In 2001, Nunavik politician and social commentator Zebedee Nungak presented a paper at the Human Image Conference at London's British Museum. His paper was entitled "Qallunology: The Inuit Study of White People". It was basically a comical commentary on European and North American people's obsessions with other cultures in general, and Inuit culture in particular. It pointed out peculiarities inherent in white people's behaviour, and also made fun of how Inuit saw white people as well.
Ever since I came across this article while browsing back issues of Inuktitut Magazine (I am most certainly one of those people Nungak was poking fun at), I have used it in my English classes to see what my students think about me and my kin.
I've also been known to take the piss out of "white people" and how we treat/change/observe/help/ruin the cultures that we so eagerly desire to encounter. I'm not talking about everyday white people who go about their business doing white things and living white lives. I tend to leave them alone. When I make fun of "white people", I am talking about that thin slice of the Euro-North American population who purposefully displace themselves and land themselves in the midst of another culture, ostensibly to observe, live the adventure, make money, or "help" (or any combination of these characteristics). Which is to say, I like to make fun of myself.
"White people" don't even necessarily have to be white, per se. A good friend of mine is an Egyptian, Venezuelan, Cuban-American Jew who lives up North and has an Inuit family. He is a psychologist who is doing great work with the kids and with researching things like the social determinants of health. He once told me, "I had to come to Nunavik before I could be considered a white guy." I digress.
I have a dog. Like every other white person who moves to Nunavik, I adopted an abandoned puppy. Some people adopt non-abandoned puppies, thereby landing themselves in a lot of trouble. I had heard as much when I moved to Nunavik. At the KSB orientation, the pedagogical counselors warned us that we would be drawn to adopting these cute little things, and advised us not to do so in the first two weeks. I was determined not to be one of these people, so I waited at least three.
I was sitting around with a bunch of other "white people" when I was trying to think of a name for my dog. At the time, she had dark circles around her eyes, resembling sunglasses. Another teacher who had spent the previous year in Kangirsujuaq, and had picked up as much Qallunuktitut as any other sensitive newcomer who puts in a half-assed effort (but no more) to learn the local language, suggested "Iggaak". Perfect! The name of the traditional Inuit sunglasses.
After a while, the name started to weigh heavily on me. Was it okay to use an Inuktitut word to name my dog? Was that disrespectful? Had I appropriated someone's voice? All of those post-colonial theorists I had read in university would clearly have shunned my choice of names. I then realized that no one really cared, and it was probably okay.
When I would bring my dog to Montreal dog parks, sometimes I would want to just sit there and not talk to anyone. Inevitably, some well-meaning owner of a less-beautiful canine would ask me about my extraordinarily stunning dog. Soon, this white person would be asking me about her name, and where it came from, and soon enough, a plethora of questions about Inuit life, language, and culture. Even now, after five years, I feel basically uninformed about these subjects, so these were not conversations in which I really wanted to take part.
It almost made me want to change her name. Well, that, and (mostly) the fact that the circles around her eyes have faded, thus making her name confusing even to Inuit. I tried to find something that sounded a lot like Iggaak and was never really successful. Maybe I didn't try very hard, but her name remains the same.
Last year, when I got back from my paternity leave, I was fortunate enough to meet Jacob, the guy who replaced me, and then actually went on to replace Sophie. He and I are a lot alike. He's an intelligent, sensitive guy. He has light brown hair and green eyes. We both went to Concordia and studied history. We even basically have the same name for crying out loud. And, we both like to make fun of ourselves. Once, when we were sitting in the staff room both wearing green sweaters, jeans, and beards, he said to me, "James, can I tell you something? I've been thinking that we're too similar. I'm going to shave."
Anyway, in his first few weeks here, he too adopted a dog. She was in pretty rough shape, and his sensitive side got the best of him. He took her in and nursed her back to health. During the Easter Break, he brought her to live with his parents in Hudson. He called her Nuka, which is short for Nukapi, which he thought meant little sister, but it turns out is a misnomer as well.
