Dear Canada: Hoping for Home

by Kit Pearson

  We returned home two days later. We took the stage to Hamilton and from there another stage to Simcoe. Mr. Sidney Crosby was waiting for us in his wagon. News of our victory had travelled ahead of us. Mr. Crosby threw his hat up in the air when he saw us.

  As we journeyed through the countryside, I reflected on my family’s journey in fighting for me to get an education. All they want is for me to learn … even a little. I will never forget that my father would not give up. Nor will I forget my mother’s persistence that I not fall behind. I will also remember the meanness of the teacher and the school trustees for denying education to children. Prejudice against colour is an evil thing.

  You might remember me saying that Reverend Sorrick and my mother want me to become a minister; my father, a doctor. But after seeing Mr. Hanson in court, and experiencing how the law can be used to get justice, an idea has begun forming in my mind that that is the path I would like to pursue. To become a lawyer and help those who are in need of such help. It is not a far-fetched idea for a Black boy to become a lawyer. Just look at Mr. Sutherland!

  But though Judge Robinson ruled I could return to the common school, do I really want to go back to a place where the teacher, scholars and trustees seek ways to destroy me?

  As if reading my thoughts, Mr. Crosby turned around, a huge smile on his face. “You wouldn’t believe what happened,” he said. Father and I looked at him curiously. “Well, with all the excitement about the court case, the school teacher and trustee Glasgow are leaving the area. It is rumoured that they are going out west to homestead in a place called the Red River District. They say in the Red River a man can get hundreds of acres for free.” He also added that the school might get a new teacher.

  I am sitting on the back porch writing you this letter, Julius. I feel like my whole future is a big question mark, but I must think that better times are ahead with the court case behind us and a new teacher coming to school. I have fallen behind for a year, but with hard work, I will catch up. My one regret is that Father had to sell Frederick to help pay our legal costs. That was so hard, but at least our case prevailed, and Father says he will do what he can to get Frederick back.

  The sun is setting and the light is fading. A company of people have arrived for a dinner arranged by my mother, ready to celebrate our victory. The first wagon has just rolled into the yard, so I must close this letter soon. Who knows? Maybe one day I will become a lawyer and move to Liberia to help my countrymen there.

  I must go. Dear Julius, I pray that you will receive this letter. My kindest regards to you, my uncle, my aunt and your two brothers. My dear cousin, pray for me and my family, as I pray for you and yours. God bless you and Liberia too.

  Your cousin and humble servant,

  Solomon Washington

  Living through the Depression is hard enough to cope with, and then there’s the fire that took away everything that Yvonne’s family held dear … She hopes that the move to Thetford Mines will mark a new beginning. But there are other hurdles to overcome.

  Several of the events included in Yvonne’s diary spring from actual stories that MARIE-ANDRÉE CLERMONT heard during the summers she spent in her grandparents’ home in Thetford Mines during her childhood and teenage years.

  Out of the Ashes

  The Diary of Yvonne Boissonneault

  Thetford Mines, Québec

  November – December 1938

  Sunday, November 27 (late)

  I did something awful, Journal. Maman and Papa were having another fight and I listened in. I wasn’t really eavesdropping. I was writing in you, sitting in my closet, and first thing I knew, they were in their room yelling at each other. With the walls so thin, I could hear everything.

  Living at Grand-Papa’s isn’t easy for any of us, but it’s even harder for Maman. She shouted at Papa about his father being a tyrant and ordering her around as if she were his servant. And about Thetford Mines being so polluted. Angrier by the minute, she spilled an endless list of complaints. “You think I enjoy cleaning the house morning and night so we don’t breathe asbestos dust?” she said with such fury that my heart stopped beating. A scream was wailing silently at the back of my throat.

  Then Papa spoke back, about how could Maman be so ungrateful, and that without his father’s help, we would have no home and Papa would be out of a job. “We lost everything in that fire, remember?” he said. “Would you rather be starving in Abitibi?”

