by Ian Parsons
As disappointed as I was, the policy of the commanding officer seemed fair. While in the training division, I had been espousing more effective methods of aboriginal policing. The opportunity was at hand to apply the theory. To my chagrin, the larger-than-life detachment commander at my new location had a reputation as a “clean-up” man. A legend throughout the land, he was a prepossessing figure who delighted in physical combat. I was fearful that this would not be a match made in heaven, as our philosophies were bound to clash.
Blackfoot Crossing was a town of 400 serving a reserve of 4,000. It was a ramshackle, run-down settlement with bars on all the businesses’ windows. About the only thing that had never happened on Main Street was a gunfight—and that occurred while I was there. The RCMP building was one of the largest in town, with half of the structure comprising jail cells. As I entered for the first time, my perceived nemesis, Sergeant Lawrence “Larry” Sifton, towered over me and invited me into his office. He opened the conversation by describing serious problems on the reserve. Sergeant Sifton had also recently arrived, and he shared his intent to improve the health and welfare of residents rather than contribute to their miseries. As he outlined his ideas of personalized policing, I was reassured since they corresponded with everything I had hoped might be accomplished. We concluded our discussion, and Sergeant Sifton seemed very pleased, remarking that we had better get started.
Sergeant Sifton was the one of the most amazing people I would work with in the RCMP. He was extremely perceptive, very bright and completely knowledgeable about RCMP policy. There was never a bad day with this man. His one flaw, as I had so frequently encountered at previous detachments, was his fondness for alcohol. Even when drinking, he functioned at a high level, disguising any evidence of intoxication. His drinking was cyclic; as suddenly as he began, he would cease and not touch a drop for weeks. Although it never detracted from his duties, it was pervasive. Over time, it affected his marriage and other aspects of his life. He had the potential and the intellect to reach any level in a police organization, but the direction he chose no doubt imposed a ceiling on his upward mobility. He was a most unusual and charismatic human being, revered by the aboriginal people and loved by his men.
Armed with initiatives and objectives set by Sergeant Sifton, we began to develop our plan. In previous years, aggressive behaviour between reserve citizens and the detachment had been a problem, resulting in an unusually large number of charges laid of assaulting a peace officer, resisting arrest and obstruction of justice. The tribal police consisted of three members who worked closely with the detachment. We immediately established stronger ties with them through workshops on basic police procedures. Both the sergeant and I became members of the reserve recreation association. The sergeant founded a youth boxing club in which I assumed the role of fitness trainer. The club was an instant success with Native youth.
One of our young charges demonstrated great skill in the ring. Six feet tall and 18 years old, he was in prime condition. He was intimidating even when sparring, and few other youths were interested in engaging him in the “sweet science.” Sergeant Sifton opted to act as a punching bag for our young Muhammad Ali. As they sparred, Sifton encouraged the young man to strike, which he did with enthusiasm, soundly delivering jabs and crosses to his coach. As the sparring progressed, and just when the blows seemed to be too much for Sifton, the young man suddenly found himself lying on the floor in a daze. The counterpunch delivered by the coach was never seen by the victim or the spectators. Those of us witnessing the session came away with a new respect for our boss. He not only was a skilled boxer, but he also actually enjoyed being hit. Could there be a more lethal combination? Following the sparring session, the young man seemed to have developed empathy for his opponents. He became more restrained when training with his counterparts and showed more interest in developing his technique than annihilating his fellow boxing students.
I COULDA BEEN A CONTENDER
Sergeant Larry Sifton, the legendary Blackfoot Crossing detachment commander, was renowned for his size and physical prowess. He was also highly respected for his sense of fairness and energetic non-enforcement involvement with the youth and the community in general. The tribal recreation association, of which both the detachment commander and I were members, hosted an annual provincial aboriginal youth boxing tournament. In his capacity as boxing coach, the sergeant became highly involved in organizing the event.
The commanding officer of the province and the officer commanding the subdivision were slated to be in attendance at the finals of the tournament, which provided additional impetus to ensure the success of the event. It occurred to me to that the reigning Canadian heavyweight champion, George Chuvalo, might be a real celebrity attraction at the tournament. He was available and indicated he would be pleased to attend.
Clifford Many Guns, chief constable of the tribal police, was also legendary among his people. In his earlier years, he had been a renowned rodeo bronc rider and a professional boxer. When he learned that Chuvalo would be at the tournament, Clifford could hardly contain his excitement. After the champ finally arrived, I noticed the chief furtively measuring up Chuvalo on several occasions. You could almost see the wheels turning. He seemed to be saying to himself, “I think I could take this guy.”
During the final matches of the tournament, the recreation centre was filled with several hundred people, leaving standing room only. I was the ring announcer, and George Chuvalo, at ringside throughout the tournament, refereed some of the championship matches. Chief Many Guns was lurking on the periphery, obviously in awe of the Canadian heavyweight champion.
