Fall from Grace

by Wayne Arthurson

  “Is that why you came over to talk?” I asked him.

  “Actually, I had another thing in mind,” he said, perching at the edge of the desk behind him. There was another reporter working there—another crime reporter named Edgar Franke, decent writer but more interested in joining the sports section—and for a second, he looked like he was going to say something about Larry sitting on his desk. But he changed his mind and went back to writing his story.

  “I seem to recall that sometime during our past conversations, you told me one of your parents was Cree. Your dad, right?” Larry continued.

  “Actually, it’s my mom.”

  “And what does that make you?”

  “I don’t know, her son, I guess?”

  “Don’t be obtuse. I’m asking if that makes you an Indian.”

  “They’re no longer Indians, but natives, First Nations, Aboriginal.” I guess I should have said we but getting used to the fact that I’m an Indian was a constant process. Sure, growing up, I knew where my parents came from and it was kind of cool letting friends know that I was half Cree or one quarter Cree or one sixteenth Cree, depending on what story about her bloodline Mom was talking about.

  Back then, it was neat to pretend I could smell things in the air other people couldn’t or hear the sound of something approaching from a distance, or track the trail of another kid when playing hide-and-seek. It was all bullshit, no doubt about that, but it was no different than Mike Hamilton saying he was a better basketball player because he was black or Randy Brignell saying he knew kung fu because his mom was Korean. Those kinds of differences were okay growing up on the army base. They were fun differences, differences that made playing war or hide-and-seek or James Bond or whatever more fun.

  They were safe differences while behind them we were pretty much all the same, just a bunch of army brats trying to make friends as fast as possible and have as much fun as you could until you or someone else was posted to another base, best friends lost forever in the administration of the Department of National Defense.

  Of course, Mike Hamilton may have been black, but his family didn’t celebrate Black History Month or Martin Luther King’s birthday. And Randy Brignell’s mother may have been Korean, but the only time they ate Korean food was never, because there wasn’t a Korean restaurant near the PMQs. And though my mom was Indian, or native, First Nations, or Aboriginal, nobody spoke a word of Cree in the house. Nobody spoke a lick of French, either, but that was Dad’s side of the family.

  “Yeah, right. Whatever the word is these days,” Larry said offhandedly.

  “Aren’t you the sensitive type? Maybe I should file a grievance if you’re going to talk that way,” I said sarcastically.

  He was about to respond to that but I cut him off. “But if you’re asking if I got a treaty card, the answer would be, No, I don’t, although my mom does now. Don’t ask why, ’cause she never really expressed any interest in getting one until after Dad died. But if you’re also asking if people would think of me as native, then I have no idea. It’s a huge gray area, especially considering that I look like my dad. Most people look at me and the words Aboriginal or First Nations, or even Indian, aren’t the first things that pop into their head. Why you asking anyway?”

  He rubbed the hair on the top of his head. “Well, the city is launching its new Aboriginal Outreach Program. They’re trying to improve relations with the Aboriginal communities in the city and they’re asking for a number of key businesses, the paper included, to appoint someone to be an ambassador of sorts to this program. And the publisher asked if I could find someone in the editorial department who could not only take up that role but also become an ad hoc Aboriginal issues reporter. Someone whose job it is to report and cover, only on a casual basis, mind you, Aboriginal events and stories. And I thought of you because I remembered that you told me one of your parents was native.”

  “Isn’t there anybody else? I mean, you got me on this ‘giving a face to the dead body’ story and now you want me to take on another role? Jeez, Larry, make up your mind, willya?”

  “It’s only a casual thing. I still want you on this other story. In fact, this will be your first story as the Aboriginal issues reporter, bringing to life the story of this poor girl. Nice work on the sidebar, by the way. You did a hell of a job capturing the scene.”

  “Yeah, thanks, Larry. But about this Aboriginal relations ambassador?”

  “Aboriginal issues reporter.”

  “Yeah, that. Isn’t there anybody else more suitable for this? Surely there must be someone else on staff with more … more native connections than me. How about Les Ghostkeeper? He’d be perfect. He’s got the Aboriginal name and, more importantly, he’s got the look, the braids and all that.”

  “Les is a shooter. If we need shots of a powwow or something else, we’ll send him. But we need someone who can write on this. And based on my research, you’re it.”

  “There’s nobody else in editorial that is a bit more native than me? Or at least looks more native than me?”

  Larry shook his head. “Nope. You’re our only native son.” He chuckled.

  “That’s not funny, Larry. And neither is the fact that I’m the most Aboriginal person on the editorial staff. I think the paper should rethink its hiring policy as it relates to minorities.”

  “Well, if more natives become journalists then we’ll think about it. But as of today, you’re it and you better get your coat.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “As I said, the city is launching its Aboriginal Outreach Program today,” he said, looking at his watch. “And it starts in about an hour. At the Native Friendship Centre on 101st. We want you to be there, make a short speech like the rest of the ambassadors about the importance of Aboriginal relations, and then write up a short piece. Lester will be there to get some shots.”

  “You want me to make a speech?”

  “Not a long one. And don’t worry, all the other ambassadors will be doing the same thing, so it’s no biggie. The important thing is that you’re there and that when it’s done you write a story.”