  We all know that the workshop provided our income back in Abitibi, and that asbestos is the reason this region might overcome the hardships of the Depression faster than others. And I didn’t need to be reminded that Thetford is a dusty town.

  They started nagging at each other so I blocked my ears. When I listened again after a long while, they were talking more quietly. Papa was urging Maman to make the most of the situation, reminding her how strong she is. But she didn’t let him finish. “My strength went up in smoke when our house burned down,” she said. Then she grumbled about this house not feeling like home when she can’t even move one piece of furniture without Grand-Papa going berserk.

  Then their voices lowered and I had to strain to hear Papa say, “Come, into my arms, Rachel. Let’s kiss and make up.” But Maman started sobbing, and it went on and on and on, so I crawled out of the closet and here I am, writing in the bathroom. It’s almost midnight and I feel terrible.

  Monday, November 28

  Drat! DRAT! DRAT! for all that went wrong today. Journal, I was spanked this morning, by my mother, who claims she doesn’t believe in corporal punishment. HUMILIATION!

  Also, I’m in BIG trouble at school.

  Maman burst into our room really early, demanding our help because there was just too much work for her to do alone. She was nervous and she looked terrible. She probably hadn’t slept all night. She told Laura that every morning before breakfast she was to sweep the upstairs floors. Saint Laura nodded. Then Maman said that I would make all the beds and pick up whatever is on the floor. Seeing me scowl, she added that she would clean downstairs, so I don’t have to do Grand-Papa’s room.

  I made a face. What about Bernard? He’s seventeen, after all. Can’t he make his own bed? Why do Laura and I have to do it all?

  Bernard’s responsibilities are to keep the woodbox supplied for the stove, Maman retorted, and to run errands for Papa at the store. Even as Maman was listing our chores, my brother wandered out of the bathroom and walked past our room, sticking his tongue out at me. “Yvonne-la-grognonne,” I heard him singsong on his way downstairs. The brat, calling me grumpy! I was seething. Maman said she understood how hard it was coping with the loss of our home and then moving here to a new town, but that we must adjust.

  There are always tears in her voice when she recalls our former life. Not only did she lose everything she owned in that fire, but it’s as though a giant eraser wiped away all the years she’d spent building our family life, all those special routines that knit us together and made us feel so cosy. She hasn’t been the same since, and I’m wondering if we’ll ever regain the happiness we had before.

  Journal, Laura really is a saint. She dressed quickly and started sweeping. But I yawned, went to the bathroom, took my time putting on my school uniform, and then slowly started making beds. Mine. Laura’s. I worked faster in my parents’ bedroom to escape the angry emotions floating about. The little ones were babbling when I came into their room, so I played with them for a bit. Then Martine helped me tidy the sheets and Charles threw his playthings in the toy box for me.

  I had no intention of making Bernard’s bed. The simple thought repulsed me. And the view of his pyjamas lying in a heap made my insides turn over, not to mention his crumpled sheets. To cap it all off, his pillow was nagging at me from the top of the huge armoire — out of reach.

  “I will not do this!” I muttered.

  Maman must have heard me, for she came right up and glared at me. But I stamped my foot, hollering that my “pig brother” could pick up his o
wn rubbish, and that I would not clean that dump!

  That’s when Maman grabbed me, pulled me into my room and spanked me. Hard. After that, she forced me to make Bernard’s bed. Then she marched me down the stairs, bundled me into my coat and sent me off to school. She gave me a piece of bread to eat on the way, pushed me out with my school bag and shut the door. I stood on the steps, unable to move.

  I couldn’t believe this was happening, Journal. I wanted to cry. I was hurting. I felt miserable and angry. Did Maman still love me? Why was she cruel like that? Does she forget that I lost my home in the fire too?

  Then I turned around and saw her in the window, watching me. Her face seemed so sad that I was overcome by a terrible feeling of guilt, and I blamed myself all the way to school for making her even more unhappy.

  Journal, when it rains, it pours. In school, today …

  Oops, later. Maman’s calling … Dusting duty … DRAT!

