Chilling piece of Canadiana

[ciroccoj]

Anybody remember Jean Little's book, From Anna? It was one of my childhood favourites, and I've been reading it out loud to Justin, who loves stories but doesn't much like reading them himself. I thought he'd like it, since he (a) loves books with girls as main characters as much as boy characters, and (b) is practically blind without glasses, same as Anna.

He loves it. We're nearing the end now, and I remembered today that there is a sequel of sorts, called Listen For the Singing. I went to look for it today, and then went looking for Jean Little's other books. Ran across a biography of her, which states that she herself is also almost blind, and went to a Sight-Saving class as a child, just like Anna. She was born in 1932, has had her many many books translated into dozens of languages, never married but lives with her sister and her sister's grandchildren, and has two nephews and a niece. She used to have two nieces, but one was killed by Robert Pickton.

Full stop.

Yeah, Robert Pickton, the pig farmer from British Columbia who was convicted of killing six women, but is suspected of having killed dozens more, and disposing of their bodies by feeding them to his pigs. The vast majority of them were prostitutes and drug addicts; many were Native, or black. These women were going missing from the Vancouver area for years, and it didn't really seem to matter to many people, because they were expendable.

Pickton's victims always make me think of the Montreal Massacre. I went to a memorial once where they pointed out the difference in our attitude towards both sets of women. All of Canada was shocked and appalled at the time, and we still mourn the 14 Montreal women 20 years after the massacre, because they were the best and the brightest that Canada had to offer: young, smart, educated, going places. Girls who were supposed to become engineers, maybe get married and have kids, and make their families proud.

Pickton's victims were, by and large, going nowhere. Few people cared, for years, that they were disappearing. It wasn't until some "good girls" - mostly white, educated, drug-free - went missing that people sat up and took notice.

Sarah Jean De Vries, Jean Little's niece, was of mixed race, a prostitute and a drug addict. Not expendable, though. Like most of Pickton's victims, she had a family who loved her, two young kids of her own, and a life, no matter how troubled.

Jean Little wrote a poem for Sarah when she was adopted, at age 11 months. She had been named Sherry by her birth mother, but renamed Sarah Jean by her adoptive parents, in part because of her aunt.

What can I give you, Sarah,
Now that you are ours ...
The shine of a snowflake, Sarah ...
The fragrance of flowers ...
Rainbows and rivers, Sarah ...
Hopscotch and swings ...
Songs that a Sarah sways to
When her mother sings ...
Books to make friends with, Sarah,
Stories and rhymes ...
A slide where a small girl, Sarah,
Laughs as she climbs ...
Good food for you to eat, Sarah,
Enough and to spare ...
Laughter, Sarah, every day,
To joy in, to share ...
Tears?

Yes, there will be times, Sarah,
When you must weep
But may sorrow also give you
Courage to keep,
A faith that shall hold
and heal you
As long as you live,
A oneness with all who hurt, Sarah,
And a self you can give ...
Whether you plant a garden
Or paint or write or sew,
The magic of making
something, Sarah,
I want you to know.
I give you a sister, Sarah,
To love you, to scold.
Always her hand will be there, Sarah,
For you to hold ...
And here is a brother, Sarah.
Maybe you should have two.
Brothers are pests -- and people
Who stand up for you.
These two need a little sister
To delight in and defend
And you need them --
to beware of,
Bedevil and befriend.

Here is a subtler gift, Sarah,
Your place in our clan.
You're "ours" and we all are yours, Sarah,
Child and woman and man.
Whatever you do or don't, Sarah,
You're now within.
Whatever we are or aren't, Sarah,
We are your kin.
Oh, Sarah, you may feel wonder
At sunlight, at birds,
At the strength of your father, Sarah,
At the cadence of words ...
Puns I'd give you ... and April
Complete with a skipping rope ...
And a friend to tell a secret ...
And tomorrows ... and hope ...
And I want you never to feel, Sarah,
The slightest surprise
When you read her love for you, Sarah,
In your mother's eyes ...
These gifts, though, are yours already.

I give you just my name
... And my world has been brighter, Sarah,
Since you came.
Each love gives its own light, Sarah,
Kindled and kept by two.
Some loves flicker and fail, Sarah;
Some shine a whole life through.
We have set ours alight for always.
It has a lovely sheen.

Let this be our gift to each other,

Sarah Jean.


When Sarah grew, she named her own daughter Jeanie, after her famous aunt. Jeanie, who was seven when Sarah was murdered, has been raised mostly by her grandmother and Jean Little. And Sarah's sister Maggie wrote a book about her, Missing Sarah: A Vancouver Woman Remembers Her Vanished Sister.

Not sure what to feel about all of this. It's so strange, that a person I've identified with childhood and happiness all my life is so closely connected to one of the most gruesome and heartbreaking crimes in Canada's history.

Kinda puts a lot of things in perspective, but I'm not sure what that perspective is.

Comments

[a-dawn.livejournal.com]

I loved Jean Little as a child. She wrote about so many things I experienced as a child, sight difficulties, cerebral palsy, a love of writing and more. Plus she lived in my hometown of Guelph. Often it seemed like the world created this author just so I could read her books.

I worked in the local library as a teenager and we used to see her come in often with her sister and seeing eye dog. She wasn't particularly approachable, but that just made me love her books that much more. Like she saved up all the fluffiness in her for her writing.

I don't remember when I discovered her niece of was one of Pickton's victims. Early on, anyway, because I remember knowing her niece was missing from before Pickton was ever discovered.

Sad.

[ciroccoj.livejournal.com]

I loved Jean Little as a child. She wrote about so many things I experienced as a child, sight difficulties, cerebral palsy, a love of writing and more. Plus she lived in my hometown of Guelph. Often it seemed like the world created this author just so I could read her books.
:) :) :)

I worked in the local library as a teenager and we used to see her come in often with her sister and seeing eye dog. She wasn't particularly approachable, but that just made me love her books that much more. Like she saved up all the fluffiness in her for her writing.
That's kinda neat, actually. I could totally see that.

I don't remember when I discovered her niece of was one of Pickton's victims. Early on, anyway, because I remember knowing her niece was missing from before Pickton was ever discovered.
Yeah, apparently they were looking for her for a long, long time. One article said that Sarah was part of why the disappearances started being noticed. Though it attributed that more to the fact that Sarah herself was apparently a very friendly person, well-known in Vancouver's marginal community, than with the fact that she had a famous aunt. And actually one of the people who was very tenacious in her case was a former john of hers, who had become a close friend. He was one of the last people to see her alive, and he helped her family keep her disappearance from being forgotten.

I found it interesting that the article made the point that it wasn't just famous people and police and journalists and social workers who helped catch Pickton. He was caught, at least in part, because of a drug-addicted prostitute with a lot of friends, and a john with a conscience.

[snarkhunter.livejournal.com]

Not being Canadian, some of these names are familiar to me, but not in the way that they would be if they were key people in my country.

Jean Little's name is incredibly familiar, but when I look at her book list on Wiki...nothing. I don't think I've read a single one of her books--I've never even heard of them. How do I know her name?