AN OVERVIEW OF MY CHILDHOOD
AND LIFE UP TO AGE 22
- My birth was the result of an illegitimate affair between my parents. Both were married to others at the time.
My mother's husband, I was always told, was stationed in Germany, and she hadn't seen him for 2 years prior to my conception. Other stories I hear are that they were separated and both had affairs with others and that no one knew for sure who fathered me. Regardless up to age 3 I had no father figure in my life.
I had two older sisters, Debbie who had Polio and Madelaine whoo suffered heart disease. During this time, mom had given birth to another child, my brother Norman. Norman's father was another man picked up in a bar one lonely night. Norman was born with celiac disease and was taken from our home by Children's Aid Society and placed in foster care, because Mom was unable to provide the care he needed.
My mother was an alcoholic and spent most evenings in local bars, trying to drink away her sorrows. I don't doubt that she was an unhappy person, with her own painful childhood memories. She was a beautiful woman and had a lovely singing voice.
My father, Art, was married to a woman on the East Coast. By the time they met, he had been sober for many years. He played several musical instruments and had a powerful voice. He sang with a band which travelled from city to city, doing gigs wherever they could. This is where they met...in a bar in Ottawa. Mom says when they sang "Indian Girls", she just KNEW he was singing it directly to her! Her youthful beauty flattered him, and they spent several nights together. When his band moved on to another bar in another city, he left with nice memories of time spent together with my mother. She was left with another pregnancy, and chose not to try to contact him to let him know.
Shortly after my birth, Children's Aid was again called into our home to investigate allegations of child abuse. They were unable to verify any.
Right after my first birthday, Norman died while in foster care. I have excellent early childhood memory recollection, and I remember that sunny day in May as a few people stood around the tiny grave in Notre Dame Cemetary, burying my brother. The hole was not dug wide enough and the funeral directro kcked the little white casket into the ground. This was the beginning of the end in many ways.
My mother carried a lot of guilt and began to drink more and more. One day she decided she couldn't handle her pain anymore. There were no support systems set up at that time. In a drunken stupor, she felt it would be best if she weren't around. She left me alone with my two older sisters, aged 5 and 6. She was gone for several days before she called the Children's Aid and told them she had abandoned us. My two older sisters had serious health problems - Debbie had polio, and Madelaine had rheumatic fever and other heart problems. They were placed in separate foster homes.
Since I was born healthy and was under the age of three, I was considered "adoptable" and I was placed in Villa Maria Nursery Orphanage in Toronto. I have little memory of my time spent there except that I do remember the nuns with grey habits on. I also remember that when I got there, all of my clothing was taken from me and given to other children. I was given other clothing to wear. I remember a pink coat and hat that I just loved, being taken from me. I cried for days over the loss of that. I have been told that even at that age, I was a fighter. As neglectful as my mother was, she was my mother and I loved her and I wanted her. I missed her so much!
An adoptive family was found for me. Their surname was AUDETTE (sp?). They were good people who truly loved me. I spent time with them in their home waiting for the adoption to be finalized. Apparently Mom refused to sign papers and it was a long drawn out court case. Debbie and Madelaine were allowed to visit me in my new home, and the Audette's were attempting to get custody of them as well. They truly wanted to keep our family together. I am still looking for the AUDETTE'S as I feel they may be able to answer some still unanswered questions.
When I was about three years old, my father, Art Wheeler, was in Toronto and he met up with a friend of my mother's. She told him about my birth. He was furious that he had not been told. He marched into the offices of the Children's Aid and demanded that he be given his child. He said that no child of his would be raised in a white foster home as he had been. He and my Mom were reunited, and it wasn't long before she was pregnant again. I was eventually returned home to my parents.
I remember that day so clearly. I was led to the front door by my Social Worker, clutching a little teddy bear the Audette's had bought for me. My mother smothered me with kisses. When I saw my father, I was frightened at first. I had never seen such a dark skinned person before, nor had I ever witnessed a man with tears in his eyes. Within minutes my fear was gone, and I sat on his knees, wiping away his tears, as he told me how he would always love me.