After the summer break, he brought Nuka back to Kangirsujuaq. On his first day back, I noticed that he was calling her "Rosie". I asked him, "what's that all about?"
He told me that one of his friends took him to task for being such a "white person". He asked him, "why would you name your dog in Inuktitut? It's not like you speak Inuktitut. If you were to go to Samoa and live there, would you get a bunch of tattoos on your face? That's ridiculous!"
I stood there, rubbing my arms and laughing. We both looked at each other and said simultaneously, "white people".
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Evie
When Noah was a baby, a couple of ladies from Iujivik and Povungnituk came to teach the students at our school how to do traditional throat singing and drum dancing. They came into my class to give my students a workshop on these and other aspects of traditional Inuit culture. Both women were energetic, beautiful and talented. They represented real role models who my students could emulate. It was a fantastic exercise put on by the Avataq Cultural Institute, and I wish that there were many more projects like this one.
One of the things they did was to teach the children a song, which has become a commonly used lullaby in my house, called "aya". It's a tale about how an owl gets a new pair of boots and is showing them off to his friends and falls down; a cautionary fable about not being too cocky. Anyway, Sophie brought Noah into the class to take part in the workshop, and one of the animators, Evie Mark from Ivujivik, softly sang the lullaby to Noah. He LOVED it.
More than a year later, the Montreal Symphony Orchestra came to Kangiqsujuaq. Kent Nagano, in partnership with Avataq, brought a chamber ensemble to Nunavik for a three-date tour of the region. In Kangiqsujuaq, we were lucky enough to play host to one of these shows. Along with the chamber ensemble came Evie Mark and Tarqalik Partridge, two throat singers who performed with the MSO musicians in some pieces composed by Alexina Louie. It was a fantastic experience.
As the show ended, everyone approached the stage to congratulate the performers and to their collect autographs. There were hundreds of people mulling about in the post-performance euphoria.We approached Evie Mark as there were literally dozens of people surrounding her. We recounted the story of her singing the lullaby to Noah and how much he loved it, and to our joy and surprise, she sang it to him again. Right in front of everyone.
When Sophie became pregnant, both of us thought she was going to have a boy. Her pregnancy was similar, her belly looked the same, and we sort of just felt it. So much so that when Evie emerged in the birthing room, I announced her sex to Sophie like this, "It's a ... girl?" Seriously.
We weren't caught totally by surprise, as some couples are. We had prepared both boys' and girls' names in advance. For boys, we had narrowed it down to three names: Manu, Miro, and Leo. For girls, however, there was hardly a doubt. There was only one name upon which we could both agree: Evie.
As I told you in the last post, naming your child after someone is a big deal in Inuit culture. We told Evie Mark we had just given her a new saunik the way that everyone tells everyone everything these days (Facebook), and she was ecstatic. Since that time, Evie has visited us several times. She has made Evie not one but two parkas, given her a dress, and showered her with gifts and copious amounts of love. Evie (Jr.) has yet to return the same intensity of affection, but she has warmed up to her over the course of her visits. Noah, on the other hand, has fallen head over heels for her sister's saunik. Every time she visits, Noah ends up pretending to be a panther, continually stalking Evie, his prey. Come to think of it, Sophie and I both have a pretty intense crush on her too, but of course we hold back on the feline advances.
We hope with all sincerity that this relationship will continue after we leave. Evie lives in Montreal, so we can't see why it wouldn't. It appears that being someone's saunik is extremely meaningful to Inuit, and since getting to know Evie, it has meant a great deal to us too.
One of the things they did was to teach the children a song, which has become a commonly used lullaby in my house, called "aya". It's a tale about how an owl gets a new pair of boots and is showing them off to his friends and falls down; a cautionary fable about not being too cocky. Anyway, Sophie brought Noah into the class to take part in the workshop, and one of the animators, Evie Mark from Ivujivik, softly sang the lullaby to Noah. He LOVED it.
