BluePrint for Life arrived today. What's BluePrint for Life?
BluePrint is the brainchild of Stephen Leafloor, Ottawa area social worker and one of the founding members of the legendary Canadian Floor Masters, a break dance crew from the early 1980s. Leafloor, whose B-boy name is Buddha, makes his living these days by combining hip hp and social work. He takes people from hip hop culture (b-boys and b-girls, DJ's, beat boxers, rappers, spoken word artists) and brings them into at-risk communities all over Canada, spreading positivity and agency among the communities' youth. A sizable chunk of BluePrint's time is spent in the Arctic, and much of that in Nunavik.
Last fall, BluePrint spent a week in Kangiqsujuaq. For one week, Blue Print completely took over the secondary program in our school. The students had a wonderful time. The mornings were spent dancing and the afternoons provided workshops that touched on social issues that the many of the youth in our village unfortunately have to struggle with from day to day.
From the beginning, I could see that this project would have mass appeal among students and drop-outs alike, and I wanted to jump on board as well as I could. But something was bothering me, so I asked Buddha about it.
"Buddha, this is a great project. I really love what you're doing here. I just have one question for you: what do we do when you're gone? I mean, the students will have a wonderful time and probably do some short-term healing, but what are they going to do when you're not here to help them and they have to go back to their (sometimes ab)normal lives?"
"Yeah, sustainability is always a problem. Some people in other communities started hip-hop clubs. If you want, later on in the week, I'll give you some stuff that can help you start one up."
The week was wonderful. The students were introduced to a world that they had previously known only through 50 Cent videos and "Step-up 2" (I'm old, there's probably like "Step up 14" by now). BluePrint's dancers are some of the best b-boys and b-girls in Canada. They showed them all kinds of moves and short choreographies in preparation for a one-night only dance battle that took place on the Friday night. They brought powerful and innovative messages, and the dancers drew upon their own personal experiences to show the kids that it was okay to open up and seek help. At best, Buddha and his crew were able to help the kids open up and give them a few tools to deal with their growing pains. At the very least, BluePrint provided the kid with a week-long break from whatever their usual circumstances happened to be. It was marvelous.
On the Thursday afternoon, the dancers and kids formed a cipher, which is the circle in which b-boys and b-girls perform their solos and short dances to show off their skills. I was impressed by just how much they had learned, and even more so by how much they were willing to put themselves out there.
One of my former students, who I had in my very tough first year (he was the brightest and one of the toughest students) challenged me to show off what I had learned. I had participated off-and-on during the week, and hadn't really learned much. I declined.
"James," he replied. "You always push me to try stuff that I don't want to do. Now it's your turn."
I didn't know what to say, but I didn't have anything to offer, so despite much insisting by the people around me, I couldn't find myself able to do it. I'm not exactly a hip hop guy, and I really don't dance. However, I don't wear hypocrisy very well, so, I decided to dedicate myself to learning something that I could perform without completely embarrassing myself at the dance battle. About 30 hours later, I found myself break dancing and throat singing in front of the whole community. I found myself break dancing and throat singing in front of the whole community.
BluePrint afforded one of my former students the opportunity to turn the tables on me. He found the confidence to challenge and inspire me to step out of my comfort zone and do something I never thought I would do. Good for him, and good for me too. I had a blast.
So, BluePrint's back this week to do poetry, dance, and healing workshops after school with some of the kids. I'll let you know what happens.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Saturday, May 21, 2011
One Month
In one month, I'll be leaving Kangiqsujuaq, not knowing when or if I'll .... that's right. You read it correctly. It will be one more month before we go.
