I was in early elementary school, and for whatever reason one day they decided to combine our classes. Pairing up the younger kids with the older kids for our Mi’kmaq studies class.
Mi’kmaq studies was a course taught in my elementary school, that I did not realize until much later in life, was quite unique. Honestly, growing up I thought every school had this class, but sadly not. It was taught by two women, elders in the community. It brought together the indigenous and non-indigenous kids together, and we learned part so the Mi’kmaq culture.
Together we learned aspects of language, spirituality, crafts, and traditional games. This was the class where I learned to sew in grade primary. I will never forget; we would use yarn and sew along the lines of colouring pictures. Holes did for us, and big needles. I remember the yarn getting tangled behind the picture or loosing the end of the yarn. But I also remember the patience our teachers had with us. To rethread the needles and fix our projects when they went off the rails. I still to this day thank my sewing skills to this class and am always happy to fix things.
This was also the class where I learned the lord prayer in Mi’kmaq, my colours, and how to count. It was also the class where I learned how to play waltes. A game where we wound bang a wooden bowl on the floor, trying to get the disc in the bowl to all face the same way. There was a scoring system, but everyone wanted to win the grandmother (the wooden spoon) as the highest points. I don’t remember the rules now, but I remember the laughter and excitement I had playing the game. It was my favourite.
But back to the point of this story, the day they decided to combine our classes together. Younger and older kids, was the day I was called an apple, by a grade five girl from my community. An apple was not something I understood at the time, but I knew the girl was being cruel to me as she also tried to convince me my name meant ugly in Mi’kmaq, and I knew that was false (as my name is not an indigenous name). But that night I went home and told my Dad what the girl called me; an apple. And like always, when I was bullied at school (which unfortunately was often), my Dad got upset. He got red and sweaty and threatened to go down to the school the next day and set my principle straight, and like always. My mother talked him down, told him she would handle it with a note to my teacher. But no one still wouldn’t tell me what it meant. Or why the girl would call me that.
This stuck with me for a while, and years later I learned what the term meant. To be an apple, well.. its not the nicest thing. To be an apple is to appear indigenous on the outside (red man, thanks to Peter Pan) but to be white (colonized) on the inside at your core. It’s an insult mostly. So young me was right to take it that way.
The term Apple today is still something that sits with and bothers me today. As know with reflection, I can see why this girl would say that. Looking back on myself as a child I looked “native”, my hair was so long I could sit on it! I never left the house without it in braids. My skin was dark, my eyes are dark, my hair is dark. I have my father’s cheekbones, so when I smile my eyes get quite small and the cheeks take over my face.
But on the inside, my family was very “white”. We kept to our family and did not engage in the community, dance at the local gym or youth group, nope. As kids, we were not allowed to dance or sing our culture. We never ate any “traditional food”. Our parents preferred for us to interact and befriend the children off the reserve. And our parents worked hard so that we could be on the same level as them. Brand new clothes, school supplies, the latest Christmas gadgets and toys.
Yes, on the outside we looked like we had it all, and this led others to be jealous in the community. But inside we lacked a lot. And lacked the important things, like a connection to our community and culture. We were left confused about our family’s history because no one ever spoke of it. Now as an adult I have built up some of these things. I have stories of my grandparents and a better understanding of where I came from. But it, unfortunately, did not come from my family. It came from those who knew my family. I am grateful and the knowledge they share with me is important, but it would have meant so much more coming from my Dad.
At the end of the day is it a bad thing to be called or consider yourself an apple, maybe, or maybe not. But to a young child who was trying to navigate their world, and understands their culture, it maybe is not the best thing to say. As it did stick with me for many years, and a day that I haven’t forgotten.