Year #5

When I came up here four years ago, I had no attachments. I had come because I didn't really know what else to do. I truly was interested in living in an Inuit village, and taking on the challenge of teaching kids from another culture. Certainly, my upbringing instilled in me a desire to "help". However, I'm pretty sure that if you suggested that I would be back for a fifth year with a girlfriend, two kids, and a dog, I would have looked at you like you have two heads.

"This year is going to be our last year." We've been saying that for three years in a row. "This time it's for real." People heard us say that last year too. It has gotten so our friends don't really believe us anymore. Or they don't even listen. Or they don't even ask.

This time however, is different. Last spring, Sophie and I bought a duplex in Montreal. The excellent renters' laws in Quebec (from which Sophie and I have benefited for many years) don't allow us to move in until July 2011. Undeterred by this fact, when we came back up last year after my forced extended paternity leave, we were certain that we would not be returning this year. I even resigned from my position.

However, things have a way of working themselves out. The day after I handed in my resignation, I was standing outside my house while Noah rode his tricycle in circles. I began to scan the horizon, staring at the mountains, just as I have done countless times before. I began to choke up, and soon enough, a single tear welled up in my eyes and rolled down my cheek.

The next day, my boss told me about another job that might open up at the school. It was to be an eight-month contract teaching high-school graduates who were not yet strong enough to enter CEGEP, but nevertheless had an interest in doing so. I went home and had an interesting discussion with Sophie, who too had been harbouring melancholy about our departure.

Then, as we began to tell people at the school and in the village that we would be leaving, they unequivocally responded a generous outpouring of support and love. We were completely taken aback as to just how nice people were acting towards us. It felt really good to feel appreciated, especially because in the day-to-day drudgery of the job, it is very easy to feel un(der)appreciated.

The most telling, and most flattering comment I received, came from the Centre Director at the school. I went into his office and told him that we would not be returning the following year.

"What? but why not?"

"It's not that we don't love it here. We do. We've been missing our families a lot, and we really don't get to see them enough."

"I understand. You are welcome to come back to Kangiqsujuaq anytime. We like you here. You don't bother any Inuit."

"You don't bother any Inuit." The words have been ringing in my head ever since. These words from a community leader who was born in an igloo. It was truly one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.

It was these words that really made me want to come back. I applied for the job, and after some confusion (ask me in person, it's a great story), I got it. And so we're back.

My new job is so much easier than teaching the younger kids. Sure, my students are much more capable of progressing through their work, which leaves me with a considerable amount more planning and correction to do. However, so far, my heart hasn't broken as many times as it had teaching young adolescents, and I don't find myself as frustrated with behaviour and cultural differences as I did before.

However, I know at some point I'll have to come to terms with the fact that my job is one of the most overtly assimilationist possible. I've always been uncomfortable with my own position in the colonialist structure that is alive and well in the north. I am well aware of the irony that despite my discomfort, I am overtly trying to provide Inuit students with the skills to succeed in a Southern context. However, I think I'm more comfortable doing that than what I've been doing for the past four years, which is trying to give students the necessary skills to succeed in the North. That was truly scary.

At any rate, I'm happy to be back, and I think I'll enjoy my year... as long as I keep my goal simple: don't bother any Inuit.

Our bed

For the last four years, we have been sleeping on beds provided by the school board. While they have sufficed, this year, we decided that sleeping on our comfortable bed for six weeks in the summer and sleeping on inferior mattresses for 10 months a year was probably not the best way to stay rested. So, we had our bed sent up on a cargo plane, which, I'm sure, made my carbon footprint for the year bigger than someone who drives a hummer.

Anyway, for those of you who have lived in the North and have dealt with getting cargo into a fly-in community, here's what I remember of my conversation with Air Inuit yesterday, as I was trying to track down my lost queen-size mattress.

I must preface this conversation by saying that this was the third time I called Air Inuit Cargo in Montreal. The first two times, the man who answered said the system was down. The second time I called, he asked me for my name, number, and the waybill number. I gave him the first two, but said I could not provide the latter. He said that it was no problem, and that he would call me back when the system was back up and running. He never called. I called back.

