Strong brew of tea and tears Rosanna Deerchild waited. Her mother finally shared residential school stories. A new play carries it forward By: Ben Waldman Posted: 7:00 PM CDT Tuesday, Mar. 21, 2023 Last Modified: 4:42 PM CDT Thursday, Mar. 23, 2023 Updates

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Unlike her prose, Rosanna Deerchild is cloaked in purple.

Her button-up shirt is violet. Beneath the glitzy glitter, her Doc Martens are too. From her neck hangs a beaded medallion of the crow, a representation of the trickster, Deerchild says with a wry grin.

Deerchild can call herself many things: an award-winning writer, journalist, storyteller, poet, broadcaster — you might have heard her on CBC’s Unreserved, the show she’s hosted since 2014. The Winnipegger is also a television star: last year, she was cast as the chief of Grouse Lake on Acting Good, Anishinaabe Manitoba comedian Paul Rabliauskas’ sitcom.

Now, at 50, Deerchild can call herself a first-time playwright. The Secret to Good Tea runs on the Royal MTC Mainstage from March 22 through April 15.

A few days before the debut, the Free Press sat down with Deerchild to spill.

This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

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As an interviewer, you know how hard first questions can be. I guess today mine is, can you paint me a picture of your childhood home?

I grew up in Thompson, a little nickel mining community. And the reason I grew up there is because my mother married a non-Indigenous man, and he moved us from O-Pipon-Na-Piwin (South Indian Lake) Cree Nation. We had a very religious upbringing, raised in the Mormon church, which some people might consider a cult. Little did I know. But we had a very strict upbringing. My stepfather was not a very loving man. There were lots of rules, and alcohol abuse, and physical abuse of my siblings. I was still small, but I remember lots of terrifying nights.

Around the table, we had to sit up straight. It was very rigid. And I think the reason that my mother chose this man was because of her residential school upbringing. She was familiar with those rules. She was familiar with an absence of love, and the structure. It took me a long time to understand that, of course. We always were dressed pristinely, with our hair combed, and we were always fed three times a day. There was very little “I love you” or physical affection.

It seems from the play’s synopsis that a lot of the cultural connections you have with your mom were first made over tea. Is that accurate?

There were certainly aspects of culture in my life growing up. My mother was a bead worker and a seamstress, and she made a lot of my clothes. We always had beaded moccasins and braided hair. There were always cultural touches throughout my life. I don’t think that’s something you could ever really erase. But my mother is a big tea drinker, so a lot of our conversations happened around the table when we were collaborating on a book of poetry together about her experiences in residential school.

That book was Calling Down the Sky.

Yes, that’s right. That’s how our conversation began. I would go and visit her and she would tell me about school over tea. It’s how we would connect.

And you didn’t know these stories before?

I didn’t know about my mother’s residential school experience, and I didn’t even know about residential school, until I was 18. And she didn’t talk about her experiences until I was in my 30s. I attempted to ask her about school, but she never wanted to talk about it. Lots of her pain manifested in things like alcohol abuse, silence and shutting down conversations. It wasn’t until she stopped drinking and lived a different lifestyle that we were able to have those conversations.

She was familiar with an absence of love, and the structure. It took me a long time to understand that, of course. We always were dressed pristinely, with our hair combed, and we were always fed three times a day. There was very little “I love you” or physical affection.

How did that go at first? Did you treat it as an interview, and if so, was she forthcoming, or did you have to pry?

Once you get that first memory, it opens a door. I was very patient with her, and the book took over five years, because sometimes, she just didn’t want to go there. So I would just wait until she was ready. I didn’t interview her, per se. I would ask, “Do you want to share anything today?” and she would share a memory. I never pried. I just left the door open for her to come and talk to me.

What was said when that door first opened?

The first memory she shared was probably about her first day, and that became On the First Day.

In listening to you read that poem, your pronunciation and rhythm of language shifts. Are you writing in your mother’s voice? If so, how did it sound coming from her?

Yes. At first, it was unsure and scared. But the more she told me about her memories, the stronger her voice became. She would tell me a story, and I would go write a poem. I would show it to her or read it to her. If she said “No,” I’d listen again, and then fix it. And if she said, “Good, good, my girl,” that meant it was done. She’s a very tough editor in that way.