Originally, Noah and I were going to leave on June 8th to get our new 95-year-old house ready to inhabit before Sophie and Evie arrived on the 22nd. Indeed, there is a lot to do; much more than two weeks' worth of effort could provide. The house needs to be painted from top to bottom. We have no furniture, save a couple of mattresses and an old table and a few chairs that Sophie found on the street many years ago. We have no appliances except for the ancient dishwasher that our tenants left behind when they moved into their new house. We need new faucets in the kitchen and the bathroom, new window treatments (I think), and then there is the matter of receiving all of our many boxes of crap that we send South from here and have in storage that we're somehow magically going to fit into 750 sq. ft. of living space. And that's before we get to the real renovations that will eventually have to happen at one time or another. You can probably see where my desire to get a head start on all of this was coming from.
However, as the departure date grew nearer, I decided that I couldn't just leave like that. If I left that early, I would miss the end of the year, the graduation, and the traditional time when people get to say goodbye to those people who will not be returning. Most of all, however, I didn't want to leave early.Much of the time , I feel like I don't want to leave at all. Since moving out of my parents' house, I have never lived in one place for as long as I've lived in Kangirsujuaq.
I would never go as far as to say that I consider it my home town. I remember once during me first year, I saw some young men walking around the school. They seemed to just be loitering, and as far as I knew, they weren't students. I followed them, meaning to ask them if I could help them find someone or something, but eventually, they stopped by the office and began speaking to the schools' centre director. He is not originally from Kangirsujuaq, but Quaqtaq, the neighbouring village to the Southeast. He moved to Wakeham more than thirty years ago and has since become very involved in the community. He and his wife are preachers at one of the local churches. I basically saw him as one of the community leaders.
A few minutes later, after the young men had left, I went up to the centre director and asked him what those two young men were doing in the school. He said, "those are some of the original inhabitants of Kangirsujuaq. They have the right to ask me what I am doing here."
It reminds me of this joke I once heard about small-town Vermont:
There are these two old guys sitting in rocking chairs discussing their recently deceased neighbour, who had moved to the town some five decades earlier.
"You hear the new guy died?"
Anyway, I'm not so naive as to think that the people of Kangirsujuaq think of me as more than a johnny-come-lately, as much as they might think of me at all. When we announce to people that we will be moving to Montreal in June, the almost unanimous response is "already? Why?"
At times, it makes me feel bad, almost guilty, for moving to a place where my kids' grandparents can afford to regularly visit them. On the whole, however, I feel pretty good about the reactions. The disappointment people show when we say we are leaving makes us feel loved. At any rate, it's much better than a shrug of the shoulders or "good riddance"... not that the people here would say something like that to anyone.
Originally, Noah and I were going to leave on June 8th to get our new 95-year-old house ready to inhabit before Sophie and Evie arrived on the 22nd. Indeed, there is a lot to do; much more than two weeks' worth of effort could provide. The house needs to be painted from top to bottom. We have no furniture, save a couple of mattresses and an old table and a few chairs that Sophie found on the street many years ago. We have no appliances except for the ancient dishwasher that our tenants left behind when they moved into their new house. We need new faucets in the kitchen and the bathroom, new window treatments (I think), and then there is the matter of receiving all of our many boxes of crap that we send South from here and have in storage that we're somehow magically going to fit into 750 sq. ft. of living space. And that's before we get to the real renovations that will eventually have to happen at one time or another. You can probably see where my desire to get a head start on all of this was coming from.
However, as the departure date grew nearer, I decided that I couldn't just leave like that. If I left that early, I would miss the end of the year, the graduation, and the traditional time when people get to say goodbye to those people who will not be returning. Most of all, however, I didn't want to leave early.Much of the time , I feel like I don't want to leave at all. Since moving out of my parents' house, I have never lived in one place for as long as I've lived in Kangirsujuaq.
I would never go as far as to say that I consider it my home town. I remember once during me first year, I saw some young men walking around the school. They seemed to just be loitering, and as far as I knew, they weren't students. I followed them, meaning to ask them if I could help them find someone or something, but eventually, they stopped by the office and began speaking to the schools' centre director. He is not originally from Kangirsujuaq, but Quaqtaq, the neighbouring village to the Southeast. He moved to Wakeham more than thirty years ago and has since become very involved in the community. He and his wife are preachers at one of the local churches. I basically saw him as one of the community leaders.