More than a year later, the Montreal Symphony Orchestra came to Kangiqsujuaq. Kent Nagano, in partnership with Avataq, brought a chamber ensemble to Nunavik for a three-date tour of the region. In Kangiqsujuaq, we were lucky enough to play host to one of these shows. Along with the chamber ensemble came Evie Mark and Tarqalik Partridge, two throat singers who performed with the MSO musicians in some pieces composed by Alexina Louie. It was a fantastic experience.
As the show ended, everyone approached the stage to congratulate the performers and to their collect autographs. There were hundreds of people mulling about in the post-performance euphoria.We approached Evie Mark as there were literally dozens of people surrounding her. We recounted the story of her singing the lullaby to Noah and how much he loved it, and to our joy and surprise, she sang it to him again. Right in front of everyone.
When Sophie became pregnant, both of us thought she was going to have a boy. Her pregnancy was similar, her belly looked the same, and we sort of just felt it. So much so that when Evie emerged in the birthing room, I announced her sex to Sophie like this, "It's a ... girl?" Seriously.
We weren't caught totally by surprise, as some couples are. We had prepared both boys' and girls' names in advance. For boys, we had narrowed it down to three names: Manu, Miro, and Leo. For girls, however, there was hardly a doubt. There was only one name upon which we could both agree: Evie.
As I told you in the last post, naming your child after someone is a big deal in Inuit culture. We told Evie Mark we had just given her a new saunik the way that everyone tells everyone everything these days (Facebook), and she was ecstatic. Since that time, Evie has visited us several times. She has made Evie not one but two parkas, given her a dress, and showered her with gifts and copious amounts of love. Evie (Jr.) has yet to return the same intensity of affection, but she has warmed up to her over the course of her visits. Noah, on the other hand, has fallen head over heels for her sister's saunik. Every time she visits, Noah ends up pretending to be a panther, continually stalking Evie, his prey. Come to think of it, Sophie and I both have a pretty intense crush on her too, but of course we hold back on the feline advances.
We hope with all sincerity that this relationship will continue after we leave. Evie lives in Montreal, so we can't see why it wouldn't. It appears that being someone's saunik is extremely meaningful to Inuit, and since getting to know Evie, it has meant a great deal to us too.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Noah
I've told you about Evie's namesake. Evie Mark: throat singer, mother, all around great person (and hot). However, I've never told you why Noah is named Noah.
He too has a saunik. Noah Annahatak is a local hunter and guide for the Pingualuit National Park. I met him playing hockey in 2006. I was teaching his daughter at the time, and he often asked me to tell him if I needed any help with his daughter's attendance or behaviour. It was years before I took him up on his offer. In my first year, I could have used all the help anyone had offered, but I was really too embarrassed by the state of my class and my teaching to explain its daily operations to the parents of my students.
Anyway, Noah is a man's man. He is an exceptional hunter, plays hockey, and even usually enters a team in the Ivakkak, the region's dogsled race that runs every two years. 2007 was no exception. The race was to run from Quaqtaq, which is 180 km east of Kangirsujuaq, to Ivujivik, some 300 km to the northwest. It ran right through the village, to much fan fare.
The first days of the race were not kind to its mushers. It was disgustingly cold and windy (-50 plus the windchill, thus making it almost as cold as Steven Harper's shriveled and dead heart). The race was delayed two or three days due to the inclement weather, and the teams waited for reprieve in tents and igloos out on the land (can you even imagine?)
The night that they finally made it to Kangirsujuaq, there was a big feast and party in the municipal gym celebrating their arrival and the revival of such an important part of Inuit culture. After the festivities, I stood next to Noah as he told me this story (whose details may not be exactly correct due to four years of memory[loss]).
On the second day of racing, the blizzard blew in. Some of the teams' dogs were in pretty rough shape due to the tough terrain and the ridiculous weather. Jusippi Qisiiq, another local musher, and his partner, stopped their team short of the checkpoint because they could risk going no further. They set up their tent and got their kerosene stove going to try to ward off the cold and wait out the storm.
