My life would not have evolved the way it did without the world of books. Without this book knowledge, I could not have become the man I am today. But you also need to step outside the stacks and make contact with those who inhabit the world.
We all have stories within us. Sometimes we hold them gingerly, sometimes desperately, sometimes as gently as an infant. It is only by sharing our stories, by being strong enough to take a risk—both in the telling and in the asking— that we make it possible to know, recognize and understand each other. No book will ever be a substitute for that.
The Kid
WHEN THE MORNING sun breaks over the mountain, the light seems to magnify everything. From where I stand on a rock at the edge of the lake, the trees on the flank of the far peak seem close enough to touch. The reeds fifty metres out are thick with birds, and the clarity of the air allows me to see every detail. Beside me, the dog is also transfixed by the wonder of the planet. Every day, rain or snow or shine, we’re out here in the early hours. The land, my people say, is a feeling— and that feeling is peace.
When I was younger I rarely felt peace. Since then, I’ve had the opportunity to heal, to reclaim the lost parts of myself, to reconnect to my tribal life. But on this brilliant morning, I’m thinking about a boy I met yesterday. He’s fourteen. A white kid, tall and skinny. The man he’ll become is evident in the stretch of him. He was languid and loose, like kids his age are, but there was a cautionary edge to him that spoke to me.
The boy sat on the edge of his chair, leaning forward some, keenly watching the adults in the room. His eyes flicked back and forth as Deb and I spoke with his dad. I could see the muscles twitch in his thigh, see him bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. I could feel his readiness to bolt if the signs of danger came. When the conversation turned to talk of safety and security, I could almost hear him relax.
There was nothing in this kid that would declare him as radical or different: no tattoos, no gang apparel, no posturing, no piercings. He was dressed like any other boy his age, though a tad more shabbily than some, perhaps. It took closer inspection to see that he was someone who’d learned the delicate art of becoming invisible, of shrinking into the background and waiting, patient as a wolf cub, to see whether violence or peace would reign.
The boy’s dad is a drunk. When Debra and I met him, he was coming from a recovery program he’d left early in order to pick up the pieces of his family life. It wasn’t the man’s first bash at recovery. He wore that evidence on his face. He and the boy were camped out in a low-end hotel until they could find suitable housing. They’d come to us to scope out a room in our rooming house. As the talk progressed, the man painted himself as a concerned father eager to provide for his kid. But I could see the street on him as he answered our questions.
It wasn’t so long ago that I wore the same look. It wasn’t so long ago that I roamed about looking for a peg to hang my life on, somewhere to get past the ache that booze leaves in your gut and your spirit. Street drunks and closet drinkers recognize one another when they meet. That’s how you survive out there. You find someone who’s the same kind of drinker you are, or preferably anyone who’s worse off. That’s also how you heal when you finally quit. You find someone who drank the same way you did and walk beside that person in sobriety.
The boy had seen everything. You could tell that. The fragments of his story we got in that brief time were about being plucked from his life and plunked down with strangers. About never feeling at home, wherever he landed. About not knowing from one day to the next when a sweeping change was going to come, when a blow or wounding words would hurtle towards him out of the darkness. About this stranger who was his father, and what it would be like to live with him functionally sober. The boy spoke quietly when he answered our questions. His voice was low and even, and the only feeling it betrayed was resignation. His eyes, when they lifted momentarily from the floor, were distant and devoid of hope. It made me want to cry.
We made plans for the two of them to take a room that would be available in a month’s time. Deb and I decided to offer the room because of the boy. Both of us felt ourselves reach out to him. Both of us felt his pain. He wanted his future to represent something more than it had up to that point.
When I was fourteen, my life was bombarded by pain and isolation. I was trapped and alone, and I had no one to tell about it. I felt all of this in that boy, and it called to me. It’s our brokenness that allows us to recognize and heal each other, not the fronts of stoic capability we display.
So the boy will come to stay. We made that happen, and we feel good about it. He’ll have a place now to set his feet down, a place to rest. He’ll have a home. It won’t be perfect, but it’s a beginning, a fresh start, and roots have taken hold in thinner soil. When the conversation was over and we stood to shake hands, the boy offered his. It was birdlike and small. When he looked at me, I could see the question in his eyes: will it be any different this time? It made me want to cry.
Sometimes it doesn’t take much to change a life. My people’s teachings speak of respect, the ability to honour all of Creation, and we honour it best through our allegiance to each other. We give what we can and stand beside people when they need it. That’s how it works. Peace.
Gathering
HERE IN THE mountains, the dawn hours seem to stretch forever. The sun breaks elegantly over the top of the peak behind us, so that light appears to slide over the world. You can almost feel the shadows ease. The essence of the land is palpable when you step out onto it. It fills you. When the dog and I venture out at this time of day, we are silenced by the majesty of it all. Our walks are punctuated only by the call of the birds, the nattering of squirrels and the sound of the breeze. Animal talk. My people say that in the beginning, the animals could speak with each other, and there’s still a sense of those ancient times, like a whispered conversation. The Indian in me is drawn to it. I stand on a rock above the water, close my eyes and pull the feeling into me with each breath. Indian. Ojibway. Human.