A few minutes later, after the young men had left, I went up to the centre director and asked him what those two young men were doing in the school. He said, "those are some of the original inhabitants of Kangirsujuaq. They have the right to ask me what I am doing here."
It reminds me of this joke I once heard about small-town Vermont:
There are these two old guys sitting in rocking chairs discussing their recently deceased neighbour, who had moved to the town some five decades earlier.
"You hear the new guy died?"
Anyway, I'm not so naive as to think that the people of Kangirsujuaq think of me as more than a johnny-come-lately, as much as they might think of me at all. When we announce to people that we will be moving to Montreal in June, the almost unanimous response is "already? Why?"
At times, it makes me feel bad, almost guilty, for moving to a place where my kids' grandparents can afford to regularly visit them. On the whole, however, I feel pretty good about the reactions. The disappointment people show when we say we are leaving makes us feel loved. At any rate, it's much better than a shrug of the shoulders or "good riddance"... not that the people here would say something like that to anyone.
The NRG
On April 27th, the people of Nunavik voted in a referendum on whether or not to adopt the final agreement, of the Nunavik Regional Government. The product of more than 10 years of negotiations, the NRG would have seen the three major governmental organizations, the school board, the health board, and the regional government amalgamate into one. An elected executive would have been placed on top of it, in order to make budgetary and executive decisions.
A former colleague of mine explained it to me thus. Right now, it is as if the government of Quebec gives each organization an envelope full of money (LOTS of money). The proposed system would have seen Quebec City give the NRG executive one envelope with $300 million dollars in it, and people who were directly elected by Nunavimmiut would decide what to do with it.
For two years, I've been trying to get my students excited about the NRG. I took all of the promotional/informative material and sifted through it several times. I wanted to find something that my students could get excited about. Despite the fact that under the proposed system, the people would directly elect an executive (which doesn't happen anywhere else in Canada), I couldn't really get turned on about the NRG... and I'm a complete nerd.
I was looking for something cool, something tangible. I wanted to teach to my students (who had learned about treaties and land claims last year, and democracy in the Middle East and North Africa this year) about real self-government. This was not nearly as exciting as the Egyptian or Libyan protests, and I found that frustrating. Anyway, I came to the conclusion that although there wasn't much to get excited about in the agreement, it was probably going to pass.
Boy am I out of touch with the people. In the weeks leading up to the vote, my good friend Sarah wrote a series of articles in the Nunatsiaq News, the North's only newspaper, covering the story. One, entitled "Nunavik debates new government on Facebook", directed me and my students to a Facebook group where the debate seemed to have heated up. There were almost a thousand members of this forum, and the debate was lively. People on the "yes" side argued that the NRG would be a refreshing change from the status quo, and signaled hope in a place often riddled by cynicism and misunderstanding. The "no" side, for its part, cried out for "real Inuit self-government" instead of the public government (in which newcomers to the region could also have their say) that would take shape under the NRG.
For my part, I didn't really think I should have a say. I guess I was a soft "no" until the day of the referendum. Two things made me change my mind. The mayor of Kangirsujuaq, who I deeply respect, had spoken out on behalf of the "yes" side. I also had an email exchange with a well-informed friend who convinced me that I was wrong and that the the proposed government was probably a step in the right direction.
When speaking to my students, who were all old enough to vote, I tried to remain completely objective. We studied both sides closely, and I deflected any questions about how I felt about it by saying that I don't think my opinion should matter much when it comes to what Inuit want to do with their governance.
The day of the referendum came and during our last period, I took the students to vote. Several of them said that they couldn't make up their minds as to what to do. They argued that they were not well-informed enough to make such a decision. After pleading with them to vote one way or the other and realizing that most were not going to do it, I came up with a compromise. I showed them how to spoil their ballots. I argued that spoiling a ballot is a political act and, although not perfect, it sure beats staying home on referendum day.
