SO MUCH OF OUR LIVES WAS RUN by the Indian Act. I wasn’t very old before I knew that under this Act, Natives were forbidden to buy or drink liquor or to have alcohol on their reservations. Often there was talk about this restriction in our village, especially when the Mounties picked up one of the villagers who had been drinking. As small children we listened to this talk and it came to us early in our lives that we were different, that laws were made for us which white people did not have to obey.
As a child, I had seen Johnny Paul bring a bottle of whiskey into our house after a trip to Prince George and I had heard him describe how Scotty or Barney or some other white man had bought the bottle for him at the local liquor store. Johnny sometimes spoke of this or that white man who had spent time in jail because he had bought a bottle of rum or whiskey for a Stoney Creek villager.
The big change came after the Second World War. So many men from Stoney Creek and reserves all across Canada had served overseas in the armed forces, in England, Scotland, France, Italy, and Germany. They drank in canteens, as they called the beer parlors, just like white soldiers. When those who survived the war returned to Canada, the Native ex-servicemen found that under the Indian Act they were still forbidden to drink alcohol anywhere in their own country.
People say that it was the returned soldiers who brought about a change in the Indian Act in 1952. That change said that Natives could drink off the reserve. This meant that we could go into pubs, beer parlors, and cocktail lounges and drink as much as we wanted. We still could not bring liquor to the reserves or into our own homes. How often I watched the results of this policy! People would drink as much as they could before closing time, because they knew that once they left the beer parlor, the only place they could drink was in some back alley or beside the railway tracks.
In 1961 we were allowed to vote on whether or not liquor could be brought to the reserve. Like most reserves, Stoney Creek voted to allow liquor in our village. I heard that some of the reserves in the north didn’t hear about the vote and lost the chance to drink in their homes.
Even after 1961, it wasn’t clear sailing for a Native who wanted to have a drink. Under the Government Liquor Act, a magistrate could make it illegal for a person to drink. When that happened, his name was placed on what was called an Interdict List. More than one person from our village was on that list and if he drank, he went to jail and with him, the person who had supplied him with liquor.
Someone told me that in 1965 or 1966, a group of Prince George lawyers, Don Kennedy and others, checked the number of people who had served time in jail in Prince George because they had violated the Interdict List. Of the 173 names given to the lawyers, one man was white—the rest were Natives. When this information was sent to Victoria, the Interdict List was repealed for Northern British Columbia.
Long afterwards I heard that in the early 1950s, the magistrate in Burns Lake, about 100 miles west of us, put every resident on the Burns Lake Reserve on the Interdict List, even those under the legal drinking age, despite the fact that it was legal for Natives to drink.
Alcohol and Magistrates and the Indian Act—what a book that would make!
Before 1952, when we visited Vanderhoof, unless the weather was warm and we could build our campfire among the willows, the visit didn’t last very long. After all, there was little enjoyment in walking the streets hour after hour on a cold November day, looking in at the windows of cafés and beer parlors that we were forbidden to enter. We used to say that the only time we could socialize in Vanderhoof with any pleasure was when we were admitted to what was called the Indian Wing of St. John’s Hospital. Then, if we weren’t too sick, we could have a good gossip in comfort.
The reaction of Stoney Creek villagers when finally we could go into beer parlors and cocktail lounges was, “Now we’re as good as white people!”
I thought that myself. It was a startling change. One day we were forbidden to drink, and the next day we were welcome in the Vanderhoof Hotel. Suddenly, there was a place in Vanderhoof where we could meet our friends in a warm comfortable environment and visit—and drink—to our hearts’ content.
I had never cared about alcohol, but in 1952, I was just like everybody else. How nice it was on a Friday afternoon when the week’s work was done, to meet Sophie Thomas and Veronica George, have a few drinks and a good gossip! How nice it was to meet my husband and his friends and sit in a friendly atmosphere and drink and exchange the latest news! We drank when we went to dances. A friend and I would buy a bottle on a weekend and say to each other, “Now we are going to have a high old time!”
Yes, I was like everyone else. I didn’t drink to excess, except on one occasion, but alcohol became a part of my social life. On that one occasion when I did drink too much, Lazare wouldn’t stop drinking, and I thought I would join him instead of fighting with him. I found out then that excessive drinking did not agree with me, and like many other people I vowed to myself, “Never again!”
In 1957, everything changed. Early one morning, just as dawn was breaking, there was a knock at my door. When I answered, I found two Mounties standing on the step. They told me that a young couple, the parents of three children, had been killed in a train accident. The man was my husband’s nephew. The Mounties said that the young couple were on the railway tracks when a train backed out of a siding.
I dressed as fast as I could and ran over to the house of this young couple. There were the three little children, sound asleep, unaware that they had lost their parents.
I was in shock. All day I walked the floor, thinking of the young couple. I knew that they had been drinking heavily, hanging around the back alleys of Vanderhoof and down near the station.
Finally, the next day, I forced myself to go and see the bodies. I have never forgotten the sight that met my eyes in the morgue of St. John’s Hospital.
The young man had lost both legs at the thighs, and his guts were hanging out. People told me they found bits and pieces of him all along the tracks, enough to fill a shoe box. His wife was not as badly injured as her husband. She was wearing a pink dress which looked as if it had been caught in the engine. She must have been dragged for some distance.
To this day, I remember the pink dress that young mother was wearing when she was killed.
For days I asked myself over and over again, “Why? Why?” And something inside me answered, “Alcohol!” At that moment I made a vow that I would never touch alcohol again.
So that other people would understand and accept that I no longer took a drink, I went to Father Dalton and in his presence I took a life pledge. He gave me a medal. I had hoped that other villagers would do the same, including some members of my own family, but I was the only one to make this solemn vow. I have never had a drink since that day in 1957 when I stood before Father Dalton and took the pledge. At banquets, I turn my glass upside down; at parties, I make myself a big pot of tea or sip a glass of water.
And always I hope that my abstinence will be an example to other Natives, especially to the young people.