  After supper

  It was still very tense at the table tonight, although Maman cooked my favourite supper: shepherd’s pie and maple pudding. We washed dishes really fast and then the others gathered around the piano to sing carols. Laura is a good pianist, and the little ones always love those carols. So, let them have their musical moment. I have things to write, and Bernard is splitting wood again, so I’m safe from his cheekiness.

  In class, I got back my composition assignment with a ZERO scribbled across it. I was stunned. Mère Saint-Armand had asked us to recall an important event in our lives, and I had tried to write an interesting story. Back in Abitibi, Composition was my best subject and I always got good marks.

  “What a beautiful text!” Mère Saint-Armand exclaimed sarcastically. She went on about my nice long sentences, well-chosen verbs, great sense of rhythm. That’s when she shocked me by saying, “The problem is, you obviously copied the whole thing. I’ll have you know, Mademoiselle Boissonneault, that I will not tolerate cheating.”

  She had called me to her desk and was scolding me in front of my classmates. My heart sank and I hung my head as she went on describing the evilness of plagiarism.

  “But, Mère Saint-Armand, I did not copy, I swear!” I told her.

  She just sneered and said that lying on top of cheating wouldn’t help, “and swearing even less,” but that since I like copying so much, I would no doubt enjoy transcribing one full page of the gospel as punishment. “Bring it to me tomorrow morning,” she snapped. “And you will have both your parents sign your assignment, so they know what a cheat they have for a daughter.”

  With that, she sent me to my place and started teaching a lesson I didn’t hear a word of. All I could think was, I did not cheat, I did not cheat, I did not cheat. And I’ll prove it.

  But how? With Maman in the mood she’s in, I’ll be in even more trouble if she thinks I cheated. I know I have to show her my

  Later on

  I had to run downstairs to answer the doorbell.

  Thank God for Oncle Albert! He’s so nice and friendly! He stopped by with my cousin Colette to say hello. I wish Colette and I were in the same Grade Six class because we’re such good friends, but she goes to English school because Aunt Harriet is Irish. We gathered in the living room and, while Oncle Albert was telling funny anecdotes — even Maman laughed — I took Colette upstairs and told her about my essay problem. “Trust your parents,” she advised, adding that they’d know I wrote it myself and would tell my teacher.

  “But won’t Mère Saint-Armand hate me even more if she’s proven wrong?” I asked.

  Colette argued that it would be much worse that my classmates think of me as a cheat. Then she asked what the composition was about.

  “About the fire,” I told her, and tears filled my eyes. Colette knows all about that, and what it meant for my family, of course. She took my hand and let the moment pass.

  When we came back downstairs, Oncle Albert had terrific news to announce. He and a couple of his fellow workers in the mine are in the process of buying a piece of land on a nearby lake. If all goes according to plan, he’ll take us swimming there next summer. Won’t that be wonderful? Oncle Albert is Maman’s “favourite brother,” as she likes to say — her usual joke, because he’s her only brother. Living close to him was one of the few things Maman was looking forward to when we moved here.

  Their visit improved the atmosphere by one hundred per cent. After they left, I showed Maman and Papa my assignment. They believed that I wrote the essay myself — what a relief! Maman read it and said I had captured the night of the fire with a lot of insight. She wrote a note for Mère Saint-Armand, which both she and Papa signed. And of course, I was spared copying out a page of the gospel! Whew!

  Monday, December 5

  I’ve neglected you, Journal. Sorry. But I’m happy to tell you that things have improved a lot on the school front. I truly love Saint-Alphonse Convent and its formal discipline and everything, so different from my small country school in Abitibi. The convent here is an impressive four-storey building where there are rules to follow, rituals to observe, and a reputation for good teaching. The graduates have no problems finding jobs if they want to work. Some girls hear the call and eventually become nuns. Mind you, Journal, I wouldn’t want that to happen to me, even if I love God and try to observe his commands. We say grace before meals at home and we attend Mass on Sundays, and I pray morning and night, but … it’s so hard being good all the time. I hate Bernard, and that’s a sin, and I’m lazy and selfish, and a real glutton. Besides, with that temper of mine … No, really, I don’t have much chance of getting the call. Whew!