"Air Inuit Cargo."

"Hi, I called yesterday. I'm trying to track down a piece of cargo that never arrived. Is your system up and running?"

"Yes. What's the waybill number."

"I dont have it, but when 'I called you yesterday you said it was no problem."

"I need your waybill number."

"Look, a guy from my school board dropped off my stuff and did not give me the waybill. How do I get it?"

"What community are you in?"

"Kangirsujuaq"

"Kangirwhat?"

"Wakeham Bay. YWB."

"Okay, you have to call.... let me get the number.... okay... Wakeham Bay. 819-338..."

Of course, I already know the number to the local airport, so I finish his sentence while he's fumbling with some paper "3245. I'll call you right back."

I call the airport. "Hi. It's James Vandenberg. I'm looking for my mattress that didn't arrive with the rest of my cargo. I need the waybill number."

"Just wait." Silence. "Okay, it's 245-31289226."

"Thanks."

I call Montreal again. "Air Inuit Cargo, bonjour."

"Hi, I just called. I have the waybill number."

"Okay. Go ahead."

"245-31289226."

"Okay let me plug that in.... Sir, that's a First Air waybill number. Air Inuit doesn't have your mattress."

"Ummm, I have to tell you that I live in Kangirsujuaq, First Air doesn't fly in here. The plane bringing my bed will be an Air Inuit plane."

"The waybill number is for First Air. It starts with 245. You have to call First Air."

"But First Air won't know where it is unless it's still in Montreal. They don't Fly to Kangirsujuaq."

"It's definitely not in Montreal. But you gave me a First Air waybill number. First Air is another airline company. You have to call them."

"Look, I called the Air Inuit agent here in Kangirsujuaq and asked them for my waybill number. The Air Inuit agent gave me that number."

"But it's the First Air waybill number. So, you..."

"Have to call First Air. Thanks."

So, I hang up and find the number for First Air Cargo. In Kuujjuaq.

I call.

"First Air Cargo, bonjour."

"Hi. I'm looking for a piece of cargo that didn't show up at my house"

"Okay, what village do you live in?"

"Kangirsujuaq."

"Let me transfer you to Air Inuit." Ringing and my muffled laughter.

"Air Inuit Cargo, bonjour." This time, I'm speaking with someone else in Kuujjuaq.

"Hi, I'm looking for a piece of cargo that didn't show up at my house."

"Do you have the waybill number?"

"Uhhh, I have to tell you. The number I'm going to give you is the First Air tracking number."

"That's the one. What happens is that First Air gives you a tracking number and we use the same one through to destination."

"Can someone please tell the guy at Air Inuit Cargo in Montreal that? He doesn't know how it works. I just gave him the number and he told me to call First Air. I did, and they immediately transferred me to you."

"Okay, what's the tracking number?"

"24531289226."

"James Vandenberg? You're waiting for a mattress, right?"

"Yes."

"Go to the airport. Your mattress is on the flight today."

"You must be joking."

"No joke. You can sleep well tonight."

"Thanks."

The whole thing made me think that people often call the airline "Air Maybe" because of the oft-delayed flights. I'd like to try out a new one. "Air Inuit: You Never Know".

Unfortunately, my sleep was interrupted mid-way through the night by a little boy who wanted to see his mama, which inevitably relegated me to his single bed. Maybe tonight?

Where's Sophie?

I've been thinking that I should start a blog about traveling with kids. Evie is six months old, and yesterday, she took her 11th flight. Noah tallied up sixty flights before his third birthday. We've taken our kid(s) to Alberta and Nunavik many times, and we've also been to Cuba and Central America. After taking a break this summer, we're planning to go cyclo-camping in Italy and Tunisia next spring. We have plenty of tales. Some day, ask me about Ramon.

