The past couple of months have been quite busy. On top of my usual day job, I’ve been fortunate enough to take Midnight Sweatlodge on the road for a few readings and a festival, and I’ve also had the opportunity to work on some features for CBC’s upcoming 8th Fire project. While these storytelling and sharing experiences have been immensely fulfilling, this fall, nothing has warmed my heart and lifted my spirit as much as reconnecting with the traditional language of my people. Every Monday and Wednesday evening since early September, I’ve been taking Ojibway language classes at Carleton University. It’s a unique program available to students for course credit, and it’s also open to Ottawa community members (like me) for free. I’ve neglected Anishinaabemowin for far too long, and being able to learn it again has been fun, enlightening, and most importantly, it’s been healing.

As a small child I learned a handful of words and phrases growing up in Wasauksing. The older generations offered a few grains of the language here and there, but it never dominated everyday dialogue. The elders often spoke it regularly with each other, but rarely with us kids. I suppose there was still a great deal of shame attached to it as a “primitive” language. We went to Ryerson Indian Day School on the reserve, and when that became Wasauksing Kinomaugewgamik in the late 1980s, I remember learning a lot more Anishinaabemowin in school. It became like a refurbished old toy for me and my peers – we shared jokes and funny words in Ojibway because we thought it was neat. But we never really understood how fragile it was, or how important it was for us to maintain it.

Then we all went to high school off-reserve. Some of us kept it up, but for me, it dropped from my priorities. I really don’t know why. I became interested in sports, music, literature, and popular culture, and I guess my native language didn’t fit in with those western ambitions. Learning how to play a D minor chord on guitar was more important than knowing how to say the act in Ojibway. I then went to Germany for a year and rehashed some lines for the novel benefit of my hosts, but after a while that didn’t feel right, so I stopped.

Soon after returning to Canada I moved to the city to go to University and I sparsely revisited Anishinaabemowin until now. I have been an urban Indian for 13 years, spending time in Toronto, Winnipeg, and now Ottawa. I always found it somewhat difficult to find ways to speak Ojibway in each city. Every time I went home to Wasauksing I attempted to pick the language back up through conversations with my grandmother and other relatives, but when you’re only doing that once every couple of months, it’s never gonna stick. They always seemed like feeble attempts just to make myself feel better as an Anishinaabe person. So there’s always been a fog of guilt hanging over my head that’s just been easier to ignore than to try to clear.

But now at age 32 I have the opportunity to devote some serious time to reconnecting with it, and I’m thankful that my classmates, friends, family, and Carleton have allowed me to learn with them. Some may find it ironic that it took a contemporary classroom in a higher learning setting for me and my peers to accomplish this, but this shared understanding transcends the classroom. We challenge each other. We laugh. We continue our dialogue well beyond the classroom. It’s some of the most fun I’ve had in a very long time. But as my friend Geraldine pointed out to me the other day, although we may not know it, we’re healing. This language was supposed to die. But mere decades after the authorities tried to beat it from us, here we are, speaking it proudly.

Nmwendis. Wii Anishinaabe-gaagiigido. Wii mino bemaadiz. Miigwech ndikid.

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What: Midnight Sweatlodge Ottawa Launch
When: Tuesday, August 9th, 2011, 7-9PM
Where: SAW Gallery, 67 Nicholas St.
Who: Waubgeshig Rice, Vera Wabegijig, Lisa Marie Naponse, and other performers TBA
Admission: Free

I’m honoured to be joined on stage by writer/artist Vera Wabegijig and singer/songwriter Lisa Marie Naponse. I hope to add a couple more performers/artists to the bill in the next couple of weeks. You can also check the Facebook event page for updates. You’ll be able to buy your own copy at the launch.

Readings have been confirmed for Toronto, Montreal, and Parry Sound/Wasauksing before the summer’s out. Dates and venues will be announced soon. Also, I’ll be reading from Midnight Sweatlodge and taking part in panel discussions at this year’s Winnipeg International Writers Festival at the end of September. I can’t wait to be able to share some of these stories in Winnipeg again.

In the meantime, check your local book store for a copy, and if they don’t have it, ask them to order it. You can also get one through the Theytus website or from me. I’m hugely grateful for your interest and support. Miigwetch.

By the way, Midnight Sweatlodge is now intercontinental. Here’s one of my best friends Geoff reading it on a train to Paris.

