I was taken to a small farming community further south of Winnipeg on the outskirts of Aubigny, to the DeRosier farm. It was a Friday afternoon when we arrived. While Mrs. Semple talked with Mrs. DeRosier, I studied my new foster mother with great disappointment. She was a tall woman with lots of makeup and badly dyed hair. If she had been a beauty once, the only thing left of it now was the vanity. Her voice was harsh and grating. The more I watched her, the more positive I became that she was putting on an act for Mrs. Semple’s benefit. I wondered why Mrs. Semple couldn’t figure that out. If I had to stay here, I hoped Mrs. DeRosier gave me a good home.
After my social worker’s departure, Mrs. DeRosier turned to me. I looked up at her with curiosity. She went to the kitchen drawer, took out a strap and laid it on the table near me. She told me the routine I would have to follow but in such a way that it made me think she had made this speech many times before.
“The school bus comes at eight. You will get up at six, go to the hen house and bring back the eggs. While I prepare breakfast, you will wash the eggs. After breakfast, you will do the dishes. After school, you’ll have more chores to do, then you will help me prepare supper. After you do the supper dishes, you will go to your room and stay there. You’ll also keep yourself and your room clean. I know you half-breeds, you love to wallow in filth. You step out of line once, only once, that strap will do the rest of the talking. You don’t get any second chances. And if you don’t believe that I’ll use it, ask Raymond and Gilbert. And on that subject, you will only talk to them in front of us. I won’t stand for any hanky-panky going on behind our backs. Is that clear? Also, you are not to use the phone. If you want letters mailed, I’ll see to it. You do any complaining to your worker, watch out.” She put the strap away and continued, “Now, I’ll show you where your room is.”
I was left alone in a small room at the back of the house. It was cold, smelled mouldy and felt damp. There wasn’t even a closet, just nails sticking out all over the walls. The Dions had given me a new set of suitcases and I opened one up and started hanging a few things on the nails. I stopped and sat on the bed. The mattress was soft and warped. Maman Dion had told me that self-pity was not good for one’s spirits but right now, I felt justified in being sorry for myself. Mrs. DeRosier had said, “…you half-breeds”. I wasn’t a half-breed, just a foster child, that’s all. To me, half-breed was almost the same as Indian. No, this wasn’t going to be a home like the Dions’. Maybe if there were other children, they might be nice. Most people I’d met when I had stayed at the Dions had been nice enough. With this thought, I finished hanging up my clothes, looking forward to the arrival of Raymond and Gilbert, who I thought must be at school.
I was waiting at the kitchen table in order to meet them. Mrs. DeRosier was in the kitchen too but she only glared at me as if to warn me to stay quiet. I saw the school bus from the kitchen window and thought how nice it would be taking a bus from now on. Four kids got off, two older boys around thirteen or fourteen and a girl and a younger boy. I was hoping that they would like me. They all walked in but the two older boys walked by without looking at me and I heard them going up the stairs. The younger boy and the girl eyed me contemptuously.
The boy said to Mrs. DeRosier, “Is that the half-breed girl we’re getting? She doesn’t look like the last squaw we had.”
The girl giggled at his comment.
“April, you may as well start earning your keep right now. Here, I want you to peel these potatoes.” Mrs. DeRosier got out a large basket of potatoes and put them down in front of me. The resemblance between these two children and Mrs. DeRosier was more than physical. They made themselves sandwiches, making a mess in the process. When I finished peeling the potatoes, Mrs. DeRosier told me to clean up their mess. Mr. DeRosier came in at suppertime and it became apparent to me that Mrs. DeRosier towered over him not only in size but also in willfulness of personality. He and the two boys who had changed into work clothes, sat on one side, Mrs. DeRosier was at the head and Maggie and Ricky and I sat on the other side. The only talking at the table was done by the mother and her two children. I had finished my milk and reached for the pitcher to pour another glass.
“You’re not allowed snore than one glass.” Maggie protested. I froze, my hand still on the handle, waiting for Mrs. DeRosier to agree with Maggie or to allow me another glass. I wondered if I should give in to this girl, then realized I had no choice because Mrs. DeRosier simply remained silent. Slowly, I withdrew my hand from the pitcher and looked over at the mother and daughter. Maggie had a smug look on her face. I wanted to take that pitcher of milk and dump it all over her head. At other meals, she would make a show of having two or more glasses of milk herself.