During the race, the teams have some support. There are snowmobiles who follow them and track their progress, and each team has a radio which they use to communicate with race officials and their competitors. Noah and his son Elijah were safely in their tent at the checkpoint, but certainly worried about some of the other teams who had not made it. He was relieved when his friend Jusippi checked in that they had taken refuge and were safe.
A team passed Jusippi, still trying to forge its way on to the checkpoint. Some time later, they too decided to set up camp too because their dogs and bodies were exhausted. They checked in with race officials, and competitors who were horrified to hear the news.
"We've set up our tent, but we've run out of fuel for our stove. Our dogs are extremely tired and so are we. We're wet, we're cold, and our stove is going out. We cannot keep the snow from invading our tent. We keep shoveling it out, but it keeps coming back in."
When Noah told me this, I revealed my naivete. "So, did someone go back by skidoo and help them?"
He looked at me with surprise. "Have you ever gone anywhere by skidoo in a blizzard when it's -50?"
"Uhhhhhhh, no?"
It was at that point that I realized how serious he was. Up until then we stood side by side, staring at the kids running around in the gym. As if to emphasize the bleakness of the situation, he turned to faced me.
"So, what happened?"
Noah returned to the story. He and all the competitors and race officials heard the anxious announcements of the stranded mushers. They all felt extremely helpless and began to imagine the worst. Jusippi, on the other hand, decided to take matters into his own hands. He left the relatively comfortable confines of his tent, aroused his exhausted dogs, and risked life and limb venturing blindly into a blizzard, in what seemed like a vain attempt to help his comrades who were in deep trouble.
Astonishingly, he succeeded. He proved able to lead his dogs (or the other way around) to the team in need. When he arrived, they were both exhausted, sweaty, cold, and still. But still alive. He refueled their stove, and gave them something to eat and drink.
"He's a real hero," Noah said to me as he stared into my eyes, even as his began to almost imperceptibly tear up.
I recounted the story to Sophie later that night. Although it was months before we actually settled on naming our son Noah, I think his fate had probably been decided at that moment.
Sophie and I didn't realize what a big deal it is to name someone after someone else in the Inuit culture. We hadn't asked permission or anything, and the first few times I saw Noah upon returning after the birth, I felt a bit awkward.
Once, Noah asked me straight up, "did you name him after me?"
"Uhhh, yes," I said, embarrassed and looking at the ground and acting like a child.
"James, it's okay," he reassured me. I looked up, and I think I sensed some pride in his posture that was virtually undetectable.
Over the years, however, the clumsiness of the situation has melted away. Last Hallowe'en, we took Noah (Jr.) to Noah's (Sr.) house. We walked in.
"Sauningai!" he said to my son.
"Aa." Noah responded. "Sauningai." I don't think I hid my pride as well as Noah had.
He too has a saunik. Noah Annahatak is a local hunter and guide for the Pingualuit National Park. I met him playing hockey in 2006. I was teaching his daughter at the time, and he often asked me to tell him if I needed any help with his daughter's attendance or behaviour. It was years before I took him up on his offer. In my first year, I could have used all the help anyone had offered, but I was really too embarrassed by the state of my class and my teaching to explain its daily operations to the parents of my students.
Anyway, Noah is a man's man. He is an exceptional hunter, plays hockey, and even usually enters a team in the Ivakkak, the region's dogsled race that runs every two years. 2007 was no exception. The race was to run from Quaqtaq, which is 180 km east of Kangirsujuaq, to Ivujivik, some 300 km to the northwest. It ran right through the village, to much fan fare.
The first days of the race were not kind to its mushers. It was disgustingly cold and windy (-50 plus the windchill, thus making it almost as cold as Steven Harper's shriveled and dead heart). The race was delayed two or three days due to the inclement weather, and the teams waited for reprieve in tents and igloos out on the land (can you even imagine?)
The night that they finally made it to Kangirsujuaq, there was a big feast and party in the municipal gym celebrating their arrival and the revival of such an important part of Inuit culture. After the festivities, I stood next to Noah as he told me this story (whose details may not be exactly correct due to four years of memory[loss]).