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I debuted the book’s first story “Dust” at a reading in Winnipeg last week. I was in town to work on CBC’s ReVision Quest, and coincidentally, Midnight Sweatlodge was printed the same week. Kelly Hughes from Aqua Books was kind enough to quickly organize a launch with Rosanna Deerchild and Duncan Mercredi (two of my literary mentors). About 50 people showed up, and I’m truly honoured that I was able to read one of my favourite (and oldest) stories in front of such an amazing crowd. Chi-miigwetch!

Reading at Aqua Books, Winnipeg. Final tally: Applause 5, Boo 4

I was also fortunate to do a bit of press to promote Midnight Sweatlodge while in Winnipeg. The Winnipeg Free Press ran a short Q & A with me in their weekend edition prior to the launch. CBC’s Manitoba Scene also posted an interview, along with audio (at the bottom) of a chat I had with CBC Radio’s Weekend Morning Show. APTN National News invited me onto their show for an interview about how the book came about. Chi-miigwetch to everyone for the support! Keep coming to this site for more press and reviews.

We’re now planning launches for Ottawa, Toronto, Montreal, and Parry Sound/Wasauksing (hometown show). We hope to have those confirmed in the coming weeks, and I promise to keep you updated. I’ll also be taking part in this September’s Thin Air festival in Winnipeg, and I hope to make other festival appearances in the next year. This book would not have been possible without the hard work and confidence of the great staff at Theytus and the editorial guidance of the brilliant Jordan Wheeler. Most importantly, it was inspired by young Aboriginal people everywhere – especially in my home community of Wasauksing. Last, but certainly not least, I would have never accomplished this goal without the love and support of the Rice and Shipman families. Chi-miigwetch!

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The main reason Exit works so well is the massive array of visual elements. There’s unprecedented access to a world most viewers know nothing about. While the interviews generally lack emotion, the footage is what carries the film. And that’s what I love about visual documentaries. There’s a delicate balancing act in effectively marrying comprehensive and emotional interviews with powerful pictures. It’s something I’m still learning.

I loved documentaries long before I became a journalist. This is mostly due to my early exposure to the tremendous work of Alanis Obomsawin. I saw Kanehsatake: 270 Years of Resistance in high school and it blew me away. It would later inspire me to dedicate my life to telling the stories of Aboriginal people across Turtle Island. I now find myself in the fortunate position of producing my very first hour-long television documentary. Capital NDNs will begin production in early June, and will air at the end of August on CBC TV. Stay tuned for more information on this look at contemporary urban Aboriginal life in Canada’s capital. On that exciting note, here are the films that inspired me to follow this path:

Kanehsatake: 270 Years of Resistance
Alanis Obomsawin, 1993
It’s the most powerful and comprehensive look at the most important moment in modern Canadian history. Obomsawin successfully tells the real story of the 1990 Oka Crisis in Quebec and exposes viewers to the crucial moments and facts withheld by the Canadian military and federal government.

A Place Called Chiapas

Nettie Wild, 1998
Another intense Indigenous struggle is done justice on film. Chronicling the 1994 Zapatista revolution in Mexico, A Place Called Chiapas is another story of a subordinated group of people desperately trying to have their voices heard by a government who would rather have them wither in the periphery.

Gimme Shelter

Albert Maysles, David Maysles, and Charlotte Zwerin, 1970
One of the first “rockumentaries”, and probably the best. It chronicles the debacle that was the Rolling Stones’ free concert at Altamont Speedway outside of Oakland that tragically marked the end of the 1960s.

Memorandum

Donald Brittain, 1965
Holocaust survivors return to Germany two decades after fleeing the Nazi’s scourge. It’s a riveting illustration of the attitudes of both 1960s Germany and the Jewish people who initially fled – generally, shame and bitterness respectively. It looks at how everyone was coping in the aftershock of one of the greatest horrors in human history.

Inuit Knowledge and Climate Change
Zacharias Kunuk and Ian Mauro, 2010
The climate change debate goes right to the contact point of its biggest impact: Canada’s north. Kunuk and Mauro talked to dozens of Inuit leaders, elders, hunters, and scientists to gauge just how the earth’s changing climate is affecting their day-to-day lives. All the interviews and dialogue are in various dialects of Inuktitut.

