Written By Reverend Enos Montour
Why should Santa disappoint his Brown Tom in his White man’s School—this “Mush Hole,” as the older boys called it? Oatmeal porridge had never been served so regularly back home as it was here.
Brown Tom remembered one night when he was seven. He had been very very naughty. And on Christmas Eve, of all times. He had snapped at everyone, and pouted and cried all evening.
He had been warned, too, about what might happen to nasty little boys at Christmas. Santa would only leave a switch from the Bush for him. No candies for naughty Brown Tom.
But the naughty boy would not be consoled or warned. As a final gesture of Revolt, he had hurled his shoes away under the couch. What did he care about tomorrow morning? The shoes struck the wall and bounced back to lie hidden. They were there as evidence of his childish, tearful temper.
He remembered so well that awful Christmas morning. His brothers and sisters were exulting over Santa’s gifts. Brown Tom’s tears had dried and he had quite forgotten what had so upset him. He recalled now how his shoes lay that morning—right where his naughty hands had thrown them. He was afraid to look into them.
Finally, he ventured closer. And—Wonder of Wonders. There were candies in them. He crawled out from under the sofa with a sheepish grin. Here was no switch as threatened. In his shoes were candy and an added orange.
Now, at the School Farm, Brown Tom had a secret hiding place. He went there when he was disturbed and upset. He enjoyed getting away from it all to the whitewashed pigpen. There he stood watching his grunting, white-haired friends. Few of the other boys came here, except at pig-feeding time. Here, miserable and upset, he could “have his dark hour alone.”
Good old Indian Santa, mused Brown Tom. He never let Indian boys and girls down. No, not even when they were naughty.
But Christmas had come and gone in the “Mush Hole.” Santa did not show up. The White man’s way of life and the rough teasing laughter of his schoolmates jarred on the soul of Brown Tom. Of course, he did not really hang up his black numbered stockings that first Christmas Eve. He had heard enough teasing and “cracks” about boys who expected Santa.
But, after “Lights Out,” Brown Tom crawled out and arranged his shoes side by side. He then carefully draped his stockings over them. Surely these rude, loud-swearing boys were wrong about Santa. He could understand quite readily how Santa would pass them up. They were BAD. But surely, Santa would not neglect his Brown Tom. However, Christmas Day dawned just like any other day. With the ringing of First Bell only a few minutes later, there was the usual
din of boys stirring about. There was the wrestling and shoving of beds around. There was the odd fist fight, which was quickly quelled by the older boys. Then the “Thundering Herd” went pell-mell down the stairs to the various chores. Brown Tom found his shoes and stockings at the foot of his bed. They were just as he had left them the night before—empty. As he lay across his bed, looking down at them, Jake Fishcarrier, a sarcastic Third-former, came along. “Gaw, Tom is lookin’ fer Sandy Claws,” he teased, rumpling the younger boy’s hair. That wasn’t so bad. But, when Norman Sabima, a Senior Entrance lad came along, his comment really hurt. Putting a kindly hand on Brown Tom’s head, he comforted, “Tom, you’re too big for Santa Claus now.” A great lump came into the young lad’s throat. Tears welled up into his eyes. He didn’t want to be too big for Santa Claus. All he longed for just then was his Injun Bush home—where Santa always came. He longed for its disordered warmth and careless comfort. A bewildered, confused and homesick boy, he stood watching his gay companions returning from morning chores. They were all ready for their “Mush ’n’ Milk.”
But Brown Tom found his boyish world all tasteless and forlorn. And this, on Christmas Day, when all should rejoice. Of all this, Brown Tom, Indian-like, uttered not a word. But surrounded by sixty shouting, wrestling boys, he was as lonely as a deserted prairie shack.
Kinder boys had tried to explain that Santa did not come the same way here that he did on the Reserve. But Brown Tom never let his faith in Santa weaken. Christmas was followed by New Year’s. All this while, a great unsettled question hovered over his boyish mind. He still wondered and grieved.
Late in January, an issue of red, woollen toques was made to the boys. These were usually bought in job lots from slightly damaged city fire-sales goods. As the kindly Vice-Principal handed Brown Tom his toque, he said, “Watch out for those candies inside.” A great upsurge of hope sprang into the soul of Brown Tom. Here were the missing candies. Here, dear old Santa was vindicated. He had come after all, but his treats had been overlooked. Brown Tom’s hand trembled as he reached for his woollen cap. His face flushed with pleasure. A great mystery had been cleared up.
A vast sigh of relief welled up from his boots to his throat. But the teacher, noticing the lad’s agitation, warned: “I don’t think I’d eat those mothballs if I were you.” After that, Brown Tom stumbled from the room, heading for his pigpen retreat. The teacher stood, jangling his keys. “What a strange little boy,” he mused.
At last, in the friendly warmth of the pigpen, Brown Tom was welcomed by friendly grunting. The lad couldn’t help noticing what an orderly menage these pigs kept. Meditating on this, he pushed the great let-down to the back of his mind.
Here at the foot was the feeding-trough. Over there was their bed of clean straw. And away over there, in the corner, was their “Powder Room.” Strange creatures these pigs. So mused the bewildered mixed-up Indian boy. His faith had been shattered, but here, for the moment, he forgot his tumbled world.
Finally, hearing the First Bell ring for supper, Brown Tom straightened up and faced reality. Santa had definitely bowed out of his life. He now faced and accepted the Santa-less years that stretched before him. For, in that moment, in that Farm School pigpen, Brown Tom grew up. He WAS too big for Santa Claus.
More information at https://thechildrenremembered.ca/school-histories/mount-elgin/ or Mush Hole, for more facts about the Mt. Elgin Residential School, refer to Mush Hole. Available at Goodminds Bookstore. Life at the Mush Hole: Life at Two Indian Residential Schools.
