Gord Studor 1937-2004:
Respected community member passes away
by Gordon Atkinson
TORONTO-Gord Studor did get his last wish. He always wanted a grandson
and two months before he passed away his eldest daughter Alana gave
birth to a boy she named Manito. On May 14 Gord died peacefully in the
loving arms of his wife, Marci Studor. He was 67. A service was held
for him at the Native Centre of Toronto (NCCT) on May 18 and it was
attended by family and friends of the well-liked man-a Sacred fire flickered
away throughout the emotional ceremony.
"Gordon was a wonderful husband, father and grandfather,"
said his wife of over 40 years. The couple met at a downtown Toronto
club called the Thunderbird in 1963 and Marci said it was love at first
sight. "I didn’t see him in the crowd," she said. "It
seems like he fell from the sky."
The two soon started dating and soon after exchanged wedding vows.
In the early stages of their marriage Marci was no Martha Stewart when
it came to preparing meals or grocery shopping. In fact, she remembers
her three children, Alana, Gord Jr. and Robin running to hide whenever
she cooked a meal and called them to the table for supper, but when
Gord cooked the kids would scramble for the tasty meal. Marci recalls
once while grocery shopping she bought four-dozen eggs for $2 and when
she got home she told Gord about the ‘sweet deal.’ Turned
out they were poulet eggs-about the size of a marble. I guess you can
say Gord cracked up. "He told me not to do anymore shopping or
cooking and he’d prepare meals when he got home, said Marci.
The young couple bought an eight-bedroom house in Toronto and rented
out some of the rooms to Native university students. At least 140 students
went through their home and many said it made them feel comfortable
to be in a Native home. A lot of the students still fondly remember
the friendly landlords with the kind words and wisdom they shared with
each and every one of them. But as their own children started to get
older they both wanted to end the restrictions of sharing their home,
so they sold the house and moved to a smaller family home where they’ve
lived ever since.
Marci was a practical nurse and Gord fixed elevators for a living.
"We always had a two-income family," said Marci up until 1990,
when Gord retired.
Gord is best remembered for the love he had for his children. If they
did their homework to the ‘best of their ability’ he took
them out on Friday’s for a family dinner or roller- skating, movies
and family functions. In the last 10 years of Gord’s life his health
slowly deteriorated.
He had three heart attacks and during his last one a pacemaker was inserted
into his frail body. His kidneys shut down about seven years ago. He
also battled diabetes for forty years.
Gord was cremated and his ashes are going at the foot of his mother’s
grave. There are also plans to put some of his ashes between the graves
of his grandparents who raised him as a child. "We remained a family
to the end," said. Marci. "Gord was proud of that." One
day after his funeral Marci discovered just how much she missed him.
"I got up this morning and was going to cook his breakfast,"
she said.
Besides his wife, three children and grandson Gord is survived by three
sisters, June, Rosemary and Debbie, brothers, Gerald, John and Allan,
three granddaughters, Chantel, 17, Catrina 14, and Andrea 15 and many
nieces and nephews. Gord was predeceased by his mother Helen Walker
(Paibomsia) and his father Hubert Russel. His family and all those who
got to know the wonderful man will sadly miss him.
The teenage sky pilot
by Gordon Atkinson
If dreams can fly then Sabrina Manitiwabi is surely going to earn her
wings.
The eighteen-year-old Odawa teen has been accepted in an aviation program
at the First Nation Technical Institute (FNTI) this coming September
Ever since she was a child she dreamt about flying the friendly skies."I
am not going to let anything stop me," she said. "I am going
to chase my dream."
The program is the only one in North America designed to prepare Aboriginal
students as professional pilots.Students graduate as commercial pilots.
Certified instructors, some of which are graduates of the program, provide
flight training.
The future sky-rider is already preparing herself for the three-year
diploma program so she can have a grip on it once it starts. She has
been studying up on it and some of the things make her a tad nervous.The
first year is divided between academics and flight training, but the
second year she will go up in the air and fly a plane and that’s
when she’ll feel the butterflies in her stomach.
Sabrina will learn how to nosedive a plane and will also be taught
how to shut off the engine in mid-flight and restart. "It’s
pretty scary, but I want to get my diploma and license, "she said.She
eventually wants to work for a big airline in Canada or the United States
or as a bush pilot.
Both of Sabrina’s parent’s have been very supportive of her
career choice. "My mom encouraged me to take the aviation course,"
she said. She knew that’s what I wanted to do."
Besides having an interest in flying she also plays the guitar, saxophone
and piano. This summer the energetic young teen is going to work for
the Young Canada Works program in beautiful Jasper, Alberta. She is
from Manitoulin Island and has eight brothers and three little sisters
who are nine-month old triplets. Sabrina is currently in grade 12 at
Danforth College and Technical Institute and graduates in June.
"I am so happy I got accepted for aviation school," she said.
Sabrina is happy she moved to Toronto from her reserve where alcohol
was holding her back.
The Stork Report and other milestones:
One precious little Native infant arrives on Mother’s day
by Gordon Atkinson
Native Canadian Centre of Toronto volunteer receptionist Stephanie
Tonney held out until Mother’s Day to deliver her bouncing bundle
of over-due joy-all ten pounds and four ounces of him.
Although she has two other children she named her third child Unique.
"I don’t know why I chose that name,’ she said. It just
kept popping up in my head."
Little Unique experienced breathing difficulties and spent the first
days of his life in the Intensive Care Unit at Women’s College
Hospital. But the unit could be renamed the Intensive Loving Care Unit.
The staff really looked after the little boy and Stephanie was overwhelmed
by their kindness.
When Unique returned to he maternity ward he cried every time he was
taken away from his mom and to make him stop the nursing staff had to
bring him back to her loving arms.
The adorable little guy must have known something was up the day he
was to be photographed. The camera shy infant turned his face, almost
like he was saying: please no photos.
Congratulations to 10-year-old Axel Enoose who was a straight A student
throughout the school year. Leanne is the proud mother of the young
genius.
A large crowd gathered at the Native Canadian Centre of Toronto in the
middle of May to help Dennis Stark celebrate the 2nd anniversary of
his publication known as Tansi.
Tansi is the Native version of ‘the little paper that grew.’
Congratulations Dennis on your second year and on the splendid news
coverage you’ve been providing to the community.
Police give up the goods on Toronto’s
street gangs
by Gordon Atkinson
TORONTO-The streets of Toronto have become a battleground for gun-toting
street youth gangs, Detective Constable Doug Minor told a March 17 gathering
at a Toronto Native youth shelter. "It’s organized crime,"
said Minor.
The 13-year veteran and member of the Guns and Gangs Task Force here
in Toronto told a group of Native and non-Native teens at the new Tumivut
youth shelter on Vaughan Rd. that ‘there are 200 to 300 actual
gangs in Toronto. Minor disputes recently released reports that say
there are 57 gangs currently active in the Greater Toronto area with
1,132 members. "I hate stats," he said. "Half of it is
crap," he continued. "The numbers change all the time."
Gangs here in Canada have been operating for many decades and it comes
as no surprise to the Metropolitan Toronto Police Force. "Humans
like to fight," he
said. "Gangs have been established since the beginning of Toronto."
The court system is dealing with gang members on a daily basis and it
is not to lenient on known gang members who go through the system. .
"The sentence is usually doubled," he said. Gang influences
are also found in lines of clothing," he told the teens. It’s
called ‘opportunistic sales."
The drugs gang members deal are very deadly and in many cases you are
near death when becoming stoned on drugs like ecstasy Minor reported.
"You might as well go out and buy a bottle of rat killer and chug
it down cause that is what you’re doing," he warned.
Unlike western Canada Native street -gangs are not flourishing in Toronto.
"Attempts have been made to start them up here," said P.C.
Monica Rutledge of the Aboriginal Peacekeeping Unit. She doesn’t
know of any Aboriginal youth gang operating on the streets of Toronto
at this time.
For more information about the guns and gangs task force call Detective
Constable Doug Minor at (416) 808-4493.
UOI kids score big with Raptors
by Gordon Atkinson
TORONTO-At 6’ foot 8’ Toronto Raptors forward Mike Bradley
towered over the tiny Native youngsters who were lined up for his autograph
during a recent ‘meet and greet’ with the basketball superstar.
March 5 was hailed as First Nations Day at the Air Canada Centre (ACC)
and over 300 Aboriginal students and parents were in attendance as guests
of the National Basketball Association’s (NBA) Toronto Raptors.
First Nations Day is a stay-in-school initiative of the Anishinabek
Education Institute (AEI) that celebrates the educational accomplishments
of First Nation youth across Ontario.
Shortly afterwards those same dozen ‘tunnel kids’ slapped
high fives to the Raptors just before the pre-game warm up and made
their way to their seats. It’s been called a once and a life time
opportunity that the children will never forget."First Nations
Day is for the kids in our communities," said Dave Shawanda, Youth
Development Officer with the Union of Ontario Indians. "It rewards
them for their success and accomplishments they have achieved throughout
the school year," he continued. "This night out in Toronto
and the NBA basketball game is something that our youth are not accustomed
to and is a very specialevening for them."
