten months away you must have made some plans for future?"
Harold had no such idea in his mind; he had nothing to say.
"Suppose, just suppose, that this school were to burn down today, and let us suppose you had a home to go to, what would you do? This is not a trick question intended to trap you, so you need not be afraid. I'm looking for information. I want to know what you intend to when you graduate. Take a wild guess!"
"Lumber camp, I suppose," "Boozo wild-guessed.
"How old are you?"
"Fifteen."
"Think they'd hire you at your size?"
"No."
"What have you been trained to do here?"
"Well, I worked in the tailor shop an' I'm working in the chicken coop right now."
"Would you like to be a chicken farmer?"
"No."
"Would you like to be a tailor?"
"No."
"Then what would you like to do?"
"I don't know."
"Precisely. You don't know what to do, any of you."
Father Oliver let this observation sink in before he continued.
"It is because you don't know what to do and because you'll never be a tailor or a chicken farmer that something must be done about your further education. It is to give you boys a chance for a better future that we are considering a high-school program in the school next year.
"But that's up to you boys. It's not up to me or the faculty; it's not up to the government; it's not up to anybody but you boys whether this school institutes a high-school program. We would like you to think about it... and let us know soon." (P. 166)
"I want to emphasize, so that you clearly understand, that no one can make you stay in school as of next year. No one can force you to go to high school." (P. 167)
Eventually, in exasperation over these stalling tactics and lack of cooperation, Father Oliver notified the department that he was proceeding with plans to institute a high-school program in Spanish come hell, high water or Indian Affairs, and that he was going to go to the press with full particulars of the department's opposition to Indian residential-school students' further education. (P. 172)
Certified teachers were scarce, and the way Indian Affairs was reacting to Father Oliver's request, money was even scarcer. Father Oliver recruited teachers from within the institution.
"I want to see you in my office this afternoon at 1:30," he told Brother Manseau after lunch one day.
During the next half hour Brother Manseau must have scoured his conscience for lapses in the continent usage of the English language in the recent past, and wondered whether he were about to be sent on retreat again... and for how long.
"Sit down, Brother," Father Oliver said affably in French when Brother Manseau entered the Father Superior's office promptly at 1:30.
"Between now and September, Brother, I want you to learn all that you need to know about English grammar. You will teach Grade 8 this coming year and Grade 9 the following year. If you need books or any kind of help, come and see me. Is that clear? Do you think that the chicken coop and tailor shop can manage without you for a couple of hours each day while you learn and teach?"
"Hell, yes..." Brother Manseau checked himself. "I'm sorry, me, Father," he apologized. "I mean... of course, the dang chicken, they can look after themself an' lie by themself for a whiles." (P. 173)
We had scarcely put away the football uniforms or recovered from our pains than we began the basketball season. But that was the system in Spanish, the Jesuit system, always playing, always occupied in something or other, seldom permitted to lounge or relax, even after meals. (P. 207)
"Boys," Father Oliver began, "in another seven months you will be leaving school. There are a few things that you need to know in order for you to get along - practical things that you have not had occasion to learn here. We want people to say of you that you are gentlemen, and that you trained at Spanish. So we are going to teach you a few 'social graces' - manners - before you leave. Tonight I will teach you table manners." We giggled. (P. 226)
"You're going to learn how to dance. Properly! The way they dance in cities. You're not going to be square dancing much any more."
"Where's the girls?" Julius inquired.
"No girls."
"Line up, side by side." We lined up, close together.
"Now then. You're going to learn to waltz. You must listen to the music."
The record squeaked and scratched and whined.
"Okay, count, one, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three." We stood there counting and wondering why we had to repeat "One, two, three; one, two, three." (P. 228)
On the fifth Saturday we were summoned by Father Oliver, who met us at the study-hall doorway. He whispered, "Get washed and put on your finest. When you're ready, come down to the recreation hall. I want you to come down all together." He went out.
During our preparations, we tried to guess what the occasion might be but couldn't imagine what Father Oliver was up to now. Dressed in our finest, we went downstairs.
"Girls!" We were dumbfounded yet excited. "Girls from St. Joseph's across the road!"
"All right boys! Come on! Ask the girls to dance!"
We all made for our sisters. (P. 229)
Father McDonough, sixty or sixty-five, balding and tall, came out looking very nervous. We all knelt down to pray with him as he beseeched heaven for guidance and maybe for inspiration.
"Ahem... I have a very difficult subject ahem ... to discuss ... with you... today. ahem ."
"I want to talk to you...ahem... about ... sex... ahem, ahem."
"Hell!" Ernie said smugly, poking me in the ribs with his elbow, "I know all about that already. My brother told me." (P. 230)
"All right, boys! What'll it be tonight, train or bus?" he asked, his tone sharp with menace and his grey eyes ablaze. We were thunderstruck with the finality of his question and the fire in his eyes.