Manufacturing Consent

Mark Achbar and Peter Wintonick, 1992
An ominous look at how government and corporate media work hand-in-hand to create a monstrous and indestructible propaganda machine. It’s based almost entirely on the ideas of media watchdog Noam Chomsky and his struggles as a political outsider. Required viewing for anyone working in media.

Metal: A Headbanger’s Journey
Sam Dunn, 2005
A lifelong heavy metal fan travels the world to trace the roots of an eclectic, powerful, and misunderstood genre. Dunn’s anthropological approach to uncovering the loudest music on the planet is a treat for both fans and unfamiliar listeners.

When We Were Kings

Leon Gast, 1996
Director Leon Gast went to Zaire in 1974 to make a film on the “Rumble in the Jungle” – a highly touted boxing match between Muhammed Ali and George Foreman. But because of legal issues, the material he gathered sat idle for more than 20 years. It was finally released, with old and new interviews with some of the key figures.

Little Caughnawaga
Reaghan Tarbell, 2008
Few people realize that the mighty New York City skyline was constructed with the help of dozens of Mohawk steelworkers from Kahnawake, Quebec. From the 1920s to 1960s, they carved out their own community in the heart of New York. The film goes back and forth between the rez and the city, chronicling this unique exodus and contribution to modern urbanity.

Buena Vista Social Club
Wim Wenders, 1999
Legendary guitarist Ry Cooder seeks out long-forgotten musical counterparts in Cuba to explore their traditional music and tell their life stories. A classic album resulted from the sessions, which were thankfully filmed.

Feel free to leave your favourites in the comments!

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One of my old Winnipeg connections shared this video with me via Facebook. Doug Thomas of the Assembly of Manitoba Chiefs created it to engage Aboriginal people in the Canadian federal election campaign and encourage them to vote. It’s simple, straightforward, and honest – and hopefully, it’s effective. I already voted in the advance polls, and I hope my Aboriginal brothers and sisters across the country follow suit tomorrow on election day. As so beautifully articulated in the above piece, it’s about being counted, and most importantly, being heard.

First Nations leaders across Canada are encouraging all of us to vote. As we grow as a people, they want us to become a much more formidable presence in the Canadian political theatre. In many ridings across the country, we have the ability to sway the results. Aboriginal voter turnout is usually generally much lower than the rest of the population, but grassroots activists and leaders are trying to reverse that trend.

However, there’s been a movement afoot for years rooted in academia that urges Aboriginal Canadians NOT to vote. Intellectuals cite a variety of reasons for abstaining from the democratic process. Some say it compromises our sovereignty as nations. Others say it keeps us subservient in the traditional Canadian political hierarchy. While I have the utmost respect for some of these illustrious thinkers, I couldn’t disagree more.

This country and political system were forced upon us. We were strong-armed into signing deals that kept us subordinate and in the periphery. Today, many of our communities continue to suffer because of these old colonial ways and they’re still on a long path to healing. But excluding ourselves from the process that determines the leadership and direction of the entire system won’t solve these problems. We are a part of it, whether we like it or not, and it’s up to us to start exercising this basic democratic right. Federal leaders need to be aware of us and our potential as political juggernauts.

I vote in every election, from my rez right up to my federal riding. When you’re on the rez, It’s difficult to see how your vote will trickle down into any sort of meaningful change in your community. But as our numbers grow, and as we become more engaged in Canadian society at large, we won’t be ignored anymore. Our problems are Canada’s problems, and the only way Canada will recognize that is if we become engaged in Canada’s system.

I voted this year because I believe our people need to embrace Canadian politics and shape it to suit us. Even in cities, we’re becoming more visible. We’re emerging in many professional scopes. We need to obtain and develop the tools of Canadian democracy to carve out our own special place in it. Stepping aside will only keep us on the outside, perpetually looking in as our own rights outlined by this country deteriorate. These rights define us as a people in Canada. By voting, we’re standing up for them, and more importantly, we’re standing up for ourselves and future generations. I voted because I’m proud of who I am and I believe in the power of our people.

For a great list of ridings where the Aboriginal vote could make or break leaders, read this exceptional post by mediaINDIGENA’s Rick Harp.