"It was great to see the kid’s excitement to have such an
opportunity to get on court to see the players up close," said
Michele Baptiste, National Manager of Aboriginal Relations for Scotia
Bank. "I am proud that the bank is able to get the kids down for
that."
The initiative provides Aboriginal youth with an experience that truly
demonstrates that with a little hard work and perseverance, success
can be achieved and dreams do come true. The Aboriginal students who
are chosen to participate in the ‘tunnel kids’ activity are
nominated by their First Nation community teachers, and educational
counselors, based on the students dedication and educational accomplishments
in school.
First Nation Day is now in its fourth year and is an annual event that
has seen close to 1,400 students, parents and teachers take part in
the trip to the ACC.
For 10-year-old Kassanda McKeown it was ‘awesome’ just being
able to come to the game and watch Vince Carter play. Kassanda who stands
4’foot 7’ predicted the Raptors would emerge victorious over
New York.
It was the first time Kassanda’s mother Melisa stepped foot into
the gigantic ACC. "The biggest building on my reserve is the bingo
hall," she laughed. "This place is huge," she said as
she looked up towards the nose-bleed section where her and her young
daughter would soon be sitting.
For little Kassanda it’s the third year in a row she has come
to the ACC for First Nations Day. "She a straight A student,"
Melisa said proudly of her daughter
The Raptors lost the contest 103 to 98, but bus loads of Native kids
and their parents had a night to remember. "It was fun to watch
the game live," said Kassanda who enjoyed every minute of being
in the Big City. Even seeing the scalpers outside the ACC was an eye
opening experience for the kids and parents.
After the game the little Kassanda boarded a bus with 50 other people
from the Aldervile First Nation and left this city of four million people
to return home. Aldervile has a population of 500.
For more information contact Bob Goulais at (705) 497-9127 or email
info@anishinabek.ca
Youth from across the Nation gather together
for inspiration
By Gordon Atkinson, Cherie Dimaline
TORONTO-Evelyn Huntjens didn’t mind her own business while she
was here in Toronto. In fact, the 28-year-old Victoria B.C. woman got
a friend of hers to keep an eye on the thriving yard care store (Fraser
Vista Yard Care) so she could join 400 other youth from across the country
to attend a educational five day Aboriginal Youth Entrepreneur’s
Symposium.
Huntjens who is from the Xeni Gwet’in First Nation in British
Columbia got the entrepreneurial spirit as a teenager growing up in
Victoria. Her business has reached the critical one year mark and its
keeping her busy. The idea behind Fraser Vista Yard Care is to keep
the client’s yard looking great by offering helpful tips on trimming
the hedges, planting a flower garden, and anything connected with lawn
care maintenance.
She was pleased to see so many Aboriginal youth who are interested
in starting their own business and offers words of encouragement for
them. "All of the youth at this gathering have dreams of being
successful," she said. "I wish these guys all the luck in
the world."
Michael Gariepy was also at the gathering. Gariepy, the President and
CEO of South Island Technologies in Saskatoon chased his dreams while
a youngster on the Beardy’s First Nation in Saskatchewan. The Cree
man has always been interested in the wonders of technology.
Santee Smith was the Master of Ceremonies when delegates from the gathering
paid a visit to the Native Canadian Centre for the Cultural Gala dinner
and social which included presentations by the NCCT Cultural Department
and Visiting Schools Program accompanied by the Eagleheart Singers.
The Mohawk woman is a choreography, dancer, singer and pottery designer.
She was in the National Ballet School in Toronto from 1982-1988. "I
am starting to have the entrepreneurship spirit," she told the
gathering which consisted of delegates from St.John’s, NFLD to
Victoria, B.C. "We all live in a competitive world and we can see
into the future," she said about the many programs available for
Native people. "We are making things happen."
CBC’s Carla Robinson was another role model invited to perk up
the spirits and ignite hope and drive in the young entrepreneurs at
the gathering. Carla began her journalism career for BCTV and hosting
a weekly current affairs show for Rogers’s television in B.C. She
is best-known for her current job as main evening news anchor for CBC
Newsworld, and host of the afternoon editions of Newsworld Today and
Newsworld Live. Organizers hailed the event a success and look forward
to continuing on in the spirit of entrepreneurialism for tomorrow’s
Aboriginal business professionals.
Rural Protesters take to the streets
of Toronto
Grassy Narrows group descends on the Ministry of Natural Resources
by Gordon Atkinson, Cherie Dimaline
TORONTO- While the chainsaws continue to chew their way through traditional
territory, a group of determined Native youth vow to stop the clear-cutting
of Grassy Narrows First Nation.
"Our people are sick because of the poisons in the water,"
Ashley Loon, a 19 year old Ojibway girl old told a group of protesters
outside the Ministry of Natural Resources Office at 90 Wellesley Street
in Toronto. As she spoke, a dozen police officers and six security guards
were on hand to keep an eye out throughout
the chilly March afternoon protest. "It has destroyed our traditional
lifestyle."
And although the congregation blocked traffic for some commuters, passing
motorists honked their horns as a way of showing support to the gathering
estimated at about seventy-five people. "Save our trees so we can
breath," was one of the many sings carried by the protesters.
The Grassy Narrows band is struggling to save the last few patches of
old growth forest as well as trying to protect the trap line areas that
are slated for clear cutting. The remaining forest holds pieces of Native
history, culture, spirituality, and medicines that can never be replaced.
"Nothing is being done, said Loon, who has been at the blockade
since day one.
In December 1992, members of the Grassy Narrows band started a blockade
to protest the clear cutting by Abitibi Consolidated Inc. which continues
to have a devastating impact to their land.
"We don’t want negotiation or consultation," said a
girl who identified herself as Chrissie. "Not one level of government
has responded,’ she continued. "We just want them (Abitibi)
off our territory."
"The community of Grassy Narrows has lived through many traumatic
events, relocation, mercury contamination of their waterways, flooding
of their sacred grounds, residential schooling, and the clearcutting
that is taken place now. It has caused serious social, economic and
environmental problems. These violations have had and continue to have
a devastating impact on the Ojibway culture," said a letter that
was hand delivered by a member of the Grassy Narrows band to the Minister
of Natural Resources.
Later, the protesters marched to the Native Canadian Centre of Toronto
(NCCT) at 16 Spadina Rd. where a video called ‘The Story of the
Grassy Narrows Blockade’ was shown. The one-hour production will
soon be available to the public.
The blockaders back home have five binders full of support letters
from people throughout North America and the world. But the peaceful
group is being threatened by a group of non-Native thugs who call themselves
the ‘Kenora Indian Beaters.’
"They go around beating up Native people,’ said Chrissie.
The youth are willing to remain at the blockade through the humid summer
heat and the bone-chilling temperatures of winter until their pleas
are taken seriously.
A little Native youth club in the urban
jungle
by Gordon Atkinson
There were no Native youth clubs when I was a teenager growing up in
the city of Edmonton-so we started our own.
It was a guy named Fred and another friend of mine Thomas who started
our small Native youth group in the basement of Thomas’ parent’s
place.
I don’t remember the name of the club, but if you were an Aboriginal
youth you were welcome to take part in whatever you wanted to do-meaning
we didn’t have a program.
Most of the guys brought along their guitars and that’s when I
discovered our boys had talent in those fingers and in a few cases their
voices. I brought a pen and some paper hoping to write songs, but it
never happened.
It was not a cultural based club, although there was endless story telling
going on, but the stories had a lot to do with our accomplishments in
hockey and other team sports. Okay, also about girls.
Mostly, the guys just got together. We talked but always in English.
We had no where to go so we could learn our language or our cultural
and traditional foods like bannock or wild meat was only found in our
homes.
I still remember the day Fred became a student at the east end school
I attended. Poor Fred always had to prove himself at every school. He
was a born scrapper who was bounced in and out of foster homes since
birth. At my school it didn’t take him long to sort things out
after two white bullies called him a wagon burner. He grabbed both of
them by the scruff of the neck and put them up against a window and
smashed them with his meaty fist. I recall one of the guys doing a mid-air
dance-he was so scared his legs were trembling. Fred sure fixed his
wagon. The only thing burning on Fred that day were his hands after
emerging from the principals office.
The Edmonton Jr. high school had about 10 Native students among an
enrolment of 600 students. Sometimes when the racial darts were coming
my way thick and heavy I felt like Custer with all those arrows flying.
So it’s probably no surprise that Native traditional practices
were not welcomed in the Big City. I was a Native teenager who had been
white washed and hung to dry in my own country.
But I learned a bit about the Native way whenever I visited my Kookum
on her reserve where she would speak Cree to us hoping we would pick
up on it. I memorized other words by listening to my mother speaking
Cree to my dad.
