I just want to share a story before we end our Orange Shirt Day.
A few years ago, I was sitting at my mom’s dinner table with my parents, Leski Earl Bull Head, Jerome Kills Small, and Leski Joe Marshall III.
We were all laughing and joking, and then Earl told a story from boarding school. I don’t remember which school he was at, or if it was his story or a relative’s story.
He said it was winter and snowing really hard, and the nuns and priests were making all the kids march around the property. There was a long line of kids, some were just babies, marching in the snow. Their trail went over a small bridge above a river that led into a lake. They weren’t allowed to cry or say anything, or the nuns would make them march longer.
He said that on one pass over the bridge, a younger boy fell onto the ice. The boy’s older brother went after him, and as the older one reached the younger, the ice broke and they both fell in. The nuns and priests yelled that no one was allowed to move or they’d be beaten. All the children had to helplessly watch as the boys screamed for help, and no one could move. They watched them go under the ice, and then the screams stopped. The nuns and priests made them continue marching back to the school.
In the spring, school workers removed the bodies, threw them in a hole, and buried them. No funeral, no ceremony; just buried.
Leski couldn’t remember their names. He was sad when he realized this. We all sat in silence after his story, like we were saying silent prayers for the boys, their spirits, and their families.
I cry every time I remember that story, every time I retell it. Because those boys mattered. Those boys were someone’s beloved and cherished children. They were stolen. They never made it home. The cruelty our children endured is still felt today, the trauma those other children carried from watching the boys slowly die.
We will never forget or just get over it. Not until all our children are identified and brought home.
No school should have a graveyard.
