In this fight, don't be a bystander

The following is the third installment of a series of articles on racism and Aboriginal people, and my experiences and thoughts on it.

One of my favorite TV shows ever, The Colbert Report, featured host Stephen Colbert as an ultra-right Conservative, ala Bill O’Reilly. A running gag on the show had him occasionally referencing his one “black friend” and showing a photo of them together. It’s a humorous play on the phrase, “I have black/Aboriginal friends,” which some people considered proof that they were not racist. The phrase is still used a lot. It shouldn’t be.

While it may sound like you’re saying you don’t care if someone is brown, it also sounds like you’re saying there are some “good ones” out there, that aren’t like “the others” and so they are, thus, worthy of your friendship. Just like the phrase “not all Indians are …” drunks or thieves, or whatever negative label follows, suggests that most of them are.

I used to use the expression myself, in an all-Aboriginal setting, saying “I have a lot of white friends who are good people.” Now, I just say something like, “there are assholes everywhere – including in this room,” which usually gets a laugh and a nod. I really believe that the majority of people who make racist slurs have just had bad experiences or, in the case of minorities, are venting about the inequities that white privilege has generated.

There is, of course, real hatred out there, from people who genuinely feel dark people are inferior or a threat and it is incumbent on everyone to speak against it. I bit my tongue in those two instances mentioned in the previous posts and it haunts me. I’d like to share with you a time, though, when I didn’t stay silent and, more importantly, neither did others.

It was in the Mount Royal College bar in Calgary in the mid-80s. I was out with a white friend from the journalism program and we joined a group of his friends, who were all white. We watched a hockey game on the TV and when it was over, we asked the bartender to look for some more sports. After flicking around for a bit, he found an NBA basketball game. Most of us nodded to indicate we were fine with basketball but one of the guys said, “Aw, shit, no. Who wants to watch nigger ball??”

I don’t know why I chose this moment to react, especially since I was surrounded by white people in a cowboy city, but my reaction was instantaneous and volcanic. I grabbed the guy by his collar, stood up, and exclaimed, “What the fuck did you say!?” We got into it, exchanging a couple of blows before we were broken up by the gang and the bartender, who said that we both had to go.

Then, a wonderful thing happened.

One of the women at the table nodded at me and said, “he shouldn’t have to go,” and explained that it was their friend who was “being an asshole.” The rest of the group concurred and told the bartender what their friend had said to set me off. The bartender glared at the guy and told him that, now, it was only him that had to leave. I stayed and enjoyed the rest of the night with my new friends.

That was in Calgary, over 30 years ago! And I have seen similar moments many times since, where good people stood up and did the right thing.

It’s not easy to stand up but none of this, if we’re going to achieve real change, is going to be. The atmosphere at work is going to change. Friendships will be challenged or lost. It’s going to be uncomfortable. In other words, welcome to our world.

Long-standing institutions are also going to be challenged, which we’re seeing now with the call for big changes in policing. And that is where I will venture in my next post: my experiences with the RCMP as an Aboriginal youth and what I think police reform could look like.

How far does the "apple" fall from the tree?

This blog series was supposed to be just two parts, but it has opened up a lot more thoughts and feelings for me and blossomed into four parts! The entry following this will wrap up my personal experiences and thoughts on racism and Aboriginal people and, in the final installment, I will share my experiences and thoughts on policing and the call for big changes on how it’s done.

I thank those of you who gave me so much positive feedback on the first installment!

In my first post on Aboriginals and racism and my experiences with it, I talked about the “others,” those large numbers of Aboriginal people who are still on the margins of society, and how I got over the wall and found success and acceptance in the white world. To many, I was an “apple;” red on the outside, white on the inside.

My being who I am is not something I’m either proud or ashamed of. I’m happy to be where I am at: financially comfortable, with a wonderful partner and family, and doing what I like to do. Unless you were an artist or fisherman, or working in the fish plant, the road I took was one most Aboriginal people had to travel to achieve success.

In my first post, I mentioned how I fit in so well with white people that, sometimes, they forgot that I was Aboriginal. Besides the moment noted in my first post, where a friend said, “let’s go beat up some Indians,” another stands out.

I was in my late teens and at a white friend’s house, and one of his family members was arguing with another guest about Aboriginal land rights, which was a big deal then as the Nisga’a were embroiled in their land claims. One of the adult family members, who opposed land claims, got very worked up and exclaimed, “those people don’t deserve to live!”

A pall fell over the room. Everyone else looked at me, stunned and stricken by what he had said. The man noticed their expressions and where they were looking, and slowly turned his head to look at me. He had forgotten what I was, I suppose; just another white person whom I had fooled, unintentionally, into thinking I wasn’t an Indian, even though I was as brown as they get. He said nothing. He just sat down on his chair. I stood, and said, “I guess I better go,” and left.

As I walked home that night, I was confused. First, I thought, why did he say that? What was it about us that made him think we didn’t deserve to live? My other question was to myself. Where did I belong?

My shift into the white world was part necessity, part desire. Necessity because I wanted to do well in school and many of my Aboriginal buds from my elementary school days were dropping out. And desire, because the white crowd was the cool crowd and the girls were so pretty and clean. Yes, I was prejudiced against my own and believed the white girls were prettier because I was bombarded with the perception that being attractive was being white.

Even my dad, who was a big chief (in photo), did not try to instill the traditions and language in me. As I went through school, won writing accolades and contests, he would tell me in private that I had to be the one to get out, that “you don’t want to be like the others.”