"Well, train or bus?" he repeated.
"You! Train or bus?" Father aimed his voice and glare at Alfie.
"I don't wanna go," our colleague stammered.
"What do you mean, you don't want to go." Father Oliver's words were coated with ice. "You don't like it here. All fall you've been complaining about this and that; whining. If you don't like it here, you're free to leave. We won't hold you. In fact, we'll be glad to see you elsewhere, some place where you'll be happy. That's what ordinary people do when they don't like a place. They leave. But you you complain and grumble and when you're given the opportunity to leave, you refuse. I don't understand. Well, train or bus?"
"I don't wanna go."
"What's the complaint?"
"We want beans, Father; we don't have enough to eat," our companion blurted out.
"Beans!" Father spat out contemptuously. (P. 237)
"How long have you been here, Alfie?" Father Oliver turned on Alfie.
"Twelve years."
"How big were you when you came here?"
"I was pretty small."
"How tall are you now?"
"Five foot seven, five foot eight." "How much do you weigh?"
"One-fifty."
"Have you ever been sick?"
"No."
"Have you ever missed a meal?"
"No."
"Have any meals ever made you sick?"
"No."
"Then what seems to be the problem? You've all grown since you've been here. No one has ever got sick from the meals served; no one has died. You all look mighty healthy to me. And still you complain." And Father Oliver paused to let his words sink in. "Well? Train or bus, Alf?"
"I don't wanna go."
"You?" to Julius.
"No," Julius mumbled and shook his head.
"You?" to Dominic.
"No, Father."
"Anyone?"
"No."
"Get out." (P. 238)
Johnston was taken away from his family at the age of ten because his father was not around and an agent from the Department of Indian Affairs concluded - whether rightly or wrongly - that his mother could not handle five children on her own. One of his sisters accompanied him to Spanish, where she attended the all-girls school that was run by the Daughters of Mary across the street. Johnston later returned to the boys school voluntarily to receive a high school education.
As you would expect, Johnson describes the hardships that are common to all residential school students, from homesickness to having to adjust to a very regimented schedule. Everyone's hair gets cut off on the first day of school to prevent the spread of lice. But worst of all, students are always hungry, even if not so hungry as to have their growth stunted. Since the Department of Indian Affairs wanted to make these schools as self-sustaining as possible, it fell on the students to grow much of their own food and to make much of their own clothing. Whether they actually learned anything useful in the process is debatable.
"Indian School Days" was the first memoir to be published by an Indian residential school student. The year of publication (1988) is significant in that it predates the politicization of these schools. It was not until the 1990s that lawyers began to turn abuse in residential schools into a multibillion dollar industry, and it was not until the 2000s that it became politically incorrect to say anything good about them at all.
But Johnston does indeed have good things to say. He is grateful that the education he received allowed him to pursue a professional career, and he even has good things to say about his Jesuit teachers. Although the students were made to speak English, so too were the Jesuits, who spoke broken English in their French and German accents.
However, Johnston has negative things to say as well. Although there is no mention of sexual abuse, he does describe multiple strappings. In the opening chapter, for example, he describes being strapped in the hands by his lay teacher, Miss Burke, after skipping class and mooning the girl who was sent to bring him back (P. 17). Although strappings may may have been normal at schools across the country, corporal punishment was not normally practiced by Indigenous parents. These strappings contributed to a culture shock that led some students to try to run away from their schools.
An excellent companion to this memoir is Professor David Shanahan's history, "The Jesuit Residential School at Spanish: More than Mere Talent," available for purchase at the Anishinabe Spiritual Centre in Spanish, Ontario. You can also purchase a publication of experts from the school diary, focusing on the flu epidemic of 1917-1918.
In addition to writing the most balanced account of Indian residential schools you can find, Basil Johnson will also have you laughing out loud from time to time. The writing style is playful and the content is safe for high-schoolers, who will relate to young people rebelling against authority and occasionally breaking the rules.
Quotations:
Most of the 135 inmates of Spanish, ranging in age from four to sixteen, with the occasional seventeen-year-old, came from broken homes; some were orphans, having lost one or both parents; others were committed to the institution as punishment for some misdemeanor; and a few were enrolled by their parents in order to receive some education and training.
The reason for and the mode of my own committal were typical. My parents had separated, and, following the break-up, Mother, my four sisters and I lived with my grandmother for a while.