I grew up in the Cromdale area of Edmonton and it has always had a reputation
for being one of the toughest areas in that city. We used to call it
the ‘Crimedale’ because of all the criminal activity that
took place.
Meanwhile, the club thrived for a little better than a year and we
grew from about five members to about twenty. That was quite a feat
back in those days when most Natives my age were attending those dreaded
residential schools where any hint of traditional ways was branded sinful.
It became a club of dreams. These guys really wanted to make it in the
world when they hit their adult years. Some had aspirations of being
lawyers, singers, police officers, actors or even politicians. I touched
my dream. I always wanted to be a songwriter, but instead I am a writer
with 15 years experience under my belt. I penned my first story one
night at the youth club, which I called ‘The Land of Plenty.’
It was about a far away oasis where huts sloped gently to the tree-lined
shore of the lake, its dark stillness was disturbed irregularly by the
evening feed of large bass. Everything for miles around grew in abundance.
It was probably written back in 1966.
We started going to movies and John Wayne became our instant hero.
Hollywood always made the Natives look bad in everyone of their motion
pictures. I didn’t realize at the time, but those people who were
getting slaughtered on screen were North American Indians. Let me tell
ya pilgrim, I wish I would have cheered for the Indians.
We were not familiar with the term ‘Urban Indian’, but that’s
exactly what we were –Native teenagers experiencing life in the
Big City. I knew most of my relations on my mother’s side came
from a reserve called Onion Lake in Saskatchewan. That’s where
I began.
I’m not saying we were perfect every one of us got into trouble
with the law or our parents. I recall inhaling my first cigarette and
getting dizzy. "Don’t lay or you’ll die," one of
my buddies warned me in the school where we lit up. My smoking caused
a conflict with my parents. My dad was totally against me picking up
the addictive habit, but mom let me smoke right in front of her. Today,
when I wake up in the morning I am coughing and gagging from years of
smoking. I am now planning to go on the patch so I can hopefully kick
the habit. That’s how it was in those days we all copied each other
because there was no one to tell us better.
Through our fledgling club we gained in numbers. We weren’t a
gang or anything, but other teenagers started to fear us mainly because
of Fred and another Native named Victor. We started getting respect
from the other teens in the neighbourhood, but a new problem developed-the
cops were keeping an eye on our activities. Yep, we were known and getting
tough in the urban jungle. But my marks were low at school and the teachers
always embarrassed me by having my parents come to the school to talk
about my marks and behaviour.
I met a girl named Loretta and she chummed around with me for a while.
She was the first member of the opposite sex to ever take an interest
in me. Loretta told me one day that there was Native blood in her family
back a few generations. She looked white to me and all the other guys,
but we all accepted that wonderful girl with the red hair, freckles,
and the never-ending laughter.
Back in the classroom a new girl started school; and I soon took a
liking to her. I sat right beside her in class and let me tell you she
was the girl every guy in the school liked. I was experiencing puppy
love. One Valentine’s Day I got Fred to accompany me to a store
so I could buy her a box of chocolates. I got Fred to double me on his
handlebars of his red mustang bike and we rode by her place and waited
until she got home. Finally the big moment came and my heart was pounding
a million beats a minute. I feared nothing in those says, but when it
came down to expressing affection for a girl that was a whole different
story. Anyways, I called her name as we were riding passed her and I
threw the chocolates toward her. Irene just kept walking by and never
did stop to pick up her gift. That beautiful Polish teenager with the
short blonde hair wasn’t interested in this Indian. My heart was
broken.
I was now interested in doing the things other kids my age were doing.
Soon as the bell rang we were out discovering a new way of life. Sometimes
I would stand outside the liquor store on 118th avenue and coax older
people to go in and buy a bottle of Canadian Club from the money I made
mowing lawns.
It was now payback time. I was going to get all those other kids who
used to tease my little sisters and me. I challenged them to after school
scraps and sometimes I’d win. I remember one Italian kid named
Tony who used to get me to tie up his shoelaces. Like a fool I did.
I will never the day I walked on up to him and asked if he needed his
shoelaces tied. There were a bunch of girls standing around him and
most of them started to giggle when he said ‘yea, Indian.’
I knelt down took his shoelaces and tied then both together then I let
him have it with a flurry of punches and kicks that had him begging
for mercy. After the Cree beating I inflicted on him I warned him never
to bully anyone again. Tony is now a cab driver in Edmonton, but he
denies ever bullying me when we were teenagers. About 10 years ago he
picked me up as a fare and I asked him about our long ago battle. I
was going clear across the city and when we reached my destination he
didn’t charge me. "Take care," was all he said as I opened
the door to get out of his taxi.
We always looked forward to the summer holidays and the new adventures
it would bring. During one of those breaks I hitchhiked to Calgary with
a Native girl I had met in a downtown Edmonton pool hall. A well-known
rounder named Charlie Ford picked us up-back then his younger brother
Allan was an Alberta boxing champ. Charlie got us drunk along the way
but delivered us safely to my older brother’s apartment building.
We partied for the full two weeks we were there. At the time, I thought
that was the life I wanted to live.
Back in Edmonton once more, I heard Fred had been placed in a juvenile
detention centre for a series of break and enters. That spelled the
demise of our Native youth club. He was the main attraction and now
he was gone.
I vividly remember the events following on of my drunken teenage sprees
in Edmonton. I was drinking cheap red wine with some new buddies of
mine and I became so intoxicated I passed out on a street corner. The
next thing I remember, I woke up in the drunk tank with a cop slapping
a dirty mop across my face. "Clean up that mess," he commanded,
pointing to a pile of puke on the cold concrete floor. A few hours later
another police officer drove me home in his cruiser and mom and dad
were waiting for me with a plate full of pancakes and a heavy coating
of syrup, which I was forced to eat, hangover be dammed. "You’re
going to give us a bad name," I remember my mother saying to me.
I was grounded for a few weeks and assigned to do endless chores around
the house.
When I turned eighteen I went to work as a labourer in Fort McMurray,
Alberta with good pay and free room and board. Needless to say my drinking
ways continued. I was found nightly drinking at the Oil Sands hotel
and having a grand time with a new girl I met named Linda. The federal
government had just given the okay for provinces to lower the drinking
age to eighteen and Alberta did just that. That made me happy, but today
I fully understand it was foolish happiness,
During the holiday season the spirit of Christmas always came to me
in a bottle. Even today the pattern continues. I just can’t seem
to control the urge to drink my self –silly.A while back I went
on another heavy drinking spree. I almost lost the best friend I ever
had. She is the girl who I adopted as my daughter and we have always
gotten along well. I will never forget that hot summer day when we were
both having a smoke on the side steps of the Native centre and she told
me she sometimes wished I were her real dad. Her words brought tears
to my eyes because no one has ever thought that highly of me. From that
day on she became the closet thing I have to a daughter.
That little Native youth club we had going was good for us Native teens
back in the 60s, it kept us strong.
Sometimes I wonder what might have happened had it flourished in other
directions. I would like to know whatever became of all those guys who
belonged to the club; maybe I’ll hunt them up and have some kind
of reunion.
I am a newspaper reporter by trade and my life has been a series of
ups and downs. It’s time I brought stability back into my life.
I recently got myself off the streets and moved into a $400.00 a month
room in the west end of Toronto. I plan to save up enough money to buy
a computer so I can write in the comfort of my own pad.
But first I want to check my self into a Native treatment centre somewhere
in Ontario or Alberta.
These days there are many places where Native youth can learn about
their own culture. The centres are scattered all over Toronto and other
cities right across Canada. In some cases, the Aboriginal teenagers
of today even have their own newspapers.
Amid all the turmoil in my life I managed to travel the country coast
to coast to write about my people and I experienced the cultural and
traditions that make us who we are today-a proud people. Looking back,
I didn’t become an Indian until I grew up because in my younger
days I was robbed of my Cree language and culture.
Would I have resorted to a lifetime of seeking joy in a bottle if I
had been raised with the strong support of my own people and my own
culture and the availability of Native organizations to teach me traditional
ways. I don’t know. You still have to walk in your own moccasins.
(Gordon Atkinson is a Toronto based freelance reporter who writes for
the Native Canadian. He is registered with the Onion Lake First Nation
in Saskatchewan/Alberta.)
"Tiddely Boo Boo" Pat from all of us
by Gordon Atkinson
TORONTO-Mary Fox was just riding the old Dantforth/Bloor streetcar,
minding her own business and reading a newspaper way back in the '50s
when this striking young woman nudged her elbow. "Wanna join the
North American Indian Club," she heard from the stranger. Well,
she did wanna, and soon Fox was signed and attended meetings at the
fledlging North American Indian Club, now known as the Native Canadian
Centre of Toronto (NCCT).
