A solid day of rain, and a cool evening breeze. Yeah, fall is officially here. Summer is over. Although the beautiful season flew by, it was one for the ages that many of us won't soon forget. From the sweltering heat and smog of the city to the soothing sunset along the serene shores of Georgian Bay, it was a summer of weather extremes and a vibrant party scene. I was fortunate enough to have the best of both worlds this summer - the city during the week, and the Bay/Island/Sound on the weekend. Good times were had by all, and I'd be here for hours summarizing everything I got up to. But the highlights were definitely spending lots of time with family and reconnecting with old friends - and best of all, meeting some special new ones.
And of course, the last few weeks of the summer went by just as fast. September started off with a move into a great new place with the Kraut and the Finn. It took a while to get all settled, but we got everything lined up just in time for a stellar housewarming bash this past weekend. Thanks to everyone who came out.
Two of the main highlights of summer's twilight, however, were seeing Pearl Jam a couple times on their first-ever Canadian tour. Once in Ottawa, and once here at home in Toronto. I'm listening to the recording of the Ottawa show as I type this, and it really was one of the best shows I've ever been to. Hard-driving, rocking set with probably the best second encore I've ever seen a band play - thanks in large part to the ladies of Sleater-Kinney. Toronto was still amazing - I was able to really cut loose for that one and enjoyed it thoroughly. Thank you, Pearl Jam, for coming back and being one of the best bands to your fans. We really are lucky.
So with that, hope you all enjoy your fall. Sorry for the lame narci-post, but that's the way she goes sometimes. Heheh.
Peace and love,
Waubgeshig
"Nishnaabe! Got a dollar?"
There really wasn't any escaping it. I had to hook him up this morning.
"Of course brother. Hold on a sec."
I hurriedly rummaged through my right pants pocket, fishing through a pool of coins. Of course I could give him a loonie - I had about 5 or 6 of those alone. But I was sure to pull out just one and place it firmly in his calloused, nicotine-stained palm. "Appreciate it brother," he said. "Got a smoke too?" It was barely 10 AM and the sharp odour of alcohol cut through my nostrils. "Nah sorry dude," I lied. "But I'll hook you up later if I see ya." We exchanged the traditional "thumb grip" Native handshake, and parted ways.
And this was the harsh reality of transplanting from the Rez to downtown Toronto. Sure, I was another case, but one of the rare ones. Like Kevin, the 30-something addict I saw nearly every day on the way to and from work, I came to the city years ago with big expectations. But the difference between us is I was running to something, while he was running away from something else.
For me, Toronto was opportunity; it was sheer excitement. But for him, it was escape and relief. He told me the name of his Rez once. I forget exactly what it was, but it's somewhere near Thunder Bay. He never told me why he left, but I had a pretty good idea why. He was escaping a disjointed life of abuse and self-destruction, only to find a new degree of it at Queen and Bathurst. Today, I have my degree. Today, he's living on the street.
I came to this intersection for totally different reasons. It's where the "cool" people hung out. Despite seedy undertones (namely, my Nish brothers and sisters who panhandled on the corner every day), 20-somethings flocked here day and night to shop, see, and be seen. Every night of the week was electric. You were guaranteed a good time; you just had to make sure you didn't get cornered by the wasted Indians asking for change/smokes. The vibe brought me there. But for my Nish counterparts, it was both a baneful and loosely satisfying sense of community that drew them in.
In the beginning, sometimes I tried to avoid them. Not because they embarrassed me, or because I couldn't afford to help them out. It was just too depressing to be around. But before long, I grew ashamed of that attitude. These could be my cousins, my aunts and uncles, friends with whom I've long lost contact. Gradually, I got to know quite a few of my brothers and sisters and their stories:
"My Nokomis died, and she was the only one I really had back home. I didn't want to stay."
"I couldn't find no work up there, so I came down here to try to sell my art. Wanna buy some?"
"I ran away."
"The Rez is boring. It's always a party down here!"
And the one thing that always maintained was the typical Nish sense of humour - no matter when. I needed to feel welcome like that sometimes, even though most of the time we were all on totally different pages. After a while, you wouldn't see someone there anymore. And that either meant something really good, or really, really bad.
It's only been weeks, but that already seems like a distant memory. A land and a time far away, when in fact it was just a stroll down the street. Don't get me wrong - I feel very fortunate to have avoided that lifestyle (or to have not needed to explore it at all). But I try to empathize as much as I can. I see their faces when I go back to the Rez in some of the people there, and vice versa. But for bringing me back down to earth in this tumultuous-ballet-of-shit-that-doesn't-really-matter called the city, I'm always grateful for my people who I can always find down at Queen and Bathurst.