Charlotte Makes Photos

It was a perfect case study in missing the point.

Much to my discredit, since it was inaugurated as a statutory holiday for federally-regulated workers (which I am) in 2021, I largely treated the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation as a regular holiday, perhaps with a little quiet personal reflection.

It wasn’t for any particular reason. I care deeply about truth and reconciliation and I have been working in Indigenous policy for more than fifteen years now (the first half attempting to fix historic wrongs, the latter half and into the present, err, current ones) and I had regarded the day as one to learn about the genocide that was the Residential Schools system.

I had learning to do alright, but it wasn’t the sort that I would have found in the archives.

It was Kathleen who had made plans to attend the ceremony at Beechwood Cemetery this year and asked if I would be coming with her. I think it came as a surprise to her, but instead of saying that I was going to go for a walk somewhere quiet and make photos, I instead answered that I would love to.

We decided that we would attend the afternoon session so that we could get some chores out of the way that had been left from the weekend. Once we finished a quick lunch, we walked up to Confederation Square to board the No. 7 bus that would drop us off at the cemetery’s entrance.

We arrived about 30 minutes before everything was to begin, so we explored a little bit on our own, talking about the observance, and lingering for a while over Duncan Campbell Scott’s grave contemplating his outsized role in the whole thing. There were also a few guided tours being held for young students, many of whom were learning about the topic for the first time.

The first part of the afternoon was held inside the cemetery’s building and it was a 1978 CBC Radio broadcast based on Dr. Peter H. Bryce’s Story of a National Crime (1922) and supporting archival research outlining Bryce’s conflict with the Department when he tried to raise the alarm about the deadly impacts of the system on children only to find himself a foe in Scott.

After passing Cindy Blackstock on the way into the building¹, Kathleen and I took our seats at the back of the room and watched the animations that were developed to support the radio story. Now, I want to stress that I am very familiar with this history, but it wasn’t two minutes into the spot that I began to well up.

Reel it in…

Not now, Charlotte.

…well up.

Compose yourself, Charlotte.

It was crushing to hear it all anew and in a crowd, even if the dulcimer tones of late-70s public radio broadcast voice might normally raise one’s heart rate to a leisurely Sunday morning’s pace. I was already cracking. It probably didn’t help that throughout the narrative, I couldn’t help but notice that some things never seem to change in public service.

Once the audio was finished playing, we were invited to make our way to another part of the cemetery, where a garden was planted ten years ago as a memorial. Rightfully, it’s at the brow of a hill overlooking Bryce’s grave.

The ceremony itself was beautiful and heavy and deep and I don’t know if anything I say would do it justice. I am just privileged to have been there to witness it, to be in the crowd.²

…well up…

Not now, Charlotte.

Reel it in.

…well up again…

I think I have tissues in my purse.

Still, Elder Barb’s remarks had me welling up again more than once, as did the stories shared with us by Mariah Miigwans leading into her beautiful (and stamina-requiring) hoop dance. It was truly a gift.

Compose yourself, Charlotte.

As we walked back toward Beechwood to pick up a few things at Jacobson’s and wait for a bus home, we talked about what we had just experienced. It was beautiful. It was solemn. It was poignant. It was important.

It was important to be there.

That was my lesson. My real lesson.

The role of the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation is not to learn about the residential schools system and its central role in settler colonialism’s genocidal ways. Or it’s not just for that.

No. It’s to show up. It’s to be there. It’s to honour the memory of those lost. Those children who did not come home.

And it’s to be a presence in committing — renewing the vow — that we will not abide by it again, we will not abide by it being denied today, and we will never, ever forget.

It’s important that we show up.³

1. I was mostly successful in restraining myself from fangirling, but I did walk past her with a big goofy smile, which prompted her to say “hello”. I think I squeaked out a strained “hello” back, but that was it. ↩︎
2. Beechwood Cemetery has materials on their website with many more details. ↩︎
3. It really should have occurred to me sooner. As a trans woman, I know that I appreciate it when people show their support by being there. I love seeing cisgender people with us at the annual trans march. I like that presence helps dispel feelings of being alone, abandoned by an indifferent majority. ↩︎