When Ricky finished eating, he left the table without excusing himself. The other two boys had also finished eating but remained seated until Mr. DeRosier got up to leave. Then they followed him outside. Mrs. DeRosier put the leftovers away and indicated I was to start on the dishes. While I washed and wiped them, Maggie sat at the table and watched. I wondered why this family was so different from the Dions, especially those three. So much malice, so much tension. It seemed to me that it was a lot easier being nice. After all, the DeRosiers were Catholics, too. How I wished that my own parents would rescue me and right this minute would be a fine time. I finished wiping the last pot and put it away. I started for my bedroom, relieved to get away from Maggie’s watchful eyes.
“You’re not finished,” Maggie said in a bossy tone. “You didn’t even sweep the floor. I heard you half-breeds were dirty but now I can see that it’s true.”
“You didn’t do anything yet. Why don’t you sweep the floor?” I retorted.
“Because it’s not my job. My job is only to see that you do yours. So get the broom!” Maggie hissed at me.
I stood there for a minute, looking down at Maggie. She was still sitting, very composed, very sure of how far she could go. Helpless fury built up inside me but I was alone here, unsure of what my rights were, or if I even had any. So I went to get the broom. After sweeping the floor, I went to my room. I had nothing to do but think. Was it only this morning I had felt loved and cherished? Now, I had been told I would have to earn my keep. I knew that Children’s Aid paid for my keep. And I didn’t like that word ‘half-breed’ one bit! It took me a while to get over these new things I didn’t like so I could get ready for bed and say my prayers.
Maman Dion had taught me that praying could bring comfort. I had memorized the Lord’s Prayer in French and English but I had never really thought about the meaning of each sentence. Now, I said it slowly.
“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed by Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day, our daily Bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, Amen.”
I would have to forgive these people their trespasses and no doubt there would be many. “But, hold on there, God,” I thought, “I’m not going to have any trespasses for them to forgive. So how come I’m going to have to forgive theirs?” I looked for the answers in the talks and the Bible readings at the Dions. I remembered the saints and the martyrs. They had been tested. Maybe I was being tested. Maybe what I had to do while I was here was turn the other cheek. When I went to sleep, I was feeling very saintly.
Saturday morning, Mr. DeRosier rapped at my door, telling me I was supposed to go for the eggs. It had been windy all night and I had not slept well in my chilly room. I sleepily got dressed and went to the kitchen. No one was there but I saw a pail by the doorway so I took it. It was still dark outside and it took me a while to find the chicken house. There were deep drifts of snow which had been whipped up by the wind overnight. Another thing I decided was that I didn’t like winter anymore. Not as long as I had to live on this farm. I gathered the eggs, getting nasty pecks from the hens that were too stubborn or overly-protective. As I floundered back to the house, through the snowdrifts, my mouth watered at the thought of breakfast but when I entered the house, no one seemed to be up. I was still cold and very hungry but I didn’t dare touch anything. I washed the eggs and found that a few had broken and many were cracked. I worried while I waited for Mrs. DeRosier. A few hours later, she came down in her housecoat and she looked a whole lot worse without her make-up.
She started to put some coffee on to perk and noticed the eggs still drying in the trays.
“What on earth did you do with these eggs? They’re all cracked. I can’t sell them that way!” I jumped up when she screamed. She picked up a few of them and threw them down on the floor in front of where I was sitting. She went on ranting and raving, not wanting my explanations. Finally, she told me to clean up the mess and she started breakfast.
When everyone had eaten, she and her two children got ready to go to town. She left me instructions to wash the floors and clean the bathroom after I finished the breakfast dishes. I thought to myself that if Ricky had been a girl, I would have been just like Cinderella. When I finished my assigned chores, I washed out my own room, trying to rid it of the musty smell. I had a few hours to myself before they came back but when they did, Maggie, with her boots on, walked all over the kitchen floor and I had to wash it over again.
