No Easy Ride

by Ian Parsons

  A SERGEANT MAJOR NEVER FORGETS

  Music has always been part of my life. During basic training I became involved with the recruit bugle band. There was little else about me that would warrant the attention of the sergeant major, the man who ruled Depot. Sergeant Major MacRae owned the drill square and struck terror and awe in the hearts of all creatures daring to encroach on his sacred ground. He strutted like a peacock and roared like a lion.

  One crisp winter’s day, just before Christmas of 1961, Sergeant Major MacRae summoned me to his lair in the administrative block of Depot Division. As I stood at rigid attention, he instructed me to assemble a small quartet of brass musicians from the recruit population. On Christmas Eve, we would go around the square under the streetlights and play Christmas carols to the homes bordering the square. His final instructions were that under no circumstances would we sub-humans (recruits) enter any of the said residences. Even if an invitation was extended, we were to decline, play our yuletide music and return to barracks immediately after our mission.

  Christmas Eve arrived under a blanket of subarctic air. The temperature was -30°F, so we had to soak our instrument valves in alcohol to keep them operational. Alcohol, incidentally, was not to be used to warm the cockles of our valueless hearts. Off we trundled, bundled up in several layers of sweaters beneath our pea jackets. Things were going well in spite of the cold evening. As we stood under the streetlights and played our carols, residence lights flashed on and off in appreciation.

  As we assembled beside the home of Inspector Mortimer, a newly commissioned officer, he opened the front door and invited us in out of the cold. I respectfully declined, informing him of restrictions from the sergeant major. He responded by saying that it was Christmas Eve and 30 below, and promptly ordered us into the house. The home was full of guests. We were led into the living room in front of a roaring fireplace. After playing some carols, we initially declined but eventually gratefully consumed some eggnog. It was a wonderful respite, and we rewarded the occupants by breaking into some Dixieland numbers. After a period of revelry, we bade our adieus and continued on around the square, our playing much inspired by the demon rum.

  At the end of the following training day, I received a curt message to report to the sergeant major. I headed to his office, hoping for some praise about our carolling the previous night. As I approached the man I feared most on this globe and saw the thundercloud on his brow, I sensed impending doom. While I stood rigidly at attention, Sergeant Major MacRae, not in a gentle voice, asked if I recalled his final order the day before. Before I could answer, he emphatically reminded me of his explicit instruction not to enter any Depot residence while on our carol patrol. My explanation that we were under orders from a commissioned officer only brought more abuse down on my poor trembling shoulders. Rather than receiving kudos for a job well done, I was told in a most colourful manner that any future I might have had in the force was in severe jeopardy. The conversation was abruptly concluded, and I was summarily dismissed. I relayed the sergeant major’s compliments to my cohorts, and together we considered our futures with some trepidation.

  Ten short years later, I had the good fortune to be transferred to Depot as an academic instructor. In spite of the carolling incident, I had always had the greatest awe and respect for Sergeant Major MacRae. One of the highlights of my return to Depot was meeting him again, as he was now Inspector MacRae and the division training officer. As new instructors, we were invited to the administration building to have morning coffee and meet this legendary denizen of Depot, this time as subordinates, not recruits.

  As a large number of us gathered, we heard the sound of his boots clicking down the hall. He appeared, resplendent in dress blue tunic, breeches and boots. A large stogie extended from his luxurious handlebar mustache. He looked as fearsome as Attila the Hun. We all stood at attention as he entered the room. He glanced over the crowd, and his eyes came to rest on me. I felt flattered that he would single me out among my peers. Then, in his booming baritone and with a twinkle in his eye, he said, “I thought I told you to stay the Hell out of the officers’ houses!” He then wheeled smartly and left. My amazed co-workers demanded to know how I could have offended the training officer so quickly. I told them it was too long a story.

