On Maundy Thursday about a dozen of us gathered at Maya’anl Elders Centre, ‘Namg̱is Nation. We were a few metres from the site of the former St Michael’s Residential School. We shared a salmon, washed feet and remembered the last supper. We left in silence.
After the service I travelled down the road to the rectory of Christ Church, Alert Bay. The rectory is currently being used as a community gathering and outreach centre. There are countless programs being run out of that house, overlooking the water, right beside our historic church.
Five evenings a week there is a drop-in program for youth and elders. There is a shared meal and a program. On Thursday evening it was Kwak’wala bingo. I was greeted warmly and invited to join. Over 20 people were in the rectory, sitting in the living room and dining room. There were children under the table, elders in comfy chairs, and Molly, who runs the centre, calling the bingo numbers in Kwak’wala. The numbers are long!
Have a look at the picture below if you want to learn your Kwak’wala numbers. Eight is ma’łgwa’nał. Seventy-three is adłabusg̱amgustola sa’ yudawx.
It was a delight to see the many children there competing for prizes, learning their Kwak’wala numbers. A young father explained to me that most people in the community could count to ten in Kwak’wala but that it was hard for them to keep going after that. Bingo was changing all of that.
Eventually bingo was over. Prizes were shared, the meal was tidied up, everyone hugged one another and went home. I sat for a while and talked with an elder. She told me about how she was taken from her mother and left at St Michael’s when she was only seven. She cried and cried. She realises now, a great grandmother herself, that her mother must also have cried and cried.
As we prepared to go out into the night, I heard how the elders appreciate having somewhere to go each evening. This is how their later years are supposed to be spent: surrounded by young people, speaking their language and being loved, listened to and cared for. And this is how the children are supposed to be raised: surrounded by their parents, grandparents and great-grandparents.
On Easter Sunday I was at the cathedral. Dean Jonathan preached about how resurrection often looks very ordinary. Mary Magdalene mistakes Jesus for a common gardener. As I listened, I realised I had seen resurrection on Maundy Thursday, at Kwak’wala bingo. We have a long way to go still but slowly and surely the communities and families that were torn apart by residential schools are being reknit. The languages that were banned in residential schools are being relearned. The spirits that were bruised are being healed.
