Who Am I? (eBook)

Michelle Rice-Gauvreau (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2023 | 1. Auflage
260 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-89121-258-9 (ISBN)

In 'Who Am I?' Michelle Rice-Gauvreau embarks on a poignant journey, from her abusive upbringing in the US to rediscovering her Mohawk roots in Canada.

Born in Canada as a native Mohawk, Michelle Rice-Gauvreau's life took a sharp turn when she was illegally adopted and raised in Connecticut. These experiences have honed her into a fierce advocate for adoptees seeking their own truths and origins. Michelle navigated her tumultuous past and channeled her strength into her professional life, now working as a legal professional for a prestigious law firm. In her personal life, she enjoys expanding her understanding of native cultures through travel, spending quality time with her husband, son, and two senior cats. Through her writing, Michelle aspires to imbue others with the resilience and hope that guided her journey back to her roots.

"e;Who Am I?"e; is a powerful memoir by Michelle Rice-Gauvreau that pulls back the curtain on an unsettling chapter of indigenous history. Born in a Mohawk Reservation in Canada, Michelle was illicitly adopted and raised in an abusive home in the United States. Amidst the harsh backdrop of the 1960s and 70s, when mental illness was a forbidden topic and safeguarding measures were scarce, Michelle's story illuminates a path of self-discovery and resilience. Her life is a testament to the enduring spirit of her Mohawk bloodline as she navigates the trials of coping, understanding, and forging a life path without the foundations of familial love and belonging. This memoir is not only a personal narrative but a spotlight on an issue plaguing indigenous communities worldwide, and particularly North America. "e;Who Am I?"e; is an extraordinary tale of tenacity, humor, and the relentless search for identity, family, and happiness.

CHAPTER 1 – MY BIRTH

September 1969

It was a hot and humid morning on the Kahnawake Indian Reserve (formerly spelled Caughnawaga) on the south shore just outside of Montreal on the banks of the St. Lawrence Seaway. Despite being a native reservation for hundreds of years, the reserve appears like any other Canadian or American suburb to an outside visitor but without street names. Modern homes mixed with original rustic stone houses made from rock and mud now hold families of the 21st century. This beautifully scenic suburban ‘village’ is clustered around an old Catholic Church, St. Francis Xavier built in 1720.

At this time, in the 1960s, there were about 2,500 Kahnawake Mohawk tribe members. Today, I believe there are more than 8,000 tribal members. They are stoic and independent people, yet still community and family oriented. They are proud people. People of the flint. Within the Confederacy, they were “keepers of the eastern door.” Today, the reservation is a bustling town full of Mohawk nation members, small businesses, and a tight knit traditional community.

Early on Tuesday, September 2nd of 1969, a young and beautiful Kahnawake native of 20 years old went into premature labor with her second born child- me. She was rushed to the hospital just outside of the reservation where she lived, with my feet apparently dangling out of her body while still in the car. I guess I was in a hurry. Breech birth. I was born only moments later, feet first, at 8:06 a.m. I can giggle about it now but ultimately; I know how dangerous a breech birth can be. Born about six weeks early, I was placed in a hospital nursery incubator for several days until I gained enough weight. If I had to guess the timeline, I was probably there for about eight days.

In the hours after my birth, Sharon told her hospital roommate, Gloria, that she was being forced by my grandmother to give me up for adoption. I am assuming that Gloria was also native from Kahnawake as well. Forcing Sharon to give me up for adoption was not meant to be cruel in any way. My grandmother, Mary, and her daughter, Sharon had a strained relationship off and on for many years. Financially it was not feasible to bring home another baby. My grandmother was raising my older brother, Mike. It was neither my grandmother’s nor Sharon’s choice to give me up. Reality had to sink in, and it was for the best; or so they thought at the time. I believe they both felt a tremendous loss for having to make this choice.

“Hello. I’m Gloria.” Gloria would introduce herself.

“Hi,” Sharon said shyly.

“Did you just have your baby this morning?” Gloria would ask looking at Sharon with concern.

“Yes,” Sharon seemed very distraught.

“Is there anything I do for you?” Gloria really wanted to help Sharon.

“I have to give my daughter up and I don’t want to.” Sharon confessed.

“Oh no, I’m sorry Sharon.” Gloria wanted to reach out and hug her but she herself was confined to bed for a couple of days.

“Do you have any plans for your baby?” Gloria asked consolingly, “How are you putting her up for adoption?”

“I don’t know yet. Maybe the hospital will have an answer, or I may have to give her up to the Church.” Sharon was very sad. Apparently, she did not want to give me up for adoption, but she didn’t have a choice.

“I might have an answer for you Sharon. Let me make a couple of calls.” Gloria smiled.