  Bill MacRae still chuckles when I remind him of the incident. One of my lifelong heroes, this revered and charismatic man is now in his 80s. We remain friends to this day, though even these many years later it is discomfiting to address him as “Bill,” for he will ever be “Sir.” His complexity and contrasts as a man, and his many and varied legacies to the RCMP Academy are lasting treasures.

  During my initial year at the training division, I taught typing, report writing and practical training, which exposed recruits to simulated police situations. My second year was dedicated to teaching criminal law. Finally, I was assigned to the federal statute unit, an area I was quite unfamiliar with. I was fortunate to be working with Corporal Langenberger, an innovator whose influence would endure for the rest of my career. In addition to federal statutes, he proposed a block of training dedicated to human relations. One would expect this type of training to be offered in a police-training curriculum, since law enforcement is almost entirely concerned with human behaviour.However, the traditionalists of the training academy took exception to anything smacking of psychology. They resisted vocally whenever an opportunity presented itself—on the worksite, in the coffee room or in the Corporal’s Mess. Fortunately, Corporal Langenberger had the ear and support of both the chief academic instructor and Inspector MacRae, the training officer.

  Corporal Langenberger proposed an introductory salvo of 18 hours of basic psychological theory enhanced by role playing that addressed domestic crisis intervention, one of law enforcement’s most deadly types of interactions. He invited actors from the local professional actors’ guild to play quarrelling couples whose arguments escalated to a potentially violent level. The recruits watched the actors and witnessed the escalating circumstances as spectators. At the moment when the police might be called to intercede, random pairs of recruits were chosen to enact an intervention, applying the skills they had learned in the classroom. Initially, the methodology was trial and error, and both the actors and the fledgling policemen made mistakes, but as the scenarios evolved the settings became more realistic. Recruits gained valuable knowledge and made their errors during training rather than in real life. The experience had a great impact on the students; in critiquing their Depot experience, they marked domestic crisis intervention training as the most relevant and significant information they had learned. When recruits who had been trained in this area went out to work in the field, their supervisors expressed amazement at their coolness and presence of mind when they encountered their first family quarrel.

  SHOW US YOUR DELTOID

  In the early ’70s, the physical training staff at Depot were headed up by an enlightened senior NCO with a master’s degree. He decided to augment the recruit’s physical training experience with some basic knowledge of physiology. Accordingly, the recruits were given lectures in anatomy. Following their classroom sessions, recruits assembled in the gym at the commencement of their PT class. Instructors would call out a troop member’s name and demand that he identify a bone or muscle on their person.

  During this particular era, a young man named Bayman arrived from Newfoundland to begin his basic recruit training. From the outset, it was obvious that he was going to have some difficulty adjusting to the mystique and dogma of the RCMP Academy. One of the first indications of a problem arose when he encountered one of the drill instructors. As the young Bayman walked by the drill corporal, he acknowledged him with the folksy greeting, “How she goin’, my son?” The corporal, after recovering from apoplexy, shook his drill baton and explained in no uncertain and very colourful terms how an NCO is to be addressed in a military setting, specifically by rabble such as a recruit. The islander took the discussion in stride. When he felt
that the conversation was coming to a close, he departed with a “God luv ya.” The corporal vowed that he would witness the youngster’s demise if it were the last thing he did.

  Word of the problem recruit quickly spread, as did his infamy. He continued to be unflappable and, to the chagrin of the instructors, unstoppable. In spite of being a very open target almost everywhere he went, our candidate from the east coast remained irrepressible and progressed quickly through the training experience. The instructors compared him to crabgrass. They just could not be rid of him.

  Now I fast forward to the troop in the gym. Yes, it was his troop, during the first class after lunch in mid-July, and the gym was full of summer tourists. During the oral quiz in the gym, several anatomical areas had been correctly identified. Suddenly, the Maritimer’s name rang out, and the instructor demanded, “Show us your deltoid.” The recruit responded slowly and with apparent confusion. “I can’t, Corporal,” was the reply. Again the instructor roared out his name, “Show us your deltoid, you rabble!” In an instant, the recruit’s shorts were down. His jock strap remained in place, but the gesture clearly indicated where he thought his deltoid was located. There was an instant furor in the gym as onlookers roared with laughter. Even the instructors supervising the troop lost their composure and could not contain their laughter.

