On May 27th, I heard about the 215 children’s bodies found buried in Kamloops British Columbia, near the Tk’emlúps te Secwépemc First Nation, I felt like I was 16 years old, volunteering at the Shingwauk Residential School Survivors and Family gathering. There I learned more about myself as an Indigenous person, the impacts of colonial trauma, and intergenerational hurt/healing. When I was 24 years old, I discovered that my grandmother, aunty and uncle all attended the Spanish Residential Schools St. Joseph School for Girls and the St. Peter Claver School for boys. My Aunty Laura, passed away while at St. Joe’s. 

At around 2e years old, I took a picture of the ruins of a residential school in Spanish, Ontario. St. Joseph Residential school for girls caught fire in the 70’s, long after the school had closed. And now mother nature was taking back this place, that caused so much pain to many children and families. Stories that I had grown up with. I showed it to my father. He said that those were the schools your grandmother, aunty and uncle went to in Spanish, Ontario. My Aunt Laura, would pass away while at school as a young woman. This discovery of my history would make me understand my grandmother a little better, and the relationship that we didn’t have. 

A few years ago, I attended the Shingwauk gathering again at Algoma University (Formerly Shingwauk Hall) and participated in the campus tour of the former residential school grounds, which include the chapel, the auditorium and the graveyard. Taking these tours since I was a teenager, I am pretty unwaived by its history. Some of my Indigenous and non-Indigenous colleagues and community members dropped out of our tour as we went along. 

There was a youth present with our group, a bright spirit that only rainbows and pride parade marshals can understand. My peers joked that they were a ‘mini version of me.’ I cried in circle, as I thought about what it was like for other 2Spirit and LGBTQ kids who attended these places. The people I knew of and the children I will never be able to meet. 

On May 27th, I took a photo of an orange and red sunset. I knew that social media was about to turn orange, to recognize all the children lost during residential school. I realized that the number of 215 children was just the start. There were graveyards and cemeteries at many of these monstrous institutions, where many of our Indigenous loved ones are buried. Never making it home. I knew I needed to do something constructive and channel my own pain and grieving in a ‘good way’. So I began to paint. 

As I started to paint, I began to reflect again about my family’s relationship with residential schools. Particularly, where my relatives are buried. I knew my grandmother’s remains are in Garden River First Nation. My aunt, my grandmother’s daughter, sent an obituary for my Uncle Morris. Lansing, Michigan USA. It will be a long while until the borders open, but I would be interested in visiting and paying my respects to him. My aunty Laura, provided our family with an adventure. Starting with the question: Where was aunt Laura buried? 

I reached out to family members in Wikwemikong Unceded First Nation, who didn’t know where she was buried, but could ask around. My aunt didn’t know either. We spoke how we wish we could have asked more questions to our loved ones. But mentioned to learn from this. My search continued to the Shingwauk Archives, where I asked if they could help me find some information about my aunt. I was lucky enough that they found her death certificate. This made me realize that if there was a death certificate, that there could be more pieces to the puzzle, if we just followed my aunt’s paper trail. A journey for us to find her. Her death certificate mentioned that she had passed away from Tuberculous (we know of this) but that she was sent to the Queen Alexandra Sanitorium.

Laura was sent to London Ontario at 17 years old, and passed away there when she was 20 years old. My aunt had previously sent me a photo of my grandmother visiting my aunt at a hospital. But she didn’t mention which hospital that was. I knew now that she wasn’t buried at the residential schools in Spanish, Ontario. My Wiky relatives mentioned that my family had little means, so that bringing her body home probably didn’t happen. I wasn’t done yet. 

June is Pride month, so I’ve been busy since May. I was thinking of ways to find her. Who should I ask? In the meantime was creating and delivering workshops for folks across Turtle Island. Business as usual in covidtown, as Indigenous folks began to collectively mourn the loss of these children, and the children some of us know are also out there, who didn’t make it home. Like my aunt Laura. Settlers and allies were sending me messages, they still do, asking me if there’s anything I need to reach out to them. How do we bring those children home? With pizza and wings? But then I had an idea. 

I tried contacting the agency that currently resides in the previous sanatorium. I told them my story, and if they had any information or where I could find my aunty. They wrote back saying that they didn’t know and that they were sorry about my family’s experience. I couldn’t let her go. I knew I needed more help. 

I asked my friend Alex, someone who I think had a history with research of finding information. “Hi Alex, can you look for my dead aunt who passed away of TB because of residential school, while I go teach this assembly of kids at some high school? Here’s her death certificate and all the information we know. Thanks.” You know, small asks. Luckily, Alex said, ‘yes’. Creator works in mysterious ways, because Alex messaged me and said, “TEDDY, I THINK I FOUND HER! Give me a call and I’ll tell you all about it.” 

Out of six people named Laura Fox buried in cemeteries across Ontario, only one was listed in London, Ontario. Her information matched a person buried in the St. Peter Catholic Cemetery in London, Ontario. The chances of me passing that cemetery in my travels, prior to covid are possible. We had found my aunt Laura. I told my aunt and my relatives. But this is probably how they will learn the entire process now. I painted more and more, processing this entire experience. 

I had a box of different sized cardstock, an art easel, and some paint I bought, but also had leftovers from a paint night event. I decided to paint those same colours of the sky. I took a photo of the night before, as I thought about those children.  Afterwards I began to draw different coloured circles and added white and black outlining. The next day I painted another one. The next day I painted three more. Last Sunday I watched the remake of Stephen King’s The Stand, and finished seven paintings. 

Some have names. Some don’t have names. As I posted each piece online, as I watched as communities collectively began to grieve, folks would tell me what they saw in these paintings. Some saw DNA, reproduction, a virus. While others mentioned seeing pickles, eggs, tofu, balloons. A friend told me that they saw the emotion in a lot of them. Some speak of hope and love. While others seem more sad or sinister. A friend said that they are the spirits of all those children lost. My sister said that they are my tears. And are each correct. 

I hope folks are kind to themselves, in these heavy times. The number continues to grow in the number of buried Indigenous children across Canada and Turtle Island. The United States is now going to investigate their own version of residential school. In a recent workshop, I took up the first portion to teach about my family’s story. And I will continue to do so, until more people begin to understand that each of our stories are unique and are sometimes filled with considerable amounts of pain and incredible moments of beauty. 

I look forward to travelling to London, Ontario to visit my Aunty, Laura Fox of Wikwemikong Unceded First Nation.