3 thoughts on “Sixties Scoop survivors share stories on their discovery of being Indigenous”
Thank you for your coverage of the 60s scoop story. I just got off the phone with my adoptive father. Now 88. A good catholic man, who loved me and my sister. Both of us were adopted, from northern Alberta in the mid 60s. We are slowly piecing the puzzle together, My sister was able to trace her birth parents, to Sawridge. Birth Mom passed away many years ago. The point is my adoptive dad called to ask what I thought about the yesterdays announcement. And I am not sure yet. I am still grappling with the 60s scoop idea. Was it good for OUR family, was it bad for my sister and me? I don;t know …. what I do know is that we were loved, and loved and loved even more by my adoptive parents. Still processing….
Hi Todd
That Flin Flon doctor tortured me because in his eyes I was “just an Indian”. I give you permission to dig into those health records if you want. I’m not sure exactly my age but my health records would give you an exact date. My adoptive sister and brother were also witnesses, but I haven’t been in touch with members of that family since I was disowned at 22.
The part where I said I didn’t want this on film was in regards to when I started crying…it was just those seconds where I lost it, I was embarrassed, but in hindsight. I am ok with it now. I want my story told. I did try to die by suicide. I tried drinking like a 66oz whiskey straight in one gulp. I still recall puking up clear liquid with blood in a state of blacking out and then consciousness. I remember nearly a half day went by before I was able to get myself into my bedroom off the bathroom floor.
I remember my abuser grabbing the shotgun and loading it. The sound of the gun shells, the sound of that lever when you cock it. I ran into my parents room and I held it closed with my back. I remember him kicking it to try and get inside. I was crying and terrified. He was yelling at me to let him in. I remember telling him no because he was going to shoot me. He said let me in or I’ll shoot you through the door and I was crying and yelled back “no because you are going to shoot me anyways”.. he laughed. He thought it was the funniest thing. I remember him holding me down with a knife to my throat and daring me to move. Telling me not to scream. Saying he didn’t care because he’d kill me anyway. I remember the early times where he’d beat the shit out of me in my room and I’d start screaming for my adoptive mom to come save me and he’d just laugh saying she’s not coming. He’d tell me he could do whatever he wanted to me. And he did, I lived in hell until I graduated and left that hell hole. I drank for years later. Dropped out of civil engineering in my third year the year I tried the kill myself.
Anyway. I told my adoptive mom that last Christmas…you were suppose to protect me…I was just a child… I screamed loud enough for you to come and you never came. She said she didn’t think it was that serious. That’s when I told her about the gun I and knife incident. And there’s so many other terrible incidents I could have told her about but I could see she was defeated. So I stopped. After that Christmas every single one of my adoptive relatives changed their numbers and I never spoke to any of them again.
I could tell you how racist my adoptive mom was and the times she’d drive me by the “disgusting drunkenIndians” and warm me that she better not see me ever in that state. I even turned into a bad kid for some time but regardless I aced my schoolwork because I knew it was the only way I was leaving that hell hole..that hell.
So many heartbreaking stories that must be told before healing can begin.
Thank you for your coverage of the 60s scoop story. I just got off the phone with my adoptive father. Now 88. A good catholic man, who loved me and my sister. Both of us were adopted, from northern Alberta in the mid 60s. We are slowly piecing the puzzle together, My sister was able to trace her birth parents, to Sawridge. Birth Mom passed away many years ago. The point is my adoptive dad called to ask what I thought about the yesterdays announcement. And I am not sure yet. I am still grappling with the 60s scoop idea. Was it good for OUR family, was it bad for my sister and me? I don;t know …. what I do know is that we were loved, and loved and loved even more by my adoptive parents. Still processing….
Hi Todd
That Flin Flon doctor tortured me because in his eyes I was “just an Indian”. I give you permission to dig into those health records if you want. I’m not sure exactly my age but my health records would give you an exact date. My adoptive sister and brother were also witnesses, but I haven’t been in touch with members of that family since I was disowned at 22.
The part where I said I didn’t want this on film was in regards to when I started crying…it was just those seconds where I lost it, I was embarrassed, but in hindsight. I am ok with it now. I want my story told. I did try to die by suicide. I tried drinking like a 66oz whiskey straight in one gulp. I still recall puking up clear liquid with blood in a state of blacking out and then consciousness. I remember nearly a half day went by before I was able to get myself into my bedroom off the bathroom floor.
I remember my abuser grabbing the shotgun and loading it. The sound of the gun shells, the sound of that lever when you cock it. I ran into my parents room and I held it closed with my back. I remember him kicking it to try and get inside. I was crying and terrified. He was yelling at me to let him in. I remember telling him no because he was going to shoot me. He said let me in or I’ll shoot you through the door and I was crying and yelled back “no because you are going to shoot me anyways”.. he laughed. He thought it was the funniest thing. I remember him holding me down with a knife to my throat and daring me to move. Telling me not to scream. Saying he didn’t care because he’d kill me anyway. I remember the early times where he’d beat the shit out of me in my room and I’d start screaming for my adoptive mom to come save me and he’d just laugh saying she’s not coming. He’d tell me he could do whatever he wanted to me. And he did, I lived in hell until I graduated and left that hell hole. I drank for years later. Dropped out of civil engineering in my third year the year I tried the kill myself.
Anyway. I told my adoptive mom that last Christmas…you were suppose to protect me…I was just a child… I screamed loud enough for you to come and you never came. She said she didn’t think it was that serious. That’s when I told her about the gun I and knife incident. And there’s so many other terrible incidents I could have told her about but I could see she was defeated. So I stopped. After that Christmas every single one of my adoptive relatives changed their numbers and I never spoke to any of them again.
I could tell you how racist my adoptive mom was and the times she’d drive me by the “disgusting drunkenIndians” and warm me that she better not see me ever in that state. I even turned into a bad kid for some time but regardless I aced my schoolwork because I knew it was the only way I was leaving that hell hole..that hell.
So many heartbreaking stories that must be told before healing can begin.