I remember it as if it were yesterday. I was walking downtown Toronto on a lovely end of spring day with one of my good friends Stefane. We were both in high school at the time and we both thought that we were kings amongst men, that nothing could hurt us because we were too smart for anything to surprise us and get the better of us. We were, as all adolescent, trying to find ourselves through different means of self-expression. In our case, talking and laughing loudly in French for all to hear was our way of expressing our thoughts and opinions to one another.
All of a sudden, at one of the busiest intersection of our fair city, this Native American guy, this tall and stocky looking guy, approaches my friend and me. He was wearing nothing but ripped pants; his T-shirt was off and tied around his neck like a necktie as if he were about to take his own life, he had one shoe on and the other was in his hand. He looked like a homeless guy who has been living in the street for quite some time. He steps up to us and mumbles something barely audible to which my friend and I respond in a classic Canadian manner: “I’m sorry?” In that moment, our interlocutor becomes angry and aggressive. He pushes my friend to the ground and puts his nose against mine. The smell of the alcohol on his breath was so strong that I almost fainted. I could tell that he hasn’t bathed in a few days because of the distinctive urine smell on his pants. He asks me if I thought I was smart and proceeded in calling me names with a barrage of racial slurs. He head-butts me, I fall to the ground and before I can get up to retaliate, the police had already arrived to the scene and had cuffed him and brutally pushed him on to the hood of the police cruiser. After explaining to the police officer what had happened, I start asking him about my aggressor. The policeman said that they knew him by name in the station, that he regularly spends weekends in jail and weeknights in the drunk-tank.
After this ordeal, Stefane and I start to talk about what we just experience. We were angry that we were caught off guard and that we let this guy get close enough to us to hit us. We were telling ourselves that it wasn’t our fault, that he was on drugs or drunk, that it was expected from a Native Americans, that they were only good for drinking, that they were all the same etc. We were both quite ignorant at the time and we thought that those were the only possible explanations.
It is only now that I realize how wrong I was. I think back to all the things I said about Native Americans since my altercation that afternoon and I sincerely feel ashamed because I didn’t know all the facts.
When you are taken from your home and family and placed somewhere else, forbidden to speak your native language, forbidden to practice your religion or your beliefs, placed in schools and half way homes of some sorts that give you a curfew and don’t really care about your needs and to everybody around you you’re just a problem, a number, a statistic or even just a burden, I understand that one would want to escape their cold reality by turning to substances abuse. I understand that one doesn’t go to school to be educated by the same system that has caused them so much pain in past. I understand the anger that grows and grows inside of you, as if you had a demon in your belly just begging to be unleashed on everyone and anyone at any given moment. I understand but at the same time, I don’t. I have never been in a similar situation and I am so thankful that my sister and I didn’t live through that.
I feel privileged. I feel that I have an obligation to speak up for people who live in that situation. I feel responsible to educate anyone and everyone who has these pre-conceived stereotypical ideas about Native Americans. It is my duty to do it so that we can acknowledge that there is a problem in the “system” and that this “system” simply doesn’t work. It destroys lives.
All of a sudden, at one of the busiest intersection of our fair city, this Native American guy, this tall and stocky looking guy, approaches my friend and me. He was wearing nothing but ripped pants; his T-shirt was off and tied around his neck like a necktie as if he were about to take his own life, he had one shoe on and the other was in his hand. He looked like a homeless guy who has been living in the street for quite some time. He steps up to us and mumbles something barely audible to which my friend and I respond in a classic Canadian manner: “I’m sorry?” In that moment, our interlocutor becomes angry and aggressive. He pushes my friend to the ground and puts his nose against mine. The smell of the alcohol on his breath was so strong that I almost fainted. I could tell that he hasn’t bathed in a few days because of the distinctive urine smell on his pants. He asks me if I thought I was smart and proceeded in calling me names with a barrage of racial slurs. He head-butts me, I fall to the ground and before I can get up to retaliate, the police had already arrived to the scene and had cuffed him and brutally pushed him on to the hood of the police cruiser. After explaining to the police officer what had happened, I start asking him about my aggressor. The policeman said that they knew him by name in the station, that he regularly spends weekends in jail and weeknights in the drunk-tank.
After this ordeal, Stefane and I start to talk about what we just experience. We were angry that we were caught off guard and that we let this guy get close enough to us to hit us. We were telling ourselves that it wasn’t our fault, that he was on drugs or drunk, that it was expected from a Native Americans, that they were only good for drinking, that they were all the same etc. We were both quite ignorant at the time and we thought that those were the only possible explanations.
It is only now that I realize how wrong I was. I think back to all the things I said about Native Americans since my altercation that afternoon and I sincerely feel ashamed because I didn’t know all the facts.
When you are taken from your home and family and placed somewhere else, forbidden to speak your native language, forbidden to practice your religion or your beliefs, placed in schools and half way homes of some sorts that give you a curfew and don’t really care about your needs and to everybody around you you’re just a problem, a number, a statistic or even just a burden, I understand that one would want to escape their cold reality by turning to substances abuse. I understand that one doesn’t go to school to be educated by the same system that has caused them so much pain in past. I understand the anger that grows and grows inside of you, as if you had a demon in your belly just begging to be unleashed on everyone and anyone at any given moment. I understand but at the same time, I don’t. I have never been in a similar situation and I am so thankful that my sister and I didn’t live through that.
I feel privileged. I feel that I have an obligation to speak up for people who live in that situation. I feel responsible to educate anyone and everyone who has these pre-conceived stereotypical ideas about Native Americans. It is my duty to do it so that we can acknowledge that there is a problem in the “system” and that this “system” simply doesn’t work. It destroys lives.