U’mista photos and regalia pack an emotional punch

(Sept. 23, 2020) Seven little girls stand in a ragged line, shoulders hunched in shy grins, with droopy socks and knobby knees, probably not used to one of their fellow residential school students pointing a camera at them.

Beverly Brown’s father had given her a Kodak camera before she was taken from her family in Bella Bella-Kitasoo in 1937 at age 7 and sent to St. Michael’s Indian Residential School in Alert Bay, B.C. Over the eight years she lived there, she and her friends took photos of their school mates – “the only known photos in Canada that were taken by students in residential school themselves,” said the display in the U’mista Cultural Centre.

Beverly’s black-and-white photos stopped me short, choking me up as I scanned their little faces. To think that so many horrendous abuses had been piled upon them for no reason other than that they were Indigenous.

We had taken the ferry from Port McNeill, at the northeast end of Vancouver Island, to Cormorant Island and the village of Alert Bay – home to the ‘Namgis First Nation, which is part of the larger Kwakwaka’wakw (people who speak Kwakwala).

Shortly after we walked off the ferry, it began to rain, and then it came down adamantly as we slogged the 1.3 kilometres from the ferry terminal to the U’mista Cultural Centre. Umbrellas? Waterproof jackets? Rain pants? Hiking boots? Left behind since it had been sunny when we boarded the ferry. We looked and felt like drowned rats when we dripped into the centre. We hung our sodden winter jackets on a rack and took our time investigating the displays so our squelching shoes and soggy pantlegs had time to dry out.

A wooden welcome figure stood by the door, greeting visitors and sharing his unfortunate travels, which served as an introduction to the potlatch, the story of which is U’mista’s raison d’etre.

In the late 1800s, the wooden figure welcomed guests to potlatches, which are ceremonies to celebrate births, marriages, name giving, new chiefs and deaths, with dancing, drumming, sacred regalia such as masks, and gift-giving. But the Canadian federal government banned potlatches from 1885 to 1951 and confiscated masks and other artifacts related to potlatches. Many artifacts, including those from Alert Bay, ended up in museums around the world or sold to private collectors. By the early 1900s, the carved figure was suffering the indignity of welcoming customers to an American cigar store. His right hand had been chopped off and replaced with a display of cigars.

In the late 1950s, after the ban was lifted, the ‘Namgis people began hunting down all their potlatch artifacts and repatriating them. The centre opened in 1980 to house the repatriated artifacts; indeed, U’mista means ‘the return of something important.’ A philanthropist named Michael Audain discovered the welcome figure, bought and restored him, and donated him to U’mista. In 2008, he finally came home.

“We are proud of the fact that our culture is so strong that a carving like this can come back after everything it has been through,” U’mista director Andrea Sanborn said in the display notes. “It has come back to us, much like one of our warriors coming back to us after completing a mission. He was wounded, but, he has been restored to a place of honor.”

While most artifacts have been repatriated, U’mista is still hunting down the remainder.

Potlatches are celebrated in Big Houses and the Potlatch Gallery is set up as a Big House to display the sacred masks, copper shields, rattles, headdresses, button blankets, cedar bark regalia, dance aprons, and carved cedar treasure boxes that have returned home. (Photos aren’t allowed in the Potlatch Gallery, but you can take an excellent virtual tour.)

Potlatch means ‘to give’ and hosts give an abundance of gifts to all guests. Who is rich and powerful? Not the person with the most, but rather the person who gives the most away.

“The people we invite are not only guests. They are also witnesses of our Potlatch and we give them presents for being a witness,” said the centre’s website.

Potlatches were and still are key to Kwakwa̱ka̱ʼwakw culture, which is why the federal government banned them along with sending children to residential schools – both were major steps towards accomplishing the federal goal of erasing the “savage” Indigenous cultures.

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To grasp the importance of potlatches, I tried to equate them to celebrations in my own Christian tradition, such as weddings. We have formal ceremonies in special places called churches, where we quote words from the Bible, wear elaborate clothing and headdresses, and then celebrate with music, dancing, and special food (rubber chicken and fancy cakes). Gifts are given both ways – to the bride and groom, and small favours to the guests. Imagine if the federal government banned weddings, told us we were savages, seized the headpiece and veil handed down from Grandma and sold them to a museum. How would we feel? Outraged!

The comparison is not entirely equivalent, but I studied the potlatch artifacts with new respect and a profound sense of sadness, regret and shame in our country’s history.

And then we came to Beverly’s photos.

“These photos give voice to students who were often silenced or made invisible,” said the display notes. The centre encourages visitors to identify people they recognize and hands out copies of photos to family members.

Again, I fumbled for an understanding by relating the situation to myself. I tried to imagine the horror of having my own children – my Thomas, my Elizabeth, my Rachel – ripped from my arms and taken off to an institution far away, where I couldn’t visit. And to know that my children would be forbidden from speaking my language, likely be emotionally, physically and sexually abused, or die from tuberculosis or other disease… I couldn’t do it – I couldn’t even imagine it, never mind be able to live through it. Even by the standards of previous times, it’s unforgiveable what those brave little souls were forced to suffer.   

And yet, they still smiled for the camera, showing indomitable spirits.

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“Sorry for the empty case,” said the sign on one bereft display we passed as we prepared to leave. “The masks have been temporarily removed to be danced in a potlatch in Quatsino this weekend.” Now, that’s a sign of a living culture.

Rain still pounded down, and we decided to call a taxi to drive us past the world’s tallest totem pole and back to the ferry terminal. We’d been warned numerous times that British Columbia’s weather changes quickly, but we didn’t realize just how mercurial it is. We donned our cold, still-soggy jackets and stood under the entrance roof out of the rain.

As we awaited our taxi, we contemplated the empty space just behind the centre where the red brick St. Mike’s had stood for 84 years. Run by the Anglican Church, it housed about 200 children, including Beverly, with some as young as four years old. When it was demolished in February 2015, “700 people – survivors, families, and supporters – stood in this spot, participating in emotional healing ceremonies as the building was taken apart piece by piece,” said the plaque.

From the 1950s to the 1970s, Alert Bay was called the “Hub of the North” and was, by all accounts, a bustling boomtown with bars, nightlife, shipyards, theatres, and even a Chinatown. In the 1960s, it was listed in the Guinness Book of Records for having the “most cars per miles of road,” according to an information plaque. Its 132 cars, 10 taxis and one ambulance had just 6.4 kilometres of paved road to zoom around on. It’s much less bustling now. 

Our taxi driver – a friendly chatty woman – drove us to see the village Big House, where potlatches are held, and the underwhelming world’s tallest totem pole next to it.

“The top fell off in a storm,” she explained. “Totems by the school came down in that storm too.”

Then she drove us all over and told us stories about other totem poles, which are usually erected to memorialize people.

“That eagle had ears. When it was erected, one ear fell off. The other fell off when the father died.”

We passed totems outside stores and homes – “I call them show poles” – as well as those in burial grounds, where some totems lay on the grass. “You don’t touch ones in cemeteries. When their time comes, it comes,” she said.

She dropped us at a coffee shop near the ferry terminal. Shortly afterwards, we watched Alert Bay recede in the mist.

I’ve read about residential schools and the Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s 94 calls to action. I’ve taken courses on cultural sensitivity when I worked in communications before retirement. And I’ve gone out of my way to visit museums that tell of this sordid part of Canada’s past. But coming face to face with Beverly’s photos, all those repatriated masks and regalia, and the carved wooden welcoming figure somehow made the past, which is still the present, more real. And I wondered why no one ever confiscated Beverly’s camera.

The U’mista Cultural Centre is a small place that packs a powerful punch.