On Sunday morning, we all went to Mass. After the services, while Mr. DeRosier and the two older boys waited in the car, Mrs. DeRosier chatted with some neighbours. I was by her side and she explained my presence, adding that I was a lovely little child and we all got along very well. She wallowed in their compliments on what a generous, goodhearted woman she was to take poor unfortunate children, like myself, into her home. I just stood there meekly, too timid to say different.
I had looked forward to Monday because I would be going to school on a bus. It was already almost filled and being too shy to walk further I took the first empty seat near the front. I could hear the DeRosier kids tell their friends that I was a half-breed and that they had to clean me up when I came to their house. They said I even had lice in my hair and told the others that they should keep away from me. They whispered and giggled and once in a while, they would call me names. I sat all alone in that seat, all the way to school, staring straight ahead, my face burning with humiliation. Fortunately for me, no one on the school bus was in my classroom. By the end of the first day, I had made one friend, Jennifer. Unfortunately for me, I had to board that school bus again to go back to the farm. I had decided that I wasn’t going to let them see that their taunts really hurt me.
The months went by very slowly. The kids on the bus tired of picking on me, mostly, I guess, because I wouldn’t react. My tenth birthday passed without celebration. One evening in May, Mrs. DeRosier told me I wouldn’t be going to school the next day because of a family visit. That was my first happy moment since I had arrived. She drove me in to Winnipeg, complaining all the way that these visits would disrupt the routine she had set for me.
I was waiting, alone, in the reception area when Cheryl came in, bubbling with enthusiasm.
“Hi April, I got a present for you. Can we go to a visiting room now, Miss Turner?” she asked her worker.
After we were left alone in one of the small cubicle rooms, Cheryl turned to me and handed me a gift-wrapped package. “Happy Birthday, April. It’s a book.”
“You’re not supposed to tell me what it is, Cheryl. Half the fun is trying to guess what it is while I unwrap it,” I grinned at her and shook my head.
“A book about Louis Riel?” I said and crinkled my nose in distaste. I knew all about Riel. He was a rebel who had been hung for treason. Worse, he had been a crazy half-breed. I had learned about his folly in history. Also, I had read about the Indians and the various methods of tortures they had put the missionaires through. No wonder they were known as savages. So, anything to do with Indians, I despised. And I was supposed to be part-Indian? No way. I remember how relieved I was that no one in my class knew of my heritage when we were going through that period in Canadian history.
“He’s a Metis, like us,” Cheryl said proudly. “Mrs. MacAdams says we should be proud of our heritage. You know what that means? It means we’re part-Indian and part-white. I wish we were whole Indians.”
I just about fell off my chair when I heard that. There were a few Indians or part-Indian kids in my class who couldn’t hide what they were, like I could. But here was my very own sister, with brilliant grades, saying such idiotic things. Well, I didn’t want to argue with her so I didn’t voice my opinion.
She continued talking which was usual for her. “Mrs. MacAdams is a Metis you know, but Mr. MacAdams isn’t. He teaches somewhere. Not at my school. They got a lot of books on Indian tribes and how they used to live a long time ago.”
Cheryl paused for a breather, then continued in a sombre tone, “Mrs. MacAdams gave them to me to read because no one at school would talk to me or play with me. They call me names and things or else they make like I’m not there at all. This one girl and her friends would follow me home and make fun of me so I slapped her. And her Mom called Mrs. MacAdams. And Mrs. MacAdams says that all the bad stuff was cause I’m different from them. She told me I would have to earn their respect. How come they don’t have to go around earning respect? Anyways, I don’t even know what respect is exactly. I just wanted to be friends with them.”
I knew what Cheryl was talking about from my own experience on the school bus. Yet, I couldn’t share that with her. I guess I was too vain. She had admitted to me that some poeple didn’t like her because she was different but I couldn’t return that kind of honesty. So, I told her about the DeRosiers, and how much I missed the Dions. Telling her how the DeRosiers were mean to me was easy because they probably didn’t like anyone and it wasn’t only me.
“Why don’t you give those kids a whack?” Cheryl asked.
