Breaking Chains: From the Projects to the Pulpit

Preface

This book is a real-life story of a person who was born ten years after the Second World War but had to endure the grief and trauma of a previous generation. The cycle of grief lasted for decades and was passed down to the next the generation. The memories left scars on many hearts, including my own. Today I am healed from those scars, but the memories remain. As I have gained more understanding over the years, I appreciate even more the great sacrifice my parents paid for the freedom we enjoy today. But I hold greater gratitude for my God, who has taken a broken heart and given me a new one.

Introduction

Over the years, I’ve shared stories of my mission trips around the world with people who would listen. I must have told my grandchildren the same stories many times over the years at our family gatherings. People often encouraged me to write a book. Well, over the years I thought about it, and I finally put some action behind their words of encouragement and sat down to write my personal story. I didn’t think my story was all that unique, but the more I thought about it, the more it became a reality.

I also want to help others who might be struggling with addictions and thoughts of suicide. I know my people throughout Canada and USA have had to deal with this subject for far too long, and we have lost many of our youth to that horrible mental health issue.

I have worked as a social worker, youth leader, case worker, and a pastor in the inner city of Winnipeg. I’ve travelled to over eighty-five First Nations communities in North and South America. The years of trauma have left many Indigenous communities struggling for answers to help these youth who have died far too early in life. I hope and pray that this book will be an encouragement to as many people possible. You might know someone who is struggling with this condition, or you might be the person dealing with it now. There is hope and help for you, so please don’t give up. Please take the first step and tell someone what you’re struggling with. Let your parents, teacher, elder, or pastor know.

I gave my life to Christ when I was twenty-four years old. I never imagined that God would take my broken life and turned into a miracle of His amazing grace.

Jeremiah 29:11 says, "For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope. God thinks much differently than anyone else in this world. He loves us with a love that passes knowledge and understanding. Now if I was God (and I am not), I might have just passed me by and found someone more qualified to serve His purposes. There I was sitting on a bench outside the steel mill I was working at, wearing my dirty and greasy coveralls. It was lunch break, and I was looking up into the sky and saw an airplane flying above. The Spirit of the Lord came upon me, and I said to myself as I pointed toward the plane, One day I’m going to get on a plane and preach around the world for Jesus."

My circumstance looked bleak and my surrounding didn’t look favourable, but God spoke into my spirit. Sometimes in your walk of faith, all you may receive from the Lord is a directive, and the destination won’t come until later. That is so true in my life; the places and people God would take me to were just amazing. When God opens the door, no man can close it!

Don’t give up! You have been called for such a time as this! He will take you to places unimaginable; you are someone’s breakthrough. An eight-year-old boy in Barrow, Alaska handed me a note and two dollars to win souls for Jesus. You could be the change agent for someone who struggles with the complexities of a crisis. My responsibility as well as yours is now to become a catalyst of change in someone else’s life.

Prologue

Our family arrived in the city of Winnipeg near the end of the 1950s. My parents had moved from the Patricia Beach area as part of a migration of Indigenous people moving to the city for a better life. In my parents’ case, it was for employment. A number of my mother’s siblings moved to Winnipeg as well. For them, it was a new and exciting place to live. Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out that well for most of them.

My parents were both addicted to alcohol, and for them it was a means to numb their feelings from their trauma. My mother lost her first and only husband, Mr. Flett. He never returned to Canada was buried overseas. They must have been around twenty years old when they got married. My mother was buried with her husband’s Silver Star next to her in her coffin. She’d fought a long, hard battle, and near the end of her life, she gave her heart to another person—Jesus Christ.

My dad was a broken young man when he came back from being wounded and a prisoner of war. Life in the city didn’t bring a bright tomorrow for them. It only brought years of alcoholism and abuse. We moved to a different location in Winnipeg, mostly rentals that were dire need of upkeep. My mother found us a place in the northwest of the city, known as Jig Town. It was the first brand-new place we lived in, but it was still a rental.

This story stems from years of alcohol abuse and violence that left me broken and wounded, just like my parents. They passed down their brokenness and grief. I was carrying on the family tradition, and it left me a broken young man, until I met the man called Jesus.

