ADDENDUM B
THE STIGMA...AND CRIES FROM THE HEART
(HOW HOME CHILDREN'S SILENT SHAME CAN AFFECT
THEIR OFFSPRING AND EVEN
SUBSEQUENT GENERATIONS)
Editor's note:When Irene Cook phoned in late
January 1998 to seek assistance in discovering her father's records,
I told her about the cross-reference file I was making and about
the British All-party Health Select Committee looking into Child
Migration. Though I had never met her, I asked her to write a
bit about her father and their relationship. I promised to include
her work in Home Children Canada's submission to the British Committee.
Irene faxed her story a day later and asked her sister Barbara
Alden who lives hundreds of miles away in Nova Scotia to do likewise.
In retyping the papers for greater ease of reading I have made
a few spelling and punctuation corrections and used underlining
and italics to emphasize passages I believed might be of significance
to Committee members.It is important to note that both papers
were written "off the top" and that I received the first
(and only) drafts. What we have here is sheer, honest, pent-up
emotion and a clear picture of the effect of the stigma imposed
on all Home Children and the residual effects on second and perhaps
third generations.
JAMES WILLIAM COOK (1903-96)
by Irene CookI
would like to add, with great pride, my father's name to the list
of children whose childhood was taken away from them by becoming
one of 100,000 children brought to Canada. My father is James
William Cook and he was brought to Canada at age eight in 1912.
My father was the dearly loved foster child of John and Jessie
Dixon from the age of three to eight. He spoke almost tearfully
at age 92 of how much he was loved and cared for. How completely
happy he was with these people he thought of as family! He told
me he remembered clearly his foster mother sobbing the day he
boarded a ship to Canada, telling him it would be only for a little
while and he should come back to England as soon as he was able.
He told me the band was playing "God be with you till we
meet again" as he walked up the gangplank. My father recalled
the terror he felt at viewing the icebergs in the Atlantic Ocean
which had, six weeks earlier, sent the "unsinkable"
Titanic to the seabottom. He remembered the loneliness and isolation
of a train ride from Halifax, I believe, to Port Hope, Ontario.He
was sent to a farm in Garden Hill. My Dad told me the first
thing the farmer did was take his shoes away from him. He was
only allowed to wear them to church on Sunday. He was treated
horrifically for ten years by this family. He was never included
or involved with the family. He was teased, tormented, and even
deafened in his left ear by the beatings he received. He ate alone
and stayed apart from the family. He led a life of lonely desolation,
never knowing the love and affection of a mother, or the strength
and wisdom of a father. He was treated as a hired hand and badly
even by those standards. Please bear in mind this was an eight
year old child who had been pampered and coddled by his foster
parents.May I take this opportunity to tell you how desperately
ashamed my father was at being one of these "Home Boys".
We were forbidden to tell anyone of how my dad came to Canada
and he himself lied once when a local newspaper interviewed him.
He stated he was born in Toronto.My dad left that farm on
his 18th birthday. With the Grade 3 education he received
he walked away from that farm of horrors the instant his obligation
was fulfilled. He walked down the road to a neighbour's farm where
he would work until he saved enough money to travel to Toronto.
My dad made a life there and years later moved to Brampton with
my mother. I loved my father, but ours was not a smooth relationship.
My Dad could be very insensitive. As a very small child I
was given a chick by my uncle. I must have mauled it half to death
as I carried it everywhere. It became very sickly from my loving
it so much and I remember carrying it to my father and holding
it up to him with both hands. I wanted him to make it better.
My dad took the chick from me and said "Well that's had it!"
and promptly wrung its neck. To my father everything had a purpose
and when that purpose expired so did the animal's existence. I
blame this on my dad's childhood. He had nothing to emulate
but cruelty. He could not relate to pets with love. To get
along with my Dad you had to be useful, do things right the first
time, account for every cent you spent or wanted to. My father
was an incredibly intelligent man. He worked harder than anyone
I have ever known. He started an upholstery business and worked
until he was 71 years old. He raised four children. My dad
was unable to speak of his feelings, never said he loved us. Never
showed any physical affection towards me. It was only as an adult
when I learned to say "I love you", that I told him
and he reciprocated with "Me too!". We had a very
rocky relationship but I loved him dearly. I didn't often like
him and we butted heads often. It has only been since his death
from bone cancer at age 92, two years ago in May that I have made
peace with him. I read Mr Bagnell's book entitled "The
Little Immigrants" and suddenly I understood him. His
insensitivity, his coldness, his inability to show love. They
were a small piece, a curtain-crack piece of the atrocities he
lived, endured. So I add my father's name with pride to the
list of small souls who were damaged irreparably by England's
unwise decisions and Canada's cruel new development. They (Home
Children) worked hard, built the farms, and indeed the country.