Often, I fantasized about being white, about being rich (which I assumed 99 per cent of white people were) and being accepted. Who wouldn’t want that, and also think that being the opposite of it was inferior? White people had better homes, better cars, better clothes, better toys.

Having grown up poor, frugality is embedded in me. I use things, clothes, furniture, dishes, until they are outgrown or falling apart. But I think it’s more than just being frugal; part of me doesn’t want to let go of who I was. So, I cling to the ratty jacket, the worn-out shoes, and the rummage sale ball hockey goalie gear (I used an umpire’s mask, baseball glove and foam pads for the longest time). It was just a few years ago that I broke down and finally got myself a sport jacket. All of my really good clothes were acquired in shopping excursions led by and paid for by my partner (and I love her for it). Dressing nice still feels weird.

People often say that I should be proud of myself but pride is not a feeling I am comfortable with. I consider myself lucky because I know that there were many times along the road where things could have gone south, and I could have just as easily ended up like many Aboriginal people. I am a fan of the expression “there but for the grace of God …” but, not being religious, I revise it to “there but for some luck and the help of others, go I.”

I know that I have made much of my own way, but I caught some breaks and, most importantly, some good people believed in me, some good people gave me a chance. I hope for and encourage those of you who have also been fortunate, to pay it forward and extend the same courtesy to the others.

Living in two worlds, and never forgetting the "others"

The following is the first of two articles on racism, this being on my personal experiences growing up with it.

With the horrific killing of George Floyd by a policeman in Minneapolis and protests in the U.S. and around the world, the issue of racism, particularly white on black and other minorities is dominating the headlines. I haven’t talked much about my experiences with racism, even in my columns during my days as a reporter. I figure that now is a good time as any.

Being an Aboriginal in Canada, racism is something that I think about almost every day. It may come to me as a memory of an experience I had, or I might see or hear of someone I know experiencing it. Sometimes, it will come to mind just because of the repercussions of past atrocities, the trickle-down effects of residential schools that have rooted themselves in me.

I dreaded lice checks in school because it was always us dirty Indians that had them and some teachers took pleasure in announcing who needed to pick up a prescription for lice treatment in front of the whole class. I remember being in line at school and overhearing one of the white girls whisper to a friend to stay clear of me because “Rudy always has lice.”

I was picked on as a kid, but it wasn’t as severe for me as it was for others because I had the implied protection of tough, older brothers. And, having been toughened up by those brothers, I handled myself well enough that most bullies in my age and weight class didn’t bother me. There were times, though, when I was harassed by pairs or groups of white guys a few years older than me. Not being one to just take shit, I often talked back to them and that, occasionally, resulted in a shot to the head.

A lot of how someone experiences racism has to do with the pecking order. Certain things allowed me to gain a foothold in the white world. To start, I did well in school. I recall my first year in junior high, when a teacher would announce who had the top test or assignment results, I was always in the mix. When I got the top mark, all the non-Aboriginal Brainiac’s that had come from different elementary schools, couldn’t hide their surprise. I felt like Taylor when he first spoke in Planet of the Apes.

Before too long, as I became more outgoing and gained more white friends, they started to think of me as one of them – but that didn’t mean they weren’t racist. For some of them, I was just one of the good ones. I recall one night when I was in a car with three white friends and we were wondering what to do. One of them said, “let’s go downtown and beat up some Indians.” There was an awkward moment, and then the guy said, “not talking about you, man. You’re not like the others.” I suppose that moment was my first as an “apple.”

As I continued on through high school, I gained more white friends and some of my Aboriginal friends faded away, largely due to them dropping out of school. The trend continued with my going to college for journalism, which was so rare that I was the first Aboriginal person to graduate from the Mount Royal program.

As I became more of a “professional,” I faced less racism. I am always wary of it, though, because I know it is never too far below the surface. Several years ago, I was at a conference down south. After having dinner at a local pub, I was walking along when I heard some guys in a truck going by, yell “get off the street, Indian!” A second later, a beer bottle whizzed by my face and shattered against the wall of the building beside me. They laughed as they sped away. I got off the street alright, and went straight back to my hotel.

I usually feel some unease whenever I travel on my own and I’m always a little nervous walking into an establishment where, as Eddie Murphy’s character said in the movie, 48 Hours, when he walked into a country bar, “there aren’t a lot of the brothers here.”

When I’m home, in Prince Rupert, I feel very safe. That’s partly because Rupert has a large Aboriginal population and, for the most part, there is respect for Aboriginal people and culture, and acknowledgement of the wrongs that have been committed against Aboriginal people and the reconciliation that is needed. Being well known locally and fairly well-liked also makes home feel safe.

Another reason that I am relatively safe from racism in Rupert is the same one given by that guy in that car those many years ago: you’re not like the others.

The others. I see them all the time. They’re on the streets. They’re struggling to survive. They’re being sneered at and looked down on. No one knows their stories or why they are there. Some people don’t care and would like to see them swept under a giant rug.

I may not be in the place “those people” are but I was there. And, sometimes, I am there, whenever I visit family members or friends who live in poverty or battle addictions, or who struggle to cope with the trauma and hardships that resulted from residential schools and systemic racism. To me, they are not the others; they are a part of me, and I’ll always have one foot in that world.

For those who have never seen that world, I mean really seen it, you should visit it some time. Go to where they are and pull up a chair. Listen. Stop being a stranger to them. That’s the only way that racism withers and dies in anyone; when they take a moment, to meet and, more importantly, understand and know the others.

NEXT: The police, then and now, and how can we change it?