“Are you kidding? Mrs. DeRosier would kill me.” I replied, as I leafed through the pages of my new book. “Besides, you can’t go around whacking people you don’t like.”
“Well, that’s what I do,” Cheryl retorted off-handedly.
“And what if the kids are bigger and stronger than you?”
“Then I’d simply pretend not to hear them,” Cheryl answered with a mischievious smile. We both laughed over that and then we talked about the other kids at school who were nice.
I got to wondering what kind of present my Morn and Dad would be bringing. Our precious hours together slipped away and Cheryl’s good mood faded, too.
“Maybe they’re not going to come,” she said as she paced back and forth. She was puzzled and hurt and she was fighting back tears.
Miss Turner came in to tell me that Mrs. DeRosier was there to pick me up. Cheryl begged for just a little more time. I sat back down and Cheryl came to me and knelt before me. She looked up at me with her large, questioning eyes, now glistening.
“They’re not coming?” she asked softly.
“Maybe they got mixed up on the days or something.” I knelt down to face her on the same level. “Cheryl, no matter what, we’ll always have each other.” I hugged her close, knowing that what I said was of small comfort to her. She started to cry and naturally, that made me want to cry. Miss Turner came and poked her head in, saying I really had to go. Cheryl and I started putting on our jackets. She looked so pitiful when I left her alone in the visiting room.
Mrs. DeRosier had been told that my parents had not come for the visit. That evening, at suppertime, she told her own children they were fortunate in having a parent like her as my parents were too busy boozing it up to even come to visit me. I sat silently, not believing a word of what she said and pretended the insults to my parents didn’t even bother me. She was forever putting my parents down so I was getting used to her remarks. But inside, I despised her more than I would despise my own parents, even if all the things she said about them were true. And I just knew they were not.
Later that night, I lay in bed, unable to go to sleep and unable to say my prayers. I couldn’t forget that look on Cheryl’s face when I had to leave her. I felt anger towards my mother and father because they were responsible. They were responsible for me being in this foster home. While I was at it, I turned my anger on Our Holy Father in Heaven.
“Oh God, why did you let me be born? Why? Why was lever born? Why do you let these bad things happen to Cheryl and me? You’re supposed to be loving, protective and just. But you’re not, God! You’re none of those things if you can let all the bad things happen. You’re just a phoney! And I hate you. You hear me? I hate you!” That’s how angry I was. I started crying and by the time I finished, I was overcome with remorse for having thought those things. At last, I was able to say my prayers and ask God to help me be strong and good.
For the rest of that month, the DeRosier kids taunted me about having drunkards for parents. It was new ammunition for them to use against me and it bothered me a lot. One Saturday morning, they started in on me again and finally I made my feeble defense. “They’re not drunkards! They’re sick. That’s all. Sick!”
“Sick? Boy, what a dummy you are. But then half-breeds are pretty stupid, aren’t they?” Maggie said maliciously.
“Yeah. Your parents didn’t know how to take care of you. They just know how to booze it up,” Rick added. And then they started mimicking drunken people and talking to each other with slurred speech, laughing at intervals.
“No!” I screamed.
I ran out of the house, across the grain fields, running as hard and as fast as I could. They had acted and sounded just like my parents and their friends. I remembered. I could run all I wanted but I couldn’t run away from the truth. When I reached the edge of the woods, my sides were aching. I stopped and sat down, my back against a pine tree. I was panting and sobbing very hard. As I caught my breath, I could picture my parents.
“So. That’s why you never got any better. Liars! That’s what you are! All those promises of getting well. All those lies about taking medicine. Liars!
You told us, ‘Soon, April. Soon, Cheryl. We’ll take you back home as soon as we get better.’
Well, you lied to us. You never intended to get better. You never cared about us. You made Cheryl cry and you don’t even care. And because of you, I’m stuck here. I hate you both for lying to us. And I hope I never see you again.”
I got up and started walking back to the house because I still had floors to wash. I stopped and thought, “No. Why should I? They can beat me if they want to. I don’t care. I just don’t care anymore. To hell with them! To hell with my parents! To hell with everyone, except Cheryl. Even the Dions didn’t answer my letters. They lied too. They didn’t really care for me. But that’s okay because I don’t care for any of them either!”