You'd think we'd be good at traveling with kids by now. While I think Sophie's skill level is at least loosely correlated to her vast experience, I've shown over the past few flights to be a bumbling idiot. I haven't exactly lost a kid just yet, but every time I arrive at a terminal, I can feel a wave of impatience I no doubt inherited from my father coming over me. When it is compounded by the inevitable reality that I will be among the last people to deplane (when did that become a word?) carrying seventeen carry-on bags, a baby in a sling, and a three year-old on my shoulders, I forget stuff. On top of that, without fail, I think I'm so good at parenting that I couldn't possibly have forgotten anything. I scoff at Sophie as she checks under the seats and in the pockets in the back of the row in front of us, and guilt her into leaving the plane before she's satisfied that nothing has been left behind.

It happened again yesterday. We arrived in Kuujjuaq and waited to connect to Kangirsujuaq. For those of you envisioning a normal connection at Pearson or Trudeau, let me explain connecting in Kuujjuaq. You get off the plane down some stairs and walk across the tarmac, into the small, yet modern terminal which was finished about a year and a half ago (the old terminal was a labyrinth of Atco trailers that constantly smelled of urine). So you walk in and get your luggage, or more specifically those pieces which decided to follow you from Montreal or wherever you came from, and drag them across the terminal to check in at First Air or Air Inuit, depending on where you came from. Then, you go to the other counter with your luggage tags to find out when the rest of your stuff will arrive. After going through the motions and then finding out our plane would be delayed for a few hours due to fog in our village, Sophie asked me, "Where's Sophie? Did you forget her?"

Seems like an odd question, but all trendy young parents like us know that Sophie is a giraffe, made in France from natural rubber, and she is a classic. Sophie will celebrate her 50th anniversary next year, and is a must have for a teething baby. We needed one so bad that after we lost our first one a few days after purchasing it, I had to go across the city to buy another one. Picture a thirty-something yuppie wearing an American Apparel t-shirt holding out a squeaky toy for a dog with a far heftier price tag in front of a screaming baby. "Come on baby girl. (Squeak! Squeak!) You wanna play with Sophie?" Anyway, I took mild offense to Sophie the younger questioning my superior parenting abilities. "Why don't you look in the bags before accusing me?" I replied with certitude.

I looked in each bag. Three times. Sophie is indeed on the plane to Yellowknife, via Iqaluit and Rankin Inlet. I wish I could say it was the first time. Last time it was Freddie, one of Noah's trains. It turns out that my mountain of fantastic parenting skills was nothing more than a house of cards. It soon came tumbling down.

We found out that we would be staying in Kuujjuaq. A nice man from the school board came to drive us into town. I walked toward the door, loaded down with stuff, and Sophie, who was holding a sleeping Evie asked me, "do you have everything?"

"Yes," I replied. Well, not exactly everything. I remembered almost all of our checked luggage. When I realized that Noah was not pulling his suitcase, I dropped everything I was carrying and said quietly but very clearly, "shit!" I ran back into the terminal and collected his suitcase. When I came back out, a three year-old parrot was chirping "Shit! Shit! Shit!" I gave him his suitcase and laughed. I got into the van where Sophie informed me that our driver had graciously picked up all of the things I had forgotten: the baby carrier, the nursing pillow and a backpack.

I guess I need to rethink my awesomeness.

Packing

We leave for Wakeham tomorrow.

If you had asked me four years ago if I would be going back up to Kangirsujuaq for a fifth year with my girlfriend and two kids, I don't know what I would have said. The familiar feeling of excitement and dread intertwined has been building up inside me all day. All of our boxes have been sent, and we just have our luggage left to pack. My suitcase has Noah's clothes, 24 notebooks, and a few of my things. By now, I've learned to travel fairly light for myself. Kids take up a lot of room. The 24 notebooks are a precaution I felt I had to take. The school board furnishes all of the students' school supplies, and last year, after being promised by a succession of principals that my notebooks would soon be arriving, I ultimately had to make due without them all year. This week, with some prodding from Sophie, I decided to take measures into my own hands.

