Details

Storyteller: Judy
Tribe: Leech Lake Band of Ojibwe
Created: 2019
Location: Saint Paul, MN
Transcript: My name is Judy Jeanne Olson. I am 71-years old. I am an enrolled member of the Leech Lake Band of Ojibwe.

My brothers and I were taken from our mother, Devota Helloise Smith when we were young children. She was from Lac Courte Oreille in Hayward, Wisconsin. When my mother and grandmother, Gertrude Smith, moved to Minneapolis, no one would hire my mother because Natives weren’t offered jobs. She wasn’t married and wasn’t working, and had four children. According to Indian policy at that time, children were then to be removed from the home and placed into foster care. It was thought that if we were taken from our home and placed into foster care, and then adopted by White people that we would lose our Indianness and blend into White society.

I was placed primarily into foster care from the time I was several months old until I was 4 years old, which was when I was adopted for the first time. For some family reason, I was removed and went back into foster care until another family adopted me. I really loved the first two adoptions. I liked the people. I liked the parents. For reasons unknown to me, I had to leave and went to live at St. Joe’s orphanage in Minneapolis. I was adopted for a third and final time when I was 7-years old. Even just being a little kid and not understanding why things happen, I knew my adopted family was cold compared to the first two homes I lived in. I had to do all of the heavy lifting to connect to my family and work to fit in out of fear of being rehomed again. I was told by my social worker that if I didn’t make a real effort to fit in, I would be rehomed. It was a difficult process. I was basically raised like a White girl and had no idea I was Native until I was a teenager when my adopted mother told me. Then my adopted family downplayed my Nativeness. They would say that I wasn’t that much Native anyway. And because my adoption records were sealed, I didn’t have any more information to go off of.

The older I got, the issues with my adopted parents became more untenable. There was a lot of shame and blame from them that I was trying to navigate. After going to college for a couple months when I was 18-years old, I dropped out and ran away to Montana, which is where I met my first husband. When we were married, I told him I wanted to find my birth family but he didn’t want to hear about it. After we divorced in 1972, I went back to my adopted family in New Ulm, Minnesota and started to look for my parents. I had no idea where to look or who to ask, but I decided to write this tiny little letter to the Mille Lacs Band of Ojibwe telling them my birth name, Emily Marie Smith, and that I wanted to find my parents. It turned out that my dad was from Mille Lacs and was sent to White Earth because of the Indian Removal Act. They couldn’t give me more information than that because my dad’s family, the Thompsons, had been removed to White Earth, long before my dad was even born.

Three years later, I asked my friend Randy, who was an attorney, if he could find out anything about my birth family. He contacted Hennepin County and was connected with a social worker, who was nice enough to give Randy information about my brothers and how to contact them. I immediately called the number I was given and was so nervous, but I called the number anyway and asked to speak to my brother Kenny Smith, and the voice on the other line said yes. I naturally thought that person was going to get my brother. I waited ten minutes and no one said anything, so I asked for Kenny Smith again, and the voice on the other line said “Oh, did you want to talk to him?” And we just laughed. At this point, the person went and got my brother, and this was the first time we ever spoke. We made plans to meet the following weekend and I went up to Bloomington, Minnesota to meet my two brothers and my Uncle, who was my mother’s only brother. My mother had passed away in 1957 and it was new information to me that I had an Uncle. That first year, I went and visited them quite often.

It took me all these years to put it all together. After receiving a copy of my original birth certificate, I finally felt like I belonged to my birth mother. She is mine. This is my mother. I belong to her. She belongs to me. I was 68-years old at that time. At that point, I reintroduced myself to the world and who I was on Facebook. People that I had known most of my life had no idea I had been adopted, that I was Native, and that my birth name was Emily Marie Smith.

I don’t have any contact with my adopted family. It appeared, through time, that we didn’t have anything in common. They really don’t know who I am. Much of my birth family is deceased, except for my brother Larry, my Uncle Elmer, my Uncle Pat and his children, and my cousin Frenchy. Frenchy is a veritable warehouse of family history and introduced me to a lot of my family members. There is also my Uncle Elmer, who is my dad’s brother. He is 96 years old. He and I talk a lot about family and the history of our family. I am closest to my Uncle Pat. He is hilarious, funny, and my children like to see him whenever we can.

Over time, my daughter became interested in Indian policy and how it affected our family. She has a degree in Indian studies and has been studying our Ojibwe language for 10 years. Several years ago my daughter produced an audio documentary about 4 native adoptees, including myself, taken from our families and how our daughters were affected, entitled “Stolen Childhoods.” It can be heard on MPR in their archives.

My children and I have our native names and go to ceremony when appropriate. It has helped to feel connected to my tribe and culture. For years, I went to powwows. I made regalia for family and others when requested. I have done extensive research in the “Indian rolls” which are Indian census rolls to find my family and ancestors. It helps me to feel connected and understand where I belong. Even though I will never meet these people and they have been dead for years, it’s a great feeling to see their name in print, to know that they are my relatives. That they are mine. And I am theirs. After being an orphan for so long, I now know who I am.