Empathy for the Nun, Sympathy for the Children: A Closer Look at Children of God

By Carmen Craig & Estrella Whetung, in collaboration with Septimus Brown

Content Warnings: Mentions of abuse, sexual assault, suicide, and residential schools.

We first saw Corey Payette’s residential school musical before the pandemic, and in the years afterward, we wished we had the chance to review it. So when Intrepid Theatre brought the production to Victoria's McPherson Playhouse, we decided to take another look.

The residential school system has taken a devastating toll on Indigenous survivors, their families, communities, and descendants—and the reverberations will continue. This is a legacy that we must all face, and settlers in particular, as the truth of these schools—even their very existence—has too often been sanitized from Canadian history and sometimes outright denied.

For that reason, this is a story that deserves to be given depth and dimension. In all of the agency and humanity that has been denied the victims of this system of genocide, it’s of critical importance that, through resurgent and reconciliatory art, we restore some of what was lost to the individuals who were horrifically impacted by the schools, if not taken from us completely.

A Pathos Play

Children of God does an excellent job of pulling at the heartstrings of the audience, whether settler guilt or Indigenous sorrow—as alluded to in the lyrics of one number. The audience is presented with innocent children trying to cling to childhood and happier memories in the face of domination, hunger, and abuse. At the midpoint, we learn that the priest has been raping one of the girls (Julia). She gets pregnant. They call in the doctor for an abortion, and soon after she hangs herself. We also get the braided perspective of her brother throughout this ordeal and twenty years hence as he struggles to escape his trauma. It’s almost impossible not to be brought to tears as these events unfold.

But we must ask the question: how does this musical restore the agency and humanity of those lost and crushed by the Canadian residential school system?

Is it a powerful narrative for settlers to witness and learn from? Yes, certainly. But does the takeaway reach beyond the “trauma porn” horror of this history? To answer that, we need to examine the foundations of Payette’s narrative.

In fiction and narrative nonfiction, characterization functions on a few different levels. At the surface, there are quirks, foibles, hobbies, interests, and verbal tics that can help set a character apart from a cast. Then there is pathos—a character’s suffering and disadvantages that allow an audience to connect on a sympathetic level. Finally, there is true character empathy, the deepest level of audience connection. This level of characterization stems from a narrative goal and related effort—the character struggling and striving toward something that is fundamentally important to them. We see who they truly are—their deepest level of nuance—in what they are willing to do (or not) to get what they want.

Children in residential schools were certainly denied agency. Their goals and aspirations were in many cases crushed. But they still had them. Though there are not many published examples, there are many stories of rebellion and resistance. One that has been written about took place at the Edmonton Indian Residential School in 1961 when students overpowered staff and took over the school (CBC.ca – Tasting Freedom). But while young Tommy and Julia are yearning for freedom and reconnection, the narrative is not framed around their agency. Instead, it frames their trauma.

Tommy wants his mother to come and rescue them, and he is treated to a small arc in which he tries to write her a letter, and in doing so tries to remember what he can about his family and language, but this is largely demonstrative of the residential school system’s control and abuse of power. It brings his suffering to life, but not a sense of nuanced individuality. Even in the aftermath timeline, he is reduced to a stereotype: a broken Native man struggling with alcoholism, anger, and unemployment. Tommy ultimately comes across as a stock character in a stock portrayal of a stock residential school.

Julia, his sister, has even less agency. She tries to run away at the beginning of the show, but then she is caught, returned, and again subjected to solitary confinement and sexual abuse. In all of these scenes, she is not a unique character coming to life on stage but rather a portrayal of all the young victims of this system. Again at the end, when her spirit appears in a red dress, she is a stand-in for all missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls. This does not amount to a rendering of nuance and individuality.

If this is such an important story that needs to be told, what is the ideal end result? That settler audiences get to connect primarily with the trauma of residential schools? Or with the lost humanity of the victims?

While the musical’s synopsis in the program calls it a story about Tommy, Julia, and their mother Rita (a familiar iteration of an Indigenous mother powerless to help her children), there is one character who is treated to a full arc—the nun, Sister Bernadette.

The sister starts out with a desire to do well in her new posting, to win the respect of Father Christopher, and to bring God to the little Indians. To achieve this, she punishes Julia for running away by locking her in the cellar—without realizing that this allows the priest an opportunity to continue his abuse. Sister Bernadette has a turning point when she catches him in the act. She tries to take the matter up with the monsignor, and when Julia takes her own life, she admonishes Father Christopher for his ungodly ways—culminating in a number about her guilt and strife.