We went down to the local municipal office, where the students waited in line and eventually all voted. One of them looked at me and said, "well, aren't you going to vote? You made us do it."
I firmly believed that I shouldn't have had the right to decide. As I opened my mouth to say as much, I realized that this was a huge cop-out, and entered the office with the sole intention of spoiling my ballot. The returning officer looked at me and said, "you're not on the list". I had studied this sucker for years and knew that I met all of the criteria, so I said, "I should be, that's weird."
She made a phone call to Kuujjuaq, but the person at the other end said he would call her back. As we waited, I said to her, "I came here so my students could have a say in their own government. I don't really believe that I should get to decide. I was just going to spoil my ballot anyway."
She looked at me like I had two heads. "What? Why would you want to do a thing like that?" The tone of her made it clear that she thought I was a weirdo.
There are many millions of people who would fight for the chance to have a say in who governs them. Furthermore, most people who don't feel they have a right to decide probably don't head out to the polling booth. I realized at that point that I then represented the ultimate in privilege: a guy who is arguing that he should be on the voters' list in order to have a chance to spoil his ballot because he doesn't think he should be on the voters' list. The worst part is that for a minute, I actually felt a little bit cheated out of the process. White people.
For better or for worse, on April 27th the people of Nunavik rejected the proposed NRG. There has been much debate on Facebook and in the Nunatsiaq News about why the people did so and what that bodes for the future. The results are available at Referendum Nunavik 2011. If you look at the results closely, you'll notice a slightly higher number of rejected ballots from Kangiqsujuaq. Unethically, I asked my students if they had actually spoiled their ballots. They each assured me that they hadn't. I'm not so sure.
A former colleague of mine explained it to me thus. Right now, it is as if the government of Quebec gives each organization an envelope full of money (LOTS of money). The proposed system would have seen Quebec City give the NRG executive one envelope with $300 million dollars in it, and people who were directly elected by Nunavimmiut would decide what to do with it.
For two years, I've been trying to get my students excited about the NRG. I took all of the promotional/informative material and sifted through it several times. I wanted to find something that my students could get excited about. Despite the fact that under the proposed system, the people would directly elect an executive (which doesn't happen anywhere else in Canada), I couldn't really get turned on about the NRG... and I'm a complete nerd.
I was looking for something cool, something tangible. I wanted to teach to my students (who had learned about treaties and land claims last year, and democracy in the Middle East and North Africa this year) about real self-government. This was not nearly as exciting as the Egyptian or Libyan protests, and I found that frustrating. Anyway, I came to the conclusion that although there wasn't much to get excited about in the agreement, it was probably going to pass.
Boy am I out of touch with the people. In the weeks leading up to the vote, my good friend Sarah wrote a series of articles in the Nunatsiaq News, the North's only newspaper, covering the story. One, entitled "Nunavik debates new government on Facebook", directed me and my students to a Facebook group where the debate seemed to have heated up. There were almost a thousand members of this forum, and the debate was lively. People on the "yes" side argued that the NRG would be a refreshing change from the status quo, and signaled hope in a place often riddled by cynicism and misunderstanding. The "no" side, for its part, cried out for "real Inuit self-government" instead of the public government (in which newcomers to the region could also have their say) that would take shape under the NRG.
For my part, I didn't really think I should have a say. I guess I was a soft "no" until the day of the referendum. Two things made me change my mind. The mayor of Kangirsujuaq, who I deeply respect, had spoken out on behalf of the "yes" side. I also had an email exchange with a well-informed friend who convinced me that I was wrong and that the the proposed government was probably a step in the right direction.
When speaking to my students, who were all old enough to vote, I tried to remain completely objective. We studied both sides closely, and I deflected any questions about how I felt about it by saying that I don't think my opinion should matter much when it comes to what Inuit want to do with their governance.