The person she had met on the streetcar that day was Pat Turner who
has been involved in the Native community here in Toronto for well over
50 years. Pat has been employed at the NCCT for about 20 years and is
currently the volunteer, fundraising coordinator. In those days Turner
chased down anyone who looked Native to tell them of "the club."
It was a place to have fun, meet people and socialize. It didn't take
long for Natives right across Canada to become familiar with the place.
Back in 1955 Turner remembers being crowned Indian Princess at one
of the clubs early functions, but she attributes her victory to being
the only girl that ran. Fixing herself up in front of a mirror that
day she gave her hair an extra pat and a few minutes later the NCCT
was officially opened. "Pat Turner is a charter member," said
Fox. "She has been involved in the Native community for as long
as I've known her. Many many people come to the Native center because
of her. She's a magnet to the center." "She cares deeply for
people," said Corinne Mount-Pleasant, assistant professor for Engineering
and Computer Science at Concordia University. "For almost 50 years,
she has been constantly involved, taking an active part in the lives
of thousands of people who come into contact with her. She gives freely,
expecting little in return and knows everyone's name."
Turner was raised in the Bloor Spadina area where she became good friends
with Shirley Lovett-King the NCCT's new office resource manager. "She
has never, in all the years I've known her, taken any of the glory for
her successes and attributes them to her volunteers or anyone who works
for her," said Lovett-King. "Patricia is the perfect example
of an Aboriginal person who everyday invests her time and energy into
her community and always is working toward a better place for the Urban
Aboriginal person and all of its visitors."
Turner graduated from Central Technical High School and went on to
work for Bell Canada. After marrying her husband Jim whom she meet at
the Indian club she was employed by Cara, a gift shop at Square One
Mall. But she never forgot her people and when she retires next month
to her home on the Six Nations on the Grand River First Nation her legacy
will surely be the countless fundraising events she held, the Pow Wow
trips she organized and the many people in Ontario and across the country
who got to know the cheerful lady.
Turner has been a director of many Aboriginal organizations. Currently
she is a member of the Community Council of Aboriginal Legal Services.
She is also director of Nishnabia Homes-a provider of social housing
for low income Aboriginal people. When her husband passed away in 1980
Pat carried on raising her three children, Steve, John and Melissa.
Pat now has four grandchildren. One of her sons says his mother "knows
all the Indians in Canada." Anywhere he has gone in Canada as soon
as he says his last name people ask him about Pat.
One sterling example of her fundraising skills brought a smile to the
face of a child when a nurse from Hospital for Sick Children called
Pat to tell her of a young Cree girl who was not doing very well. The
youngster had a real desire to see the Lion King and her parents could
not afford to buy the tickets. A few phone calls later Pat had made
arrangements for the sick child to see the popular play.
From the cozy offices of the NCCT to the Pow Wow trail her cheerful
sign off "Tiddley boo boo" will be missed as it has closed
meetings and brought lots of smiles and fundraising dollars to improve
programs here at the NCCT.
Pat, you are also going to be missed. "Tiddley boo boo" from
all of us at the NCCT.
The Girl With The Magnetic Smile
by Gordon Atkinson
TORONTO-That morning smile that greets visitors to the Native Canadian
Centre Of Toronto (NCCT) is Shawna Ackabee's way of saying thanks for
a future.
The 19 year-old Ojibwa teen and mother of one is the new part-time receptionist
at the NCCT. She is getting her life back together after a rough start
to life in the Big City.
A story about her titled "Holding on to a chain of Love"
was featured in the November 2000 issue of the Native Canadian. It was
about Shawna's arrival in Toronto and how she made the streets her home.
She now lives in a cozy apartment in the west-end of the city.
"We are pleased to give an opportunity to a young Aboriginal woman
who has a lot of potential", said out-going executive director
of the NCCT, Deborah Richardson. "We are pleased to be able to
do that for Shawna." "She's a quick learner," added full-time
receptionist Barb Kearns. With any luck Ackabee's magnetic smile will
be here for years to come.
An Elders Story: Josephine Beaucage: a remarkable
life of beadwork
by Gordon Atkinson
TORONTO-When Josephine Beaucage died at the age of 99, Chief Dan George
was probably waiting for her at the gates of heaven. In 1972, Beaucage
proposed marriage to the actor after being introduced to him at a function
in Sudbury. "Chief, you are a widower, and I am a widow, this being
a leap year, I've come to ask you to marry me," she jokingly told
the much younger celebrity.
Dan George smiled and said he'd be happy to marry her. She presented
him with a beaded glass that she made herself as a souvenir.
About eight years after that meeting Beaucage learned she was selected
to go to Rome for the Beautification of Kateri Tekakwitha-the Native
Saint. Two hundred Aboriginal people attended the function hosted by
Pope John Paul 11. She was thankful to have been able to take part in
the service. "That was the biggest surprise in her life,"
said her daughter Yvonne Beaucage.
She was born Josephine Commanda, born in 1904 in a place called Beaucage
Village and lived there until the age of seven.
In 1912, the same year the Titanic sank off the coast of Newfoundland,
Beaucage's dad was hired by as a guide by the Carnegie Museum Company.
He traveled with the company up around the Labrador Coast and Baffin
Bay to see how far the smallest birds migrated north.
A few years later Beaucage was placed in an Industrial Convent in Spanish,
Ont. She grew lonely there at the outset, but as time went on she found
that this was the best thing that ever happened to her. It was there
that she finished her education.
In 1923, she married Angus Beaucage and moved to Temagami, Ont., where
they raised a family of four girls and one son.
After her daughters left home Beaucage decided to take up bead and leatherwork
as a hobby. Shortly afterwards, she found employment with a Commercial
camp as a cabin girl and second cook. She kept the job for 12 years.
In 1950, the Ontario Northland Boat Lines as a shipping and receiving
clerk hired her. Her husband was the Captain of the boats that delivered
groceries and express parcels to private cottages. In the fall couple
worked the trap lines. She learned how to handle a gun and run an outboard
motor. She skinned beaver, mink and other fur bearing animals and became
an expert and stretching and cleaning raw pelts.
In 1955, her dad died following an operation. In 1959 she was hired
by the owner of an Indian Village to demonstrate beadwork.
It was there she met many crafts people and through that experience
she started teaching at Native organizations in Toronto. In 1966, she
arrived at Elliot Lake, to counsel 20 families coming from Sioux Lookout.
When they arrive and settled each was given a house with all the facilities
for a home. For many it was their first experience with electrical appliances.
The men were given skilled training while the wives stayed home with
the children and Beaucage went to visit to help them with their chores.
In 1968 she opened a house at 106 Spadina. She received 15 gals from
up north who ranged in age 16-22. The girls didn't believe in rules
and regulations. This proved so bad for her nerves a doctor advised
her to quit.
In 1970 she flew to Thunder Bay and traveled by boat to Gull Bay and
Huron Bay to instruct young adults improve their beading and leatherwork.
One month later her husband died, but Beaucage continued to work, this
time with the Indian Crafts of Ontario. In 1974, she made a deer skin
shirt, a beaded shawl and change purse-all sewn by hand, which she entered
at the CNE- the talented crafts person won the first three prizes.
Her long and productive teaching career ended at the age of 91 because
her eyes were failing, but like her grandfather who died at the age
of 111, her strong constitution kept her active until she passed away
September 2 at the North Bay General Hospital
Deborah Richardson Stepping Down
By Gordon Atkinson
TORONTO-Deborah Richardson addressed the community's needs during her
three years as executive director at the Native Centre of Toronto (NCCT).
When she first started the only meal provided at the Centre was the
Thursday evening feast.
Today there are now one-dollar noon meals for the unemployed, free meals
for seniors and two-dollars for the employed. The meals prepared are
like dishes you find in restaurants.
She got into things quickly and started the Homeless Arts Initiative
Program. It got homeless Native artists out of the cold into the NCCT
where they could do their artwork.
She enhanced many of the programs and the Cedar Basket Craft shop has
also improved in the way of sales and looks.
"There's a lot of work that has to be done," she said. One
of the hardest decisions she ever had to make was to close off the back
steps to the Centre where the homeless laid out their sleeping bags
for a nights sleep. "That was a hard thing to do, but it was for
safety," she said. She was afraid of someone dying under those
steps.
"I think a lot of my caring for people comes from my dad's side
of the family,"she said. I am very much aboriginal in terms of
our values. The Eagle and the morning smudge are part of the culture.
"It's a real eye-opener," she said about her three years at
the NCCT. "There are so many people from different reserves and
cities from all over Canada. You have to develop thick skin to be in
a leadership role."
Deborah's father is Mi'kmag from the Pabineau First Nation in New Brunswick.
Her mother is from German/ Scottish decent from Saskatchewan.
She has two younger brothers and is married with two girls. As a child
her father was in the military. She lived in many cities across Canada
because of her dad's military experience.
Deborah attended a University in Ottawa and obtained a law degree.
She practiced law for a short period and moved to Toronto five years
ago.