But unknown to either my mother or my grandmother, the Indian agent and the priest had conferred - with nothing but our welfare in mind, of course - and decided that not even the combined efforts of Grandmother and Mother were enough to look after five children and that they ought to be relieved of two of their burdens. (P. 19)
Lastly, in reply to the inevitable question, "Is there a place for residential schools in the educational system?", I respond with a qualified yes. Some who attended Garnier after 1946 have said, "It was probably the best thing that could have happened to me." However, for those going to St. Peter Claver's in the pre-Garnier days, it was "the worst possible experience." Just as private schools have a place in the educational system, so too do the residential schools, but under vastly different terms, conditions and formats from those that existed in the residential school as I first encountered it. (P. 12)
The women, mothers in their early twenties and thirties, along with the grandmothers, must have suffered as much anguish as their sons and daughters. Many did not speak English, many had little more than Grade 3 education, and even those with Grades 7 and 8 could not understand the Indian Act and the powers that it conferred upon the Indian agent, who one day, any day, could come to a house to announce, "We've decided that it's best for you and your children that they be sent to Spanish. There they'll be well taken care of, clothed, fed and educated. Here, they have little to eat and little to wear. Get them ready. The priest has already made arrangements for their admission to Spanish. I'll come for them next Monday. Now, if you and your husband should get back together..." (P. 8)
Even if by comparison with the abuse and maltreatment inflicted upon little boys in other institutions, the boys at Spanish received less malevolent treatment, the sense of hurt and alienation was not in any proportion diminished. Most of the boys were already hurt; they were orphans, waifs, cast-offs, exiles from family and home, who needed less of a heavy hand, a heavy foot, heavy words, and more of affection, approbation, companionship, praise, guidance, trust, laughter, regard, love, tenderness. (P. 7)
The entire institution was as nearly self-sufficient as the mid-north would allow. Under the guidance of priests and brothers, between 130 and 135 boys, with the exception of the four- and five-years-olds, ploughed, seeded and harvested potatoes, beans and other produce; milled the wheat and corn and baked the bread; forged the shoes and shod the horses; mixed the paints and painted the buildings; measured planks and repaired floors; cut the hides and made shoes; cut the bolts of textiles and tailored shirts and pants and pyjamas; fed and tended cows, horses, sheep and swine and even slaughtered them; and swept, dusted and polished floors and furniture. There was little in the entire institution that was not done by the inmates.
For our shelter, food, clothing and education the government doled out forty cents per student per day. Hockey sticks, balls, hats and coats came from donors. (P. 26)
Meanwhile "the babies" gathered around Father Mayhew as chicks gather around their mother, cheeping "Father! Father! Father!" and following him around wherever he went. They were a sad lot, this little crowd of babies; they seldom laughed or smiled and often cried and whimpered during the day and at night. Having no one in this world, in this institution, except this young scholastic to look to, to call for, to touch, to hold, these little waifs were even more wretched than we were.
There were two young men who, by disposition and temperament, were well suited to look after the little ones. The first was Father "Barney" Mayhew, S.J., a man of tremendous compassion and understanding, who served the "natives" until his recent retirement. During those years of ministry, he even acquired an "Indian outlook." He was always like an indulgent uncle.
The other, Father Schretlin, S.J., who came some years later, was made of sterner stuff, with a strong predilection for law, order and discipline. In no time after his appointment to Spanish, Father Schretlin had the little guys organized. From the way he had his charges standing at attention and in soldierly posture and formation we believed that he had a military background. But from the way the little shots cheerfully stood at attention on command, "forward marched" and followed him around, Father Schretlin must have been father, brother and uncle all rolled into one. (P. 61)
The boys who studied under Brother O'Keeffe were twice fortunate; once, to have learned reading, writing and arithmetic from him, and again to have heard him narrate stories. There was not a boy who was not influenced or enriched by Brother O'Keeffe's knowledge and love of and reverence for the word. (P. 64)
According to the boys who worked in the shoe shop and who helped him in the garden on occasion, it was good to work for Brother McLaren. As evidence of Brother McLaren's compassion, it was said that he would allow the volunteers a tomato or a cucumber to alleviate their hunger. The reason, if a reason were needed, for this compassion may have been his own experiences as an orphan or of having to scrounge for a meal as a hobo. (P. 68)
The feeling of abandonment, never far from the surface, welled up and was intensified by each boy's inability to understand why his parents had given him up and turned him over to the priests. No one had bothered to explain, "You're here because your parents are dead and we've been asked to look after you until ..."; or, "You were sent to us to look after because your father is dead and your mother cannot care for you"; or, "Your parents are no longer living together. We're going to look after you until they are reconciled." Even if such explanations had been given, it is doubtful that the hurts felt on Christmas would have been assuaged by one degree. (P. 80)
Father Hawkins came out of his office. "You speak Indian, Martin?" he asked.
Martin didn't even bat an eye as he shook his head.
"No, Father. Not me. You tol' us not to talk Indian. It's against the rules, you said," and Martin continued to shake his head.