These six years were the happiest of my entire life. My parents lived together, and although my father travelled a lot, he called every night to tell me he loved me. When he was home, we spent quality time together. Every morning I joined him at the bathroom mirror as he put that gawd awful Brillcreme on his hair, and together we'd sing, "Brillcreme...a little dab'll do ya!"....and then laugh til our bellies hurt! *S Life was good during these years. And our family grew with the addition of two more sisters - Joanne and Dorothy.
I loved spending time with my father. Whether it was just hanging out at home, playing in the park or cuddling up to him as he shared stories with me ( I later learned these were Teachings passed on down to him) - (Gawd! I wish now that I had listened more closely!), I just enjoyed being with him. I felt so safe with him and we had so much fun together. Often he would look at me and say, "Hey, Princess, wanna go get some ice cream?" I'd run upstairs and pack my little brown suitcase because I knew we'd be going to Tyendenagua to visit friends. There was a little home made ice cream shack just outside the rez, and this is where we got our ice cream. Mom would get so mad and tell him that most kids went to the corner store for ice cream. I think now, that she was jealous of the bond we shared. Sometimes we went fishing together and he took me hunting once. I cried so hard at the thought of him killing a deer, I always played with the other children while he hunted after that.
He spoke often of the Trail of Tears, and told me that one day we would walk that trail together. I remember when I first heard of what happened to our Ancestors along the Trail, I cried and asked him to please tell me it was not true. He just held me and told me that it was true and that his Grandfather died along that Trail. He also taught me that tears were a bath of the Spirit and that we must never be ashamed of our tears.
He was a Warrior- Sometimes he would be gone doing political things. I never worried about him, cuz I always knew he would come home safe.
I loved to help my mom around the house, often taking care of my little sisters. I was really jealous of Joanne, probably because she was born so soon after I was returned home from Villa Maria. But when Dorothy was born, I just adored her! She was such a precious little thing. She was the darkest skinned of all the children, and had the chubbiest cheeks. I loved to bathe her, change her diapers and feed her.
When dad was out of town, mom began drinking again, and was unable to care for the babies. I took over.
I loved my mother so much, but was terrified of her when she was drinking because she became an angry, violent person. She would yell at me in a drunken rage that it was my fault that she was so miserable. I took all that in. Then, when dad would come home, the booze would disappear and life was normal again. Talk about confusion!!!
When Dorothy was 9 months old, I was home with the measles watching tv. My older sister, Madelaine told me earlier that she was going to play hookey that day. She was hanging out under our porch all day and at lunchtime I snuck her some sandwiches.
Early in the afternoon I answered a knock at our door and two white men asked to speak to my mother. After she went to the front door to see who they were, she closed the french doors and told me to stay in the living room. She was out in the hallway for what seemed like an awful long time to a 9 year old. She came back in and told me she had to go with these men for awhile, and told me to watch my little sisters until my older sisters came home from school. As soon as she left the house, I told Madelaine that Mom was gone and we tried to figure out what was going on.
When mom returned home that night she was drunk. She told us that our dad had been killed. We weren't allowed to attend the funeral. She took me aside and told me that I didn't look "Indian" so I shouldn't tell anyone I was. I had no idea then, just how much that statement would hurt me throughout my life. Now when I hear people say that, I become enraged!
About a week after this, I came home from school to find Dorothy gone! My sisters told me she had died and since Mom was on another drinking binge, we knew not to ask questions. Again there was no funeral. Just emptiness. I grieved for her alone in my room, because mom hated it if we cried.
It wasn't long before mom had another boyfriend...then another...and another... and more and more children. Three more sisters were born in the next few years. All had different fathers.
During the next 3-4 years, I was often beaten by mom or her boyfriends. I was also sexually abused. One of her boyfriends and the father of my youngest sister, was named Len Howes. He was the slimiest of them all. He began sexually abusing me from the day he moved in with us. At one point they were managers of a local bar in Toronto, called the Broadview House. Len was the bartender. Mom was the resident "Madame". It was our job to clean each room after "guests" left. On Sundays, we spent the majority of the day cleaning the bar. When we were finished, we were allowed to play Shuffleboard.
It was around this time that I remember wanting to die for the first time in my life. I took an overdose of aspirins one time, and after having my stomach pumped, I went home to receive a beating from Len "for being so stupid". Another time, I sat on the third floor window, wanting to jump.
