鈥淚 don't even know where to start鈥� were Carol Baker鈥檚 first words as she readied to share her story. 鈥淚t has to get out there so people can understand what the residential school survivors went through.鈥�
Kindhearted and soft-spoken, the grandmother sat on a lone chair in the middle of a room at Langford鈥檚 Indigenous Perspective Society, on a sunny weekday morning, and pensively scanned the floor before starting the conversation.
Baker mentioned that after suffering multiple strokes, her mother, Marlene, had spent long periods in hospitals. It was while she was at Victoria鈥檚 Royal Jubilee Hospital, that medical staff informed Carol of her mother鈥檚 dementia.
鈥淭here were times that she was having flashbacks from when she was in residential school,鈥� explained Baker. 鈥淪he'd wake up and say, 鈥楥an you look for my math book? The nuns are coming to pick it up and grade my book.'
鈥淭here were things she was saying that weren't making any sense, but we just sat there and listened to her.鈥�
The doctors advised her not to argue or correct her mother, as it could lead to confusion and distress, which could potentially worsen her symptoms. Instead, Carol focused on comforting her during panic episodes, carefully avoiding contradictions or confrontations.
Eventually, Baker would move her mother to her house.
鈥淚 had to tell my tribe, 鈥楾here are things that you guys aren't gonna be able to mention when you are talking to grandma and great grandma鈥� because it brings flashbacks,鈥欌�� said Baker. 鈥淥ne thing that we weren't allowed to mention to her was chicken because that's all they had [in residential school].鈥�
Marlene鈥檚 long-buried memories from her time at Tofino鈥檚 Christie Roman Catholic school occasionally resurfaced, offering glimpses into her troubled past. It鈥檚 these moments that allowed Baker to slowly piece together the fragmented puzzle of her mother鈥檚 life 鈥� one that had remained incomplete until now.
In the shadow of a residential school
Marlene gave birth to Carol at 16. Growing up without her father, Baker explained that her mother left an abusive relationship to safeguard the family.
Raised in Nanaimo, Carol quickly developed a keen sense of resourcefulness, taking on the role of leader in her household as the firstborn. Describing her childhood as one overshadowed by drugs and alcohol.
鈥淪he did a lot of drinking with my youngest brother's father,鈥� said Baker. 鈥淲e didn't have much of a relationship with her because we got put into a foster home when I was eight.鈥�
Separated from her mother, Carol and her brother Charlie were sent south to Langford.
Eventually, the two were reunited with their grandmother and later with their mother after a judge granted custody of the children. While young Carol welcomed the news, reuniting with her mother and long-lost sibling proved to be a challenging transition.
鈥淲e're happy to be back home,鈥� Baker said. 鈥淲e were able to all get along and stay under the same roof [but] I don鈥檛 remember how long it took for us to call her mom again.鈥�
Although her mother made visible efforts to maintain her sobriety, she would occasionally relapse when memories from the past resurfaced.
鈥淸Sometimes] her friends would talk about the residential school and it would get her mad,鈥� Baker said. 鈥淭here were times that we wouldn't see her for a day or two. She would come back and tell us that she was sorry.鈥�
Carol remembered managing the household during school days and becoming a surrogate mother to her siblings.
The mounting pressure on the young woman eventually took its toll, and to escape the constant strain, the young woman ran away from her home.
Over the years, Carol fought her own battle with alcoholism, teetering on the edge of life on the streets.
Breaking the cycle
Despite being raised by her mother and grandmother, both of whom had experienced residential schools, Baker mentioned that she never truly understood the impact these institutions had on her loved ones as she was growing up. Her former partner of 16 years, , a survivor of the Nanaimo Indian Hospital, never shared his experiences throughout their relationship.
Over the years, Baker noticed a pervasive silence surrounding the topic of residential schools 鈥� one rooted in shame, pain, and trauma.
鈥淥ne time, I saw my mom crying and then I started focusing more on what residential schools were really about.鈥�
In the past decade, as the Canadian government acknowledged its historical atrocities and began providing compensation, Baker gradually pieced together the missing parts of her own story and understood the gravity of what survivors endured.
Despite their tumultuous relationship, Baker now accepts her mother without judgment, remaining open and willing to listen.
鈥淎fter she had a flashback I would tell her that we can talk about it鈥� you've got to let things out,鈥� said Baker. 鈥淵ou can't keep holding on to it because it's just gonna make your chest heavy.鈥�
Trauma, sustained by silence, can be passed down through generations; but speaking about it can bring healing.
鈥淚 want it to be the change,鈥� said Baker. 鈥淚 keep telling my kids to always use their ears and their eyes, not their mouth, to listen for when somebody is talking about residential school so that they can learn鈥� and help this person.鈥�
The grandmother hopes to instill this philosophy in her children, grandchildren, and community, aiming to break this long-standing cycle of pain.
Paying it forward
Nearly four years ago, Baker was hired as a support worker at Victoria鈥檚 House of Courage which offers a safe home for Indigenous Peoples experiencing homelessness.
While Baker recognizes her job as taxing at times, it holds significant meaning for her. More than anything, it provides a sense of purpose in a community she cherishes, making helping others one of the central themes of her life.
Kristin Spray, who is involved with Victoria鈥檚 Orange Shirt Day, observed this transformation in Carol shortly after they met 25 years ago. At that time, Spray noted, Baker was facing challenging times just a year after losing her eldest son.
鈥淚 believe it was an elder who encouraged her, in her grief, to help others. From the time I've met Carol, that's all she does,鈥� Spray said.
Beyond inviting people for dinner and supporting those in need, Baker takes on the unofficial role of therapist, both at work and in the community, acting as an island of safety, offering a listening ear to those who wish to share their stories.
By embracing the cathartic process of sharing and listening to one another鈥檚 sorrows, and genuinely connecting through shared experiences, Carol observed that it can help heal the wounds of intergenerational trauma and allow people to move beyond old pain.
鈥淚've been pretty much through everything that they've been through, so I [understand]. Listening to them is the best way I can help.鈥�
Support for survivors and their families is available. Call the Indian Residential School Survivors Society at 1-800-721-0066, or 1-866-925-4419 for the 24-7 crisis line. The KUU-US Crisis Line Society also offers 24-7 support at 250-723-4050 for adults, 250-723-2040 for youth, or toll free at 1-800-588-8717.