I knew Martin wasn't telling the truth. He had helped old Father Richard just the other day with a translation of the Bible. He read the Bible and provided translations and the meanings of words while Father Richard recorded the translations on a drafting board using letter blocks to spell out the words, which he then checked by means of a magnifying glass, so bad had his eyesight become. On the one hand we were forbidden to talk our native language, but on the other hand we were expected to assist Father Richard. It was a rule that was not too easily enforced. Many boys spoke their language without fear beyond the hearing of prefects. (P. 105)
As they had for many nights past, the boys assembled by the fire escape to sneak out and down the stairs, quietly. "Shshshsh."
From the dark a voice whispered "All right, boys! Where do you think you're going?!"
It was Father Brown.
"Well, we were thinking of going horseback riding," Alvin admitted resignedly.
"Okay, boys, the jig's up. This is the last night that you ride, is that clear? And I'm coming with you on this last trip. I've never ridden a horse, and it's something that I've always wanted to try. After this, you will ride no more. Promise? And I won't say anything."
The boys promised, then took Father Brown on a leisurely ride to Cutler and back. The rides ended that night.
As they discussed Father Brown's warning and advice, the boys expressed their admiration for the new prefect. "He's a good guy, him," they said. (P. 147)
Despite his confidence in the boys' ultimate acquiescence, Father Oliver still had much convincing to do. Right from the start he conducted personal interviews with the boys, which he continued throughout the year.
He called Boozo into his office and came directly to the point.
"Harold! If you were to quit school right now, what would you do?"
Never having given the matter any thought, Harold was speechless.
Father Oliver pressed on. "Come on, don't be shy. Surely, with your graduation just ten months away you must have made some plans for future?"
Harold had no such idea in his mind; he had nothing to say.
"Suppose, just suppose, that this school were to burn down today, and let us suppose you had a home to go to, what would you do? This is not a trick question intended to trap you, so you need not be afraid. I'm looking for information. I want to know what you intend to when you graduate. Take a wild guess!"
"Lumber camp, I suppose," "Boozo wild-guessed.
"How old are you?"
"Fifteen."
"Think they'd hire you at your size?"
"No."
"What have you been trained to do here?"
"Well, I worked in the tailor shop an' I'm working in the chicken coop right now."
"Would you like to be a chicken farmer?"
"No."
"Would you like to be a tailor?"
"No."
"Then what would you like to do?"
"I don't know."
"Precisely. You don't know what to do, any of you."
Father Oliver let this observation sink in before he continued.
"It is because you don't know what to do and because you'll never be a tailor or a chicken farmer that something must be done about your further education. It is to give you boys a chance for a better future that we are considering a high-school program in the school next year.
"But that's up to you boys. It's not up to me or the faculty; it's not up to the government; it's not up to anybody but you boys whether this school institutes a high-school program. We would like you to think about it... and let us know soon." (P. 166)
"I want to emphasize, so that you clearly understand, that no one can make you stay in school as of next year. No one can force you to go to high school." (P. 167)
Eventually, in exasperation over these stalling tactics and lack of cooperation, Father Oliver notified the department that he was proceeding with plans to institute a high-school program in Spanish come hell, high water or Indian Affairs, and that he was going to go to the press with full particulars of the department's opposition to Indian residential-school students' further education. (P. 172)
Certified teachers were scarce, and the way Indian Affairs was reacting to Father Oliver's request, money was even scarcer. Father Oliver recruited teachers from within the institution.
"I want to see you in my office this afternoon at 1:30," he told Brother Manseau after lunch one day.
During the next half hour Brother Manseau must have scoured his conscience for lapses in the continent usage of the English language in the recent past, and wondered whether he were about to be sent on retreat again... and for how long.
"Sit down, Brother," Father Oliver said affably in French when Brother Manseau entered the Father Superior's office promptly at 1:30.
"Between now and September, Brother, I want you to learn all that you need to know about English grammar. You will teach Grade 8 this coming year and Grade 9 the following year. If you need books or any kind of help, come and see me. Is that clear? Do you think that the chicken coop and tailor shop can manage without you for a couple of hours each day while you learn and teach?"
"Hell, yes..." Brother Manseau checked himself. "I'm sorry, me, Father," he apologized. "I mean... of course, the dang chicken, they can look after themself an' lie by themself for a whiles." (P. 173)
We had scarcely put away the football uniforms or recovered from our pains than we began the basketball season. But that was the system in Spanish, the Jesuit system, always playing, always occupied in something or other, seldom permitted to lounge or relax, even after meals. (P. 207)
"Boys," Father Oliver began, "in another seven months you will be leaving school. There are a few things that you need to know in order for you to get along - practical things that you have not had occasion to learn here. We want people to say of you that you are gentlemen, and that you trained at Spanish. So we are going to teach you a few 'social graces' - manners - before you leave. Tonight I will teach you table manners." We giggled. (P. 226)
"You're going to learn how to dance. Properly! The way they dance in cities. You're not going to be square dancing much any more."