As a poet, how does your process differ when trying to encapsulate someone else’s experiences as opposed to your own?

For me, poetry has always been a ceremony, a certain language, and a way of interpreting my own experiences. For a long time, it’s where I went to tell secrets I couldn’t tell anybody else. It’s where I did my own sort of praying. As somebody who didn’t grow up learning my language, it felt like my ancestors telling me, “This is the language we’re gifting you.”

When I was talking to my mother, it was about entering into that ceremony together and making sure I was honouring her voice, her story and her experience. I didn’t just want to take the story and interpret it in my own way. That’s why we would go back and revisit. That’s why I would make sure those details and nuances were correct.

When the Truth and Reconciliation Commission was coming around and gathering the stories, she wasn’t allowed in that circle. There were just so many people who wanted to tell theirs, and there just wasn’t room. So that prompted me to take her aside and say, “I’ll tell your story, and then nobody will tell you there’s no room for you.” That was our sacred promise to each other.

My grandfather was born in Poland in 1935, and was a child survivor of the Holocaust. He didn’t talk about it much. A few days ago, my aunt, his sister, told me a little about what he went through, and my eyes lit up. I couldn’t believe how much I didn’t know.

Did you get that feeling, hearing her stories?

There was certainly relief in understanding that it wasn’t (because of) me. Every kid wonders if their parents love them, and what they could do to make them love you more. As somebody who grew up with that absence, I was always looking for that. To understand why she was the way she was came as a relief, and it certainly led us down a path to reconciliation with each other within our family.

When I was talking to my mother, it was about entering into that ceremony together and making sure I was honouring her voice, her story and her experience. I didn’t just want to take the story and interpret it in my own way. That’s why we would go back and revisit.

At the same time, it was extremely hard to hear the things she had to survive. There were times when I was extremely angry about it and times I’d have to go home and cry. Because these were little children, going through this. I can’t imagine what that would be like. So the least I could do was to hear those stories and write them down, give them back to her in a beautiful way, not a painful way.

Is your mother still with us?

Yeah, she’s at home. Watching her soaps.

Had you ever written a play before?

No, I hadn’t. But in 2021, (Governor General’s Award-winning playwright) Ian Ross, whom I like to call Ojibwe Wan Kenobi, called me one day and told me about a writers’ group (Pimootayowin) for playwrights. I said, “I don’t write plays,” and he said “That’s exactly why I want you to come on board.”

So I said sure, because you should never say no to opportunities. I tried to talk myself out of going, but I was immediately enveloped by all this love and camaraderie and joyousness and joyfulness from these other Indigenous artists who embarked on the journey with me.

Was there an early lesson that you recall being helpful?

One of the first things (Ian) said was to write your last scene first, which is completely counterintuitive to anything in broadcasting or poetry. That was interesting, to tell the story backwards and forwards, and sideways and around, in a circle.

Which Indigenous writers helped you find your voice?

Oh so many, my mind is flooding. The first that comes to mind is E. Pauline Johnson. I completely adored her. Douglas Campbell Scott was writing poetry about Indians dying all the time, being killed and shot off their horses. But Johnson wrote about us being alive, and not just surviving, but thriving, and being badass. From there I discovered writers like Maria Campbell, and more recently, Waubgeshig Rice, who’s launching a new book soon. Eden Robinson, the amazing writer of the Trickster series.

(She also lists Gregory Schofield, Marilyn Dumont, Louise Halfe, Duncan Mercredi, Trevor Greyeyes, and Katherena Vermette).

Do you have a favourite question to end interviews on?

Usually, I ask people to look 20 years ahead, and ask something like … “What do you think it should be like then?”

Do you want to answer that question yourself?

Well, I certainly hope there’s going to be a lot more Indigenous stories and storytellers. A lot more spaces that we’ve made ourselves or have claimed ourselves, in every medium possible. I believe Indigenous people will be there and leading a different way of telling stories. That was a good last question.

ben.waldman@winnipegfreepress.com