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I was fortunate to be raised in my community surrounded by family, friends, and an emerging Anishinaabe cultural renaissance. I left the rez to pursue post-secondary education and a career, as did many of my relatives and peers. I haven’t been able to return to live there (yet) because my career path isn’t conducive to that (at the moment). But I go home regularly to visit and I still feel part of it. Wasauksing has made me who I am today and I love it with all my heart. But at the end of the day I am an “Urban Indian” and there’s no denying that.

The fact is, more than half of the people who have membership in the Wasauksing band are Urban Indians. When I last checked, the stats weren’t available, but Indian and Northern Affairs Canada’s community profiles used to say that Wasauksing had a total band membership of about 1000, with 400 living on the reserve. That was years ago and the numbers have certainly grown. But prior to 1999, those living off-reserve couldn’t vote in band elections. The Supreme Court of Canada’s Corbiere Ruling changed that, and the band election process continues to evolve with each subsequent election.

Fortunately, I didn’t really know off-reserve voting life prior to Corbiere. I was 20 when that ruling came down, and have been able to vote in every election since. I’ve mailed in ballots from Toronto, Akron Ohio, Winnipeg, and now Ottawa. It’s a right I’m glad I’m entitled to so far from my community, and it makes me feel proud and connected every time I drop that envelope in the mailbox. Many of us who exercise this right still care deeply about our home communities and have close ties to it. We deserve our say and we’re happy to voice it.

Wasauksing’s elections are every two years. Over the past two campaigns I’ve noticed candidates appealing directly to off-reserve voters for support via Facebook and email lists. Some of these modern smoke signals have swayed my decisions in the past on who to vote for. Modern plumes of ambition coming our way from home, hoping to draw an even bigger one back. As Canada’s Aboriginal people continue to carve out their identity across this country, this process will keep modernizing, engaging all band members living afar to strengthen our collective voice and move forward.

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A growing orange fire raged outside a humble sweatlodge. A tall, lanky young man in a heavy dark work coat and jeans stood beside the fire holding a pitchfork and keeping a watchful eye. His much shorter cousin in a similar getup was there to hold the flap open to the lodge’s doorway. It was midnight and glowing embers carried high through the midwinter air as the fire crackled. There were five young men and three young women — ranging in age from late teens to late twenties — standing in a line waiting to get in; towels wrapped around their shivering naked bodies. They wore boots to protect their already trembling and frigid feet from the snowy ground, a thick crust that was broken with each step to reveal a fine white powder underneath. Each held a shaker to keep rhythm with the songs they’d sing inside. The women standing at the front of the line all wore their hair down and so did the young men who had long hair. The blistering orange glow seemed to illuminate their various natural tans — from beige to bronze to almond brown — and the fire danced in their slanted brown eyes. They slowly made their way towards the small dome, about four feet high and twice as long in diameter. An elder sat inside, awaiting them.

I’m pleased to announce that in May Theytus Books will release my fiction debut called Midnight Sweatlodge. It’s about the modern-day Aboriginal experience through the eyes of a group of very different young people that share similar hardships. They take turns telling their stories in a midnight sweatlodge ceremony in the depths of the bush on their reserve, far from their struggles in the contemporary outside world. From depression to drug abuse to identity confusion, each has a battle to overcome, and for most it’s a matter of survival. They wrestle with their own desire to understand their traditional past and reconcile it with their seemingly bleak future. Few realize the first step in that healing is sharing and letting go. For some, it’s already too late.

This project essentially began as a short story collection. Since high school, I’ve enjoyed writing short fiction in my spare time – primarily based on my experiences and those of my friends and relatives growing up on the reserve. There were a few I was particularly proud of, and I decided to pursue getting them published. In 2004, I pitched a collection idea to the Canada Council for the Arts, who generously bestowed a writing grant upon me to develop and refine it. From there, the stories eventually became part of one narrative. After sitting on it for a few years, a few friends implored me to submit it to publishers. In early 2009 I mailed a handful of manuscripts across the country, and Theytus was kind enough to take it on. They paired me with one of my literary idols – the illustrious and immensely talented Jordan Wheeler – to edit and further polish it.

This has been one of my life’s goals and I’m extremely happy that it’s finally coming to fruition. I hope you’ll check it out when it’s in print. Stay tuned for more details. Miigwetch.