"Where's the girls?" Julius inquired.
"No girls."
"Line up, side by side." We lined up, close together.
"Now then. You're going to learn to waltz. You must listen to the music."
The record squeaked and scratched and whined.
"Okay, count, one, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three." We stood there counting and wondering why we had to repeat "One, two, three; one, two, three." (P. 228)
On the fifth Saturday we were summoned by Father Oliver, who met us at the study-hall doorway. He whispered, "Get washed and put on your finest. When you're ready, come down to the recreation hall. I want you to come down all together." He went out.
During our preparations, we tried to guess what the occasion might be but couldn't imagine what Father Oliver was up to now. Dressed in our finest, we went downstairs.
"Girls!" We were dumbfounded yet excited. "Girls from St. Joseph's across the road!"
"All right boys! Come on! Ask the girls to dance!"
We all made for our sisters. (P. 229)
Father McDonough, sixty or sixty-five, balding and tall, came out looking very nervous. We all knelt down to pray with him as he beseeched heaven for guidance and maybe for inspiration.
"Ahem... I have a very difficult subject ahem ... to discuss ... with you... today. ahem ."
"I want to talk to you...ahem... about ... sex... ahem, ahem."
"Hell!" Ernie said smugly, poking me in the ribs with his elbow, "I know all about that already. My brother told me." (P. 230)
"All right, boys! What'll it be tonight, train or bus?" he asked, his tone sharp with menace and his grey eyes ablaze. We were thunderstruck with the finality of his question and the fire in his eyes.
"Well, train or bus?" he repeated.
"You! Train or bus?" Father aimed his voice and glare at Alfie.
"I don't wanna go," our colleague stammered.
"What do you mean, you don't want to go." Father Oliver's words were coated with ice. "You don't like it here. All fall you've been complaining about this and that; whining. If you don't like it here, you're free to leave. We won't hold you. In fact, we'll be glad to see you elsewhere, some place where you'll be happy. That's what ordinary people do when they don't like a place. They leave. But you you complain and grumble and when you're given the opportunity to leave, you refuse. I don't understand. Well, train or bus?"
"I don't wanna go."
"What's the complaint?"
"We want beans, Father; we don't have enough to eat," our companion blurted out.
"Beans!" Father spat out contemptuously. (P. 237)
"How long have you been here, Alfie?" Father Oliver turned on Alfie.
"Twelve years."
"How big were you when you came here?"
"I was pretty small."
"How tall are you now?"
"Five foot seven, five foot eight." "How much do you weigh?"
"One-fifty."
"Have you ever been sick?"
"No."
"Have you ever missed a meal?"
"No."
"Have any meals ever made you sick?"
"No."
"Then what seems to be the problem? You've all grown since you've been here. No one has ever got sick from the meals served; no one has died. You all look mighty healthy to me. And still you complain." And Father Oliver paused to let his words sink in. "Well? Train or bus, Alf?"
"I don't wanna go."
"You?" to Julius.
"No," Julius mumbled and shook his head.
"You?" to Dominic.
"No, Father."
"Anyone?"
"No."
"Get out." (P. 238)
June 13, 2022
"Indian School Days" is Basil Johnston's memoir of his time at a Canadian residential school in the 40's and 50's. It is a difficult book to read as Johnston does recount the way students were treated in these schools. More impressive are the way the young men in this book found ways to resist in the circumstances they lived in.
This is an excellent memoir and well worth reading.
This is an excellent memoir and well worth reading.
November 7, 2017
This was... good. Interesting--different from what I thought it was going to be, and like, in a good way. I thought this was going to be like, super academic and boring, but it wasn't. It was an actually very engagingly written memoir, and I really enjoyed it. It was a good time, man.
May 10, 2016
Basil Johnston was, with his four-year-old sister Marilyn, effectively kidnapped in 1939 by an Indian agent who had decided, with a local priest, that the Johnston kids' mother and grandmother couldn't possibly cope with five children, especially after their mother and father had separated. Like many Native waifs, orphans, and children of broken homes in his area of northern Ontario, Basil was sent to St. Peter Claver's Indian Residential School (from 1945 on, the Garnier Residential School) and Marilyn to St. Joseph's School.
Johnston does an excellent job of describing the workhouse atmosphere of Spanish from 1939-1944, showing it to be a dreary holding pen for Canadian Natives (who were "wards of the Crown," not Canadian citizens ) that masqueraded as a self-supporting school. He speaks of children and teens being given half-days of education (if they weren't removed from class to labor, which apparently happened often) and set to gardening, plowing, milking, making uniforms in the tailor shop, cobbling, tending chickens, and manure shoveling the rest of the time. The boys ate "sad ol' mush" and thin soup while the priests monopolized hams, pork roasts and fresh eggs. Many, like Johnston, did not see their families from one year to the next. And they were beaten and berated for the slightest infraction of the rules...sometimes for imagined infractions. It is Dickensian in its awfulness, clearly designed to punish Native kids for being Native until they learned that they were to do menial work and never answer back.