I seized the moment and announced that later in the evening we were in for a real treat. I told the audience that our own tribal police chief Clifford Many Guns had agreed to participate in a three-round exhibition match with the Canadian heavyweight champion. A great cheer emanated from the crowd. It was the first time I had ever witnessed a proud member of this tribal confederacy turn pure white. Clifford appeared to be having some kind of a seizure. I let the crowd hang for a moment, then announced that although the chief was willing to proceed, George Chuvalo had declined due to contractual issues. I then glanced over at Clifford and winked at him.
It was clear that Chief Many Guns was torn between his irritation with me for putting him on the spot and relief at not having to box the Canadian heavyweight champion. I guess he didn’t really want to find out if he could stay in the ring with Chuvalo after all. He remarked to me some days later that he had no idea how imposing George Chuvalo was until he stood beside him. In the weeks and months to come, I paid a substantial price for my folly, as Clifford was extremely resourceful when it came to devising and carrying out practical jokes.
For the hours he devoted to training youth on the reserve and the many and varied initiatives for which he was responsible, Sergeant Sifton was inducted into the Blackfoot Nation, given a Native name and made an honorary chief. The prestigious ceremony took place during a provincial Native youth boxing tournament in the presence of the commanding officer of the province and the officer commanding of the subdivision.
In my capacity as operations NCO, I attended all band council meetings, briefing tribal leaders and responding to their concerns. We also participated in social functions on the reserve. The tribe hosted large powwows that included Native groups from across western Canada. These were considered sacred events, devoid of alcohol and filled with traditional dancing. An age-old gambling activity known as hand games had great significance and popularity. In addition to luck, these games required concentration and skill. We would often enter a police team, and the people took great pleasure in watching us participate in hand games. Occasionally, much to their surprise and ours, we would win.
As had been the custom for decades in this community, the provincial judge and his entourage travelled from Calgary to dispense justice. On their way they would habitually stop at the detachment for coffee and a social visit; then the jud
ge and the police would arrive en masse at the modest courthouse. The judiciary and the police were either oblivious or unconcerned that this communicated an alliance or lack of impartiality, which in turn suggested the futility of challenging such power.
One of the relief magistrates was a retired commissioned officer of the RCMP. He was a pompous man who demanded that detachment members respond to him as though he were still an officer. When appearing in his court, police personnel had to wear their brown tunics, even at the peak of summer. In hot weather, the order of dress for detachment members was short-sleeved shirts with an open neck. In the interest of formality and at the expense of the comfort of RCMP members, the presiding judge demanded a tie and tunic in his court.
When I began to handle the weekly court docket, I suggested to Sergeant Sifton that we comply with our order of dress and dispense with the tunic. He agreed and encouraged me to appear in court in authorized summer dress. When I opened court, the judge appeared from his chambers, took one glance at my dress and ordered me to adjourn and see him in his chambers, where he informed me I was improperly dressed. I explained that Force policy dictated my current attire. He glared at me, stated that this was not the end of the matter and commanded me to reopen court. Because of his foul mood that morning, many were given jail time when they could not pay their fines instead of being granted more time to pay.
The good judge wasted no time in contacting Superintendent Peter Wright upon his return to Calgary. He was apparently shocked when my superior supported my decision to wear summer dress while attending court in 86°F weather. Later that summer, our new permanent magistrate appeared on the scene and took steps to ensure the perception of neutrality. He decreed he would not be stopping at the detachment prior to the opening of court. He took great care to remain impartial, and when an accused person appeared without counsel, he would often act as an advocate. It quickly became obvious to the population that there had been changes in the dispensing of justice. My mind wandered back to Valley Bluff and the days when Magistrate Orest Melnyk and I discussed sentencing prior to opening court. Much had changed in the administration of justice in a few short years.
ONE OF THE tribal police members was a victim in residential schools and carried deep psychological scars as a result. On more than one occasion, after a bout of drinking, he would utter threats against a local priest, a long-time resident of the community and former teacher. The priest had taught at the Indian mission school, which had closed after being tainted with scandal. To prevent a confrontation, we occasionally took the band constable into custody until he sobered up. He would make allegations of sexual abuse against the priest, then recant them, which made it difficult to investigate the matter with a view to laying charges.
The constable’s trauma reflected the agony of a whole generation of Native people who had been psychologically, physically and often sexually abused by the residential school system and many of its teachers. Native children were taken from their homes, denied access to their language and culture and placed in boarding schools run by religious orders. The disastrous policy was perpetrated by church and state in apparent good faith for the betterment of Native people, but in hindsight it is clear the schools almost destroyed a culture and most assuredly demoralized it. The system created a generation of citizens with low self-esteem and many severe behavioural and personality problems. Combined with abject poverty, the residential schools devastated Native people across Canada.
