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Edited Text
didn’t think of life and being in those terms then; only later. This my
grandmother taught me even before I went to school in Cape Croker.
Unforgettable too is the lesson that she passed on to me in my
teenage years; that is, to know who I was by getting to know my peo-
ple’s history. When I must have seemed inattentive to her, she
reminded me sharply that “You'd better get to know where you came
from. It’s the only way you're going to get to know yourself.” Until
my grandmother told me about things, I had given them no thought.
But they have stayed with me and have become part of my outlook
and perception.
My grandmother died in the late fall of 1946. My father, who had not
come back to Mother as we had hoped, left the reserve, as did many
other men, to work in lumber camps that provided a steadier income
than did fishing. They now wanted a monthly paycheck such as they
had received in military service. Besides, “Fishing is done; pulpwood
cutting is done.”
In the fall of 1947 I too left the reserve, encouraged to return to
school by Frank Nadjiwon.
Back to Spanish I went, to enroll in the high school program that
the residential school was then offering. I graduated in 1950, went on
to university, and worked in business for seven years before going to
teacher’s college and teaching high school in North York, Ontario. In
1970, because of my work in the native community in Toronto, I was
seconded by the Royal Ontario Museum (ROM) to initiate a native
program in its Department of Ethnology and in the larger communi-
ty around Toronto and southern Ontario. When my leave of absence
from the North York Board of Education expired, Dr. E.S. Rogers of
the RoM asked me to stay on as a permanent staff member. I agreed.
In my capacity as teacher in the Department of Ethnology, I trav-
eled frequently and widely in southern and mid-Ontario. I read wide-
ly—boring ethnological stuff. Wherever I traveled, people told me
stories and offered me explanations not recorded in ethnographic
texts. In the years since leaving Cape Croker, I doubt that I had given
Grandmother’s stories two seconds of thought.
It wasn't until thirty years later that I was reminded of her account
of the exodus of the Pottawatomi from Green Bay, Wisconsin. In
grandmother taught me even before I went to school in Cape Croker.
Unforgettable too is the lesson that she passed on to me in my
teenage years; that is, to know who I was by getting to know my peo-
ple’s history. When I must have seemed inattentive to her, she
reminded me sharply that “You'd better get to know where you came
from. It’s the only way you're going to get to know yourself.” Until
my grandmother told me about things, I had given them no thought.
But they have stayed with me and have become part of my outlook
and perception.
My grandmother died in the late fall of 1946. My father, who had not
come back to Mother as we had hoped, left the reserve, as did many
other men, to work in lumber camps that provided a steadier income
than did fishing. They now wanted a monthly paycheck such as they
had received in military service. Besides, “Fishing is done; pulpwood
cutting is done.”
In the fall of 1947 I too left the reserve, encouraged to return to
school by Frank Nadjiwon.
Back to Spanish I went, to enroll in the high school program that
the residential school was then offering. I graduated in 1950, went on
to university, and worked in business for seven years before going to
teacher’s college and teaching high school in North York, Ontario. In
1970, because of my work in the native community in Toronto, I was
seconded by the Royal Ontario Museum (ROM) to initiate a native
program in its Department of Ethnology and in the larger communi-
ty around Toronto and southern Ontario. When my leave of absence
from the North York Board of Education expired, Dr. E.S. Rogers of
the RoM asked me to stay on as a permanent staff member. I agreed.
In my capacity as teacher in the Department of Ethnology, I trav-
eled frequently and widely in southern and mid-Ontario. I read wide-
ly—boring ethnological stuff. Wherever I traveled, people told me
stories and offered me explanations not recorded in ethnographic
texts. In the years since leaving Cape Croker, I doubt that I had given
Grandmother’s stories two seconds of thought.
It wasn't until thirty years later that I was reminded of her account
of the exodus of the Pottawatomi from Green Bay, Wisconsin. In
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