  Not long after this incident, the physiology classes seemed to fizzle. The Newfoundlander became the toast of Depot. He was known forever after as Deltoid. Interestingly, the recruit from round the bay graduated successfully and went on to serve in the Maritimes, where he became a highly respected detachment commander.

  Langenberger invited professors from the University of Regina to lecture blocks on psychology, sociology and perception. The recruits were exposed to opinions sometimes diametrically opposed to their own. Since they would contend with these divergent philosophies in everyday life as peace officers, it was essential that they gained this broader understanding. As time progressed, additional hours were found for sessions on policing minorities. Doctors Bruce Sealey and Neil MacDonald, amazing professors from the University of Manitoba, helped to revolutionize cross-cultural training and aboriginal policing across Canada. Dr. Ted Van Dyke, a cultural anthropologist, gained renown and credibility as a result of his work at Depot. He went on to become a foremost authority in his field.

  Many questions that had plagued me as a result of my experiences with Native people were answered by these insightful people. I had always been mystified by the unwillingness of aboriginal people to want to change the behaviour of others. When problems were identified, whether it was a child’s truancy or substance abuse by a relative or neighbour, no one in the community would tackle the problem head on. The professors taught me about the ethic of non-interference. In many aboriginal cultures, the concept of telling someone else to modify an attitude or behaviour is foreign. They believe that an individual makes choices and is the sole master of his or her destiny, almost from birth. This helped to explain the reaction of aboriginal parents when confronted with a child who refused to attend school. They would respond by telling authorities their child had been reminded to attend school, but the child had decided otherwise. This was deemed sufficient by parents, and they would go no further to discipline their dependant with respect to the decision not to abide by the rules. Parents in a white society would tend to force their will upon the child, but the ethic of non-interference precluded a Native parent from taking more stern action. It was imperative to recognize and understand such cultural differences.

  As these professionals gained exposure at the basic training level, requests came from field personnel seeking more information. Dr. Van Dyke was contracted to conduct cross-cultural seminars to experienced policemen in Alberta. The sessions were held at a military base near Edmonton. As everyone assembled for the first day of the course, one policeman approached the professor, asking permission to speak to the group before the session commenced. He informed his classmates there would be a liquor run for those wishing to enjoy a libation at day’s end. With that, the spokesman began to take orders, listing enough liquor to sink a battleship. With that task completed, the candidates took their seats, the lecturer was introduced and the session commenced. The course objectives were explained, and Dr. Van Dyke invited any and all questions. A seasoned veteran opened with, “Doctor, why do Indians drink so much?” The query seemed genuine, and the irony was apparently lost to all. It afforded Ted a natural opening to enlighten his students about the socialization of alcohol consumption. He explained that our prevailing North American culture is derived from societies that had been exposed to spiritus fermenti for thousands of years, and even so there are countless examples of addiction and abuse. The mainstream societal approach to consumption is very different from that of aboriginal peoples; when most non-Natives consume liquor, there is an attempt to disguise its effect. Everyone is familiar with the term “holding one’s liquor.” The more we can consume without demonstrating any effect, the more successful we are deemed to be. Aboriginal people’s approach to the drug is perhaps more honest, and this may be partially attributable to their brief history with alcohol. When they feel intoxication, they succumb to it. There is no effort to conceal the effect, and uninhibited behaviour is witnessed. This, coupled with their higher visibility as minorities, makes them much more conspicuous. The discriminatory legislation that existed under the Indian Act, which prevented them from possessing or consuming alcohol, no doubt exacerbated the effect. These clear, logical and concise analytical explanations changed my perspectives toward aboriginal people and alcohol, and I saw others who were similarly affected that day.