The three years Johnston spent at Garnier Residential School (1947-1950)--after one priest had the revolutionary idea (sadly, this really WAS revolutionary) to teach Native teens a high school curriculum and prepare them for college and office work--describes it in different terms. Garnier transforms into an actual school that abandons half-day classes and nearly non-stop chores; the food improves; capable and, in a couple of cases, enthusiastic teachers begin trickling in. But there are still echoes of St. Peter Claver's in Garnier: the lack of decent clothing for a football team (leading to the football pants sewn by students to come apart on the field during a game); the used textbooks and outdated equipment that were the only educational materials that Garnier could afford; and the absolute refusal of the Department of Indian Affairs in Ottawa to contribute anything to Native education until faced with a fait accompli in the form of a priest who decided to reform the school with or without their financial contribution.
Spanish was a loathsome place, especially during 1939-1944; there is no doubt of that. But what we do not hear about is as distinctive as what we do. We learn nothing of St. Peter Claver's sister school, St. Joseph's, for example, save that the Native girls were better dressed and got cornflakes or puffed rice for breakfast. Johnston only mentions one "rebellion" (a sit-in at Garnier, followed by several conversations, to get the priests to start serving Boston baked beans, one of the few "luxury items" in the student diet, once more), but no attempts to destroy the weapons that the priests used to beat them, no rage against injustice, no frustration, no despair. Johnston speaks almost constantly about the pranks and mischief that various boys got into--and I regret that I could not keep them or their nicknames straight no matter how hard I tried--but he does not speak much about feelings, either his own or others. It is a memoir, but I get the impression that it is a heavily edited one in which jokes and mischief are used to keep old, bleak nightmares at bay.
Perhaps Johnston did not want to relive some memories. Perhaps he felt that he did not have the right to reveal the pain or misery of his schoolmates and did not want to discuss his own. I don't know. But I felt that there must have been more to the story. The sensation that there was more, just out of reach, is why I gave the book three stars instead of four.
Johnston does an excellent job of describing the workhouse atmosphere of Spanish from 1939-1944, showing it to be a dreary holding pen for Canadian Natives (who were "wards of the Crown," not Canadian citizens ) that masqueraded as a self-supporting school. He speaks of children and teens being given half-days of education (if they weren't removed from class to labor, which apparently happened often) and set to gardening, plowing, milking, making uniforms in the tailor shop, cobbling, tending chickens, and manure shoveling the rest of the time. The boys ate "sad ol' mush" and thin soup while the priests monopolized hams, pork roasts and fresh eggs. Many, like Johnston, did not see their families from one year to the next. And they were beaten and berated for the slightest infraction of the rules...sometimes for imagined infractions. It is Dickensian in its awfulness, clearly designed to punish Native kids for being Native until they learned that they were to do menial work and never answer back.
The three years Johnston spent at Garnier Residential School (1947-1950)--after one priest had the revolutionary idea (sadly, this really WAS revolutionary) to teach Native teens a high school curriculum and prepare them for college and office work--describes it in different terms. Garnier transforms into an actual school that abandons half-day classes and nearly non-stop chores; the food improves; capable and, in a couple of cases, enthusiastic teachers begin trickling in. But there are still echoes of St. Peter Claver's in Garnier: the lack of decent clothing for a football team (leading to the football pants sewn by students to come apart on the field during a game); the used textbooks and outdated equipment that were the only educational materials that Garnier could afford; and the absolute refusal of the Department of Indian Affairs in Ottawa to contribute anything to Native education until faced with a fait accompli in the form of a priest who decided to reform the school with or without their financial contribution.
Spanish was a loathsome place, especially during 1939-1944; there is no doubt of that. But what we do not hear about is as distinctive as what we do. We learn nothing of St. Peter Claver's sister school, St. Joseph's, for example, save that the Native girls were better dressed and got cornflakes or puffed rice for breakfast. Johnston only mentions one "rebellion" (a sit-in at Garnier, followed by several conversations, to get the priests to start serving Boston baked beans, one of the few "luxury items" in the student diet, once more), but no attempts to destroy the weapons that the priests used to beat them, no rage against injustice, no frustration, no despair. Johnston speaks almost constantly about the pranks and mischief that various boys got into--and I regret that I could not keep them or their nicknames straight no matter how hard I tried--but he does not speak much about feelings, either his own or others. It is a memoir, but I get the impression that it is a heavily edited one in which jokes and mischief are used to keep old, bleak nightmares at bay.