Deb and I gathered with friends recently. Our hosts were Ed and Arlene, former Edmontonians who moved here after Ed’s insurance career had run its course. If being retired means a devoted tending to house and home, then that’s what Ed and Arlene are. Ed and his brother Ron married two sisters. Arlene and Carol are fastidious and loyal, Catholic in their upbringing. Their lakefront homes are immaculate and charming. The two families live two houses apart, and there’s a well-worn path between their doors. They are linked by a blood that’s thicker than most, and there’s a tightness to their connection that you can feel. At this gathering, there were brothers, sons, daughters, cousins and grandkids.
The adults convened in the living room, looking out onto the lake. The kids disappeared to the basement rec room, where they watched videos and occasionally meandered up to peek at us and cadge cookies or juice. A fat, well-tended cat prowled the room. A newborn baby girl, Ed and Arlene’s granddaughter, Olivia, lay in her aunt’s arms, staring wide-eyed at everything. It was comforting to sit in the influence of their togetherness. We talked about everything from plumbing to well water, woodpiles to cougars spotted on the road, gas prices, vacations, home renovations and hockey. We’ve known these folks for less than two years, but we are comfortable enough with each other to tease and joke and banter. The talk had a life of its own, and we followed the energy wherever it took us.
Ed and Ron are from Ukrainian farmer stock, and Arlene had prepared a sumptuous spread of ethnic foods for the event. Thankfully, we Ojibways are omnivores, and I dug in heartily. Even if I avoided the head cheese, I lost myself in the plenty. Arlene and Carol hovered over everything, gently badgering us to eat more before they sat down to enjoy the meal.
After supper, the guitars came out, and three of us sat in the dining room and jammed to blues, country and acoustic rock. The others let the talk take them down numerous roads. The kids went outside for a game of tag, the cat found a lap, the newborn slept an
d the sun slipped behind the mountain to the west. The snowy platter of the lake turned purple in the gathering dark. Later, there was tea and cookies, along with the crackle of a fire in the woodstove.
When we left, finally, it was to hugs and handshakes, smiles and laughter. Deb and I walked to the car with full stomachs and light hearts, feeling the glow that comes from good times in the company of good friends. When we got back to our own home, I saw it as a living thing, containing its own stories, carrying the spirit of the lives it holds between its walls. Walking through the door to the welcome of the dog, I stood for a moment and just looked at everything.
Deb and I come from broken homes. Both of us were put up for adoption when we were small, and the families we landed in were ill suited to the people we were meant to be. No one took the time to get to know us. Instead, they set out to make us exactly like them. Our days were marked by rigid discipline, neglect and loneliness. The gatherings we experienced back then were mostly about exclusion and separateness. It’s taken us both a long time to get over that. We became loners because of those unwelcoming family circles, more comfortable without company than with it, happier in a small, well-chosen circle of associates than in a gregarious crowd. We lived in the corners of rooms, at the fringes of things. But here at the lake we’ve learned what it feels like to be included.
It’s the land that connects us. I’m convinced of that. Everyone around us is here because the land has a song we want to listen to through every season, in all kinds of weather. We’re a motley Canadian crew: Ukrainian, Ojibway, Scots, French, Cree and Scandinavian. We live in community, allowing each other our privacy but gathering, at times like this, for the ceremony of togetherness. We enter our homes filled with it, are framed by it, with its power to erase tattered histories and soothe ragged souls. We are framed by it, buoyed by it, this deeply spiritual sense that is far more than the effect of geography.
This is our home and native land, and we belong here—all of us. There’s a miracle that’s put into motion by the opening of a door and a hearty welcome, whatever language that welcome is spoken in.
The Power of Stories
IN THE EARLY fall of 2009, Deb and I travelled to Prince George, B.C., for the Aboriginal Storytellers and Writers Festival. It’s a gathering of people who consider creating and sharing stories central to their lives. There are quite a few such gatherings for First Nations writers now, and every year more are added to my itinerary. That’s good to see. It means there’s a strong forward motion in the development of Aboriginal literature, and I’m proud to be a small part of that.
I’ve learned a lot about storytelling in the last thirty years. I’ve been privileged to learn from some great old-time storytellers and to share time with accomplished Native writers who come from that tradition. Since I was twenty-eight, my life has been guided by the example of those writers and the vision of those traditional storytellers. Whenever I stand at a podium I feel honoured to be included in such august company.
At the Prince George festival, I shared the stage with the novelist Eden Robinson and poets Garry Gottfriedson and Duncan Mercredi. We were Ojibway, Secwepemc, Haida and Metis. There was a good-sized crowd on hand to hear us read, and the response was enthusiastic. It wasn’t all that long ago that there were no published Native writers, so it was encouraging to see so many people there.
The work we presented that day ranged widely. While I listened to my peers, it struck me again how vital storytelling is to everyone. Everybody is keen on a good story well told. It’s one of the things we have in common as humans. No matter how many things change in the world around us, our fascination with stories will remain. We’ve been sharing them forever.
A few weeks after the festival, yet another truth about stories revealed itself to me.