The day of the referendum came and during our last period, I took the students to vote. Several of them said that they couldn't make up their minds as to what to do. They argued that they were not well-informed enough to make such a decision. After pleading with them to vote one way or the other and realizing that most were not going to do it, I came up with a compromise. I showed them how to spoil their ballots. I argued that spoiling a ballot is a political act and, although not perfect, it sure beats staying home on referendum day.
We went down to the local municipal office, where the students waited in line and eventually all voted. One of them looked at me and said, "well, aren't you going to vote? You made us do it."
I firmly believed that I shouldn't have had the right to decide. As I opened my mouth to say as much, I realized that this was a huge cop-out, and entered the office with the sole intention of spoiling my ballot. The returning officer looked at me and said, "you're not on the list". I had studied this sucker for years and knew that I met all of the criteria, so I said, "I should be, that's weird."
She made a phone call to Kuujjuaq, but the person at the other end said he would call her back. As we waited, I said to her, "I came here so my students could have a say in their own government. I don't really believe that I should get to decide. I was just going to spoil my ballot anyway."
She looked at me like I had two heads. "What? Why would you want to do a thing like that?" The tone of her made it clear that she thought I was a weirdo.
There are many millions of people who would fight for the chance to have a say in who governs them. Furthermore, most people who don't feel they have a right to decide probably don't head out to the polling booth. I realized at that point that I then represented the ultimate in privilege: a guy who is arguing that he should be on the voters' list in order to have a chance to spoil his ballot because he doesn't think he should be on the voters' list. The worst part is that for a minute, I actually felt a little bit cheated out of the process. White people.
For better or for worse, on April 27th the people of Nunavik rejected the proposed NRG. There has been much debate on Facebook and in the Nunatsiaq News about why the people did so and what that bodes for the future. The results are available at Referendum Nunavik 2011. If you look at the results closely, you'll notice a slightly higher number of rejected ballots from Kangiqsujuaq. Unethically, I asked my students if they had actually spoiled their ballots. They each assured me that they hadn't. I'm not so sure.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Lost
Sometimes, I'm really good at finding stuff. Once, when Sophie and I were camping at Pingualuit Park (which I guess I have yet to tell you about) I lost the pin that holds my watch face onto its band. I had just walked a kilometer from our tent to the park's three cabins. We were camped just past the end of the airstrip, which seems a little unromantic I know, but it's not like your normal airstrip. It's very remote. The only planes that came in during our three day stay were the twin otter in which we arrived, and the other twin otter upon which we left. There wasn't another one for a week after we left.
Anyway, the path upon which I had just walked didn't look much like of the rest of the surrounding land. It was made of sandy gravel which had been poured over the tundra to make a road. And I had lost my watch pin somewhere along it. I told Sophie that I was going to go look for it, and she scoffed at me. However, I went anyway, determined to prove her wrong. I left and began scanning the ground immediately. Within ten minutes I was back in the shelter, repairing my watch to the surprise of everyone there, which is to say, Sophie.
As good as I am at finding stuff, I am amazing at losing things. Every day begins with a constant struggle to find my glasses, and it just gets worse from there. I regularly have to turn the house upside down looking for my keys, my iPod, and my wallet, but above all it's the honda key that I lose the most often. Like yesterday. Sophie needed to run to the store at lunch, so we got dressed. On our way out the door, I began what turned into a 15-minute frantic search and research of all of the usual places. Eventually, I lightly snapped at Sophie and she understandably decided to walk to the store. After she had left, I continued the search. I focused on these two boxes on top of the freezer that welcomes you when you enter this style of KSB duplex. These boxes contain our mitts and hats, and the Honda key about sixty-four percent of the time. At other times, it somehow finds its own way into various other places in the house.
I had diligently rummaged through each of the two boxes at least half a dozen times already, and Sophie herself had even taken a turn. A cold sense of panic had begun to slither up my spine, and soon enough my forehead became clammy just as my ears grew hot with rage. And then I saw it, right where it was supposed to be. It was right under my nose the whole time, as if it had been hiding somewhere undetectable until such a time as it chose to reveal itself to me. I swear that its cracked plastic hole which once held a key ring was smiling at me. I laughed it off and caught up with Sophie.