I turned back into the woods and made my way through the heavy underbrush. I don’t know how far I walked before I came upon a small clearing which bordered the Red River. The sunlight filtered through the towering trees, warming even the shady spots. The area was alive with the sounds of birds, squirrels and bugs. But I felt at peace, the tensions from the past months were lifted. I knew I felt this way because I was all cried out and I had decided that for now, I didn’t care about anything. I didn’t even feel guilty about using the words ‘to hell’.
I wasn’t really thinking about anything when I noticed my arms and hands. They were tanned a deep, golden brown. A lot of pure white people tanned just like this. Poor Cheryl. She would never be able to disguise her brown skin as just a tan. People would always know that she was part Indian. It seemed to me that what I’d read and what I’d heard indicated that Metis and Indians were inclined to be alcoholics. I guess that was because they were a weak people. Oh, they were put down more than anyone else, but then, didn’t they deserve it? Anyways, I could pass for a pure white person. I could say I was part French and part Irish. If I had to, I could even change the spelling of my name. Raintree looked like one of those Indian names but if I changed the spelling to Raintry, that could pass for Irish. And when I grew up, I wouldn’t be poor; I’d be rich. Being a half-breed meant being poor and dirty. It meant being weak and having to drink. It meant being ugly and stupid. It meant living off white people. And giving your children to white people to look after. It meant that kids like me, had to take what kids like the DeRosiers gave, and none of that was good. Well, I wasn’t going to live like a half-breed. When I got free of this place, when I got free from being a foster child, then I would live just like a real white person.
Then a question came to mind. What about Cheryl? How was I going to pass for a white person when I had a Metis sister? Especially when she was so proud of what she was? I loved her. I could never cut myself off from her completely. And she wouldn’t go along with what I planned. I would never even be able to tell her what I planned. I sat there thinking but the problem wouldn’t be resolved. Well, I had a long time to figure that one out. For sure, she would never turn out to be like the rest of the Metis people. She and maybe Mrs. MacAdams were special people. Cheryl was already a whole lot smarter than all the rest of the kids in her class and that counted for a lot. I sighed, stood up and stretched. Now I felt ready to face whatever the DeRosiers had in store for me. One day I would be free of them. One day…
For the first two weeks of the summer holidays, Maggie was going to Vancouver to visit her grandmother. I looked forward to the day when she would be leaving because she, more than Ricky, made my life miserable. She had started coming into my room whenever she felt like it, saying it was her house and she could go wherever she pleased. One night, she was looking at my suitcases thoughtfully and then she said, “I’m going to borrow your suitcases for my trip.”
I looked up at her surprised and said, “You can’t just ‘borrow’ my suitcases. They’re mine! Besides, what if I had to move while you’re gone?”
“Move? My mother’s not going to let you move from here. C’mon Ape, I’ve got to start packing tonight,” she said in what was supposed to be a coaxing voice. I knew very well that her mother would let her have her way but I still felt stubborn.
“Look, you owe it to me. You live in my house and eat our food. You’re just lucky I don’t tell Mother about your selfishness.” With that, she dumped all the things in my suitcases on the floor and took them with her.
When she came back from her trip, she kept my suitcases. I asked to have them back several times so I could put my clothes back in them. But she only ignored me. One day, I entered my bedroom and my suitcases were there. They had been scratched up as if Maggie had deliberately tried to cut into them with a knife. Inside, there was dried red fingernail polish poured to form the words, ‘Ape, the bitch.’ I was angry but there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn’t even show them to my social worker because it would be Maggie’s word against mine. I thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn’t.
That same night, during supper, Maggie said, “Mother, Ape let me use her suitcases and I forgot to give them back right away. So you know what she did today? She went up to my room, threw my stuff around and stole some of my money and my jewelry. I wasn’t going to say anything about it but it makes me mad that she can just come into my room and do that.”
I couldn’t believe what she’d said and I looked over at her with complete astonishment. I practically growled at her, “You bloody liar!”
Mrs. DeRosier slammed her fork and knife onto the table, stood up and came over to where I was sitting. She slapped me across the side of the head, took a vise-grip of my arm and yanked me out of my chair to shake me. It seemed to me that all happened at the same time.