They came to us as hired slaves, but (as in) my father's case
died heroes who survived.In closing I'd like to say I wish
I could know who my father was. I've never seen a picture
of him as a child. I don't know who his parents were, their nationality,
where he was born. Did he have siblings? These many unanswered
questions leave a huge void for myself and my family.Thank you
for recognizing the tremendous sacrifices these children made.
We as Canadians are fiercely proud of them all.
Irene Cook
St Catharines ON
JAMES WILLIAM COOK
by Barbara Alden
Queens County, NS
Dear Mr Lorente,After my sister, Irene Cook, spoke
to you on the phone, she called me and told me about the impact
statements you are gathering. My first reaction was anger,
as it comes too late for my beloved father JAMES WILLIAM COOK.
Irene pointed out to me that we may speak on his behalf. What
a daunting responsibility! BLESS YOU for FINALLY seeking recognition,
RESPECT and accountability for these forgotten children. I am
only sorry that my father did not live long enough to see it happen,
perhaps then he could have put his childhood to rest and felt
some pride in who he was, instead of shame.First of all I want
to say I'm PROUD of my father! I have always been PROUD of
him and all the children like him. To have survived (I know
many of them didn't) is testament to their strength and courage,
but to have survived and become decent human beings boggles the
mind!Where to begin? How do I put over 80 years of pain, hurt
and humiliation into words? How do I describe the effects of
shame!!!!I grew up in a home full of secrets! I knew from
a very young age that my father was SENT from England to Canada
at age nine. I also sensed that there was some terrible shame
attached to that sending and we were never to discuss it outside
the home. Because of my love and respect for my Father a part
of me still screams "Don't tell!" If I didn't believe
that there will finally be some recognition for the pain and suffering
that my father and all men and women like him endured, I would'nt
tell. It still somehow feels like a betrayal!Dad had his
earliest memories when he was approximately two years old, being
taken to a large sheep farm in the village of Renham near Stanstead,
Essex, England, by a woman he believed could be his mother. He
was lucky; his new foster parents loved him, adored him and pampered
him for six years. On the back of a photograph of them he wrote
"My Beloved foster parents, John and Jessie Dixon";
he even remembered when Mrs Dixon sent him the picture and she
said she had a splitting headache the day it was taken.When Dad
was between eight and 10 years old Mr and Mrs Dixon were asked
to take his sister, a sister he did not know and had never met.
Because they could not afford to take another child my father
was torn from the only family he had ever known.Until my father
was 65 years old and had to send to England for his birth certificate
he believed he was illegitimate and THAT was why he was sent to
Canada! Only the bad kids were sent, the illegitimate, the incorrigible,
the weak of mind—they had to be tainted in some way to be
sent away. He was terrified of having to present this document
to some official in order to receive his pension. He told me in
those days ILLEGITIMATE was printed in large letters across the
birth certificate. My heart still breaks remembering the trauma
he suffered waiting for that piece of paper. Over the years he
had "invented" a man he thought would be respected in
our small community, now all the lies, the secrets, were out!
Everyone would know! As it turned out, when my father received
his birth certificate he was not illegitimate but he carried that
stigma all those years for nothing.I know in 1998 when we
are all so very politically correct, illegitimate is never used
to describe a child (thank God!) but go back to the early 1900s
and try and imagine what that label did to a little boy growing
up.My father was told by the authorities that he was being
sent to Canada so he and his sister could live together, but upon
arriving here they were immediately separated and never met again
for over 40 years by which time it was too late. They were
never close. I know very little about her and only recall meeting
her once or twice as a small child. I do know that the ordeal
she suffered scarred her for life and she was in and out of mental
hospitals.Dad was sent to a farm in Gardenhill, near Port
Hope, Ontario, to a good "Christian" (a word that
leaves a bitter taste in my mouth to this day) family. From
the first day he arrived he was made aware that he was not
a part of their family; he was there to work!!! He endured both
physical and emotional abuse and was never accepted in the community.