This morning, I began to plan writing this post with James, the hero, triumphant in his self-assuredness. I had even titled it "Lost and Found". Then the unthinkable happened.
I had planned my whole morning around my loaves of bread. Such is the life of an unemployed, stay-at-home dad. I had left the bread to rise for the second time, and the kids and I had an hour to get to the playground, have Evie tire of it and Noah complain that he wanted to stay, and then run to the Co-op to pick up a couple of essentials before lunch. I got the kids dressed in full-on, three-layer winter gear (it's still cold here) and stuck my hand in the box to feel around for the key. It was gone. For real.
A half-hour later, as Noah patiently sat on the Honda and Evie was waiting not so patiently in the unheated vestibule; after a couple of humiliating phone calls to Sophie at the school; after I lost my cool and rapidly and repeatedly smashed the woven box down on the freezer seven or eight times; after I screamed out an expletive so loud that Noah, sitting outside on the Honda called back "what daddy?"; and after finally I laughed, sighed, and replied "nothing Noah" I gave up.
At lunch, I followed in the footsteps of my daily forty-five minute walk to the waterfall in a vain effort to find it. My spirits were weakly and pathetically buoyed by the fact that years before Sophie had dropped a sealskin mitten that she had made for me on the very same walk and returned to the house defeated by its loss. I immediately walked outside, walked to the waterfall, and upon arriving looked down to see the mitten waiting patiently for me. While editing this, Sophie reminded me that I had also lost one of those mittens only to have Iggaak miraculously find it and bring it home. At which point I remembered that I had since lost one of them all together.
That's something great about living here. You can drop something and it waits for you. No one else comes along and decides that whatever you dropped would make them happier than it would make you. Even if someone does pick it up, you are more than likely to get it back. Sophie once dropped a package of American Apparel baby clothes on the way back from the store and I had received the news before she even got home.
It vaguely reminds me of the time that I was a toddler and my mom hit the ditch on the drive home to Nampa from Peace River. My father had found out before we arrived. Apparently, one of my dad's friends had seen us in the ditch and kept on going, only to make sure to drop in at his workplace to give him the news. With friends like that...
Anyway, in Montreal, something like this would never happen. The car accident thing happens daily I'm sure. I mean when you drop something on the street in Montreal, forget about it. It's gone. I remember moving apartments on July 1st, 2004. I had brought an ugly chair that I had paid $10 for at the Salvation Army two years earlier down three flights of stairs and set it on the curb. I returned into the apartment and came back out immediately with a box or something else only to find an octgenarian Italian walking away with my chair upside down and resting on the seat of his bike, and waving at me. This is just how Montrealers roll. Perhaps that's why Sophie didn't believe that I would find either the mitten or the watch pin that had been lost only moments before returning to look for them.
Alas, the Honda key has not yet decided to let us in on its cruel joke. I know it's out there, hidden in plain sight, taunting me. I tell you, I will miss many, many things about living in Wakeham. I will most certainly not miss looking for my Honda key. On the other hand, I will miss having a Honda very, very much. Oh, how my life is about to change.
Anyway, the path upon which I had just walked didn't look much like of the rest of the surrounding land. It was made of sandy gravel which had been poured over the tundra to make a road. And I had lost my watch pin somewhere along it. I told Sophie that I was going to go look for it, and she scoffed at me. However, I went anyway, determined to prove her wrong. I left and began scanning the ground immediately. Within ten minutes I was back in the shelter, repairing my watch to the surprise of everyone there, which is to say, Sophie.