And she was screaming, “Don’t you ever talk to my daughter in that tone of voice again! Who the hell do you think you are? We take you in because your parents don’t want you, we give you food and shelter and this is how you pay us back?”
Then she asked Maggie, “Is your room still in the same condition that April left it in?”
“Yes, it is,” Maggie answered her, pathetically.
To me, she ordered, “March up there right now. We’re going to see what you did. And then you’re going to get the strapping of your life.”
I’d never seen Maggie’s room before because the upstairs was off limits to me. Her room was beautiful. The fancy furniture all matched and was white with gold trimming. Her bed even had a canopy over it. The wall-paper was of pink and yellow roses. But right now, books, papers, and clothing littered the deep pile rug.
“You must be a sick girl, April, to do this kind of thing. What did Maggie ever do to you?” Mrs. DeRosier asked.
All the while, I was being shaken about like a rag doll. She marched me back down to my room and started to look through my things. In one of the pockets of my coat, she found some money and some earrings. Maggie was standing at the doorway with a deep look of satisfaction on her face. While Mrs. DeRosier went for the strap, Maggie said softly, “That’s what you get for bugging me, April Raintree.”
The beating I got that night was one of the worst but I wouldn’t cry. That seemed to infuriate Mrs. DeRosier all the more. I was sure that after that, Mrs. DeRosier would have me moved. I thought the beating would have been worth it after all. I waited for things to start happening but over the next few weeks, nothing more was said about the incident.
At the end of the summer, Cheryl and I had another visit. When we got to the Children’s Aid office, we were told that our parents were not expected to come. I felt guilty about the resolution I had made a few months back. To make up for it, I told Cheryl how our family life had been when we were all together. That is, I told her the good things. I told her how Mom used to rock her to sleep and sing songs to us; how Dad always laughed and joked and played with us for hours, telling us lots of stories; how we would all go out to visit our aunts and uncles or that they would come over to our house; how Dad would bring out his fiddle and play while everyone danced jigs. I wondered if it was right to tell her only about the good things. Maybe I was lying by not telling her about the drinking and the fights. But then, Cheryl didn’t need to know that just yet. I wanted Cheryl to be happy as long as possible.
At our next family visit in October, only Dad came. He explained that he had been up north and couldn’t get back for our visits. Mom, he said, was sick. Cheryl easily accepted the explanations. She was, as usual, affectionate with him. But I knew the truth about them. I was aloof but polite. I had thought once of telling him about what a bad place the DeRosier farm was. But now I didn’t bother. He wouldn’t care. He’d pretend to care but he wouldn’t do anything about it. I didn’t have much to say to him. As children, that would be the last time Cheryl and I would see him.
Winter and spring passed. Life with the DeRosiers was the same: miserable. I had become bitterly passive and I now said fewer prayers. I was sure that God had heard me say I hated him but He had not heard me ask for his forgiveness. Three more visits were arranged but our parents never showed up. Each time, Cheryl would end up crying. She was beginning to change. Before she had been outgoing, always talking and normally cheerful. At the last two visits, I tried my hardest to bring out her laughter but was rewarded only with sad smiles and I suspected they were only to make me feel good.
By the end of June, I had passed Grade Six with a low B average and that was because English, French and Math were easy for me. I felt torn in different directions and often changed my mind regarding my parents. Sometimes, I would think of the life I would have been leading if we were all together. So what if we were poor and lived in slums. Being together would be a million times better than living on this horrible farm. Other times, I would remind myself that my parents were weak alcoholics who had made their choice. And then I would loathe them. Or I would think of the Dions and all their religious teachings. What was the sense of praying to a God who didn’t care about me either? On Cheryl, it was still the question of how I was going to live as a white person with her around. I had seven more years of probably being stuck with the DeRosiers and if not them, then in some other foster home. Seven years of not having control of my own life.
Most of the kids in my class were excited about the summer holidays. Some were going away on trips. Me, I was just going to be alone, unloved, with nothing to look forward to. For seven more years… I wondered how I was going to ride them out.