Born a Testawich: My Rez Story Begins

A journey of identity, legacy, and the strength of a Rez woman

Mom and I (1986)

When I was growing up, I often wondered why people had such big feelings and negative perceptions about being "Indian," living on the rez, or—worse—being a Testawich. It took me a long time to understand these issues, but that was the world around me.

I grew up on a small reserve in Northern Alberta called Duncan's First Nation, named after my great-great-grandfather, Duncan Testawich. He signed Treaty 8 at Peace River Crossing on July 1, 1899, as headman of the Crees.

This history inspires me and fills me with pride. Carrying his name has never felt like just a fact of life—it has always been a responsibility, an honor. From an early age, I wanted to represent him well, to do right by his legacy, and to follow the example he set for our people in the Peace Country. Simple, right? Wrong.

My story began on a cold Saturday evening in November of 1986, when my mother, Gail Testawich, brought me into this world. I wish I could say my biological father was there, but from what I’ve been told, he wasn’t. No biggie. Her Auntie, was there to support my mom and welcome me.

I was born in Dawson Creek, BC, in a hospital that, as far as I know, still stands today. If it does, it’s at least 38 years old now—hopefully, they’re getting a new one! Still, it’s neat to see the place where my story began.

That’s about all I know of my baby days, except for one legendary event: my baby shower, which was apparently all the rage in ’86. A wild night, from what I hear. I was only there for an hour or so, but my aunties tell the story with so much love and laughter that I can almost picture it.

My auntie even gave me a photo of the gathering. I treasure that picture, not just for what it shows but for what it means. My mom was surrounded by love and support, and I feel connected to every person in that room.

I don’t know exactly what happened in the months that followed, but I do know that my grandparents were on a trip to Florida when I was born and they brought me back a pair of tiny Mickey Mouse slippers. I wish I still had them—how cute would that be?

And then, enter my dad. I was six months old when my mom met Wade. I believe they were close in age, my mom just a couple of months older—maybe 20 at the time? I’ll have to fact-check that with my dad. They were together for almost a decade and had my two younger sisters.

I wish I could say we lived an incredible life together in one home and that my parents had their happily ever after. As a little girl, that’s how it felt—or at least, how I imagined it should be.

But life isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a journey. And this is just the beginning of mine.