Her first job in the Aboriginal community was at Council Fire Culture
Centre, a Native centre on Parliament and Dundas Sts.
She then moved on to the Royal Bank of Canada. She became involved in
Aboriginal banking, financing business and homes on the reserves. The
bank gave her a great experience.
She always wanted to work for the Aboriginal community on a full-time
basis. "I feel like I accomplished what I like to do," she
said. "It's time to move on and pursue new opportunities,"
she continued. "I am probably going to work at an Aboriginal business."
She's learned a lot about Aboriginal people who live in Toronto. "It
seems that all people are bonded," she said.
"I've lost sleep over certain individuals whom I've met. I care
about people."
Native Centre office manager Fran Longboat
retires, after 14 years
By Gordon Atkinson
TORONTO-Fran Longboat said her 14 years as office manager at the Native
Canadian Centre of Toronto (NCCT) was a real cultural learning experience.
"I found my roots here," she said in a recent interview at
the NCCT. "My mother and father never made us proud to be Native,"
she continued. "I learned so much about my culture."
She responded by taking a hands on approach to her work and being kind-hearted
to the members of the community.
She was especially concerned about the ones who slept on the streets.
She was known to arrive at work bright and early on chilly winter mornings
to open the doors and make a pot of hot coffee for the shivering homeless.
"Street people need to be recognized," she said. "You
have to have some kind of caring for them."
But her job was much more than getting to know the homeless who slept
on the sidewalks of Toronto. "I've seen her scrub toilets and clean
rooms," said long time receptionist at the NCCT, Barb Kearns. "She's
always been 100 percent for the community. I'm going to miss her."
But it was also her job to make the building safe, secure and clean.
She was the purchasing agent who ordered stationary and cleaning supplies
and everything else the Centre needed to keep it operational.
Longboat said it was always hard for her when one of the seniors died.
"The Elders loved her," said Kearns
Many staff members have described longboat as a very fair person who
would yell at you if you done wrong and pat you on the back for doing
some good.
Longboat said the saddest day for her during her employment there was
when Native historian, Rodney Bobbiwash, passed away. "It was such
a loss to the community," she said.
The most memorable event for her was when the NCCT hosted its first
Eagle Staff Raising ceremony. Over 300 people attended the colorful
function. "It was beautiful," she said. "It's something
I'll never forget."
When she first started at the NCCT her grandson Skylar was just a young
boy and today he is one of the maintenance men there. There was a retirement
party for her at the NCCT where family, staff friends and community
members attended the function. "It's a nice way to end my working
days with my people," she said about the event. "I'll miss
the people, but I can always come back and volunteer."
She first came to Toronto in the 60s, but is now going home to spend
more time with family.
The Mohawk woman who retired earlier last month grew up on the Six Nation
Reserve where she met and married her husband Rudy,
"It's been a blast," she said, about her 14 years working,
learning about her culture and getting a chance to have a chat with
the many people who walked through the doors of the NCCT.
"The Ab-original Bingo Boys"
by Gordon Atkinson
(This story is dedicated to the memory of the late Ian Lee -
the first of the 'Ab-original bingo boys).'
TORONTO---There was always something about seeing a child win the coveted
"special" at the independent bingo tent where I've worked
for 15 years.
The winner of that game earned a coupon for a prize and got to play
free bingo for a whole hour. For 60 minutes Kiddie Land, carnival thrills,
the raucous midway confusion ceased to exist. The card became the youngster’s
playground as his or her busy fingers darted up and down its surface
in pursuit of a straight line or four corners. Sometimes, just one number
away from a win, divine intervention was called for. "Please, God,
let me win again," I’d hear the whisper. "I promise to
be good." That was the kind of magic a carnival bingo tent had
on generations of children in the fairs and exhibitions I worked in
across North America.
That particular traditation bit the dust earlier this summer when Bill
Jones of Orlando, Florida sold the carnival tent to Roch Bourbonnais,
a French-Canadian from Alfred, Ontario. The bingo is now Canadian owned
after being in the Jones family hands for decades. Bourbonnais has replaced
the daily "special" with a free game of bingo every hour on
the hour.
He must be doing something right. At this year"s annual Conklin
Awards Party the bingo won "best game presentation" - something
that has never happened before.
It came as no surprise to us bingo boys. The Bingo Bigtop has always
been the class of the rough and tumble carnie world, a quiet, orderly
oasis amid the shrill storm of midway attractions. It's a meeting place
(“Toronto” in Ojibwa) here the tired and the hot, young and
old, can settle into a chair, chuckle at the caller’s banter, and
study the numbers like a classroom of attentive students. Maybe that’s
why bingo is the only gamble approved by the Catholic Church.
I am the last of the "Ab-original bingo boys" - a batch of
men and women from reserves and cities across western Canada who over
the years worked at the bingo tent. It all started about two decades
when a young Ian Lee, a Native Cree, walked into the tent in Edmonton
and scored a job. For a long time afterwards, everyone who worked on
the traveling crew was Native. Lee immediately demonstrated his prowess
by being unafraid to climb the steel structure to put up the tent and
bring it down.
With Lee as "topman" we could do the teardown in a single
sweating 12- hour grind. It took three tractor-trailers to haul the
mammoth steel carcass from site to site. (Another reason carnival bosses
have a yen for Natives is that our status cards get us across the border
with no questions asked).
I went looking for a job there in 1986 during Edmonton’s Klondike
Days and was hired to collect money and give back correct change to
bingo customers. I remember one of the Native regulars asking me later
that evening if I had ever worked the carnival before.
"My first job in the carnival I was used as a human cannonball,"
I told him. "I was hired and fired the same day."
That was my way of breaking the ice with my new co-workers. You"ve
got to get on with the guys. We'd travel down the Trans Canada Highway
in an orange colored van dubbed "the Pumpkin". It was in that
old jalopy but we really got to know a lot about each other. We'd talk
about the things we never talked of at work - things like our dreams,
families, our accomplishments and our failures to accomplish. We were
like one big family. We slept in the "possum belly" of the
steel load. For the last three years, since the steel load was replaced
by a wooden frame, we spread our sleeping bags under the "flash"
prize table with a cardboard mattress and a foamy.
In western Canada, the bingo became known as the "traveling teepee"
because of all the Natives working in it. When it reached Toronto it
became the United Nations tent because of the multi-cultural locals
who were hired on. We all got along with each other.
When the unwieldy steel structure was sold to a Florida theme park operator
for use as an outdoor cafe, a much lighter wooden form took its place.
Maybe my Native co-workers sensed the end of the big steel. Anyway,
the year before the sale they failed to show up for work one day and
were fired en mass. Except for me.
But the game is the same as ever, and the tent retains its gentle humor
and civility.
I remember once in Edmonton during a heat wave an enormous woman wearing
shorts sat down and played bingo for three hours straight. Just as Carmen,
our bingo caller, was saying over the mike "Come on in take a seat,"
the woman stood up and the seat came up with her, stuck to her butt.
Once during "suicide run" from Edmonton to Regina the bingo
boys saved the life of a female schoolteacher by pulling her from her
burning vehicle. The ladswere recognized at that year’s Regina
Roundup Party with a standing ovation.
We once had a cranky white foreman I know as Paul, who was always in
a foul mood. His temper would peak just before opening. He was cheap
with his smokes, and hell froze over before you got one from him. One
year at the CNE , a new guy from Newfoundland asked one of the Natives
for a smoke.
"I don"t have one," the guy from the Rock heard. "Just
go and ask Paul for a draw."
As the Newfoundler approached Paul it just happened that the irascible
foremen had lit up a smoke of his own. The newcomer asked for a draw,
and Paul placed his smoke in an ashtray and said "okay" while
he turned away to get the draw - a daily cash advance for smokes and
food. Turning back, Paul set his eyes on the Newfie puffing away on
his cigarette. "What the f---," Paul screeched.
Turns out a "draw" in Newfoundland lingo is a "drag"
of a smoke.
Like I said, the United Nations tent.
For the last four years I have been calling the first game of the day
which is always free. I'll likely return for my sixteenth time when
the carnival season opens next year. But this time I plan to go bilingual.
I'd like to say over the mike: "La premiere partie de la journee
toujours gratuite au dessous de la grosse tente." The first game
of the day is always free under the big top.
James and Judy: Love Story Brought Spark of Joy to
Many
By Gordon Atkinson
TORONTO-Most days for the last 14 years, through summer heat and winter
snow, James Wesley and Judy Solomon could be seen holding hands on Bedford
Rd. and Bloor St. W.
For the last five years Judy weathered the elements in her wheelchair,
immobilized by misfortunes that led to solvent abuse.
Judy died May 23 in her 45th year and so ended a love story witnessed
daily by countless passersbys and fellow street people. Rain or shine,
there was James sitting on a park bench with Judy by his side in her
wheelchair.
It brought a spark of joy into the lives of many to see two people
who were so much in love despite their dismal circumstances.