He was allowed to go to school when it was convenient, which wasn't
often. He did not share his meals with them, or Christmas, or
any holidays. His birthdays were not acknowledged; he never had
a birthday cake or card. When he was an adult birthdays were very
important to him. I can remember him counting his birthday cards,
they gave him a sense of value and worth.I believe the most important
thing in my father's life was his family. I also believe that
my brother and sister would probably not agree. Dad knew about
hard work. He was a perfectionist. He never settled for second
best in himself or his children. Because he had no family while
he was growing up he had no one to emulate. When he became a father
he never learned to temper his criticism with gentleness. He never
learned to be tactful; when something popped into his head he
blurted it out, never stopping to think how it would wound a child
or a grown son or daughter. He often appeared harsh, authoritarian,
unfeeling. This caused many rifts with his children and broke
his heart. My Father loved his children, he just didn't know how
to express that love.Dad was amazing, if something broke, no matter
what it was, he would find a way to fix it...but he never found
a way to hug his children. The first time he hugged me was the
day I got married. I never saw a job my father could not do...except
kiss his children. There was never an obstacle put in his path
that he could not overcome...except his childhood! He had no idea
how to comfort a child with a skinned knee or a broken heart,
that part of him was...I was going to say "missing",
but that's not true. Life had been hard for him and he thought
you had to be tough to survive. If you fell down you got up and
you tried again and again and again and you didn't cry and you
didn't give up. Because he grew up in a brutal environment, he
never learned about gentleness.My sister recently asked me
why out of his eight children from two marriages I was the only
one not adversely affected by him. I was not treated any differently
than my brother or my sister. I felt the brunt of his criticism,
the sting of his hand on my behind, the disapproval in his voice,
but I ALWAYS forgave him or made some excuse for his actions.
The question surprised me and left me speechless for a minute
and then I told her "it was because I saw his vulnerability,
the fragility of who he was."From the time I was old
enough to recognize him I adored my father, there was a bond,
a closeness between us that grew with every passing year. I
knew he loved me. I also knew that under that hard exterior the
little boy was still there...afraid, lonely, longing to be loved
and accepted. His soul was scarred and he never recovered.Because
of the closeness between us I think my Father felt safe enough,
every now and then to let his guard down and allow me to see that
little boy and why he had become the man he was. That took tremendous
courage!!When my father was in his seventies I read "the
Little Immigrants". He told me over and over he wished I
had never read it, that it was best to leave the past in the past.
When I asked him questions he was vague and uncomfortable. He
was so ashamed of his past and thought his children would think
less of him if they knew the truth. Of course it had the opposite
effect. I told him over and over that he should be proud of his
past but he never was. I think each question that he answered
gave him courage to answer the next one until he had told me about
his childhood, or at least all that he could. I think there were
many things he never told.Part of me hates England for all the
things it stole from my father—his dignity, self-respect,
a sense of value for who he was, his childhood, the love of a
wonderful foster mother and father (whom he continued to write
to until their death). He never intended to remain in Canada,
he always planned to return Home to England to Mr and Mrs Dixon.
How different his life would have been if he had been allowed
to remain with this lovely couple. I'm sure his children would
never have doubted his love or craved his affection!! There is
also a part of me that grudgingly accepts how much my father loved
the country of his birth.As I have grown older I have come
to realize that England was the loser, these children were
Magnificent, they sent us their Best. The children overcame the
most horrific obstacles!My heart bursts with pride for my father
and all the children like him. I think Canada owes them a tremendous
debt of gratitude and recognition. They played a huge part in
moulding this country into what it is and stands for today.I wrote
this for my father but also for his sister. Perhaps by taking
part she will finally see the little boy and Know our father and,
most importantly, Know that he loved her!My father taught me
about strength, determination, overcoming obstacles, never giving
up and Courage. When he left this life it left a hole in my heart
that no one can ever fill. He was, and always will be, my hero!
I LOVE YOU DAD.
(Thank you Mr Lorente for my father and me.)
Sincerely,
Barbara A (Cook) Alden
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