As good as I am at finding stuff, I am amazing at losing things. Every day begins with a constant struggle to find my glasses, and it just gets worse from there. I regularly have to turn the house upside down looking for my keys, my iPod, and my wallet, but above all it's the honda key that I lose the most often. Like yesterday. Sophie needed to run to the store at lunch, so we got dressed. On our way out the door, I began what turned into a 15-minute frantic search and research of all of the usual places. Eventually, I lightly snapped at Sophie and she understandably decided to walk to the store. After she had left, I continued the search. I focused on these two boxes on top of the freezer that welcomes you when you enter this style of KSB duplex. These boxes contain our mitts and hats, and the Honda key about sixty-four percent of the time. At other times, it somehow finds its own way into various other places in the house.
I had diligently rummaged through each of the two boxes at least half a dozen times already, and Sophie herself had even taken a turn. A cold sense of panic had begun to slither up my spine, and soon enough my forehead became clammy just as my ears grew hot with rage. And then I saw it, right where it was supposed to be. It was right under my nose the whole time, as if it had been hiding somewhere undetectable until such a time as it chose to reveal itself to me. I swear that its cracked plastic hole which once held a key ring was smiling at me. I laughed it off and caught up with Sophie.
This morning, I began to plan writing this post with James, the hero, triumphant in his self-assuredness. I had even titled it "Lost and Found". Then the unthinkable happened.
I had planned my whole morning around my loaves of bread. Such is the life of an unemployed, stay-at-home dad. I had left the bread to rise for the second time, and the kids and I had an hour to get to the playground, have Evie tire of it and Noah complain that he wanted to stay, and then run to the Co-op to pick up a couple of essentials before lunch. I got the kids dressed in full-on, three-layer winter gear (it's still cold here) and stuck my hand in the box to feel around for the key. It was gone. For real.
A half-hour later, as Noah patiently sat on the Honda and Evie was waiting not so patiently in the unheated vestibule; after a couple of humiliating phone calls to Sophie at the school; after I lost my cool and rapidly and repeatedly smashed the woven box down on the freezer seven or eight times; after I screamed out an expletive so loud that Noah, sitting outside on the Honda called back "what daddy?"; and after finally I laughed, sighed, and replied "nothing Noah" I gave up.
At lunch, I followed in the footsteps of my daily forty-five minute walk to the waterfall in a vain effort to find it. My spirits were weakly and pathetically buoyed by the fact that years before Sophie had dropped a sealskin mitten that she had made for me on the very same walk and returned to the house defeated by its loss. I immediately walked outside, walked to the waterfall, and upon arriving looked down to see the mitten waiting patiently for me. While editing this, Sophie reminded me that I had also lost one of those mittens only to have Iggaak miraculously find it and bring it home. At which point I remembered that I had since lost one of them all together.
That's something great about living here. You can drop something and it waits for you. No one else comes along and decides that whatever you dropped would make them happier than it would make you. Even if someone does pick it up, you are more than likely to get it back. Sophie once dropped a package of American Apparel baby clothes on the way back from the store and I had received the news before she even got home.
It vaguely reminds me of the time that I was a toddler and my mom hit the ditch on the drive home to Nampa from Peace River. My father had found out before we arrived. Apparently, one of my dad's friends had seen us in the ditch and kept on going, only to make sure to drop in at his workplace to give him the news. With friends like that...
Anyway, in Montreal, something like this would never happen. The car accident thing happens daily I'm sure. I mean when you drop something on the street in Montreal, forget about it. It's gone. I remember moving apartments on July 1st, 2004. I had brought an ugly chair that I had paid $10 for at the Salvation Army two years earlier down three flights of stairs and set it on the curb. I returned into the apartment and came back out immediately with a box or something else only to find an octgenarian Italian walking away with my chair upside down and resting on the seat of his bike, and waving at me. This is just how Montrealers roll. Perhaps that's why Sophie didn't believe that I would find either the mitten or the watch pin that had been lost only moments before returning to look for them.
Alas, the Honda key has not yet decided to let us in on its cruel joke. I know it's out there, hidden in plain sight, taunting me. I tell you, I will miss many, many things about living in Wakeham. I will most certainly not miss looking for my Honda key. On the other hand, I will miss having a Honda very, very much. Oh, how my life is about to change.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Iggaak
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".
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".
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