A residential school by any other name
I write this in an office that sits on unceded, unsurrendered Algonquin land called Wakefield.
The long-overdue reckoning with Canada’s genocidal history makes me think of what I was taught in school, and about a lone model Haida longhouse sitting among a crowd of models of California’s version of residential schools.
Growing up in the States, the country's genocidal history was swept deep under the basement rug during elementary school curriculum.
I was told that Indians – as I was incorrectly taught to call them at the time – came to Jamestown during a cold winter to give food to the starving Europeans; thus the tradition of Thanksgiving began, and everyone became friends and lived happily ever after. I was not taught the truth.