  Anyway, Mère Saint-Armand admitted that she had misjudged me, and she apologized in class. What she said was quite nice, actually. She explained that she had sort of paid me a compliment by assuming I had cheated, because in her opinion, my text was too well written to be my own.

  In class the other day, she asked us to write about someone we admired. I described Oncle Albert and got a good mark.

  On the home front, Maman is still a nervous wreck. Yesterday, Papa asked her to fill in for an employee at the store who was sick, and Grand-Papa was shocked! He pointed out that a mother’s place is in the home. Papa argued that he needed help to serve the customers since he — Grand-Papa — had decided to hang up his apron. In the end, Maman did go to work at the store and — I can’t figure out why — it improved her mood a bit, even if it meant less time to do the chores at home.

  Papa wants to start selling other foods at the store, but Grand-Papa says Impossible! His store is a meat shop, not a grocery store, and that’s that. But according to Papa, since many people still suffer from the Depression and don’t have much money to spend on food, we would attract more customers by selling rice and flour and other foods that cost less than meat. But Grand-Papa is stubborn. There is an ongoing argument about that in the house.

  I make beds every morning — the usual drudgery. Bernard-the-Pest is as obnoxious as ever and I’d gladly wring his neck. He teases me every time he notices me reading, or writing in you, Journal, implying that I ought to be doing useful things instead. That’s why I hide in my closet, where he can’t see me. It’s almost empty, anyway: none of us has all that many clothes since the fire. Of course, his wood chopping sets Bernard free of all other house duties. It’s unfair because, in reality, he loves splitting those logs. And he still has time to play bowling at the parish centre after school. He has lots of friends already. But Laura and I must come home straightaway to help, so neither of us has made any friends here yet.

  I worry a lot about Maman. She is a good-looking woman, but when she’s sad, her beauty is buried under her unhappiness. She used to be the prettiest mother in the world. How I miss that mother!

  Oncle Albert is working evening shifts since last week, so he’s been dropping in during the day. He raises Maman’s spirits with his cheerfulness, makes the little ones laugh by fooling around, and he challenges Grand-Papa to a game of checkers. Everybody’s happier when he stops
by, and I can feel the lightness in the air when I come home from school.

  Apart from these visits, Grand-Papa sits in his rocking chair, reading the paper or dozing off — his habit ever since he stopped working at the store and Papa took over. I think he still misses Grand-Maman — after all, it is only a year since she passed away.

  Grand-Papa criticizes a lot, but one thing he’s nice about is Maman’s cooking. He compliments her, saying it reminds him of my grandmother’s meals. I guess he didn’t eat too well during the months he lived by himself. He must have felt lonely with his children scattered all over. Oncle Henri lives the closest. He has promised to treat us to a sugaring-off party next spring at his maple grove in Beauce. Oncle Henri will be here on New Year’s Day — with his wife and all eight children — to receive Grand-Papa’s solemn Blessing with all of us.

  Journal, I’m going in every direction tonight, aren’t I? What can I say? No news is good news.

  Thursday, December 8

  Journal, it’s just horrifying! I was awakened by hushed voices and tearful moans in the middle of the night. I figured Maman and Papa were fighting again, so I blocked my ears and buried my head in my pillow. But it wasn’t that at all. And the second Laura and I came downstairs this morning, I knew something much worse had happened. Maman looked dazed. Her face was all swollen and red. Papa, who’s normally gone to work at this hour, was still here. And Grand-Papa, who usually sleeps much later, was up. Both seemed in shock. My heart missed a beat.

  Grand-Papa was eventually able to tell the terrible news. “Your uncle died.” His voice was hoarse. “A terrible accident happened at the mine last night … a wall fell over some miners who were cleaning debris in the entrance of a tunnel where there had been a blasting operation …”