Anyway, a new school year begins on Wednesday. This year, as always, I have found a new position that affords me the ability to work as few months of the year as possible. I'll be teaching the Secondary 6 college preparatory program for graduating students who were not strong enough to go straight to CEGEP. Stay tuned for a little fun and a whole lotta liberal guilt.

My summer ends tomorrow.

The dishes

When I was living in London, Ontario, I lived in an old farmhouse in the top floor apartment of Andy and Lori's house. I met some wonderful people in London, but I clicked with this couple who didn't know me, but who nevertheless welcomed me into their home at the suggestion of a mutual friend. No, not the Facebook kind of mutual friend, a real one with whom one of them had grown up and whose daughter I dated for six years kind of mutual friend. Anyway, Friday afternoon rituals were one of my favourite times in my short tenure in London. I would stroll in around 4:00 and Andy would offer me libations. Without exception I accepted. We wouldn't get drunk, but we would have a drink or two, and sometimes we would even put off supper by a couple of hours. When this happened, we would have conversations.

Sometimes I would tell them about living in Quebec, and how nationalism wasn't dead (although now I think it's irrelevant). Other times, he would educate me about the blues. Once, when we had put off supper for a couple of hours, Andy changed my ritual of doing the dishes. I don't know how we got on the topic, but I explained to him my order of dishes, and he calmly explained to me that the utensils had to soak while washing the mugs. Lori laughed at the both of us and upon reflection,we too decided that perhaps it was time to fire up the barbeque.

When I tried to do the dishes this morning, I got through the glasses and a few mugs, and I pulled the plug, leaving the utensils lying there in the bottom of the sink, waiting. I couldn't do it anymore.

You see, I have a skin condition called vitiligo. It's a lack of pigmentation that leaves weird, funky white patches on my skin. Apparently Michael Jackson had it, and as a black man, he couldn't take it. So, he somehow dyed himself white. For me, it's usually no big deal. Most of the time, I just forget about it. I have accepted the white blotches of skin on my hands and face and the white spots in my beard like I did the loss of my hair, or the growth of it on parts of my body that it shouldn't be.

I'll get to the point. Yesterday, the municipality invited the staff of our school to use one of our pedagogical days to go fishing. It was awesome. There is still a lot of snow, and it was about 8 or 9 degrees, and although I caught nothing, I had a great day.

I've always been a bit snake-bitten as a fisherman. I grew up in Northern Alberta and have gone fishing several times each year since I was a young child. I've caught a great deal of fish over the past two-and-a-half decades, but I would never consider myself good or even lucky. Invariably, if you fish for 25 or 30 years, you're going to snag a few from time to time.

A couple of years ago, I went fishing with my students on May 1st and got the worst sunburn of my life. My face was so sensitive that I lathered it repeatedly with a bunch of lanolin (used by nursing mothers for their cracked nipples) and didn't sleep for days. So, before we left the village, when we arrived at our destination, and a few more times throughout the day, I applied SPF 15 (the only lotion we have) to my face, neck, and ears. However, I neglected to touch the back of my hands. I spent the better part of five hours laying face-down on the ice with my head in a hole and only the back of my extra-sensitive, increasingly blotchy hands exposed to the sun's harmful rays.

By the time I got home, I knew I had made an important omission. I ran my hands under cold water for a few minutes, but ultimately underestimated the damage. This morning however, it took just seconds of submersion in the suds for me to realize that my hands were suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. After I had finished the glasses, I noticed my hands were extraordinarily red. But it wasn't until half-way through the mugs that I realized that they were swelling up like Violet Beauregarde masticating a piece of experimental blueberry gum. They soon began to throb, and in the absence of a juicing room, I ran the cold water for a few minutes in a vain attempt to turn back time.

I went to school, and throughout the morning, students and teachers alike, several sporting sunburns of their own, remarked at my florescent pink, swollen hands. I could only answer one thing to them:

"Sure it hurts, but at least I can't do the dishes."