  There was only thing for me to do. “How many words?” I asked.

  9

  The Native Friendship Centre was a concrete block of a building just north of downtown in what many people still called the inner city. The area had many features of what the term implies: decrepit houses, strolling prostitutes, stumbling drunks, discarded crack vials and used syringes. But it also had wide streets with large trees stretching over the road, old houses, families, single-parent and otherwise, eking out a living, and their kids hanging from swings and monkey bars while johns in cars picked up hookers.

  Artistic types had also looked to the neighborhood as a place to buy (and then renovate) a cheap house without selling out or working a day job to pay for a huge mortgage. A good idea because, though the houses were old, they were also big and sturdy, with deep yards and paved alleys in the back.

  I parked the car in the lot, taking note of the mayor’s SUV parked in the handicapped spot by the front door. In my head, I wrote a few sentences of a story describing this infraction but pushed the idea aside. No doubt the mayor would be embarrassed by such a story, but was it an actual story? The mayor did this all the time, everyone knew about it, but it was one of those things the city decided to let go. Instead, I probably did what everyone else did when they saw his shiny SUV, I kicked up gravel as I walked by.

  The main hall was filled with various members of the city’s Aboriginal community, people in suits looking like Joe Businessman with Aboriginal faces, folks in leather fringed jackets, and others in various types of casual dress—T-shirts, leather jackets, jeans. It could have been any gathering at any community hall in the city, but for the few white faces, the mayor and his entourage near the stage, and me.

  Glances were sent my way as I entered and then, once I was filed away in the “another white man” category, I was put aside. I wasn’t ignored; a white man
couldn’t be ignored when he walked into a room full of natives, the same way a native person wasn’t ignored when he walked into any restaurant, club, or public space in the city. The difference was that when a white man walked into a room full of natives, he wasn’t automatically assumed to be drunk and looking for a handout.

  The mayor stood on the stage as he gave a speech. His Worship Robert Johnson was the kind of mayor you’d expect for our fine city at this point in time: white, nearing middle age, an ex-CFL place kicker who turned to selling cars after winning his fourth Grey Cup. Stocky without being fat, he was friendly, with a big wide smile that made him look like he was honestly happy to see you and wanted to help. He wasn’t known for his brightness; he had the tendency to think that the best idea in the world came from his most recent conversation. But then again, he wasn’t stupid; he was quick with a joke and had an almost savant ability to remember the faces of people he’d met only once.

  But there was always something about Mayor Johnson that bugged me. Maybe it was the fact that no matter how nice his suits looked or how many times people called him Your Worship, et cetera, he couldn’t seem to shake that car salesman look. Although I could hear the mayor speaking, I didn’t really listen to what he was saying. It was something about building bridges between the city and community, as if the Aboriginal community was separate from the rest of the city like some kind of mysterious island. I clicked on my recorder. I knew I should also have taken notes, but I figured one of the communications flunkies would have a transcript of his speech in case I missed something.

  There were a bunch of other suits lined up on stage, various government and business types who were all part of this new Aboriginal liaison initiative, and it seemed that everyone was supposed to say something. Larry had also said I was expected to say a few words on behalf of the paper, introduce myself, and pass my card around. So I moved to the front, waiting for my name to be called so I could shake hands with the mayor and the elders on stage and say something really intelligent to convince the crowd (and myself) that I could do this job without offending them.

  I reached the stairs to the left of the stage and felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked back and saw Lester Ghostkeeper, the shooter from the paper. Like all shooters, he was wearing a camera around his neck along with a brown vest covered with pockets. Despite this uniform, with his coloring and long black hair pulled into two braids, Lester fit in with the crowd.

  “Been here long?” I asked him.

  “Yeah, got a bunch of shots of the mayor and some elders shaking hands, a short smudge ceremony, stuff like that. Nothing earth-shattering but it should work. How about you? Any suggestions that might tie in with the story?”

  “At the moment the story is the farthest thing from my mind. I’m still thinking about what I’m going to say.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that. Didn’t peg you as native but then again there you go. Guess I should say congrats on your promotion.”

  “A promotion usually comes with more money and some benefits but I think this one is just going to create more work for me.”

  “That’s the way it usually works,” he said, looking past me at the stage. “Looks like you’re up. I’ll get a nice shot for your own files if you want.”

  Someone called my name and I stepped onto the stage, still unsure of what to say, but I figured I could make something up on the fly. I had done this before, mostly at the small-town newspapers where I used to work, and I knew that before I spoke, I was supposed to shake hands with everyone onstage. But my outstretched hand was ignored by the mayor. Instead of looking at me, he was looking at Lester. “Come on. Don’t be shy, Mr. Desroches,” he said, waving at Lester to come forward and mispronouncing my name, adding a third syllable instead of just having two. “Come introduce yourself to your people.”

