Brad Pitt may have troubles, but woe is me

Page 18

THE URBANE INDIAN

Just the other day I was sitting around musing about the concerns of being famous. If you've ever read the National Enquirer or People magazine, you know how rough and tragic it can be to be famous.

My heart goes out to the likes of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Really, it does. But try being semi-famous. That's my cross to bear.

People always kinda know my name, or think I look familiar, and they always spend about 30 seconds standing there after we've been introduced, trying to figure out where exactly we met. 'Was it at my cousin's wedding or a police line up?' And once they connect the mental dots, it can be quite disconcerting seeing their reactions. At worst, 'Never heard of ya' or at best 'I think I've heard of you.'

Luckily, I did some early training with far more famous people. I call it Public Recognition Boot Camp. That's where I began to learn about the double-edged sword of being a national icon, an idol of millions.

For instance, I remember once riding down an escalator with Erica Ehm, former Much Music VJ, at the Calgary airport. On the other escalator heading upwards, a guy yells out loudly while pointing vigorously with his finger, 'Hey, you're Erica Ehm!' Somehow I'm sure she was aware of that. She said she hates it when people just yell out her name in public.

This kind of thing doesn't happen to me often, except for that one time I was at some conference function and a guy a few feet away suddenly yelled out in a room full of people, 'Hey, Funny, you don't look like one.' He was referring to the title of one of my books. How do you react to that. 'Neither do you. Haven't heard that one before. No hable English. Que?' It's not that I resent being recognized, but I have a hard time believing everybody standing around these excitable people are just as excited to know that I happen to be standing there at that very moment. A quieter approach is much more appreciated. That and gifts.

Now, there are both pros and cons of being semi-famous. And both reflect the oft-times inaccurate image the public eye can present of you. One of the better examples I know of got me a girlfriend. Several years ago, I used to write frequently for the Globe and Mail and the Toronto Star. This lovely lady would read my articles every couple months and said it made her laugh and think. She wanted to meet me. So, through a friend, she managed a meeting and, to make a long story short, we ended up as a couple for three years. The sad part is, it didn't take her long to realize why I wrote an article for these two papers only every couple months. That's how long it took me to have an original idea and write it. Silly girl thought we'd be having scintillating conversations over breakfast about the state of the world and other political issues. I wanted to watch Star Trek.

Unfortunately one of the cons of being a public figure is that anybody can take a shot at you and your family at will. Amazon.ca sells books online. One of the unique things they do is allow people to write personal reviews of books. One person, who called himself Cousin From Turtle Island had a rather strong reaction to my Funny, You Don't Look Like One book.

"This in no way represents the true life of anyone, but another lost breed cashing in on his C-31 mom. He grew up in Toronto and occasionally came to Curve Lake. Hey Drew, have another glass of stereotype pal."

How about that? I've been called a lot of things in my life but a "lost breed" is a new one. Personally, when much of what you do involves writing your opinions and getting them published, I am used to contradictory views and harsh responses. But it just may be me, but I think there's definitely something wrong with picking on a guy's mother, who by the way, much like me, was born and raised on the reserve.

Oh well, freedom of speech and all that. The only thing that gives me solace is the fact this gentleman of refinement and knowledge msspelled the word turtle.

Speaking of my mother, it's always been a fear of hers that all this success and media exposure will go to my head and make me completely impossible to live with. After all, in the last year or so I've been to Belgium, Italy, France, Washington D.C., California, and Fort Frances, if you can believe it. And if all goes well, Australia and New Zealand this fall, all in support and promotion of Native theatre and literature in Canada. The first class trip to Mexico almost made me insufferable.

But as anybody familiar with the workings of family and reserve dynamics knows, what goes up, just might come down. I was in Ottawa doing two lectures. One was at a place of higher learning-Carleton University. The other was for Health Canada. There was an older lady in the audience who happened to be from my reserve, who worked for Health Canada and, as luck would have it, was taking classes at Carleton. So there I am, pontificating on the brilliance of Native theatre and my humble contributions to the genre and she's in both audiences listening intently.

Afterwards, as I'm proudly signing books, she's busy telling people around me that she used to baby-sit me when I was a toddler. And, she proudly adds, she used to change my diapers. Thus ended the glory of my auspicious lectures. And at that moment, I realized, no matter what you do or where you travel or who knows your name, in reality, you're just another boob in the porn film of life.