On the second day of racing, the blizzard blew in. Some of the teams' dogs were in pretty rough shape due to the tough terrain and the ridiculous weather. Jusippi Qisiiq, another local musher, and his partner, stopped their team short of the checkpoint because they could risk going no further. They set up their tent and got their kerosene stove going to try to ward off the cold and wait out the storm.
During the race, the teams have some support. There are snowmobiles who follow them and track their progress, and each team has a radio which they use to communicate with race officials and their competitors. Noah and his son Elijah were safely in their tent at the checkpoint, but certainly worried about some of the other teams who had not made it. He was relieved when his friend Jusippi checked in that they had taken refuge and were safe.
A team passed Jusippi, still trying to forge its way on to the checkpoint. Some time later, they too decided to set up camp too because their dogs and bodies were exhausted. They checked in with race officials, and competitors who were horrified to hear the news.
"We've set up our tent, but we've run out of fuel for our stove. Our dogs are extremely tired and so are we. We're wet, we're cold, and our stove is going out. We cannot keep the snow from invading our tent. We keep shoveling it out, but it keeps coming back in."
When Noah told me this, I revealed my naivete. "So, did someone go back by skidoo and help them?"
He looked at me with surprise. "Have you ever gone anywhere by skidoo in a blizzard when it's -50?"
"Uhhhhhhh, no?"
It was at that point that I realized how serious he was. Up until then we stood side by side, staring at the kids running around in the gym. As if to emphasize the bleakness of the situation, he turned to faced me.
"So, what happened?"
Noah returned to the story. He and all the competitors and race officials heard the anxious announcements of the stranded mushers. They all felt extremely helpless and began to imagine the worst. Jusippi, on the other hand, decided to take matters into his own hands. He left the relatively comfortable confines of his tent, aroused his exhausted dogs, and risked life and limb venturing blindly into a blizzard, in what seemed like a vain attempt to help his comrades who were in deep trouble.
Astonishingly, he succeeded. He proved able to lead his dogs (or the other way around) to the team in need. When he arrived, they were both exhausted, sweaty, cold, and still. But still alive. He refueled their stove, and gave them something to eat and drink.
"He's a real hero," Noah said to me as he stared into my eyes, even as his began to almost imperceptibly tear up.
I recounted the story to Sophie later that night. Although it was months before we actually settled on naming our son Noah, I think his fate had probably been decided at that moment.
Sophie and I didn't realize what a big deal it is to name someone after someone else in the Inuit culture. We hadn't asked permission or anything, and the first few times I saw Noah upon returning after the birth, I felt a bit awkward.
Once, Noah asked me straight up, "did you name him after me?"
"Uhhh, yes," I said, embarrassed and looking at the ground and acting like a child.
"James, it's okay," he reassured me. I looked up, and I think I sensed some pride in his posture that was virtually undetectable.
Over the years, however, the clumsiness of the situation has melted away. Last Hallowe'en, we took Noah (Jr.) to Noah's (Sr.) house. We walked in.
"Sauningai!" he said to my son.
"Aa." Noah responded. "Sauningai." I don't think I hid my pride as well as Noah had.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Slave Lake
Last night, I was half-asleep when Sophie asked me, "What's going on in Slave Lake?"
A friend of mine had posted on Facebook that he hoped "everyone was okay." I remembered having read something earlier about the winds in Alberta, and we quickly visited the Environment Canada website. Sophie navigated to the Slave Lake page (which is the one I use to check the weather in my hometown, because EC doesn't have a station there) and we were both surprised by this icon with some flames and a bunch of smoke in place of the sun, clouds, or very often in the case of Kangirsujuaq, blowing snow.
I called my dad, and he told me that his neighbour's brother had just been evacuated from Atikameg (one of the outlying Cree reservations near High Prairie). He had heard that the hospital and police barracks in Slave Lake were gone, everyone had been asked to leave their homes, but at the time, could not leave the town of 7000 because the fires were burning along the highway in all three directions out of town. Read about it here.
