Bonding with my new besties as survivors come together

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 06/03/2023 (1183 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

I attended Mino-si-toon Wichozani last week, the first annual Southern Chiefs’ Organization survivors healing gathering in Treaty One territory. I am a descendant of a residential school survivor, Annie Cook.

The two-day event, which involves 550 survivors from 79 First Nations, was developed for and by southern First Nation survivors and intergenerational survivors of the residential school and day school system, the ’60s Scoop, the child welfare system, and for all those affected by the issue of murdered and missing Indigenous women, girls, two spirit, and gender-diverse people.

It was the first time I’d attended anything like this, and if I am being wholly honest, it was a profound and humbling experience. I met several people, and even made new friends (thank goodness for Facebook, and the ability to stay connected so easily.) The days consisted of programming, kinship and two very powerful speeches from former Manitoba grand chief Phil Fontaine and former NDP MLA Kevin Chief.

On the first morning, I hurried to the convention centre late after dropping off my kid at school. The program had already started and since I’d never attended an event like this, I didn’t know what to expect. The butterflies in my stomach were having a workout, and there was a little voice inside my head giving me permission to duck out before I even found the room I was looking for.

Nobody will even notice.

I probably would have convinced myself to leave, if it wasn’t for this feeling deep down, telling me I ought to stay. Nana never got to do stuff like this, but you do. This is an absolute privilege. Keep walking.

In my fury I saw two other women come through a corridor, I could tell they were looking for the gathering spot, too. They were sharing jovial conversation and laughing with a deep familiar cackle that my sisters and I all have inherited somewhere down our familial line.

I butted my way into their conversation. I want to say I did it gently, or at the very least that I didn’t completely intrude, because they welcomed me in right away, but I can’t recall. I was just so grateful not to be wandering around alone.

“I’m Connie,” said one of the women, extending her hand.

“I’m Colleen,” said the other.

Instantly they were my friends, and together we found the gathering.

Over the two-day event, we stayed together, shared conversations, stories, and jokes as though we’d known each other for a lifetime. Both women were residential school survivors from the same community, Tootinaowaziibeeng Treaty Reserve is 400 kilometres northwest of Winnipeg. They grew up together, and they shared many commonalities throughout their lives. They embody so much resilience and a strength that it seems unfathomable.

We jokingly started referring to one another as “bestie,” a nickname that stuck throughout the event. They even made sure to save me a seat at their table on the second day, when I once again scurried in late. (Mornings are hard.)

During a medicine bag-making workshop, we sat together at a table with some other folks, sewing our medicine bags, talking and laughing. When people finished, they’d get up and leave. We took our sweet time, in part, because we were so busy chatting, and because out of the three of us I was the only one with a sharp needle that would easily poke through the leather, so I did most of the sewing. I’m sorry that all our bags are lopsided.

When we parted, we hugged and said goodbye. Connie promised to check in with me on Facebook once they made it home safe.

This experience and my new friends were medicine; something my soul was starving for… And to think, I almost talked myself out of going because I was scared.

shelley.cook@freepress.mb.ca

Twitter @ShelleyACook