Chapter 5
I loved my Dad. I dearly loved him since I was a small girl. Close people in my life teased me growing up and called me horrible and cruel names that still stick with me today. The worst was Princess Poo Poo simply because my skin was darker in the summer. My own paternal grandmother, over a bowl of ice cream, explained to my sister right in front of me how she was luckier than me. She let her know that her life would be easier than mine simply because she had fairer skin than me. She wasn’t entirely wrong though. As sad as it was to hear those words from my own blood’s mouth; she was right. In my Native community, I was treated poorly by those who looked more Indigenous than I did. Yet, the opposite was true when I was in Quebec. The boys in the summer teased me for my Native features. My longer brown hair would be pulled. It was no different when I was in British Columbia. I was walking with my older brother when a group of teenagers did a drive-by shooting at me with a water gun. Only the water gun was filled with bleach. My shirt had a bleached stained streak across my breasts. I was simply lucky not to have been sprayed in the eyes that day. My father was able to recognize when these words and actions hurt me. He would take me aside and tell me I was his favourite child. He had five children, so I often wonder if he told us all the same thing when we were alone with him. He would call me Sweet Pea. He would take me on adventures in the wild and he always had a dog with him. Somehow the combination of my dad, a dog, and nature just made me feel safe even if a wolverine, wolf, or bear was lurking around the corner.
My father showed endless love for all three of his daughters. He never once laid hands on me. He never even spanked me growing up even though all the parents in the 80s were doing it. My father nurtured me in his own way. He was funny. He was an avid hunter, fisherman, treasure seeker and carpenter. He was even kind to animals and nursed more than one injured animal in his lifetime, both wild and domestic. For some reason the love and attention that he gave me and that he gave animals did not translate the same in his romantic relationships. I had heard of brutal stories were my father beat my mother over the head with a hammer. I was too young to remember. I did vaguely have one dream of my father in an old Ford where he was drunk and making threats towards my mother with a rifle or a shot gun in the bushes. I wanted to believe that it was not true. I tried to convince myself that it was just a dream. Long after my Dad passed away, when I got older and braver, I told my mother about the dream I had with my father and the gun. She let me know that it actually happened and went on to tell me more stories of how she saved my father from hanging himself.
I was only in grade three when I first thought of ending my own life. Later, I thought maybe this depression was from him. That possibly it ran in the family. As I got older, I realized that it was more complicated than that. Having a grandmother raised in Residential School, who is still living and was an active participant in my life, did not help the situation. Intergenerational Trauma is very real and I have lived it my entire life through the foster systems that continued the legacy of Residential Schools. My father believed in Jesus and loved him until he died. My Granny also has a strong faith in God. I feel like maybe that got them through their hard times. I personally find it difficult to believe in something that allowed them to see such hard times in their lives. Regardless of faith or religion, most people have some sort of red flag or warning sign that they lack skills for healthy relationships. This tends to be more so for those raised in childhood trauma. Trauma is a breeding ground for red flags. When I think of my own father’s red flags, I refer to them as Papa’s flags, since they were very specific to him. Since my own father exhibited violence towards his intimate partners, I should have saw the red flags with my partner. I saw a lot of things in my partner that reminded me of my Dad. Things that flagged him as being very much like my beloved Dad who I had just tragically lost to a drowning accident in the bush.
Both men were good with a gun and had excellent aim. My father actually made his own guns and had great pleasure in testing out the firing pin. They were strong, muscular and capable of doing hard labour. They had almost an identical smell. Both enjoyed their marijuana and both had hard lives growing up. I noticed very early that they also both had bouts of depression. My father would cry over things that bothered him from his past. My partner did the same thing. He once cried when he described how violent his mother was with him. They both had neat stories about animals. My Dad had once been chased by a bull, and my partner’s arms had scars from being pecked at by chickens that he chased. They were both raised by the sea, and honestly I could on. They both had a lot of good in common. He was definitely waving my “Papa’s flags,” including the most horrible ones. I should have known. He was too much like my father. I knew my father was violent with my mother and step-mother. I had seen the crying as a sign of untreated depression and childhood trauma. I should have seen the love of marijuana as a sign of the horrible mood swings that would come with it when the supply runs out. I should have recognized the smell as a sign that the depression was so deeply ingrained that they both regularly missed showers. I saw my Papa’s flags in this man and I loved him anyways, when I should have ran when I saw them. It wasn’t my first rodeo. I had been down this road before with my second husband. Like my own father and his brother, I had to run from bulls too. I should have ran before he even had a chance to show me exactly who he was. There is always a sense of guilt that I even allowed this relationship to blossom in the first place. Instead of acting like a matador who risks their life and taunts bulls with red flags, I should have thrown in my white flag sooner and surrendered any hope of love long before things got really bad.