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(That post title is a Simpsons reference. I’m not sure anyone here even calls it Capital City)

Cleanliness. Ottawa is by far the cleanest city I’ve ever lived in. Of course it helps that the city and the National Capital Commission spend a lot of cash making it look that way. Even though you see lots of people smoking outside downtown government buildings, you barely see vagrant butts blowing around the sidewalk. It seems there’s always someone there to sweep up the trash, and it also looks like there are multiple infrastructure jobs going on at once to make sure city streets are presentable.

Downtown Ghost Town. But if people inhabit downtown streets only half the time, is it worth keeping them so presentable? On any given weekday between 7AM-6PM there’s a vibrant buzz in Centretown because of the thousands of people who work there. But once quittin’ time rolls around, it’s dead. I see it every day because I live just a couple blocks from the heart of it. It gets really lonely and dark, and it’s hard to believe this is the core of a metro area of more than a million people.

Nightlife. If you end up feeling lonely on a dark downtown street, all it takes is a ten minute walk to lots of great restaurants, bars, and theatres. Bank Street is great. So’s Elgin. And the Market has lots going on pretty much any night of the week. A lot of people who are originally from here tend to apologize to me for the “lack of action” on evenings and weekends here in Ottawa. First off, there’s lots to do. I’ve seen great bands every weekend I’ve been here. And secondly, I’m 31 now dude – a little old to be needing that kind of “action” that regularly!

Arts and History. This is the national hub for museums, and I feel truly fortunate that I live within walking distance of some of the best in the world – namely the National Gallery of Canada, the Canadian Museum of Nature and the Canadian Museum of Civilization. Status Aboriginal people can get into the latter for free – rightfully so, probably because of all the traditional belongings housed there. I haven’t had a chance to branch out to some of the smaller galleries, but they’re on my list.

Pro Sports Teams. I grew up a diehard fan of the Toronto Maple Leafs. I think that’s all I gotta say. The local guys are growing on me though.

The Nod. I’ve explained what “the nod” is a few times in past posts, but it basically speaks to the Aboriginal presence in an urban setting. When spotting a fellow First Nations person on a city street is rare, you nod at each other to acknowledge your shared background and plight as an “Indian in the City”. When there are lots of others, you don’t necessarily need to. Although it isn’t as strong as in western cities like Winnipeg or Regina, there’s a visible Aboriginal presence on the streets of Ottawa that reflects the strong sense of community here. Sometimes you nod at others, sometimes you don’t have to. There are great resources like the Wabano Centre and the Odawa Centre for everyone to rely on. Although I enjoy seeing all walks of life on city streets, it’s comforting to see a strong Aboriginal community in the Capital.

There are many other things I really enjoy about living here, like my job, having lots of family in the same town, and the proximity to where I grew up. I miss lots about Winnipeg and Toronto, but this is home for now and I’m gonna make the most of it. Thanks to everyone who’s been so accommodating, and if we’ve never met, keep an eye out for me!

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He would pull a car battery and a small black and white television with rabbit ears out of the closet. He then somehow wired the TV to the battery and turned the knob. The screen would sputter like a lawnmower motor with dots and diagonal white bars dancing up and down before coming to life. The static would then fill the screen, and with a few tweaks of the antennae, we’d have a picture. This is how we watched TV back then.

We lived in a humble home with no power or running water in a deep corner of the reserve. Every week, our parents would cobble together that makeshift TV set so we kids could watch “The Nature of Things” on CBC. It was our favourite show and they made sure we never missed it. After David Suzuki’s informative lesson about the natural world around us, they kept the TV on to watch “The National” with Knowlton Nash. Then it was time to unhook the TV from the battery, blow out the candles, turn down the lanterns, and go to bed.

Even as an eight-year-old, it was a bit late in the day for me to be watching national news. But this was my exposure to a world that was so far from me. That’s not to say we didn’t know “white” Canada – our mom is white and the reserve we grew up in is only a ten minute drive from a town. But when you’re huddled with your family around a tiny, fuzzy and flickering pale blue screen in a powerless and waterless house enveloped by darkness in the middle of the bush, it’s like peering into an entirely different universe.

When I watched the news I saw a world on that little screen that I didn’t know. The stories I heard and the places I saw were things I had no idea I could ever be part of. I thought Knowlton Nash was some kind of supreme being, because it sounded like what was on the TV was named after him (Nash-ional). Never once did I see people that looked like us in that little box, so I never imagined we had any kind of role in that far-off place.