Since our conversation, I have had a lump in my throat. It appears that a piece of my childhood is going up in flames even as I write this.
Slave Lake and my hometown High Prairie are situated at either end of the 110 km long Lesser Slave Lake (actually High Prairie is landlocked but I spent so much time on that lake that the area is all melded together in my mind). There are no major towns in between them, and are basically neighbours.
Naturally, this leads to a healthy rivalry between the two towns. The rivalry was most exciting (at least to me) when it came to minor hockey. We loved playing Slave Lake, which was a much bigger town than High Prairie. At one point, Slave Lake, which is really situated in a no-man's-land, decided to change leagues from one that encompassed the Peace Country (and High Prairie) to another further South. Although it was early in my adolescence, I realized that this had implications for us. We would only see Slave Lake in tournaments, and not during our regular league play. I remember being disappointed even then.
One of my former teammates families moved to Slave Lake mid-season, and I remember feeling let down, even betrayed, by something well beyond any of our fourteen year old abilities to control anything. The next time we played Slave Lake, we gave it to Kelly as hard as we could, and shook hands with him after the game remembering the good times.
The pinnacle of the rivalry happened during the annual home-and-home series between the two towns' principal public high schools: The E.W. Pratt Chargers from High Prairie, and the Roland Michener Rams from Slave Lake. It was always an intense match-up between the two teams with plenty of tension, energy, and fisticuffs.
Having attended Catholic school, I experienced this rivalry from the stands. Throughout my later teenage years, we travelled back and forth between communities supporting the Chargers. I'm not sure who won or lost most of these games (late-teens in Northern Alberta have been known to indulge from time to time), but I do remember one thing. The Chargers' faithful had come up with a clever, yet vulgar, chant to taunt the Roland Michener players. Imagine a small arena bursting with all of a town's young, enthralled by the tension and energy, screaming their mantra at the top of their lungs (cover the kiddies' ears), "RAMS FUCK SHEEP! RAMS FUCK SHEEP!"
I'm sorry Slave Lake. I hope you can bounce back.
A friend of mine had posted on Facebook that he hoped "everyone was okay." I remembered having read something earlier about the winds in Alberta, and we quickly visited the Environment Canada website. Sophie navigated to the Slave Lake page (which is the one I use to check the weather in my hometown, because EC doesn't have a station there) and we were both surprised by this icon with some flames and a bunch of smoke in place of the sun, clouds, or very often in the case of Kangirsujuaq, blowing snow.
I called my dad, and he told me that his neighbour's brother had just been evacuated from Atikameg (one of the outlying Cree reservations near High Prairie). He had heard that the hospital and police barracks in Slave Lake were gone, everyone had been asked to leave their homes, but at the time, could not leave the town of 7000 because the fires were burning along the highway in all three directions out of town. Read about it here.
Since our conversation, I have had a lump in my throat. It appears that a piece of my childhood is going up in flames even as I write this.
Slave Lake and my hometown High Prairie are situated at either end of the 110 km long Lesser Slave Lake (actually High Prairie is landlocked but I spent so much time on that lake that the area is all melded together in my mind). There are no major towns in between them, and are basically neighbours.
Naturally, this leads to a healthy rivalry between the two towns. The rivalry was most exciting (at least to me) when it came to minor hockey. We loved playing Slave Lake, which was a much bigger town than High Prairie. At one point, Slave Lake, which is really situated in a no-man's-land, decided to change leagues from one that encompassed the Peace Country (and High Prairie) to another further South. Although it was early in my adolescence, I realized that this had implications for us. We would only see Slave Lake in tournaments, and not during our regular league play. I remember being disappointed even then.
One of my former teammates families moved to Slave Lake mid-season, and I remember feeling let down, even betrayed, by something well beyond any of our fourteen year old abilities to control anything. The next time we played Slave Lake, we gave it to Kelly as hard as we could, and shook hands with him after the game remembering the good times.