Chapter One

The Early Years

The year was 1959–1960. The evening turned out to be a very long, hot, summer night. It seemed that everything was so dark around me. As a matter of fact, most of my early childhood memories are dark and confusing. What I understand of those early days was the foundation that would determine my outlook on life in general.

The only light shining through the window was a light from the street lamp outside our bedroom window. I remember being left alone with my younger brother and sister. I was only four or five years old at the time. It seemed like I cried for hours looking out the window and asking myself when would my sisters return home. Those deep emotions of feeling left alone came from insecurity and abandonment by my family. In the moments of despair, a child doesn’t have an understanding of the concept of time; all they feel and know is that no one is providing security and comfort. The crying went on for what seemed like an eternity. My older sister went searching the neighbourhood, looking for my other sister. My mother left them to watch us younger children while she was out on the town drinking and partying. Children watching children, and my sisters weren’t much older than me.

This story is being re-created again and again in the lives of many people living in the inner-city and for those growing up in alcoholic homes. Back in those days, the child welfare system could have easily scooped us up and taken us away and placed us in some foster home, because none of us were of the age to look after each other. That would have been devastating for all of us. We would have been part of the 1960s Scoop that ran rampant in that decade, especially among our Indigenous people. My understanding is that the Sixties Scoop children were sent to different places in Canada, the USA, and even as far away as Europe.

That particular neighbourhood was always kind of spooky. There was this vehicle parked outside our house, and this person would sit in it for very long periods of time. That seemed to have gone on for weeks. We could only guess he was up to no good. We were living at that time on Robinson and Dufferin. The building was quite old; it must have been built in the early 1900s. We lived in the upper part of the house; looking back, it was more or less a rooming house with units upstairs and down. I believe these homes were built to accommodate the railroad workers and their families. It was old and rundown—not a place to raise a family. It was full of alcohol and violence and was unsafe. But it was our playground and it was close to the main street, and that has a lot of memories as well.

One neighbour would gather all the children and buy everyone ice cream cones. It was actually an ice cream truck on wheels that played music to let everyone know he was in the hood. This man and his family would also eventually move to Jig Town or Gilbert Park, as it’s known. As a matter of fact, on one of my adventures back to the old neighbourhood from Jig Town, I got lost trying to find my way back home. I took a bus and came home late and was confused on where I lived. The townhouses all looked the same to me, and I forgot where I lived. I was only seven or eight years old. I ended up at the man’s home who bought everyone ice cream cones. I got the directions to my home and made it home late in the evening. When he and his family moved to the same area, their tradition continued, but there were a whole lot more children to buy ice cream for. When the music that played on the ice cream truck could be heard, a stampede of young people would come running.

We moved to a variety of places back then, mostly older rented homes that accommodated people living with little or no income. The neighbourhood was filled with older homes, all of them rundown looking. Anyone living in the area knew that the row of red buildings on Jarvis was where the poorest people lived.

At the back of the building were what seemed like storage sheds at least six feet apart. That was our playground as we jumped from one building to another. It was quite a leap to take a run-and-jump approach for us little people. It seemed we were jumping over the Grand Canyon. It was fun, but it was also dangerous. We moved to a variety of homes, mostly in the inner-city and in the north end.

One particular home on Pioneer Street was across from what is now called the Canadian Human Rights Museum. This is where the Red River and the Assiniboine River meet; it’s an historical place. It was a trading place for the Indigenous people and the new settlers that came to Canada. The rivers acted like a highway that transported goods into the province and down to the Mississippi River. I’m not quite sure how long we lived in this area, but I remember some tragic incidents back then. Our family friends experienced a serious incident. The young boys were playing with a loaded rifle, and the one boy pointed at his brother and shot him. It was just devastating news for these people, whom my parents knew.

My cousins lived next door. We were around the same age and attended an elementary school somewhere in the downtown area. It seemed like we moved quite a few times back then. I’m not sure why we moved so much. I guess the landlord would raise the rent or we got evicted because of the parties, or just falling behind in the rent payments.

The Nutty Club was down the street, and when we were hungry one of us would reach into the truck and help ourselves to nuts or candies. Grab and run, boys was our motto! The driver would spot us and the chase would be on, and at the same time we’d try to empty our pockets of the evidence.