This arc gives her depth and growth, and therefore relatability—it is a perfect example of how the engine of characterization moves from narrative goal toward transformation. That being said, there still isn’t much nuance here, which comes down to the nun’s stock motivations—a nun who wants to be a good nun. Characters are, ideally, more than their job title, just like they are more than their cultural identity. Regardless, is this the character we really need empathy for? One of the perpetrators of this horrific system of abuse?

Let’s say that Sister Bernadette is a stand-in for the settler experience of denial and eventual regret and guilt. Perhaps this is a worthwhile inclusion to help garner buy-in and relatability from non-indigenous audience members. But it doesn’t work if the nun is given the only complete arc. She alone generates empathy while the victims generate only sympathy.

How do we move past a spectacle for white guilt and truly honor the children lost to and wronged by this system?

A start, we contend, would be through art that holds up or prioritizes the humanity of the lost and broken instead of merely meditating on their suffering and centering the perspectives or experiences of their abusers.

Indigenous Art Needs Critique

All art thrives with developmental critique. This is especially true with narrative and performance. Masterpieces are honed, not hatched.

Something we have noticed over the years—as artists and theatregoers—is that the contemporary drive/demand for Indigenous content and representation hasn’t always equated to a showcasing of polished or fully realized performances. Settlers continue to dominate the arts world, and while allies are often eager to uplift Indigenous voices and perspectives, they are at a loss, culturally, to critique those perspectives. They are also in an awkward position when it comes to offering non-cultural, craft-based critiques. And beyond the realm of the workshop, what professional settler reviewers are willing to excoriate a production about the repercussions of a colonial system from which they benefit?

Can a settler reviewer of Children of God, for example, call into question the authenticity of how these characters represent their culture and language and worldview? Can this same reviewer question Payette’s own perspective and ownership of this story as someone who “was not raised in the culture of his nation” (BCAchievement.com – bio) and who, “growing up in Northern Ontario … was never taught the history of residential schools” (program – playwright’s note)?

Certainly not without seeming like said reviewer is leveling an attack on what is still, despite our own critiques of the production, a powerful expression of a painful history.

But let’s imagine for a moment that this was a musical by a settler about non-indigenous orphans being abused in a Catholic boarding school. Would the lack of depth to the characterization of the children not be critiqued? Would a redemption story for one of the perpetrators be sufficient as the one arc that is fully fleshed out?

We suspect not.

But what is the solution? Perhaps a wider call for critique from other Indigenous artists and performers who are committed to not only showcasing Indigenous voices but also uplifting their stories as something deserving of more than the sympathy and tears of settler audiences.

Toward Indigenous Future-Making

Perhaps what’s most needed in Indigenous storytelling is not only a reckoning with the past, but also a vision of the future—one where our characters are more than their wounds, and our stories are more than their tragedies. The truth of the residential school system must be told, again and again. But we also need stories that show Indigenous characters in all their fullness—resisting, dreaming, joking, building, loving, and complicating every expectation of what Indigenous theatre must be.

When we centre only trauma, we risk re-inscribing the very systems that sought to erase us—limiting our stories to pain and our characters to symbols. Is it disrespectful to ask for more?No, in fact, it is an act of care—for the audiences who are still learning, and especially for the Indigenous youth who might see themselves reflected on stage. They deserve to see not only what was taken, but what still lives on.

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Estrella Whetung (Alderville First Nation) is a Mississauga Nishnaabe Lucbanin 2-Spirit educator and artist who grew up on the territories of the Lək̓ʷəŋən (Xʷsepsəm and Songhees), W̱SÁNEĆ, and SC'IȺNEW peoples. They use multi-disciplinary approaches to art with a focus on Nishnaabe beadwork, contemporary Woodlands painting, traditional fibre arts, and mixed media. They are a PhD candidate (IGOV, UVic) who is writing their dissertation by day, grading their students’ work by evening, and moonlighting as a heritage research investigator in their spare time.

Carmen Wiigwaas Craig is a Michi Saagiig Nishnaabe from Hiawatha First Nation. She holds an MEd with a focus on language revitalization and a BA with honours in linguistics from the University of Victoria as well as a diploma in creative writing and English literature from Camosun College. As a Michi-Saagii Nishnaabekwe, Carmen understands dibaajimowin or story as a measurement of reality and an important way to share knowledge. As a founding member of Oodenaw.com, an urban Indigenous consulting cooperative, Carmen pursues her passions for language revitalization, cultural resurgence, and accessible learning. Carmen lives on Vancouver Island, Canada, in the territories of the W̱SÁNEĆ and Lək̓ʷəŋən peoples.