Vaughan Begg and Blanca Schorcht have been friends of ours for more than six years now. They stood up for us at our wedding, and the four of us love and respect each other. They live in Quesnel, a four-hour drive from where we are, and the distance affects our ability to get together regularly. But when we do, it’s as if there was never any time apart, and the talk is lively. We all share a love of music, books, skiing, the outdoors and the feel of home wrapped around us. Vaughan and Blanca are also the kind of friends who know intuitively how much you’re ready to share about certain things. They respect boundaries and are willing to wait without judgement until you’re ready to open up.
On the last day of a recent visit, we went for a long hike into the back country. We followed a steep, winding trail to a place where an ancient waterfall had gouged eerie channels through about a hundred metres of rock. There were wide pools and small rapids where the water coursed down. It was awesome. Then we hiked back out, grabbed some ingredients for supper and settled in with music and conversation once we got back to their house.
The meal was special, but once the dishes had been cleared, a fantastic argument got underway. It began with us griping about computers and their role in the workplace. All of us had experienced difficulty with IT personnel, and the grousing soon turned to that issue. As a former systems analyst, Deb had her view. Vaughan’s views as a network user were equally firm. The words flew around the kitchen table. Points were made; points were rebutted. It was a good, fiery battle, and in the end there was no clear winner.
Sometimes I back away when an argument gets heated, even when it involves people I trust. My fear of conflict is residue from when I was a kid and was allowed no voice and given no credit for my opinions or thoughts. Many times when I was young, I watched arguments boil over and become really nasty. That taught me to be careful. But watching my wife and my friend have it out that night, I saw how things could be different. Under the right circumstances, you can put on the gloves and slug it out verbally without anybody getting hurt. You can present your best thinking, your nurtured viewpoint and balance those against some one else’s ideas without provoking open warfare.
The respectful exchange that evening was possible because of stories. The four of us have taken the time to show each other who we are. We’ve shared the stories of our lives, and that’s why there’s no pressure to win when arguments break out. Instead, there’s respect for someone’s experience and outlook, the joy of getting to know that person even better through the exchange of ideas.
Our stories don’t have to be elaborate or highly dramatic to be powerful—they just have to be about us. When we share them with others, we let ourselves be known and understood. We build strong relationships in which respect is front and centre. Once this respect is established, all of our interactions are an opportunity for growth—even a good, rip-roaring argument.
Street Gangs
I WAS IN a street gang once, in a time so far removed it feels like another life. It was 1973, and I was seventeen. Our world was rock ’n’ roll, tight jeans and T-shirts, Earth shoes, lava lamps and soft drugs. Flower Power reigned, and there was a charm to being a member of the counterculture. Peace signs proliferated. If you were a “head” in those days you were a hippie, a raging addict bent on robbery.
There were ten of us in our gang, and we calledour-selves the Freaks. The Freaks weren’t feared by anyone. Nor did the police pay us any more attention than a casual wave of the hand to clear us off the steps of the old courthouse in St. Catharines where we congregated. The music we loved brought us together. The Beatles had just disbanded. Jimi, Janis and Jim were dead. Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon was required listening, as were Neil Young’s Time Fades Away and the Rolling Stones’ Goats Head Soup. These purple summer evenings seemed to last forever.
The Freaks were a bunch of teenagers who had fled our homes because of family breakdown, domestic violence or abuse. There was nowhere to go but the streets of our city. We were a gang only in the very loosest terms. We were school dropouts, poor and mostly unemployed, a motley collection of lost souls who clung to each other for community.
Ticket prices were still reasonable for rock concerts
then. We would pool our money and go to shows at Buffalo’s Rich Stadium, Hamilton’s Ivor Wynne Stadium, Maple Leaf Gardens in Toronto and the Forum in Montreal. We saw Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, the Stones, the Who, Neil Young, the Allman Brothers and a host of other music giants. We made the trip to and from these events in a variety of dilapidated vans and station wagons. Sleeping bodies lay every which way inside these cars. We’d missed Woodstock, but we were determined to be anywhere music raised its long-haired head.
Back at the pavilion at St. Catharines’ Montebello Park, we drank cheap wine and listened to music on portable 8-track players. We never caused a ruckus, and the police were content to let us be. We played Frisbee. We shared our food and our cash and crashed on each others’ couches when we were lucky enough to have them.
The Night Stalkers, a local car club, were moneyed kids from the west side. They were the cheerleaders and quarterbacks, class presidents and valedictorians. They drove around in fancy, tricked-out cars with the name of their “gang” in glittery script on the bumpers. The Night Stalkers were shiny and beautiful. They gleamed in comparison to us. Whenever they drove past, they would blare their horns and yell taunts at us. They laughed openly at our rust-bucket cars when we could afford the gas to cruise around in them.
Because we were all teenagers, we’d inevitably end up at the some of the same places. The main one was the roller skating rink, the social-networking site of the day. The music was loud, the food was cheap. The rink was also the only place where the Freaks could outshine the Night Stalkers. We were more adventurous skaters, more daring, and we lived for rhythm and abandon to the beat. In our rented skates, we skated rings around our rivals.
One Story, One Song Page 7