Soon after Len began sexually abusing me, I told my mother. She slapped me in the face and told me not to tell such lies. She told me if she ever heard me saying this, she would place me in a foster home, reminding me that my brother, Norman died in a foster home. That was the only time she ever mentioned Norman's name in our home. Dorothy's name was also never mentioned. Nor was my father's.
I told my best friend, Cheryl Deere, about the abuse. She was horrified! We'd been friends since kindergarten. I made her promise not to tell anyone. I lied to the teachers at school about where the marks on my body came from. Mom would often punish us by not letting us eat supper or breakfast. Often I would go to school hungry. One of my teachers, Sister Bonaventure suspected abuse, and would often bring me into the teachers lunchroom and give me something to eat. She never asked questions.
These years were probably the hardest of my childhood. Mom was drunk constantly. Len continued to sexually abuse my younger sisters and myself. I remember pushing my little sisters against the wall at night so that he wouldn't hurt them. Night after night, Len would sneak into our bedroom. I always pretended to be asleep. I can still hear the zipper of his black pants coming unzipped..can still smell the alcohol on his breath, can still feel the weight of his body on mine...can still remember the places my mind took me during that time..afraid to be present...hoping it was just a dream. It was not a dream. I never cried.
I missed a lot of school during these years, often staying home to take care of my younger sisters. Often because Mom was afraid of the marks left on my body...afraid the nuns would notice.
One summer day I woke up. Mom wasn't home. Len approached me and told me to get undressed. I don't know what happened that day but something snapped in me. I looked him straight in the eye, and told him, "NO!" He took off his belt and wrapped it around his fist and held it over his head, ready to strike me. "Go ahead", I told him, "go right ahead...cuz this will be the LAST time you ever hit me. I'm leaving, but I'll be back... I'll be back, Len. One day I will be a big strong woman and I WILL be back! and you WILL pay for this!" I turned around and walked out.
I hid in the streets for days, finally agreeing to go home with my friend Cheryl, and telling her parents what happene. I swore them to secrecy, fearing what would happen to my younger sisters if they notified the authorities. One day, about a month later, there was a knock at the door. It was the police. They came and arrested me on "Vagrancy" charges. I was taken to 311 Jarvis St. (Juvenile Detention Centre) and I stood before a judge for the first time in my life. I was told I should be greatful to have parents who loved me and was told I would be placed in foster home. I was warned that if I did not change, I would end up in Training School. I did not tell the judge why I ran away from home. He never asked. I did not think I would be believed.
Over the next several months, I was in several foster homes. I was terrified of the foster fathers...rarely slept at night, and always felt out of place. I was the only First Nations child in these homes. Each time I ran away, I was hauled off to 311 Jarvis again.
Finally, I was told I would be given one last chance. I was brought to the Mullen's foster home in North York, a suburb of Toronto. My first memory of this house was that it was a huge old farmhouse across from a mall, in the middle of nowhere. As we drove up the long, pine edged driveway, I saw this little black haired woman hanging laundry outside. She smiled as she walked towards the car. After my worker again reminded me that this was my last chance, she left. I went to my room and began unpacking. Monica Mullen came upstairs and knocked at my door. "Let's go shopping. We need to get you some decent clothes, and God! we just have to do something about that head of hair of yours!" she told me in her strong Irish brogue. Later that afternoon her daughter Adrienne came home, all excited because she would no longer be an only child. Adrienne is 3 days older than me, and was attending a parochial school. Within minutes she and I were friends. She laughingly told me that they were expecting a 3 year old...not a 13 year old, but she was SO happy I was there.
That night as I lay in bed, I heard the familiar footsteps approaching my room. I ignored the light knock and feigned sleep. I cringed when the door opened, convinced it was Adrienne's father, coming in to abuse me. I felt a soft hand reach out and push my hair from my face. I heard Monica's soft voice whispering to me...telling who she thought was a sleeping child, that she did not know what I had experienced, but she could see the fear in my little eyes. She told me I would be safe there, and that she was so happy I had joined their family. She then gently reached down and softly kissed my forehead, closing my door behind her. As soon as I heard her footsteps on the stairs, I felt the tears come.