The pinnacle of the rivalry happened during the annual home-and-home series between the two towns' principal public high schools: The E.W. Pratt Chargers from High Prairie, and the Roland Michener Rams from Slave Lake. It was always an intense match-up between the two teams with plenty of tension, energy, and fisticuffs.
Having attended Catholic school, I experienced this rivalry from the stands. Throughout my later teenage years, we travelled back and forth between communities supporting the Chargers. I'm not sure who won or lost most of these games (late-teens in Northern Alberta have been known to indulge from time to time), but I do remember one thing. The Chargers' faithful had come up with a clever, yet vulgar, chant to taunt the Roland Michener players. Imagine a small arena bursting with all of a town's young, enthralled by the tension and energy, screaming their mantra at the top of their lungs (cover the kiddies' ears), "RAMS FUCK SHEEP! RAMS FUCK SHEEP!"
I'm sorry Slave Lake. I hope you can bounce back.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
First Kiss
I was working at the student's residence the first time I kissed Sophie. One of the animators had gone to Kuujjuaq to prepare for the opening of another residence, and I was spilling off his partner for a week save for the time I was teaching at the school. I thought it was going to be a piece of cake, because I didn't have to do much.
The senior animator made supper before he left, and all I had to do was come in, hang out with the students, lock up at 11:30, and wake the kids up at 8:00. The first six days passed by without incident. Everyone had respected the curfew and I had had a thoroughly enjoyable time. On my final day, the day Sophie and I shared our first kiss, one of the students was still missing when 11:30 rolled around. I locked the door and prepared to go to sleep. Promptly, at 11:35 I heard the missing student banging on the door. The animator had told me not to open the door under any circumstances after the curfew had passed, but it had just been five minutes, I thought to myself, "I'll cut the kid a break."
I opened the door to see a young man, who was visibly drunk at the door. He demanded that I let him in to "see his cousin". I refused. He forced his way in between the two doors and asked me, "do you want me to fuck you up?"
"No." I replied honestly.
"Do you want me to fuck you up?" he repeated.
"Uhhh, get out of here."
By this time, a group of students had amassed behind me, and they stood there, watching. I looked back and told the crowd to call the police. Nobody budged. I began to feel isolated.
"If you call the cops, I'm going to kill you," the young man stammered, as he made and awkward gesture towards me. A bottle of vodka fell out of his pocket. I looked down at it. It was a 40 oz. of Smirnoff.
As I looked up, I saw it coming. A slow, uncontrolled left hand approached my right cheek. For some reason, I found myself unable to move. I've only ever been in one real fight (which I won, but it hurt so bad nevertheless that I decided at that point to try to use my mouth to get out of sticky situations). His left landed squarely, but surprisingly softly on my cheek.
I grabbed the bottle and pushed him out the door. He grabbed onto a handle on the inside of the door. I hit his fingers but he didn't lose his grip. I grabbed the same handle and slammed the door on his forearm but yet he did not let go. I did it repeatedly until he finally relented, and the incident was over.
During the melee, one of the students had actually called the police. They came many minutes later and took a statement. They told me to come in the next day and press charges for assault.
I was uncomfortable with the prospect of pressing charges against someone who had done so little damage. I had only been in the village for a few weeks, and I didn't want to ruffle anyone's feathers. In addition, even a few hours later, I understood that I could have handled the situation much more confidently and without incident if I had just pushed his drunk ass out the door to begin with. On the other hand, I didn't want the guy to feel he could come to the student's residence in such a state at such a time and hit me in the face and get away with it.
I decided to consult some of the leaders of the school community about what I should do. Without fail, they all told me to press charges. One of them told me that he was a troubled kid who constantly did bad things to good people. She told me several stories about what he had done in the past which had gone unpunished.
Only one person, the other residence animator, told me to do otherwise. "He was just drunk. Forget about it, James," he told me calmly.
I felt even more uncomfortable about going to the police after hearing about the other things he had done. However, after school, I found myself sitting across a desk from a police officer, recounting the events from the night before. The young officer quietly took notes.