At times we were mischievous. One day, we decided not to go to school. My cousin’s mother found out from the school that we weren’t in attendance. I guess her boys were disciplined and had their butts hit with a belt. My auntie then came over to our house and informed my mother of what had happened that day. So her boys got disciplined, and then it was my turn. I don’t remember missing school after that, or at least we didn’t get caught.

During one of these mischievous moments, we were playing under the bridge by the rail station. Ice was building up, and we decided that it would make a nice climb. We climbed a slope toward the top. I slipped and grabbed on to whatever I could find. There just happened to be a wire of sorts hanging, so I grabbed it and felt a bolt of electricity go through my body. It scared me big time! Not sure how much live electricity flowed through me, but enough that I would never become an electrician.

The parties seemed endless no matter where we lived, whether in the inner-city or the north end. I do remember changing schools quite often. We would make friends with local families and then be gone again. I remember one particular house on Manitoba Avenue, where we had a coal furnace to heat the building. The truck would deliver the coal next to the building and into the furnace room.

I have many other memories. I’d often go down to the local bakery to buy bread; the lady wrapped the day-old bread in a newspaper. Can you believe the bread only cost five cents a loaf? There was a store on Selkirk and McGregor where the butchers would throw away bones that had a little bit of meat left on them. I’d come by and take home the bones from the barrel that sat outside the store. My mother would make neck bone soup, or as it was called, hangover soup. Believe me, she and her relatives had plenty of soup always cooking. They really believed it would bring relief to their hangover from drinking too much booze.

Back to Robinson. One day a tragic event occurred. Our next-door neighbour down the hall was found dead inside her unit. I overheard that it was a suicide. I remember standing in the hallway while the ambulance personnel took her body away. She was lying on the floor, but I could see that her legs had turned blue and she was motionless.

I believe that at this point, a spirit of suicide came upon me as a young boy. I want to deal with the subject somewhat in length because it has affected so many young people, especially among Indigenous people who lived in the city or back on the reservations. Over the years they have renamed the reservations First Nations communities, and they have added their original-language names to the communities. But back in the day, they were basically called reservations.

My dad grew up in the Métis community called Stony Point, or Patricia Beach. My grandfather refused to move with the Peguis people from Petersfield to the Interlake, which is known today as Peguis First Nation; the people were the descendants of Chief Peguis. The Ojibway people!

My parents were the first Indigenous people to live in the urban setting. So I am a second-generation Indigenous person who grew up, for most of my life, in the city of Winnipeg. My parents moved to the city for employment reasons. My dad was a commercial fisherman, and at that time, my mother had a variety of jobs, mostly cooking.

My parents were always hard workers, but unfortunately, they didn’t spend their resources wisely. It seemed that money wasn’t a priority for them, nor was thinking about the future. The funds came into the family and left very quickly. The amount of money spent on alcohol consumed over 50 per cent of their income, if not more. Our relatives were in the same situation. It seemed normal at times because everyone was doing it. It became a lifestyle, and abuse of alcohol created nothing but havoc in our homes. The parties would start off with a great deal of laughter, dancing, and poking fun at one another. It was guaranteed that by the end of the evening, there would be a fight among themselves. Can you imagine the effect it had on young people? I think most of us just hid in our back bedrooms hoping the party would end. There was no peace in our home, mostly strife and unforgiveness. People back then simply held grudges against one another, probably due to the fights among themselves.

Alcohol had become a curse in our family, from generation to generation and passed down the family line. The bondage of alcoholism affected so many of that generation. When my dad returned from the Second World War, he was a broken young man, having been captured during the war. He was wounded on the battlefields of Europe and spent many months as a prisoner of war. Unfortunately, in his grief and pain, he could only find comfort in consuming alcohol. Like so many veterans, he came back to Canada suffering what we would call PTSD today.

When he’d enlisted for war, he’d been assigned to the regiment of the Winnipeg Rifles, also known as the Little Black Devils. His younger brother, my uncle, tried to join the military but was underage. These Indigenous veterans came back from the war to the reservation and had no right to vote for elected leaders in Canada. In some cases, some of these veterans needed permission to leave the reservation. It’s beyond my thinking why these men would volunteer and defend our freedom that we enjoy today when they had no freedom to live as free citizens of this nation called Canada.