  Lester looked extremely uncomfortable, and the mayor, although still smiling and waving, had a bit of an angry look in his eyes because Lester wasn’t responding to him. Since many in the crowd knew that Lester wasn’t Leo Desroches, they were silent, embarrassed and disappointed by the gaffe and unsure of what to do. That silence, and the fact that one or two of the elders onstage were shaking their heads and rolling their eyes, tipped off the mayor and his entourage that something had gone wrong. I pushed aside my annoyance at being ignored and stepped in front of the mayor and grabbed his hand. There was a confused look on his face and he seemed to want to say something, but I gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder, like he had just told a funny joke, and then stepped up to the mic. The crowd stared at me, unsure of how to respond.

  I didn’t think about what I was going to say, I just let the words flow naturally. “I know what you’re thinking, ’cause I’ve been thinking about it ever since I got this job: ‘Who the hell is this white man and what is he doing in a place like this?’” Someone from the mayor’s entourage gasped but there were a few giggles coming from the crowd and from the line of elders onstage. “And I’ll be honest, I have no idea how to answer that, except to say something that my Cree mother always used to tell me: ‘Just because you look like your dad, don’t forget that it takes two people to make a person and there’s plenty of my blood inside of you.’”

  Okay, Mom never said that, but these people didn’t need to know that. I continued. “And while I’m being honest, despite what Mom says, I still feel like a white man because that’s how I grew up. As a kid I knew little about my native culture, about our past, the good and the bad, and while that’s meant I’ve never been subjected to the racism, institutional and personal, that plagues natives in this country, it also meant I was saddled with a stigma of shame, that maybe I should hide the Aboriginal side of me because, for whatever reason, many people in this city and country felt it wasn’t a good thing.

  “Still, I’ve also had the feeling that I missed out by not being able to celebrate that side of myself, so hopefully my position as the Aboriginal issues reporter will help me touch that side of my being. I’d like, at the very least, to help the native community in this city and maybe in some way become a member of that community. Thanks for your time, and if you need to contact me for whatever reason, I’ll be leaving a bunch of cards at the back and by the front door and those numbers are my direct line and cell phone.

  “Thanks again for this opportunity and I, uh…” A lump in my throat and heaviness in the pit of my stomach stopped me. I stood there, looking at the crowd of unfamiliar yet familiar faces, some of them smiling, some of them nodding, some just staring, my eyes misting. I couldn’t think of anything more to say; my mind was filled with a deep sense of sorrow, the same feeling that would always hit me after the first moment in a casino after months or years of being good.

  I stepped back from the mic, and instead of turning toward the mayor and the rest of the people onstage, I went in the opposite direction, quickly walking down the stairs and moving through the crowd. I needed to clear my head and I wasn’t going to be able to do that here. I had to leave the room. The crowd allowed me to pass, and there wasn’t any uneasiness about it.

  Somewhere in my addled brain I think I heard some applause, but my emotions were lost to me. I hoped to make it to my car, but as soon as I got out the front door and felt the blast of cool air on my face, tears were streaming down my cheeks. I quickly turned the corner so as not to be seen and fell back against the wall, and dropped my butt to the ground, breathing deep in order to stay centered. But I couldn’t; I hit something that I always knew was there but also thought was under my control. Guess I was wrong, which had happened before.

  10

  “Smoke?”

  I looked up, and one of the elders from the stage was staring down at me, a lone cigarette extending from a pack held in his outstretched hand. His face was blank, but it still made me feel calm.

  I lifted my hand to wave it away and opened my mouth to say, No, thanks, but I froze. Even though I didn’t smoke and would normally refuse any offer of a cigarette from anyone, I realiz
ed that in many native cultures, the Cree included, an offer of tobacco, no matter how minor, could be an offering of peace and friendship, a sacred thing. To refuse, even if you don’t smoke, created an insult on par with spitting in a priest’s face when he offers the host or slugging a Buddhist monk ’cause he smiles at you.

  So I sat there, wondering if I should take the smoke as a gesture and just pocket it. But would that further insult him? Was the offer of the tobacco just the first step in a ritual I couldn’t comprehend? Was I expected to light up and share in the smoke as a bond of friendship? I shut my eyes, knowing that this was just another reminder that I shouldn’t have agreed to Larry’s proposal. What the hell did I know about being Indian if I couldn’t even figure out how to accept or refuse the simple offer of a cigarette?

  The old man seemed to understand what I was thinking because his blank expression morphed into a smile so slowly that I barely saw it happening. “You know,” he said with a soft Cree accent, the slur of the English barely noticeable, “I think it was Freud who said ‘sometimes a cigar is a just a cigar.’ So if you need or want a smoke, take the cigarette; if not, don’t. We’re just hanging out, not negotiating a new treaty.”

  I finally let out the “No, thanks” I had been holding in, shaking my head at my own stupidity. The elder nodded and then slid the smoke back into the pack and tucked that into his storm rider pocket.

  I pulled myself to my feet, shaking the cold out of my legs, and for about a minute we leaned against the west wall of the Friendship Centre watching the scattering of cars roll back and forth along Ninety-seventh Avenue. I wondered how to break the silence, how to engage the elder in conversation, but since I was still feeling the lingering effects of my emotional outburst, I was a little embarrassed. I should have said something besides, “Think it will snow soon?” Something deeper, more significant, something less banal, but that’s all I could come up with without sounding like a moron.