Attitudes within the Blackfoot community changed noticeably as a result of our efforts. RCMP members caught the mood being set by the NCOs and became known on the reserve by their first names. Native citizens began to see the detachment as a vital part of their community, perhaps for the first time in many years. The number of police–citizen confrontations resulting in criminal charges dropped dramatically, even though our detachment cellblock took in more prisoners than the Spy Hill provincial jail—2,400 in one year.
COMMUNITY RELATIONS
While stationed at Blackfoot Crossing as the operations NCO, I regularly met with the band council to discuss policing. Since we had established a good working relationship, one of the band leaders approached me in a confidential manner following a meeting, obviously wanting to discuss something. He intimated that, like many of us, every once in a while he had an urge to go on a bit of a toot. He did not wish to drive his vehicle after drinking and asked for some advice on what to do. I suggested the next time he decided to have a few drinks, he could bring his vehicle up to the detachment, leave the keys with me and I would take care of it. He was very appreciative, and I respected his forethought.
Some weeks later, we had a visit from our section NCO. He was in the detachment, examining our operation when a pickup truck driven in a rather erratic manner suddenly arrived in front of the building. A gentleman exited the vehicle and walked toward the detachment entrance. It was obvious he had been drinking. He asked for me, handed over the keys to the vehicle, tipped his hat at the staff sergeant and promptly left the detachment on foot.
The staff sergeant was aghast! He demanded an immediate explanation from me as to why the man had not been arrested for impaired driving. I described the arrangement I had with the citizen, observing that while his intentions were good, he had been a tad late in handing over his keys (and thinking to myself that his timing could not have been worse).
I assured my superior that I would be in touch with the band councillor to remind him of the importance of securing the vehicle before the party started. The section NCO, a pragmatic man, was not unfamiliar with the cultural setting. He understood that Natives did not necessarily interpret time in the same way we did. He looked at me askance, shook his head and mumbled something about how much less complicated police work was in “the good old days.”
We experienced the conflict and crime characteristic of poverty-stricken communities, which meant our workload was demanding. High numbers of arrests occurred when extra money flowed into the community on welfare Wednesdays and when family-allowance payments were received. The detachment guardroom grew crowded while clients were being processed, and there was potential for chaos when intoxicated persons waited in line, jostling one another.
On one busy night, a particularly obstreperous woman who often caused problems when under the influence was confronting others aggressively while waiting her turn in the detachment cellblock. Constable Don Pittendreigh, who was known and respected on the reserve, bellowed out her name. All fell silent, and tension filled the room. Don approached the woman stealthily, telling her that if she caused any more trouble he would give her the biggest French kiss she ever had. The troublemaker beamed a large toothless smile at the constable, and a roar of laughter erupted. It was that kind of rapport that often saved the day when tensions were high.
Our good relationship with the people on the reserve also helped us to work with a young victim to stop a sexual predator. By some quirk of genetics, the men of the Lampson clan were of massive dimensions. They all stood over six foot three and weighed in at 300 pounds. We learned that over generations the Lampsons had been responsible for innumerable sexual assaults on women. Any woman was a potential target—married or single, old or young. On several occasions, the Lampsons’ offences were disclosed to the RCMP and investigations were launched, but inevitably the victims, fearing reprisal from the Lampsons, recanted their story.
CLAUSTROPHOBIA
The setting is one of Canada’s largest First Nations reserves during the late ’60s. A member of the RCMP detachment, who later earned the nickname Earthquake because of his massive physical size, received a call about a domestic disturbance. It was the middle of a very warm summer day, and he decided he would respond solo. Upon his arrival at the scene, he found two women—a mother and her daughter—in an intoxicated condition and causing a disturbance. Although he did not have a matron, he decided to take them into custody to prevent further calls. He removed them from the residence and placed them in the rear of
the detachment paddy wagon.
On his way back to the detachment, he received and responded to another call. He dealt with it in a cursory manner and continued his return. As he travelled through an isolated section of the reserve, he thought he heard a clink of glass from the rear compartment where the ladies were being held. He stopped the vehicle and discovered that while he had been out of the truck, the two women had reached through the security screen and liberated some seized bottles of beer that had been secured in the front seat. Earthquake opened the rear door of the paddy wagon so he could restore order. To accomplish this, he had to squeeze into the secured portion of the vehicle. As he struggled with the two women, the rear door closed, locking him in with his charges and the beer.
Intoxicated by Lucky Lager and the presence of a virile constable, both women thought the situation ideal for a party and told the constable so. It took a good deal of poise, no doubt acquired in the training academy, for our stalwart guardian to regain and maintain control of the situation. As the police vehicle was in a remote area, several hours passed before it was found. It is unfortunate that a transcript of the discussion that took place inside the van was not recorded for posterity. Needless to say, Earthquake greeted his rescuers with a large measure of relief and gratitude.