I grew to love the Mullens like my own family. I was their first of many foster children. Within days Adrienne and I decided to share a room. We painted the walls black. We were given our own phone line. On Saturdays we took the long bus and subway trip downtown and spent our allowances at Sam the Record Man. We loved the Monkees, the Beatles...we owned every record made! I blossomed in that house!
I joined the Girl Guides and sang in the church choir. Monica attended every Mass that I sang at. I was often asked to sing solo's at weddings. Monica always sat in the back of the church. She always had time for me. Her husband, Pat, was a wonderful, gentle, safe man. On Friday nights, as tired as he was from working hard all week, he would load all us girls up in his car and take us to drive in theratres. I loved him dearly!
Monica and I sat down and talked one day and she told me she would like me to stay with them forever. I told her I would love this. A few weeks later my worker came to visit and told me I would have to move...the Mullen's had made a mistake with me...they got too attached. I was sent off to Residential School, with promises that if I behaved, I would be able to visit the Mullen's every holiday. Those promises were not kept.
While at this School in Windsor Ontario, a Seminarian named Jack, who taught music to the students sexually abused me. He began at first by using his charm to make me feel more important to him than any of the other students, and slowly went from kisses he snuck when we were alone, to forcing oral sex on me.
A year later while returning from Expo 67 in Montreal, I ran away and went directly to the Mullen's. This went on for years. Every time I ran away, I would go home to the Mullen's. Their door was always opened to me...and I was always sent back by my worker.
No one ever asked me why I ran away.
Each time I was returned I was placed in what was known as the "Infirmary", which was in reality, a cell block. It was attached to the convent and it held two individual cells and a "living room". The Convent housekeeper, Elaine, served our meals, immediately locking the door behind her. When we were "well behaved" we were allowed out into the "living room" which was a brick rom consisting of a couch and chair, coffee table and a tv, for short periods of time. The longest I was kept there was 69 days at one time.
Finally, after running away from Residential School at the age of 15, it was decided that I would be placed in another agency in Scarborough, known as Browndale. It was here that I met Doug, an older man - a Vietnam Vet.
The children and teens placed at Browndale, were free to come and go, basically, as much as they wanted. Doug and I hung out in Toronto's Village district, with the other Flower Children. Many of our friends were using drugs. Doug was heroine addicted. I was terrified of the effects of drugs, so I chose not to use them. I was his caretaker. Before long I found out I was pregnant.
On March 28, 1969, just two months before my 17th birthday, I gave birth to twin sons, Jason and Matthew.
On March 14th, 1970, a drunk driver hit us head on. Within seconds, my precious babies were both dead.
I was seriously injureed in the accident, but released myself against medical advice to be with Doug the morning after the accident. The doctor gave me some valium to help ease my emotional pain. That evening my sister came to see me with a bottle of whiskey in her hands. She told me that having a few drinks of this, would help me calm down enough to sleep. That night I ate the bottle of valium, swallowing it with the bottle of whiskey.
I awoke a few days later in intensive care. I was told that I was very lucky to be alive. I was also told I was three months pregnant!
Following the funeral, I met up again with a man I'd dated while in Residential School. He told me he was taking me back home with him, away from all the drugs, and the mess I'd gotten myself into. Almost trance-like, I followed him, moving 600 miles away.
We were married two months later. I gave birth to my daughter on November 30, 1970. My son's birth followed, 13 months later.
It was during this marriage that I was subjected to KKK related, Satanic Ritual abuse.
It was a miracle that I was able to escape with my two babies four years later.
My escape took place the day following my return from hospital, after having a hysterectomy, due to the severe internal trauma I received as a result of the Ritual Abuse.
Shortly before my 18th birthday, Bruce reappeared after being gone for almost that entire time. Mom and him got back together again for a short time then separated again. Later they got together again but the relationship didn't work out. During that time Bruce and I spent a bit of time talking, but he rarely opened up much. I asked him once if he was my biological father or not. He told me he really didn't know if ANY of my two older sisters or brother or I were his children or not but he lved us and considered us his. I never felt the bond with Bruce that I did with my dad, Art. He was never unkind to me in any way but he just wasnt my father.
CHILDREN