Ann Brittan of Walmer St. was of those people who got to know the homeless
couple and often chatted with them and on many a cold winter nights
phoned the Street Help line so they could be taken into a warm shelter.
“I was afraid of her being in danger,” said Brittan.
Brittan hopes to organize a memorial in the park where Judy died. “We
feel like we lost one of our own,” said Brittan. “We miss
her.”
One of ten siblings Judy grew up in Sudbury and spent most of her early
childhood time living with her grandparents. At the age of ten she was
placed in a foster home. As a young Ojibwa girl growing up in Sudbury
Judy was “quick on her feet and was good at baseball,” said
her father, Alex Jacobs.
Judy adored cats and was “good at math and reading” said Jacobs.
She used to enjoy playing hide and go seek or skip a rope with her many
childhood friends, Jacobs recalled.
In her early 20’s, Judy got a job doing clerical work for a downtown
bindery company. It was a job she’d keep for ten years.
But when Judy left her abusive husband, she took to the streets with
its sometimes lethal attractions. But she had a lot of protection out
there. “She had a lot of friends,” said Jacobs.
In later years, Judy stayed at many Native treatment centres, but always
ended up back on the streets. Judy reportedly caught pneumonia a few
weeks beforeshe died.
Three weeks after her death, James sat red-eyed in the same park where
he and Judy spent so much time together. There he sat perusing memories
of the only woman he ever loved. Then his voice cracked as he talked
about the day she died.
“I thought she was sleeping,” he said. “I tried to wake
her up,” he continued with his eyes clouding over. “I miss
her.”
“Judy probably has tears in her eyes as she’s watching James
from heaven,” said Vern Ross, a street outreach caseworker for
Street Patrol.
“She’s probably saying James quit your drinking because I
love you.”
And maybe James hears her words. The Cree man recently committed himself
to a detox centre leading to an alcohol treatment centre.
Judy is survived by two daughterís Susan, 18, Melissa, 15, one
son, Jesse, 13 and numerous nieces and nephews.
The Millennium Hitchhiker
By Gordon Atkinson
Strapped into a 18-wheeler jackknifing across the Trans Canada Highway
I fought my hand that clutched the door handle. Don’t panic, I
thought as I felt the giant rig sliding across the slippery highway
into a ditch. Beside me the man I call Kamikaze was fighting too against
a truck imitating a 60-foot snake on the slushy roadway. Even then I
couldn’t restrain a grudging gratitude to Kamikaze from mingling
with my terror.
He had plucked me and my questing thumb from the freezing rain on the
roadside just outside of Winnipeg. Me, shivering, a stranger dripping
cold sweat on the front seat three days before the end of the millennium.
I would make it from Edmonton to Toronto in just two-and-a-half days.
The bus doesn’t do it faster. The day before I had gotten a ride
with a Nebraska bound trucker named Melvin. He picked me up on Edmonton’s
outskirts and dropped me off where Kamikaze found me.
It was 17 Celsius when I left the Alberta capital. Melvin had photos
of his two little girls taped to the glove compartment of his rig. “Those
are my two angels,” he said proudly. “My wife and those two
kids are what keep me going.” Melvin then asked if I had any children.
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” he said upon
hearing my answer.
He had one more payment to make on his truck before it officially belonged
to him. So his dream of owning his own rig was about to come true. My
dream of getting to Toronto before the New Year had just begun. I climbed
into Kamikaze’s truck on legs of ice. “No drinking, no drugs,”
were his first words. Y2K disaster be dammed. A millennium fear couldn’t
drown the kindness of a new Canadian trucker on lonely stretch of highway
bound somewhere into the next century.
Kamikaze is from Iran. He said he’s been driving truck for about
three years. “But not in these conditions.” He asked me a
lot of questions about my Native heritage. “I have a lot of Native
friends in Montreal,” he said. I told him I was Plains Cree from
the Onion Lake First Nation in Saskatchewan. I think he expected me
to know the answer to every question he asked about Native people.
But that was before our conversation exploded into a terrifying crash
of metal against metal. After an eternity in just a few seconds the
giant truck jerked to a resounding halt on a cockeyed angle. I looked
up and saw Kamikaze shaking and swearing. He had to slam on the brakes
to avoid hitting a car that had slowed in front of him. I had seen my
life flash in front of me as soon as he applied the brakes. The first
person who rushed over to the truck was a young motorist named Tom Waterhouse.
“Is anybody in there with you,” he said. “Just the Kamikaze
trucker and me,” I said.
They say there’s never a cop around when you need one, but two
Ontario Provincial officers from the Sioux Lookout Detachment arrived
at the scene just minutes after the accident. Kamikaze, whose real name
is Ebrahbrin Kharag had a long two-hour wait for help to arrive form
Kenora. The young driver who was the first to arrive at the scene hesitated
when I asked if he could take me into Dryden. “I don’t know,”
he said. “I’ve got a lot of stuff in the car. He made room
only after the police said I had no warrants. That must of made the
computer whiz feel more comfortable. Waterhouse told me later he passed
me earlier on the highway. “I never pick up hitchhikers,”
he said. “I made an exception with you.”
As we drove away I caught a glimpse of Kamikaze swearing and kicking
at the snow. Waterhouse, a student at the University of Waterloo, said
he is studying computer technology. I don’t think he wanted me
to meet my Waterloo, so the Kid as I called him, decided to take me
to Thunder bay. He said he was heading for Montreal. With Y2K looming
up, we talked about the strengths and weaknesses of technology. By the
time we got to Thunderbay the Kid got kind of use to my company and
decided to carry me on to Sudbury. He was a good driver, but I found
myself clutching the door handle every time an 18-wheeler came barreling
by us on the sloppy highway.
We stayed overnight at a place called the Chalet Rest and Wilderness
Trails near Terrace Bay, Ont., a bed and breakfast facility. The proprietor
of the establishment told us of another truck that had jackknifed near
Terrace Bay earlier in the day. A car carrying two teenagers slammed
into the truck. Both were killed instantly. The truck driver escaped
without injury. The early morning road conditions were much improved
as we continued our journey down the Trans Canada Highway. We talked
until day turned into night. I told him about my family in Edmonton
and how happy I was to have spent Christmas with them. It was my first
Christmas at home in about 12 years. I talked about my career as a freelance
writer and about my parents both deceased. I even read him a short poem
I wrote for my mom and dad. “That’s a good one,” he said.
“You must of really loved them.”
The Kid told me about the parties he’s been to. “We had some
good one’s, he laughed. We listened to CD’s and shared a lot
of laughs throughout the trip. The Beatles were blaring away on the
car’s CD player as he dropped me off at a 24-hour truck stop on
the outskirts of Sudbury and he continued on his way to Montreal. I
spent about two hours drinking coffee and struck up a conversation with
Danielle, one of the waitresses. “There hasn’t been a hitchhiker
in these parts since September,” she said. “It’s minus
27 out there,” she continued. “You must be the last hitchhiker
of the millennium.” “Or the last fool,” I told her.
A trucker named Cameron spotted me sitting in the cafe and sipping
on coffee. The three bags I had beside me were his clue I needed a lift
the rest of the way into Toronto. Cameron said he has picked up hitchhikers
in his life. “But I don’t make it a habit.” He dropped
me off at 5 a.m. New Years Eve on the Queensway near a Country Style
Donuts shop. Four strange men whom I have never met before and will
probably never see again shared their time and space with the millennium
hitchhiker, four men under no obligation sprinkled me with post-Christmas
kindness.
So here’s to you Melvin, Kamikaze, the Kid and Cameron. I want
you to know I bought a mickey of C.C. soon as the doors to the LLCBO
cracked open on the last morning of the century. I guess you can say
I got Rye 2 Kayed.
'Dr Grandma' Gets Honorary Degree
by Gordon Atkinson
TORONTO-Shortly after Lillian McGregor received her honorary Doctorate
Degree Nicholas, her three-year-old grandson referred to her as ‘Dr.
Grandma.’
But the future ‘train driver’ wasn’t overly impressed
by the June 19 ceremony, which took place at Convocation Hall at the
University of Toronto (U of T). All the youngster wanted was to get
his tiny hands on a chocolate bar. “But I want one,” he told
his dad, Ken, shortly after McGregor was hooded by Rebecca Nagy of the
Faculty of Nursing.
Ken, 35, of Newmarket, who also brought along his wife Cindy and seven-month
daughter Lauren said he was ‘very proud of my mom.’ “She’s
done a lot of work in the Native Community.”
McGregor, 66, a member of the White Fish River First Nation has been
“striving to preserve Native culture since she was a youngster
growing up on Birch Island”, said Heather-Howard Bobbiwash, a PH.d
caudate from the Department of Anthology at the U of T.
Her distinguished career in nursing and public was ‘inspired by
her grandmother ’ Howard-Bobbiwash, told the gathering. She was
the first Elder in residence at the U of T First Nation House and a
visiting elder at other institutions.