Perhaps Johnston did not want to relive some memories. Perhaps he felt that he did not have the right to reveal the pain or misery of his schoolmates and did not want to discuss his own. I don't know. But I felt that there must have been more to the story. The sensation that there was more, just out of reach, is why I gave the book three stars instead of four.
February 9, 2013
An amazing autobiography - while Johnston's account is infused with humour, underneath lies an emotionally devastating portrayal of the residential school experience - Johnston is a gentle storyteller but that doesn't mean that he fails to portray the world of Garnier Indian Residential as anything other than soul-destroying
October 13, 2018
An exceptional account of life in a residential school for indigenous children in mid-twentieth century Ontario, from the perspective of the author, who went on to become a lecturer in Ethnology at the Royal Ontario Museum. I highly recommend this book.
October 20, 2009
Extremely memorable. This book really opened my eyes as to how the native American children were taken from their families and the hardships they endured at these boarding schools.
January 2, 2021
Insightful reading of indigenous. Must read for Canadians.
June 23, 2021
This book chronicles the story of one boy in a residential school in Ontario Canada. Interestingly though, while the story is a memoir, it doesn't center on the authour as much as I anticipated. It feels like both a memoir of his experience as well as a reflection on the school as a whole in that time frame. At times it feels as though the authour is an observer in the scenarios he describes, which is not the case, but I just think is an interesting reflection on the authour that he chooses to write of tales that center on other boys and staff.
This book is both fun as a short story collection, as well as informative in helping the readers understand the way of life in one residential school. I think that for many Canadiens (like me) who do not have close friends and/or family who attended residential schools, the discussion around residential schools and their lasting impact tends to be a big picture view. This big picture is important as it helps us recognize patterns of abuse, neglect, lasting trauma, and intentionally broken culture and traditions. However, in addition to the big picture, in order to address this system with compassion for those who experienced (and continue to experience the effects of) it, it is important to understand those involved as human beings. This book helps to highlight how each of the children who attended these schools is different and that the experience is more than a statistic, but one of many childs formative years. I hope to read other accounts of residential school children to be able to also think of the schools as separate. I think understanding that each child's experience is unique helps us listen with compassion.
To be honest, if I wee the editor, I would have split this book into more sections. Some of the chapters were a composition of multiple distinct short stories. Not only that, but their titles would reflect that, i.e. Football, chemistry, and tired chickens. I would have just separated that chapter into three chapters each containing a story. I think these longer chapters stopped me from making faster progress. I thought this book would be faster than it was, and part of that was chapter division, and another was that I felt disrespectful to read quickly or to skim words in other languages. Hopefully as I read more books from indigenous authours, I will feel more freedom to read as I usually would.
This book is both fun as a short story collection, as well as informative in helping the readers understand the way of life in one residential school. I think that for many Canadiens (like me) who do not have close friends and/or family who attended residential schools, the discussion around residential schools and their lasting impact tends to be a big picture view. This big picture is important as it helps us recognize patterns of abuse, neglect, lasting trauma, and intentionally broken culture and traditions. However, in addition to the big picture, in order to address this system with compassion for those who experienced (and continue to experience the effects of) it, it is important to understand those involved as human beings. This book helps to highlight how each of the children who attended these schools is different and that the experience is more than a statistic, but one of many childs formative years. I hope to read other accounts of residential school children to be able to also think of the schools as separate. I think understanding that each child's experience is unique helps us listen with compassion.
To be honest, if I wee the editor, I would have split this book into more sections. Some of the chapters were a composition of multiple distinct short stories. Not only that, but their titles would reflect that, i.e. Football, chemistry, and tired chickens. I would have just separated that chapter into three chapters each containing a story. I think these longer chapters stopped me from making faster progress. I thought this book would be faster than it was, and part of that was chapter division, and another was that I felt disrespectful to read quickly or to skim words in other languages. Hopefully as I read more books from indigenous authours, I will feel more freedom to read as I usually would.
October 5, 2025
This was a different book than I thought it would be going in. Johnston starts with an introduction that talks about how hard the residential school system was, how it ripped apart families and left young children isolated, torn out of their support system, with very little to nurture them. There is mention of how hard they work, how poorly they are fed, and how corporal punishment was common. And how they were deprived of their language, and told not to follow the teachings of their ancestors.
But that's not the focus of the book. Once Johnston establishes the case against the residential schools, he then turns to somewhat nostalgic reminiscences. The school wasn't good, but he and the other boys found ways to survive, to push back against the system where they could, and to find ways to make the time go faster and more pleasantly. He recounts a number of humorous anecdotes about both the other students and the teachers. And he gives the names of his fellow students, and tells you what they went on to do when he can. So the book becomes a historical record of what life was like there, who these people were, and how they managed to make a world for themselves despite the situation.
