There's no place like home

Page 4

The first 18 years of my humble life were spent frolicking in the wilds of the Curve Lake First Nations, a small Ojibway community located in central Ontario. It was fairly a happy existence where I climbed trees, played in the lakes and, at the appropriate age, was shocked to discover most of the girls on the reserve were my cousins.

Then, as a struggling young writer intent on changing the world, I was also shocked to discover that my reserve did not have a thriving film or theatre industry. So, citing those two reasons, it wasn't long before off I left, seeking my fortune in the big city. Since that fateful day when I spread my wings, I have found myself living almost constantly in an urban environment.

With that being said, it reminds me of a slightly augmented proverb: "You can take a boy out of the rez, but you can't take the rez out of the boy (or girl for those politically correct types)." Though I return home, practically every month for several days, the government and the Native community at large would no doubt classify me, officially, an "urban Indian."

Yet, when I meet and talk with the real "urban Indians", those born and raised in the city, it becomes quite obvious the slight differences in priorities and knowledge we share. I mean no disrespect to my more metropolitan brothers and sisters with whom I share good Thai restaurant and Martini bar locations, but the knowledge from my childhood-the stuff you think everybody would know-occasionally bubbles to the surface.

For instance, a friend from the big city of Hamilton was visiting me in Curve Lake a few years back. I took her out for a walk that night, to show her the community. We found ourselves down by the lake, a dark flat space in a quiet moonless night, when we heard a noise coming from the shoreline. I immediately recognized it as the throaty and haunting call of a bullfrog.

My friend cocked her head curiously and started walking towards the lake. I asked her where she was going, to which she replied "I want to go to this field and see the cows." I quickly explained the "field" and the "cows." After we stopped laughing, she defended her rural faux pas by exclaiming "What do I know, I'm a city Indian!"

Another time in Vancouver, an actress and I had finished work at a local theatre. We were walking down the street and she excitedly asked me if I wanted to see a part of town she called "the skids", an economically disadvantaged section of town where she grew up. I shook my head explaining I grew up on a reserve, and that "urban decay doesn't really fascinate me." She laughed and said "Oh yeah!"

Several years later, I visited this same woman, who had just recently been in another play of mine. In that play was a line about somebody cooking something called a chokecherry parfait for her character. A week after the production ended, we were back in Toronto where I found a chokecherry tree. I picked a handful and offered her some. As she ate them, she said, "So these are chokecherries. Where did you find them?"

"In your backyard." I took her out back and showed her the tree and the berries. She was fascinated.

Again, this is not a reflection or comment on any of my good friends. It's more or less one about myself. This land we call Turtle Island has many different types, kinds, and varieties of Native people. And in the struggle to classify, for the sake of argument, an urban or rez Indian, we forget to appreciate what ever we personally decide to classify ourselves. I've explored a lot of my own background as a mixed blood Native Canadian. However, I often forget I'm a mixed environment Native Canadian-half rez, half urban. I guess that makes me a reban.

I'm proud to say I know of both bullfrogs and Vietnamese cuisine. Chokecherries and how to buy a house in the big city. And most importantly, I accept the fact that life can be good, regardless of where you take your evening walks.