  Across the USA during this period, the FBI was experiencing violent confrontations with Native peoples, particularly on their reserve lands. As federal officers, FBI members were responsible for policing Indian territory. Dr. Van Dyke was invited to speak to them in an effort to alleviate serious widening rifts. His work in the USA, though initially greeted with cynicism, greatly improved Native–police relations and reduced conflict.

  My understanding of the issues facing First Nations people, particularly Native youth, was also shaped by the novels of Canadian author W.P. Kinsella, which I discovered while at the training division. Kinsella’s novels are tragicomedies about young people struggling to make sense of their lives as contemporary Natives. Although he is not Native himself, Kinsella bases his stories on his contact with First Nations youth who lived on the Hobbema reserve and frequented Wetaskiwin, Alberta. While it may sound frivolous, I learned more from Kinsella’s fictional characters than from all the academics. The novels are told from the point of view of young Natives on the outside of white society and eloquently describe the sometimes poignant and sometimes hilarious dilemmas they confront. I learned much through the characters’ attitudes and behaviour toward white society and gained empathy for the difficulties facing youth living on reserves and consequently on the edge of Canadian society.

  Corporal Langenberger, who had taken university courses, suggested that I might consider doing so as well. His encouragement set me on the path to earning a bachelor of arts degree with majors in psychology and law. It was discouraging to watch Langenberger’s peers resist his efforts to professionalize policing. They would berate him at work and even insult him at social functions when his wife was present. Opposing instructors voiced their opinions in class, discrediting the human-relations curriculum. But Langenberger was indomitable. He simply kept his shoulder to the wheel, making progress despite the hoots of derision from his peers.

  Inspector MacRae, respected and feared, learned of the conflict and met with the entire staff. He clearly outlined his position regarding human-relations training, stating that he was the one who had arranged for most of the university professors to lecture the recruits. He concluded by warning the entire instructional body that the next individual who offered unwarranted criticism of this program would be on his way out of the training division. The road became s
omewhat smoother following this meeting, but there was still an undercurrent of resentment. Years later, both Corporal Langenberger and then Superintendent MacRae would receive commissioner’s commendations for their efforts, a reward for their far-sightedness and perseverance. Many of Langenberger’s innovations still form the basis of human-relations and simulation training in the RCMP and police forces worldwide.

  Many serving and former members shared an antipathy toward academia, and this was even evident within the Parsons family. One might expect that a father and son who worked in law enforcement for the same organization would have much in common. Such was not the case, particularly when I became involved in contemporary police training. My father’s tenure in the RCMP spanned an era when the Force discouraged any outside interference and disparaged academics as theorists with their heads in the clouds. Native policing had always been paternalistic, and Aboriginals were treated like children. Inviting university professors to Depot Division to speak to recruits was akin to heresy, while efforts to understand First Nations culture were deemed a waste of time. Over the years, I learned to avoid topics such as this in my father’s house, since our discussions would inevitably escalate into shouting matches. Even though my father was a compassionate policeman who always tried to do the right thing, like many of his peers he resisted change and felt threatened by the incursion of lay people into the sanctity of RCMP training.

  CHAPTER 9

  CULTURAL IMMERSION AND SWEETGRASS

  AS THE SUMMER of 1973 arrived, it was time for me to rotate back to the field. I hoped to return to Alberta, a province I knew and loved, preferably to command my own detachment. I naïvely believed that I might have some influence over my transfer. I travelled to Division Headquarters in Edmonton with that purpose in mind and contacted division staffing branch members, who told me I had been pencilled in as the commander of a small detachment in a farming community. Returning to Regina, I anxiously awaited notice of my transfer. Some weeks later, my connections in Alberta conveyed their regrets, informing me that the commanding officer had amended my posting. He felt that NCOs returning from the training division should not be given their own detachment at the expense of those who had remained in Alberta coping with day-to-day police work. I was to be the new operations NCO at Blackfoot Crossing, Alberta, the second-largest Native reserve in the province and a location fraught with social and law-enforcement problems. Most RCMP members dreaded the possibility of working in this community.