To help give Sharon an option while still in the hospital, Gloria called a friend of hers. This friend would become my adoptive father, Tom, who was also Native American, 52 years old, from the same reservation, but living in Connecticut. He was a 6 foot something, tall and handsome, rugged gentleman. He lived and loved life to the fullest. I had been told he left the reservation when he was 11 and basically raised himself in New York. He joined the U.S. Army and served in World War II; receiving a purple heart for his service on D-Day in Belgium after losing his leg to a land mine. He became an ironworker; most notably working on the Twin Towers in New York City.

Gloria proceeded to pick up and dial the phone to call someone to get Tom’s phone number.

“Hi Ma?” She said.

“Do you have Tom’s phone number? I need it, it’s important.” She was in a hurry. She wrote it down and hung up quickly. Gloria looked at Sharon, her eyes bright, and held up her index finger as if to tell Sharon not to go anywhere.

Gloria dialed the phone. Several rings must have felt like an eternity for Sharon but somebody picked up the phone on the other end.

“Halloo…?” Tom would answer in a jovial voice. This was his way of greeting all callers.

“Hey, Tom! It’s Gloria! How are ya?” Gloria asked.

“Oh, hey Gloria, we’re good…all is good. What’s going on?” He asked, surprised at her call.

“Well, I think I have good news for you,” Gloria practically sang.

“Really? What is it?” Tom seemed excited.

“Do you remember the family of Frank and Mary?” She asked.

“Yea, yea I do … why?” Tom was now wondering.

“Well, their daughter Sharon just gave birth to a baby girl. A little bit early, but Sharon is giving her up for adoption!” She was so excited and nearly out of breath.

Sharon was staring at Gloria in wonder with tears in her eyes. She knew she would have to say good-bye to me within days.

“Yes, we’ll take her!” He didn’t hesitate for one second. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

They said their goodbyes and the planning began. Sharon was in tears and did not know what to say but got out of bed to walk down towards the nursery to gaze at me.

Tom was ecstatic and couldn’t wait to come see me. He told Gloria that he would fly to Canada the next morning to start the ‘process.’ Coincidentally, he would later realize he worked with my birth grandparents years before. Tom knew so many people. Apparently, it is a small world on a native reservation where everyone knows everyone.

The next morning, Tom arrived in Kahnawake. He had charisma and seemed to charm his way into getting whatever he needed, and that charm led him to a lot of success in life. He began final preparations for the adoption procedure, probably knowing that what he was doing was not legal.

Since he knew a woman in Kahnawake named Henrietta who worked at the Mohawk membership department, he was able to forge some paperwork for the adoption process. Then he secured everything from a rental car to plane tickets from Montreal to Connecticut. They reserved time at the Catholic Church to have me baptized and began strategizing how best to create my birth certificate, which was nothing, but words written on a single sheet of yellow-lined paper. Interestingly, this woman, Henrietta, who played the role as my Godmother, was someone I would never actually meet. Although I believe Tom had good intentions, this ‘adoption’ would cause me many problems later on in my life, much of which had to be legally rectified. In 1969 (and in the decades before I was born), apparently it was justified on reservations for many native babies to be given up for adoption or sent to Catholic residential schools. It’s come to light only recently through the news media that so many native babies were kidnapped, lost or murdered through the system or a lack thereof. I always wondered what would have happened to me if I had actually been sent to an orphanage or a residential school. Would I have been lost in the system? Today’s research show that over 50% of native children are either in foster care or adopted in Canada and so much is undocumented.

While I lay in the nursery incubator, Tom went back to the social services office in Kahnawake to falsely claim that he had a child with his wife in Connecticut and wanted me put on their membership roles. This is how the census was kept at that time. My given name on my birth/baptismal certificate is Marie Lea Michelle Otisto Rice. (Otisto in Mohawk means Star in English.) Michelle is what I have been called all my life.

The roles would entitle me to certain benefits on the land, such as owning a land plot to build a home, health benefits, burial benefits and education benefits- as long as I did not marry outside of the community. I would grow up very unaware that there were certain benefits as a Native American that I would lose if I married a white man.

Had things been done the right way, you could have considered my adoption as an “international adoption;” it wasn’t a closed or open adoption. In reality, it was not an adoption at all, but rather an oral agreement between Tom and Sharon (and presumably my grandmother). There was no legal birth certificate, no adoption papers or agreements drawn up or signed.

Tom came to the hospital often to see me; anxiously awaiting to take me home with him. Being a very small, premature baby weighing 4lbs 7oz, it would be several days before that would happen.

Sharon, still clad in her hospital gown, would see Tom smiling as he gazed through the baby nursery window down the hospital corridor often taking polaroid photos of me. This...

Erscheint lt. Verlag	31.7.2023
Sprache	englisch
Themenwelt	Literatur ► Biografien / Erfahrungsberichte
ISBN-13	979-8-89121-258-9 / 9798891212589

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