She has used language, storytelling, study and traditional healing
to encourage Native students to stay in the academic course while appreciating
the wisdom inherent in their own culture. Besides receiving accolades
for her contributions to Native youth the Ojibwa woman participated
in Toronto’s Olympic bid as an Aboriginal Elder.
Her many honors include the City of Toronto’s Civic Award, and
the Provincial Government’s Outstanding Achievement Award for volunteerism.
The Ontario Insitute for Studies in Education (OISE) recognized her
achievements with its Distinguished Educator of the Year Award in 1995.
“I would like to thank the U of T for bestowing on me this great
honor,” McGregor said to rousing applause.
The U of T touted the afternoon event as ‘175 years of great minds’
and Dr. McGregor is certainly one of those. The celebration shifted
to a community barbecue hosted by the Native Canadian Centre of Toronto
where young Nick was seen sleeping in his dad’s arms probably waiting
to go to the apartment complex next door to be tucked in by ‘Dr.
Grandma.’
By Gord Atkinson
“How much do you got in your cup, Mister?” I was sitting
cross-legged on my duffel bag at my usual spot in front of the Korean
United Church atHuron and Bloor streets - 3000 kms away from a family
Christmas.
She was all of five years old. Her face was just about my level. Two
brown eyes looking straight into mine. I knew she really wanted to know.
It was early December. The Christmas ‘gold rush’ hadn’t
started yet. I glanced down at the paper cup at my feet. “About
fifteen Cents.”
The pedestrian horde was on the move. The light changed and the roar
of accelerating traffic enclosed the small girl and myself. She reached
into her blue windbreaker. Her small fist emerged and hovered over the
cup for a moment. Her tiny fingers Unclenched and I heard a faint thud.
A penny rolled unsettled on the dry coffeestain. For a split second
more she held my gaze. Then she wheeled around two quick legs in blue
jeans, blond curls flaring. She rejoined about half a dozen other playmates
and an adult and they made their way down the busy Bloor st. pavement.
It wasn’t Santa with his sack of presents and his galloping reindeer.
But it was Christmas wrapped up in a moment for me. I still have that
penny, an American one, 1970.
By Gord Atkinson
What’s in a name? For Jerry Koostachin it’s the beginning
of the end of chaos,the last call for alcohol and a lost daughter’s
embrace. “I think of my Indian name whenever I get into a problem,”
said the tall Cree man. “it helps me be strong.” He got his
name during graduation Ceremonies at a Native treatment center in Ontario
about seven months ago.
That marked the end of a life long binge. Since then he has been Employed
as a maintenance assistance at the Native Canadian Center of Toronto
(NCCT). Koostachin is one of many Native people who declines to reveal
his Spiritual name, and he only uses it during ceremonies. Koostachin
also picked up a street name here in Toronto about five years ago. Someone
saw him striding down a busy city sidewalk his long Trench coat swaying
in the breeze and said, “Hey, you look like a walking Tree.”
The name stuck. Recently, his two long time drinking companions, Little
rain and dark cloud have also taken shelter with the walking Tree. They,
too have renounced the bottle.
The chaos in Koostachin’s life began at age five when he was placed
In St.Ann’s Residential School in James Bay, Ontario. The Place
was typical of residential schools throughout the country. Many of the
people who worked at the school often sexually and physically abused
young Native children. That was a far cry from the fun he had at home
scampering across the dry reserve grass and playing innocent childhood
games with his brothers and sisters. Koostachin had no idea what was
in Store for him the day he walked in St. Ann’s, his tiny trembling
hands Clinging tightly to his mother’s side. His life was about
to become a living nightmare. Punishment for him came for him swift.
“A nun put a black cloth over me just as my mom started walking
away,” he recalled. “It wasn’t my mom’s idea to
put me there,” he continued. “ it was my dad’s.”
Life after residential school didn’t get any better. He returned
home to a house filled with alcohol and violence. “Alcohol was
a big thing in our house,” he said “My dad drank lot’s.”
He talks fondly of his mother who was always sick, but still managed
to provide for the growing family. Shortly after getting out of residential
school his mother ended up in the hospital for three years with tuberculosis.
While his mom was in the hospital his dad continued with his drinking
ways.
“I used to like being locked out of the house because of what
went on inside,” he said. “I felt safer outside then I did
in my own home.” In later years he picked up on his dad’s
alcohol addition. In recent months, Jerry has tried to embrace his father
role with the two people he loves More than anything else in the world,
his boy Reno, 10 and his daughter, Jackie,16. He sees Reno on weekends,
but while he wants to visit his daughter, he has not seen her for awhile.
“I want her to know I will always be their for her, “he said.
Koostachin visualizes a tearful reunion if the two ever meet again.
Maybe then she’ll call him by another name – Dad.
Native Canadian Newsletter Feb, 2002
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Holding onto a Chain of Love
By Gord Atkinson
When Shawna Ackabee was a little girl her auntie's gift to her was
a silver necklace with a picture of Jesus attached to it. It also showed
a beautiful sunrise coming over the horizon. But more than the gift
she was unwrapping, it was the words that her aunt used that helped
carry her through the troubled,"She told me that she cared for
me, "said shawna, now 17. "I've never forgotten that moment."
Those three words "I love you" were seldom heard on the Grassy
Narrows Ojibwa First Nation where Shawn grew up. “I will always
love my auntie,” she says. In later years, Shawna volunteered at
various functions for her researve, but also found herself drinking
and partying with many of her friends. She felt her teen years slipping
way from her. Longing to get away from all the alcohol and drugs, she
left her mother, stepdad, two brothers, two sisters and her beloved
aunt Emily and boarded a Greyhound destined for Toronto.
The culminating moment came for her following a minor scuffle outside
a Kenora shopping mall in which she emerged having lost her auntie’s
gift.
“I felt like I lost my auntie,” she said. She was unskilled
and uneducated for the street life when she arrived in the big city,
but it seemed like that squalid existence was her only option. For a
period of about eight months she lived out of her knapsack and slept
on hard sidewalks receiving comfort from the hot soups, blankets and
kind words handed out by Street Patrol and Street Help volunteers.
As a young girl her nights were fraught with paranoia, until she met
her boyfriend Robert, another Native youth who made his home on the
streets. “I never slept very well while I was living on the street,”
she said. “I was always afraid of getting roughed up by a stranger.”
Last December Shawna went home for Christmas. When her step dad picked
her up at the bus depot in Kenora, she gave him an early Christmas Present
“I hugged him and told him that I missed everybody in the family,”
she said.
Shawna does soapstone carvings and knows how to play a guitar. She
plans to save her money so she can buy her very own guitar. She believes
her future is in Toronto where she now lives in an apartment and plans
to return to high school in September. While other girl’s her age
dream of modeling or acting careers, Shawna wants to go to university
to become a forensic scientist. “It interests me,” she said
about her career choice. “I will be tracing clues and connecting
them to the truth.”
When Shawna graduates from high school in 2003 she would like to see
her entire family at her graduation ceremonies. And, who knows, maybe
her aunt Emily will give Shawna another chain of love as a graduation
gift. She always remembers her aunt Emily telling her to be strong and
never give up. “That’s what I’m doing now,’ smiles
the talented Ojibwa girl.
© Native Canadian Newsletter Feb 2002
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By Gord Atkinson
Three-year-old Erica Philips- Cada wasn’t fooled
for one cold polar minute. She looked the man in the red suit straight
in the eyes, above his big white beard and knew it wasn’t Santa.
“He’s not Santa.” She said knowledgeably. “He’s
Santa’s helper,” she continued. “Santa is in the North
Pole with his reindeer,” she explained.
Phillips-Cada was one of about 350 children who came
to the Native Canadian Center Of Toronto on December 2, to frolic
and receive a gift from Santa.
Native Child and Family Services sponsors the popular event each year.
“I told him to tell Santa I wanted a Christmas tree,” said
Erica. “I’ve been a super good girl,” She said sweetly.
“She has been good,” confirmed her grandmother, Kim Philips,
an administrative assistant at Miziwe Biik Aboriginal Employment and
Training. Philips, 42 said all she wanted for Christmas was for all
the children to be happy.
All of the who attended the function listened to and
sang Christmas carols; Played games and each enjoyed a hearty turkey
dinner with all the trimmings. “I told him I wanted a drum,”
said Erica’s six-year-old brother Dakota. “Because they
make a lot of noise,” he said, while smiling mischievously at
his mom who was sitting right across from him. For Dennis Phillips-Cada,
he had his mind set on getting a scooter for Christmas. The three-year-old
was also one of many Children who asked for lots of snow.
“A lot of the kids are asking for scooters and
computers,” Santa said after the gathering. “I tell them
my elves are making them.” However, he would not confirm or deny
if he was Santa when asked by a reporter. “Santa is real,”
he said before dashing off to feed his reindeer that were resting
in a secret location north of the mega city. It was too mild to bring
the reindeer into the city,” he said.