As soon as I finished telling him the story, his partner approached us and asked what was going on. The nice young man who had heard my story recounted the major events to his partner, who immediately blurted out something like, "Oh that guy? Good. We've been looking for an excuse to get him. Why don't we go find him and tie him up to the hitch of our truck and drag him back here?"
I got up, said "I'm dropping the charges," and walked out. I decided to take the animator's advice and forget about it.
Fortunately, in five years in Kangirsujuaq, this was the only time that I have experienced violence. It is truly not representative of my life here. If it was, I would never have decided to raise my son and daughter in the village.
Even more fortunately, it wasn't the only time I got to kiss Sophie.
The senior animator made supper before he left, and all I had to do was come in, hang out with the students, lock up at 11:30, and wake the kids up at 8:00. The first six days passed by without incident. Everyone had respected the curfew and I had had a thoroughly enjoyable time. On my final day, the day Sophie and I shared our first kiss, one of the students was still missing when 11:30 rolled around. I locked the door and prepared to go to sleep. Promptly, at 11:35 I heard the missing student banging on the door. The animator had told me not to open the door under any circumstances after the curfew had passed, but it had just been five minutes, I thought to myself, "I'll cut the kid a break."
I opened the door to see a young man, who was visibly drunk at the door. He demanded that I let him in to "see his cousin". I refused. He forced his way in between the two doors and asked me, "do you want me to fuck you up?"
"No." I replied honestly.
"Do you want me to fuck you up?" he repeated.
"Uhhh, get out of here."
By this time, a group of students had amassed behind me, and they stood there, watching. I looked back and told the crowd to call the police. Nobody budged. I began to feel isolated.
"If you call the cops, I'm going to kill you," the young man stammered, as he made and awkward gesture towards me. A bottle of vodka fell out of his pocket. I looked down at it. It was a 40 oz. of Smirnoff.
As I looked up, I saw it coming. A slow, uncontrolled left hand approached my right cheek. For some reason, I found myself unable to move. I've only ever been in one real fight (which I won, but it hurt so bad nevertheless that I decided at that point to try to use my mouth to get out of sticky situations). His left landed squarely, but surprisingly softly on my cheek.
I grabbed the bottle and pushed him out the door. He grabbed onto a handle on the inside of the door. I hit his fingers but he didn't lose his grip. I grabbed the same handle and slammed the door on his forearm but yet he did not let go. I did it repeatedly until he finally relented, and the incident was over.
During the melee, one of the students had actually called the police. They came many minutes later and took a statement. They told me to come in the next day and press charges for assault.
I was uncomfortable with the prospect of pressing charges against someone who had done so little damage. I had only been in the village for a few weeks, and I didn't want to ruffle anyone's feathers. In addition, even a few hours later, I understood that I could have handled the situation much more confidently and without incident if I had just pushed his drunk ass out the door to begin with. On the other hand, I didn't want the guy to feel he could come to the student's residence in such a state at such a time and hit me in the face and get away with it.
I decided to consult some of the leaders of the school community about what I should do. Without fail, they all told me to press charges. One of them told me that he was a troubled kid who constantly did bad things to good people. She told me several stories about what he had done in the past which had gone unpunished.
Only one person, the other residence animator, told me to do otherwise. "He was just drunk. Forget about it, James," he told me calmly.
I felt even more uncomfortable about going to the police after hearing about the other things he had done. However, after school, I found myself sitting across a desk from a police officer, recounting the events from the night before. The young officer quietly took notes.
As soon as I finished telling him the story, his partner approached us and asked what was going on. The nice young man who had heard my story recounted the major events to his partner, who immediately blurted out something like, "Oh that guy? Good. We've been looking for an excuse to get him. Why don't we go find him and tie him up to the hitch of our truck and drag him back here?"
I got up, said "I'm dropping the charges," and walked out. I decided to take the animator's advice and forget about it.
Fortunately, in five years in Kangirsujuaq, this was the only time that I have experienced violence. It is truly not representative of my life here. If it was, I would never have decided to raise my son and daughter in the village.
Even more fortunately, it wasn't the only time I got to kiss Sophie.
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