An interesting account by an accomplished writer.
But that's not the focus of the book. Once Johnston establishes the case against the residential schools, he then turns to somewhat nostalgic reminiscences. The school wasn't good, but he and the other boys found ways to survive, to push back against the system where they could, and to find ways to make the time go faster and more pleasantly. He recounts a number of humorous anecdotes about both the other students and the teachers. And he gives the names of his fellow students, and tells you what they went on to do when he can. So the book becomes a historical record of what life was like there, who these people were, and how they managed to make a world for themselves despite the situation.
An interesting account by an accomplished writer.
October 22, 2018
This book wasn’t what I expected it to be. To be honest, I’d expected some horrendous treatment of the Indian boys in the residential schools, and I feel like it’s still there, with the shaved heads and preventing them from speaking their mother languages, but it’s very subtle, IMO. It is Basil’s story of how he’s taken by the Indian Agents after his parents split up and thrown into the school called Spanish and once he’s out at 16, he returns for a high school education and the book ends with the first graduates of the high school program. But in between, there’s a lot of the chaos caused by the boys as they’re growing up, all the different experiences, confessions, the Fathers not believing them when they tell the truth, the thrashings, and all the trouble they get in. It’s set against the backdrop of WW2 so I’d expected more war-related issues to come up but they’re in Ontario, so I suppose not.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
March 10, 2022
I never reviewed this/marked it as read?!
This is one of the earliest personal accounts of the residential school system I have come across- and how important it is amongst the recent discovery of all the human remains at old school sites. Johnston talks about his day to day experiences as well as the overarching system of Residential Schools. He does not mince words when describing the abuse- saying students were always hungry, the children were inmates, and the education was subpar. He did find comradery with some officials that tried to change the system from within, but ultimately the lack of funding hindered their efforts.
One thing he doesn't mention is sexual abuse that happened, even though in later interviews he does talk about him having been abused. I'm guessing he wasn't ready to write that down in this book?
I also appreciated the index at the back of the list of his classmates and what became of them- what a great resource.
This is one of the earliest personal accounts of the residential school system I have come across- and how important it is amongst the recent discovery of all the human remains at old school sites. Johnston talks about his day to day experiences as well as the overarching system of Residential Schools. He does not mince words when describing the abuse- saying students were always hungry, the children were inmates, and the education was subpar. He did find comradery with some officials that tried to change the system from within, but ultimately the lack of funding hindered their efforts.
One thing he doesn't mention is sexual abuse that happened, even though in later interviews he does talk about him having been abused. I'm guessing he wasn't ready to write that down in this book?
I also appreciated the index at the back of the list of his classmates and what became of them- what a great resource.
September 28, 2021
When my daughter lived and worked in Sudbury, Ontario a few years ago, I drove through the town of Spanish a few times. It was nice to picture the setting of this school on the north shore of Lake Huron as I read this memoir of the twelve years that Basil Johnston spent at St. Peter Claver Indian School. While he has harsh words about the school in general, the stories he tells about his time there mainly bring out the friendship and hi jinks of he and his classmates. The author is a wonderful story teller, so while the school was not the best place to attend, he tells of his time with a lot of humor. In the end, you can sense both his appreciation for the education he received, the friendships he made, and the character of the priests and brothers who ran the place.
January 5, 2019
This a was different book in Canadian Indigenous Literature as the writer has a very humerous account of all the tragedies of residential schools yet the tragedies can still be seen through those light and witty comments. I found the book very repitative and a bit boring by the end. A must read for any body interested in indigenous education in general and residential schools specifically.
February 8, 2022
so much is said in what is not said in this book. with very little retrospective insight, the child narrator (basil himself) provides insight and witnesses his own traumas in ways that complicate the readers expectations of a residential school testimonial.
May 14, 2022
Basil Johnston immerses his reader in his experience as a boy compelled to attend a Jesuit boarding school in western Ontario. Dorms, mess, chapel, class, sports, camping, friendship, mischief, discipline--funny and gut-wrenching by turns.
October 13, 2022
An honest and humorous account of his elementary and secondary school days at the residential school in Spanish, Ontario. Basil gives us information about the history of the various towns and villages of the North Shore of Lake Huron - quite interesting for residents and cottagers.
March 10, 2024
Interesting perspective on a Native American young man in the 1940s attending a residential school
December 4, 2014
Although, it has been some time, I've read Ojibway Heritage by Basil Johnston, therefore, i expected something a bit different in terms of voice.
Read
October 16, 2014I read this book 20 years ago and remember it being an interesting read.
December 22, 2015
Read for AMIN 3201W paper
April 4, 2017
I enjoyed this. Lots of great stories he shared. The writing made I feel like I was there.
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