Mass children's grave discovery cuts deep

Before I continue with my “On the write road” series, I felt that I needed to speak to the announcement Thursday on the discovery of the remains of 215 children at the site of a former residential school site in Kamloops.

It is estimated that, of the 150,000 indigenous kids who were forced into these schools, some 4,100 never returned to their families and died in them. This, along with the “60’s scoop,” in which indigenous kids were removed from their parents by social services (government believed it was better to remove a child rather than provide a community and its parents with resources and support), created long term trauma that continues to run through the generations.

I know, I know: beating the “Indian out of the Indian” was the only way to assimilate us into the superior white society. And it’s, well, just what conquerors do. It’s standard practice for the “winners” (as if there was an actual declared war). Get over it.

Get over it. I’m not a social worker but I’m pretty sure that there is no worse response to victims of loss and trauma.

This horrible discovery opens old wounds for many people. It makes them look at scars and remember. It even makes some feel lucky, because they got out, they made it home. That is not what good fortune should look like.

I had gotten kind of numbed by all this stuff but Thursday’s announcement got to me. I felt an unease beyond the fact of those lives taken and I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then, yesterday, it struck me: many of those kids would have been my peers. They would have been about the same age as me.

We trick ourselves about age. I am 59 but I don’t feel it. I remember men in their late 50s when I was a kid and they seemed really old! That’s because, normally, our mind doesn’t pay as big a toll as our bodies. I still believe that I can stretch a double into a triple or make a fully extended catch in football. It feels that way – just like residential schools feel like ancient history.

But not much time has passed. I know many people who went to the schools. I also know some of the people who watched helplessly as their kids were taken. And those people are a largely overlooked group even though their trauma was considerable too. We rarely talk about that, the communities that became, largely, childless.

Imagine people coming into your community and forcibly taking away most of the children. The phrase about it taking a village to raise a child doesn’t apply to any community more than it does to Indigenous communities. Grandparents and, particularly, aunts and uncles, play a huge role in raising children. Many virtually adopt kids if their kids or nieces/nephews were too young or overwhelmed by the task.

So, for every kid removed from a community there was a large ripple effect, extending well beyond immediate family. Imagine the immensity of that void, when most of the kids just … go away. Whole communities were depressed. Is it any wonder how alcohol, drugs and violence took hold in most of them, especially in those that never got to see their kids again?

Simple chance of circumstances spared me, although I saw and felt the consequences of the schools, of the racism, from my friends and family who weren’t so lucky. The effects trickled down and still do. Anger and shame feel like a part of our DNA.

So, no, we will not get over it – not now or any time in the near future. Because the past is still very much in the rear-view mirror. And some things are closer than they appear.

ON THE WRITE ROAD: When becoming a reporter got real

The following is the first in a series on my journey as a writer, from when I made the decision to go to college and became a reporter, and all the in-between, including becoming a community playwright and actor, going through a variety of jobs and, finally, writing my first novel.

This past Friday, I completed a task that I had set for myself upon writing my debut novel, ALL NATIVE, which was to gift a copy of the book to individuals who had played an important role in steering me onto the right path.

It was a beautiful sunny day as I drove to the home of retired teacher, Mike Crawford. He was the last person on my list. He lived on one of those streets in Rupert where you need to slow down and make evasive maneuvers, due to the many parts of it that were sunken in.

As I parked across from his house, he was mowing his lawn, perhaps following the chore-before-a-treat rule as I knew he had an afternoon of golf planned. As if on cue, he turned off his mower to take a break and seemed to be headed into the carport when I called out his name. He turned to me and smiled.

“Got my book?” he smiled as I approached. I held it up as I neared him and he added, “I hope you wrote something inside.”

Of course, I did write something. I thanked him for being one of the people who gave me a nudge or, in his case, a kick in the ass to get me doing something with my talent besides producing a smart-ass underground school newspaper (which was a lot of fun, though!)

It was 1981 and I had already flubbed my first attempt at graduating and was looking like I was going to sabotage myself again through gross truancy and unfinished assignments when I had a fateful run-in with Mike. I was making a rare appearance at school (and in the morning for once, to boot) when he happened to be walking by the front entrance. As soon as he saw me, he spun around and came right at me.

“You!” he snapped. “Let’s have a talk.” And, making it clear that I had no choice in the matter, he placed a hand on my shoulder and forcefully ushered me into his office (besides teaching Social Studies, he was also a guidance counselor), which was nearby.

He shut the door as I sat in the chair in front of his desk, having a good idea of where the chat was going to go. He plopped down in his chair, glared at me, and said, “what are you doing?!”

I hesitated then shrugged, “What do you mean?” – a question I didn’t ask because I wasn’t aware of my struggles in school but, instead, because he could have been referring to something else, any of a number of other stupid things I was involved in.

He sighed. “You’re not going to graduate, you know.”

Thud.

The words hit me like a punch in the gut. I straightened up. I knew I was in jeopardy but I was unjustifiably confident that I was going to get it done. His statement made me nervous. “What do you mean?”

He shook his head, then explained, “You’re behind on your work. You’re never here. You’re failing,” he said and, upon seeing that he had gotten my attention, proceeded to explain to me exactly what I needed to do to turn it around. And, then, he took it a step further.

“And what about after school? What do you want to do?”

And there it was. The question we’re all asked at some point. When I was a kid, it was the classics, fireman or astronaut. In my early teens, I thought about being a lawyer, based on the courtroom dramas I had seen and my ability to nail people with zingers during informal debates. I had different thoughts now but I rarely mentioned them because the person I was at that time didn’t seem to have a realistic shot of doing anything ambitious. It was a dream, and not one for a teenage ne’er do well, alcoholic. But Mike had opened the door and I thought I should at least peek through it.

