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.

25 days

In 25 days, it will be over. I can hardly believe it. Last week, I finished working as a teacher in Nunavik, and on June 8th, Noah and I will be leaving his hometown, not knowing if or when we'll return.

Years ago while I was looking for a book in Concordia's stacks while doing my master's, I came across a misplaced M.A. thesis about teacher turnover in Nunavik. I sat down and read it from cover to cover. At the time, I had grown tired of academia and wanted to do something else. Basically right then, and unbeknownst to anyone else, I decided to become a teacher for the sole purpose of teaching in Quebec's far north.

It took me a couple years, but in 2006, I found myself on an airplane which was about to land in Kangirsujuaq. The two-hour flight from Kuujjuaq had two stops, as it always does, in Kangirsuk and Quaqtaq. Landing in both of those villages was enjoyable enough. I found their landscapes to be beautiful and novel. But I'll never forget the feeling when I first saw what was to become my home for the next five years. I looked out the window to see the green mountains, orange and black lichens, and the deep blue waters of Wakeham Bay. I looked over my shoulder at Neil and Sayard, whom I had met the week before, and who were to become very good friends. We all sat there, speechless.

When I took the job in Kangirsujuaq, I had no idea what to expect. Not even in my wildest dreams could I have imagined what was in store for me. Five splendid years, a new partner, two amazing kids, and the warm welcome of a community of people that I have yet to fully appreciate.

Over the next twenty-five days, I will attempt to recount 25 of my most lasting memories of my life in Kangirsujuaq, in no particular order. I have no idea how I will say good-bye to this place. I love it here. I'm hoping that writing about my last five years will help me to let go.

That was unexpected

Most of my students come from other villages in Nunavik3w. They have come here to prepare themselves for a chance at going to John Abbott College in Montreal. I have fifteen students, and the dozen who come from Kuujjuaq, Salluit, and Inukjuak, live in a residence, which is a beautiful building (by northern standards of course, it is still utilitarian) that overlooks Kangiqsujuaq and was constructed last year to the tune of six million of our taxpayers' dollars.

The program I teach is really not part of any Ministry of Education guidelines. It doesn't exist anywhere else. So, on one hand, I am sort of free to teach the content that I desire. On the other hand, there is no curriculum, and the whole thing rests on my shoulders. One of my goals is to try to create a relationship between the program and the college, and to build up a bank of resour..... wait. I sound like the rest of the Secondary 6 teachers who have come before me. I can tell myself that, but the few of us who have done this job realize that even four years of experience teaching ESL in Nunavik still leaves me feeling like I'm running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Gideon, who taught the program last year, did leave me some of his tricks on his desk. So far, the one I've used the most is his schedule. He gave courses on English, World History, Current Events, and something that he simply labeled "Projects".

Quickly, I decided to follow his lead. So, since most of my students live in a residence, I thought that it would be a propos to do a project about Residential School. They have to interview someone from their home community who went to residential school and use that as the basis to make a podcast.

On Thursday, I thought, "well wouldn't it be great if I could give them an example of a good podcast?" Of course it would! So, I remembered that the Secondary 2 and 3 students at our school made a podcast about the rapidly changing ways that Inuit learn about their culture. Author Joseph Graham and ex-CBC producer Mark Goldman came to our village a couple years ago and helped the kids make the podcast which was then presented at the "Voices from Quebec" exhibition of the Blue Metropolis literary festival in 2008. It was very cool and professionally done. Anchoring the podcast were three interviews to three different generations of one of the original families from Kangiqsujuaq. Naalak Nappaluk, recently deceased, was a local patriarch, legendary hunter and guardian of cultural knowledge. He passed much of this knowledge on to his son, Lucassie, who the students also interviewed. Finally, The students interviewed Lucassie's grandson and one of their classmates, Attasi, who revealed that he had not learned so much from his family, but rather from school. In addition to the interviews, the soundtrack of the podcast includes traditional throat singing, dog teams, skidoos, and even some heavy metal. It is truly well made. Check it out here.

So I played it for the students. Over the past two years, I have listened to this podcast many times. As the podcast nears its end broadcast journalist Mark Goldman says a few kind words about Attasi, who died shortly after the project's completion. I remember the first time I listened to it. I could feel the grief building up inside me and manifesting itself through a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. However, so much time has passed since then, and I had listened to it so many times, that I didn't really give it a second thought.

When I was a kid, I was a huge crybaby. Whenever I experienced an infinitesimal injustice, I screamed and cried for my mommy. My sister quickly learned that this was fun, and she was more than happy to oblige. Repeatedly. However, for the past 20 years, I can count the times I have cried on my fingers. Thus, I was really surprised to find that as I walked over to turn off the speakers, I suddenly went weak in the knees. I quickly decided to sit back down and try to collect myself. One of the students from Kangirsujuaq got up and left the class so no one could see him cry. I looked at another and tears were streaming down her face. I suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, found myself unable to speak as I wept.

"What's going on?" a student from another village asked. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry," I struggled. "Give me a minute." I stared at my desk and took a few breaths. "Attasi killed himself," I said quietly. I took another moment to shed a couple more tears. "After all this time, I didn't know that it was still going to hurt so much." I looked at the two crying students from Kangirsujuaq again. I apologized.

Finally, I looked at the third, who smiled oddly and said, "Well, that was unexpected," at which point everyone giggled. I tried to explain the quality and creativity involved in the podcast without blubbering any further. Indeed, that was unexpected.

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?