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| Hunger by � butterflydancer707 My dad was strong, he was tougher than anyone I ever knew. I could tell though when he was hurting by the fury in his eyes. Sometimes he would yell. He would yell and scare us kids with his rage, he would hit us and yell. It wasn't until years later that I understood, he was just being that little kid again, only this time he was fighting back, we were casualties of that senseless war. "I'm going to write a book," I told my dad, "about residential school." "Good," he said, "you come by some afternoon I could tell you all about it." I arrived on Sunday with my tape-recorder, half-a-dozen blank tapes and a notepad. "So," I said "what was it like in the residential school? Testing...testing...one...two...three. "We were hungry all the time," he replied. "We used to steal potatoes," he chuckled "we'd roast them in the bonfire while we were raking leaves we were so hungry we'd burn our mouths eating those potatoes, half-burnt, half-raw, covered with dirt we'd shovel them in our mouths while they were still on fire hoping we couldn't get caught we'd get whipped for stealing they tasted so good. I don't think you could ever understand that kind of hunger. You kids today, you have everything." Us kids used to have to eat every single bit of food on our plate we'd get beaten if we didn't. There was so much anger at our table it was hard to swallow past the fear in our throats. "I couldn't speak English," he whispered, "I spoke Indian and I got whupped, I got whupped a lot." Tears from my father's eyes rolled silently from his face. I couldn't go to him. I sat frozen like a statue by his grief. Silently, I packed my recorder, my blank tapes, notepad and I left him there to sort out his memories for himself. I never interviewed him about the residential school ever, ever again. |