Each morning saw my once-upon-a-time student Meeka and I reminiscing, discussing the effects of residential school on its inhabitants: her, Geela, and many other delightful Inuit teenagers living far from home, family, and familiar surroundings. Since we had been out of touch for 48 years, each wanted to know what the other had done.
“I have only been a teacher,” I gulped as I learned of Meeka’s part in the settling of Inuit land claims and bringing Inuit culture to the fore again, her continued education including learning about furs and design that earned her an international medal, and her current job as instructor of fur production and design in Iqaluit.
Comparing notes in July, 2014 of our experiences back then, I quickly discovered how vastly different our memories of those times are, even though Meeka and I had lived, taught or studied, and “played” in the same complex.
“We were taken from our families at a time when we would have been learning traditional ways,” Meeka reminded me, tears in her dark brown eyes. “Each room had four girls squeezed into it, in bunk beds. We could not be alone; we were always supervised, having only half an hour each day in the fresh air.”
I had spent as much time as possible after hours with the kids, getting them out and about whenever I could.
“The meals were terrible,” she continued. “It was nothing like food we were used to eating.”
Unlike some of the students, Meeka’s home in Pangnirtung was a house because that community had been a whaling station since the early 1800s.
“There are many mixed parentages,” she explained. “I was surprised when I first saw some of the girls in the hostel: theirs were ‘old’ faces – only Inuit. And some lived in huts or igloos.” As part of my job, I had visited the parents of other girls in a just-built igloo in Baker Lake in 1965.
“We only built igloos when we went on a hunt,” she added.
Meeka’s tone and expression became bitter when we talked about the government’s action in relocating these young folk.
“They wanted to turn us into white people!” she protested. “We weren’t allowed to do throat singing or traditional dancing and we had to speak English.”
“But,” I interrupted, “when I tried to learn some Eskimo words, each girl from a different place spoke a different dialect, so I did not know which word to use. When I asked how they communicated with each other, they looked a bit shame-faced as they told me they used English.”
“We have always had Inuktitut,” insisted Meeka, “but yes, there are still many dialects.”
Meeka wanted to know my perceptions as teacher, white woman, and an Australian one at that.
“I loved being with you girls,” I assured her, somewhat choked up remembering those trusting young faces with their shy smiles. “You were reserved and quiet to begin with, but fun. I could not imagine how you coped with the immense changes in your lives, but still, you seemed so accepting. You hid your home-sickness from me very convincingly. Teaching you girls to cook and sew was a delight because you wanted to learn. When residents of Fort Churchill questioned the other home economics teacher and me about the changes being forced upon you, we assured them that we concentrated on items that could be made on any equipment. Wood stove, small burner or electric stove; hand-cranked or electric sewing machine – despite the difference in time taken, the end results are comparable. And because of your innate or already practised skill in making designs and sewing, your finished projects were always beautifully done, colourful and distinctive.”