I’m not quite sure his reasonings, but my guess is that they were aware that the Indigenous children were being sent to residential schools to be educated. My late uncle must’ve dropped out of school, because he didn’t know how to read or write. When he came to the city of Winnipeg, he needed to come with someone who knew how to read the street signs. Although my uncle didn’t make it to the Second World War, like so many in the community, he also turned to alcohol, which had devastating results for his family. Alcohol is a curse that has been passed down from generation to generation.

When I was seeking the Lord for answers about this generational curse, God gave me a vision of a forest that was set on fire, and the fire was moving from tree to tree until there was nothing left but ashes. This described the effects and consequences of a lifestyle of drunkenness and alcoholism that has ruined so many lives in my family and the lives of so many of my relatives. It’s a terrible curse among Indigenous people; it has ruined so many lives. It left nothing but poverty and brokenness in its path. Our families lived from paycheque to paycheque and never prospered or left any inheritance to the next generation.

My parents and those in their generation lived through the Great Depression as children in the 1930s. They lived without electricity or running water. I imagine they never celebrated birthdays or had any Christmas gifts to give. Everything was a struggle for them, but they survived as family units because my grandparents knew how to live off the land. They were trappers and fishermen who worked hard to supply for their families the basic necessities of life. When my grandfather died, my mom had to pawn our television set to help pay the funeral bill. There was just no money or any type of savings available. I think the TV we owned was pawned more than once or twice. I never knew my grandfather, my mother’s dad, but she was broken up and cried when she was drinking. So the grief cycle continued.

There was a downtown church in Winnipeg. One day I walked inside and saw all these candles burning. So I prayed, God, why did you take my grandfather away? Could you please bring him back? I was only a child. There were confession booths set up inside the building, but it was kind of spooky, so I didn’t bother going inside. One after another my uncles passed away, leaving nothing for their families. Of course, the grief led to more alcohol consumption.

Solomon, the wisest man who ever lived, wrote Proverbs, and this is what he says in Proverbs 23:29–35:

Who has woe?

Who has sorrow?

Who has contentions?

Who has complaints?

Who has wounds without cause?

Who has redness of the eyes?

Those who linger long at the wine,

Those who go in search of mixed wine.

Do not look on the wine when it is red,

When the sparkles in the cup,

When it swirls around smoothly,

At the last it bites like a serpent,

and stings like a viper.

Your eyes will see strange things,

And your heart will utter perverse things.

Yes, you will be like one who

lies down in the midst of the sea,

Or like the one who lives at the top of a mast, saying:

"They have struck me,

but I was not hurt;

They have beaten me,

but I did not feel it.

When shall I awake,

that I may seek another drink?"

The 1960s was a decade of rebellion and self-centredness.

After living in a variety of rundown places, our family finally got a break. My mother received a notice that a government housing project was being built in the northwest of Winnipeg. At that time, it seemed like it was at the edge of the city. As a matter of fact, it was at the edge of the city; there were family farms across the field. This area would eventually become more developed with more family housing.

Most of the people who lived in the complex came from similar backgrounds. Some were single-parent homes, others had both parents. Some of the families had working parents, and others had single-parent families with no one working, and that included our family. My mother was able to raise five of us children on her own efforts.

Mom was a hard-working woman and very independent. At the time we moved into the complex, she was working, mostly as a community outreach worker. Apparently, a friend of hers who was a social worker was a very helpful and kind person. He helped my mom with her skill level and saw the potential in her to become a community worker. She worked at this job for many years, helping the Indigenous people who were continually arriving in Winnipeg. She had to deal with the bureaucracy and unjust landlords, and help her clients navigate for employment, self-improvement, and better housing. My mother was very outspoken and always helpful to people who were down and out. She became quite an advocate for many over the years, in spite of her own grief over the death of her husband in the Second World War. During her times of grief, which came out usually when alcohol was being served, there would be endless tears.

She would have been married in the 1940s before her husband, Mr. Flett, went off to war. Over the years she refused to remarry or change back to her maiden name, so she was Mrs. Flett. My mother’s maiden name was Thomas. She grew up in the Victoria Beach area and came from a very large family. I don’t know much of her history or the problems she had to face. But I guess the generational curse of alcoholism was passed down to her and her siblings. I know this because of the comments that were made over the years. Mom was a very hard worker from a young age. She drove a truck and could handle any task a man could do. She worked on the fishing boats as a cook, and she worked cleaning other people’s homes.