Meanwhile, a spokesperson in the North Pole said during
a Phone interview said Santa’s century old snowmaking machine
has been malfunctioning in recent years, but technicians are working
around the clock to have it repaired before the big day. “A lot
of kids ask for snow,” he said. “We are hoping to give them
a white Christmas.” The NCCT will be hosting its annual Christmas
Dinner on December 16,2000. For more information
About the events call the NCCT at (416) 964-9087.
Native Canadian Newsletter Feb 2002
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Native Elder Denied Birth Certificate
By Gord Atkinson
Toronto – So this is what it has come down to… oblivion.
Mohawk Elder James Mason, 82,says that officially he doesn’t even
exist. “Three hundred years ago the whole continent belonged to
us”he said, after his latest attempt to obtain a Canadian birth
certificate
and status card. Now I don’t even exist.
His 21- year old granddaughter Marcia says he exists as she throws
her arms around him. His life story says too. Mason was born in Toronto
Ont. April 6, 1920, but never got to know his parents. His dad had died
a month before he was born and mother passed away after a month he was
brought in to this world. For the next twelve years he was ‘kicked
around from one place to another’ but upon learning he was going
to be placed in an Indian Residential School he left home. “I didn’t
want anything to do with that school,” he says.
He was now on his own and knew he had to work hard to make a living
for him self. So he packed up his belongings and left Toronto to pick
berries and vegetables somewhere in southern Ontario. When the doors
of the Native Canadian Centre of Toronto (NCCT) first cracked open at
its current location Mason was the first security guard. He worked there
for there 20 years and managed to raise a growing family. But before
the Mohawk Elder was a truck driver who hauled heavy loads right across
North America.
As the years flew by he became a jack-of-all trades who retired with
an impressive resume. He wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty and
he wasn’t afraid of heights. He was a lumber jack, did a fourteen
year stint in steel work and even drove transport. “You name it
I’ve done it,” he says with a proud smile. In 1968, after
his wife Cora Jean Davis died his life was shattered. He lost the only
woman he ever loved. He returned to the work force about four years
later accepting a job at the old Native Centre on Beverly St. It was
a job he’d keep for fourteen years.
By 1972, he started to volunteer at correctional institutions and Eventually
got a second job at an organization called ‘Springboard’-
Transporting visitors to correctional institutes to see inmates. Mason
raised four boys and a girl and has 16 grandchildren. “He never
relied on welfare,” says Jay Mason, one of his sons. “He worked
hard all his life,” he continues. “He helped build southern
Ontario by clearing land and became an ironworker who helped erect the
buildings and bridges.”
In 1992 Henry Jack man, Ontario’s then Lieutenant Governor, rewarded
Mason with an Ontario Medal for Good Citizenship. Recently, Mason received
his temporary Ontario Health Insurance Plan (OHIP) but even had trouble
getting that because he never had a birth certificate. “They told
me to go back to the country I was born in to get my legal documents,”
he says. “What country do you think I was born in,” was his
response.
Meanwhile, Abrigional Legal Services of Toronto (ALST) has taken over
his quest to secure a Birth Certificate and Indian Status card. But
Mason Isn’t confident the government will give him the identification
he needs. “It’s a loosing battle,” he says. Charlene
Tehkummah, a community legal worker, says ALST has been working on the
case for two years. “Its frustrating” she says, about bureaucratic
red tape she has gone through. Mason, a valued community member and
regular visitor to the Native Canadian Centre says the greatest reward
is not the kind you put in your pocket. “It’s the kind you
put in your
heart and carry to your grave.”
Native Canadian Newsletter Feb,2002
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She helps them make it through the night
By Gord Atkinson
After two years of sleeping on heated concrete Maryjane Tait knows what
she wants - her own home. And ironically, the Ojibwa teen is getting
it by helping the homeless. Maryjane, 17, is the newest member of the
Gimmie Shelter team, a mobile outreach service that assists Toronto's
homeless in moving from street to shelter. In November alone, 168 homeless
people across the city were assisted.
This program encounters some unique challenges since it relies on the
persuasiveness of the workers to get the client to accept the offered
shelter, because a lot of street people distrust social agencies. Thats
where Maryjane's enthusiasm and warmth come in handy. She who has experienced
so much of the rigors of the winter night seems the perfect person to
assist others caught in the homeless trap. She knows what it takes to
make it through the sub-zero temperatures and how it feels to shiver
the night away under the wintry stars. Fantasies of being a superstar,
changing the world or having a Martha Stewart kitchen are not what Maryjane
is about. Hers is a basic goal. She just wants to get out of that arctic
sleeping Bag, the four blankets stretched underneath and trade in the
hard concrete for a real mattress. Maryjane was a sucessful graduate
of the six-month Completing the Circle Program offered at Native Men's
Residents (Na-Me-Res on Vaughan Rd.)
She excelled at her assigned tasks, including the afternoon Street
Help outreach placement," said Theresa Burning,supervisor of counseling
services at the men's shelter. "I'm not tired," she said,
on a recent homeless seeking excursion. "I went to sleep early
last night," she continued. "As long as
I'm working, I'm happy." Maryjane said she is determined to take
the same path as Herman and Cindy Francis - a formally homeless couple
who own their own van and live in a rented house in west-end Toronto.
Herman has a full-time job and Cindy makes and sells her own Native
arts and crafts. The two are raising a family unassisted. "I respect
both of them,"Maryjane said.
She knows many, many people who have lived on the street for years.
"I can't up you them and say do you want my will power," she
said. "They 've got to do it themselves. But I can encourage them."
Maryjane puts $300.00 aside every pa cheque so she will be able to pay
first month's rent when she finds a suitable place. And she is keeping
her fingers crossed and praying that her boyfriend Derek finds employment.
"He (Derek) protects me." she said "Watch that girl go,"
said Briar Ames, coordinator of GimmieShelter. "She will be a leader
in the community." Gimmie Shelter is funded by Human Resources
Development Canada.
(HRDC), City of Toronto, Off the streets into shelters, (OSIS) and
Miziwe Biik Aborigional and Training.
Requests for services can be made through the Street Helpline
at: (416) 392-3777
Native Canadian Newsletter Feb,2002
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Julia Valencia’s Hockey Career
Forged In Steel
By Gord Atkinson
Patrick Roy… Felix Potvin…Julia Valencia? A
towering winger unleashes a bullet and Valencia’s big glove goes
Into a blur. He shoots, she saves. The crack of the slap shot and the
smack in the leather form a single loud impact. Valencia, 18, of Mississauga
made 22 saves, that night at the Lambton Arena in Toronto’s west
end in a losing caus e- she let in seven others.
After the game, the only women in the five team men’s
hockey league smiles at her dad and hugs him. “She really works
hard,” said Carlos Valencia. “I think she as a bit nervous
for the first game,” The big slap shot was clocked at just under
100mph. ‘Those hard ones can burn the hand for a second or two,”
said the 5ft-1 goaltender, after emerging from her private dressing
room. “I still have a bruise on my thumb from another I took.”
In most Canadian families it’s the young boy who
inherits his dad’s hockey stick. Not so with Team Valencia. About
four decades earlier it was Julia’s mother who was stopping flying
rubber in a three team Native co-ed team in James Bay, Ont. “In
those days we didn’t have equipment,” said Celine Valencia,
about her bruising hockey playing days. “All I had was a hockey
stick,” recalled the bubbly 45 year-old. Celine was the only eight
years old when she first started playing the game.
Friday nights the younger Valencia catches fast moving
hockey pucks for a team called Council Fire, but the rest of the week
she works at catching dreams. Valencia has taken a year off school to
work in the Gift shop at the Native Canadian Center of Toronto, selling
everything from Medicine bags to dream catchers. Her grade average in
her graduating year was 94 per cent and her goal against average is
4.2.
“She really stands her ground,” said playing
coach Thomas Wemigwans. The playoffs begin in March. “I think we
can win it all if we pick it up a notch,” he continued. Council
Fire is currently in second place in the York Men’s League. Valencia
is welding of two cultures. Her dad is an immigrant from Ecuador. Mom
is Cree form Moosonee. In fact, her hockey career was forged in steel,
as both of her parents are certified welders. When Julia was 11yrs old
her father’s gift to her was a pair of skates. They were the heavy
black leather kind that most Canadian boys are given. So while most
girls Her age were dreaming triple toe loops, Valencia was living her
dream By protecting the net in a girl’s league. She has accumulated
numerous hockey and soccer awards over the years.
In April of 1996 City TV named her Midas Player of the
week. In the summer Julia keeps fit by playing soccer. She speaks some
Spanish And just recently started learning about her Cree side. It started
when she first Visited the NCCT in 1998. For Valencia, life is more
than just stopping goals. She will be going to college this to begin
a three-year course. “I’m hoping they have a hockey team,”
smiles the talented net minder.
Native Canadian Newsletter Feb 2002