“I thought it might be good to be a reporter,” I said. Mike raised his eyebrows. Then, I added, “I’ve noticed that a lot of novelists used to be reporters.”

This was a first for me. I had said my dream out loud to someone else besides my buddies. I wanted to be a writer and, specifically, a novelist – but there is no such degree or diploma. There is a diploma for a reporter, though, and that would arm me with all of the skills and experience that a novelist should have, besides an imagination and a way with words.

Mike struck while the iron was hot.

“Okay,” he said, with an emphatic nod. “Well, how about I look into journalism schools out there and you come back tomorrow, see if we can find one for you?”

Huh? Uh …

I was taken aback by how quickly he was moving and was tempted to say “tomorrow’s not good for me” so I could think about it more and, of course, put if off. But I was also excited and, so, I told him I would come back the next day after school. He smiled, “okay, then,” and led me to the door.

I walked out of the school that day feeling different, like I might have a future, one that I dreamed of, after all. Of course, I was still an idiot, an alcoholic, and would make many wrong turns along the way, but I would become a reporter and I would write that book.

The road to my dreams, though, had many bumps and turns, and went to dark places. That, though, my friends, is what makes a good story!

NEXT: Nudged again, from an unlikely person, from out of nowhere

The All Native pauses but its heart beats strong

In a normal year, today would be one of the most exciting days of the year in British Columbia – in Prince Rupert, in particular. Well over 1,000 people, from near and far, would be at the Civic Centre to watch the championship games at the annual All Native Basketball Tournament. There would be Ladies and Masters finals in the afternoon, and Intermediates and Seniors finals in the evening.

It was evident months ago that the All Native would be another event casualty of COVID-19, but the committee held off until just recently to officially announce its cancellation. It is the first time it will not take place since its inaugural year of 1960.

In a normal year, the past week would have seen several thousands of fans passing through the doors to watch games morning to night in the main gym, and in the arena on the portable basketball court. They would have also packed into the auditorium, where vendors sold food, First Nations art and jewelry, and ran draws every day (and, normally, where I purchased my Valentine’s gift!). It is a great meeting place where you could renew old acquaintances and make new ones.

Last year, I was posted at one of the tables, selling my novel, All Native. We had a good spot, right by the entrance. Initially, there was some confusion, with some thinking it was a history of the event or featured profiles of former players. Several people asked whether a relative of theirs, who played in the tourney, was mentioned in the book but most of the players in the novel are fictional although some are based on real players – the same goes for some events.

I wrote All Native because I thought it was crazy that there was very little written on it besides the program-style history done by Len Harrington in the 70s, and in news articles and the annual tourney program. I didn’t want to do a history, as it is not really my thing. Also, the resources tell conflicting stories, and many of the people who were there in the early years, have passed on.

And, so, I decided to instead do it as a narrative and weave the tourney’s history and lore into a story about two boys, a father, and their aspirations to play in the tournament. Many things happen in the story that have nothing to do with the tournament but it always comes back to it.

There is one scene based on personal experience and that is the one in which a young Nate watches the senior men’s final with his father, Frank. Much of that is derived from a game I watched with my dad, when we both cheered for the dynastic Rupert Chiefs team. Because of their success and that they were not a village team, most visiting fans (and locals loyal to their villages) booed the Chiefs lustily, and that bothered me. It seemed like a betrayal of our own.

There is a fictional Chiefs player whom is modelled after my favorite player and late uncle, Art Helin. Art was well-liked and had the good humored and gentlemanly characteristics attributed to the character. Bespectacled, thin and long-armed, he had great touch and was a leader, and is a member of the tourney’s Hall of Fame.

I miss Uncle Art, his stories and good humor. I miss my dad, despite his great flaws. The part in the book where Nate tries to help his lame father down the steps and is brushed off because he is too weak is also based on my memories of that night.

I also miss the lady with the 50/50 tickets, the one who wears the funny hats and will wander off while you fill in your tickets and still remember you 20 minutes later when she is retrieving them.

I even miss the door guy at the first entrance across from the men’s bathroom, who takes his job way too seriously and whose favorite line is “you can’t stand there!” When I was a reporter, I would hold up my camera at such admonitions; it was my ticket to be anywhere I wanted to be.

I miss the elders’ kitchen, with the seaweed and rice, fried halibut, and bologna sandwiches; their sweet smiles and stories about my mom and dad.

I miss the voice of Wild William Wesley, who brought us so many games on the radio and whose old school charm and phrases always reminded us that this was a First Nations event. I hope he is enjoying his well-deserved retirement.

I recall when I was, one time only, one of the voices of the All Native. A friend and former Rupert Trojan, Joey Nelson, and I called the tournament one year when The MIX56 AM radio decided to also broadcast the finals. Neither of us had done it before and we were exhausted by the fourth game. Once, when I noted a change in tactics by one of the teams and asked Joey for his thoughts on it, I got nothing. I looked at him, and his eyes were glazed over and his mouth was agape. I had to give him a shot in the arm to wake him up!

My highlight of that one and only sportscaster stint was when, during a halftime break and being desperate to kill time, I interviewed the toweling-off-the-floor boy. One of the questions was what was his preferred technique for wiping sweat off the floor, side to side, or clockwise?

COVID-19 has robbed us of another chapter in this great community event. No exciting games. No seaweed and rice. No long chats with old friends in the auditorium. No economic bump for Rupert’s hotels, shops and restaurants.

The ANT will return, though. We’ll get there. Just think of us as that player slowly making his way up the court, carefully taking his time, waiting until everyone is in place so we can set up that winning shot.

The novel, ALL NATIVE, is currently sold out but a second printing is impending and the book will be available on: www.muskegpress.com