For some reason, I was the only family member that I’m aware of who had to go with her on those long bus rides from Jig Town to Tuxedo. She worked for Mrs. Henry, who was employed as a journalist for the Winnipeg Tribune newspaper. Today, we would look at her as being a feminist and an advocate for the poor and for women of her generation. Mrs. Henry was my mother’s mentor, and she learned much from her. She considered Mrs. Henry not only her employer but a friend.

My memories of those early days are of those long bus rides to the other side of the city, but it paid off at the end. Mrs. Henry would feed us lunch, and I would have my own bottle of Coca-Cola beside the refrigerator. I hit the jackpot. Mrs. Henry’s sons would go on to become famous actors on their own TV programs. My mother would often say I helped those boys when they were younger; I cleaned their rooms and fed them. I always wondered why they had so many swords in their bedrooms. My guess is that it was part of the drama class in high school or university years.

At Mrs. Henry’s funeral, her sons gave eulogies about their mother and their upbringing. One of her sons included how much of a positive attitude she had. He said they grew up dirt poor, but they never knew it. Mrs. Henry would tell her boys that they came from royalty and that their family history was tied to the King of Scotland. In their minds, they believed that they were important and had value in society because they came from royalty. He repeated that, in reality, they were a poor family. But their mother never allowed them to think that way, because they came from royalty, and they believed it.

My mother, my brother, and I attended the service. My mother embraced the boys, now men, as her own sons. The family members greeted everyone as we said our final goodbyes. One of the members standing with them was a young Indigenous lady. It spoke volumes to me that these people had a burden and felt a responsibility to reach out to Indigenous people, just like Mrs. Henry reached out to my mother and became her mentor and helped her navigate through life as a single parent. She became an anchor for my mother during the many trials of her life. In the good times and the bad, she was always there. She was a source of strength, a person of integrity, a person filled with compassion, and she knew the struggles of life and just wanted to help someone else in need.

Mrs. Henry no longer lived in poverty but obtained a better lifestyle for herself and family. In my young mind, she was one of the richest people I’d ever met, because she lived in an area of the city where the rich people lived. It’s amazing what an act of kindness does. It left an impression in my mind and heart even to today. That happened almost sixty years ago! That could also be said about being unkind and cruel. That can remain with someone for years. The act of kindness can remain with many people for many years.

It was that act of kindness that I held on to over many years in my own struggles of life. I knew from young age that there was a better life to live, at least materially. Throughout my younger years, God put several individuals in my life who spoke volumes of kindness and believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. My elementary school teacher was a kind and generous man. He was also a man who believed in you and would discipline you when he needed to. Later on in my Christian life, I would meet that teacher again when he worked as a marriage counsellor.

I called him at his office one day and said, Mr. Koop, I don’t know if you remember me, but you were my teacher in elementary school, and I’m calling you to thank you for believing in me and being such an encouragement. I met him at his office and we shared memories and cried over the reunion. He told me that he’d left to teach in South America, as it was getting impossible to teach in the Canadian system. They were no longer allowed to discipline the children like the days when I grew up in his classroom. He was old school and he meant not to be mean but to demonstrate that he really cared. Once you got out of line or were fighting, out came that twelve-inch, black, thick leather belt. It would sting for a very long time. If you moved your hand, like my friend did, and the teacher hit himself on the leg, look out! The next would come with a little more zip in it. We invited him and his wife to our daughter’s wedding. I could see the proud look on his face as my wife and I greeted him at the church ceremony.

During those elementary days, I found myself getting into fights often on the playground. He came up to me one day and said, Alfred, why don’t you join the local wrestling team? You would do well at that. I’m grateful for the many people God used in my life who helped in my development in my formative years. Those acts of kindness would remain with me in my heart, mind, and soul. In spite of all my problems and challenges being raised by alcoholic parents and facing racism, violence, and suicidal tendencies, God had a plan for my life and a purpose for my existence. I want you to know that in spite of all you’ve been through, God will never leave you or forsake you. His goodness and mercy will follow you all the days of your life. The psalmist said in Psalm 23:

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not