Little did I know back in the 1980s that there were already lots of Aboriginal people breaking ground in Canadian broadcasting. But those moments just never hit the rabbit ears or the AM dials of some of the people on reserves who were able to tune in, no matter how close they were to transmission towers. I grew up not knowing I could be telling stories on TV too.

As I went through school I loved writing and I loved telling stories. I loved hearing the lessons my grandparents and aunties and uncles told through these ancient tales. I had a wild imagination so I started writing down some of the stories I came up with. I didn’t know that what we saw on our rudimentary TV back then were stories like the ones I heard and still carry with me today.

Then when I was 17 I travelled to Germany as an exchange student for a year. A newspaper in Ontario asked me to write stories about that experience and send them back. That was my first experience with journalism, and I quickly realized that’s what I wanted to do with my life. When I returned I applied to university to study that. Originally I thought I’d become a worldly correspondent, writing about more wild experiences for newspapers and magazines around the globe. But then I got a taste of what it takes to put stories on TV – matching resounding words with unforgettable images – and I fell in love with a whole new way of sharing peoples’ experiences with countless others in remote corners of the country. So at Ryerson I started to focus on broadcasting – more so to produce these stories than to actually be on TV to tell them.

In school I got in front of the camera from time to time just to have fun. When we got back to the edit suite, it was even more challenging and exciting to make an actual story of the images and interviews we shot. I thought if I ever did get a job in the field, I’d fill in as a reporter once in a while, but that was it. As that four-year journey wrapped up, I had a couple of internships with two very different Canadian broadcasters – the Weather Network and CBC. After graduating, the former gave me my first job in the business, and after being a writer for them for a couple of years, they put me on TV as their reporter for southern Ontario.

I reported on all kinds of crazy weather stuff in Ontario and across the country. Then I got a job with CBC in Winnipeg. I spent four great years with Canada’s national broadcaster in that gorgeous Prairie city before returning to Toronto this past summer to do fill-in work. Now I’ve settled with them in Ottawa. I’ve been an on-camera reporter for about six years now and more than 1,000 stories later, it’s been a wildly fulfilling ride. There have been some ups and downs but it’s mostly been a hugely rewarding and remarkable experience.

TV stories are short and often very forgettable. But when you create them, you can take someone by the hand and show them what they need to see, and explain to them what they need to know. Throughout life, most of us have indelible memories of people guiding us through confusing new experiences and making us understand. That’s how many reporters approach our assignments. On TV it’s primeval storytelling in the most modern medium. If you do it effectively, people will never forget the story and as a result, they’ll never forget you.

But I’ve never been in it for that kind of recognition. Too many people in this business get caught up in the plight for exposure and glamour. People who know me know I’m the opposite of glamourous. At the risk of sounding self-righteous, I just want to tell a good story and do it honestly. I’m hugely grateful for the opportunities I’ve had, and I just hope I do everyone that I encounter on this journey justice. I am a conduit for your stories and my primary passion is to do them well.

That being said, I don’t judge success by how far I’ve come since those days of rabbit ears and car batteries on the reserve. Today, I watch the news in HD in 5.1 sound. I’m fortunate enough to be telling the stories that I love a lot of the time. And today, I report for the National from time to time – the first news show I ever saw that exposed me to life beyond the rez. I will be successful if at least one other kid on a reserve far away sees me on the news and is perhaps inspired to follow a similar path. Media is growing, and so are we. There’s an immensely powerful growing knowledge in our communities that our stories will never die, and we are in a position to make sure they resonate even louder for thousands of years.

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It was the winter of 2006 and I had just flown in for a job interview at Canada’s public broadcaster. I was scheduled to leave the next day, hence the eagerness to see as much as possible. I walked westward on Portage, and within minutes saw a bundled-up Aboriginal couple coming my way. I nodded at them in acknowledgement, but they gave me an awkward glance in return. I didn’t think much of it and carried on. Within seconds I noticed another young Aboriginal dude in a leather jacked with long hair. Again, a nod, and no reciprocation. This continued for blocks. I saw Natives, and nodded at them. This is what we did in Toronto, because Aboriginal people rarely crossed paths on those massive streets. Some nodded back, some didn’t. After a few minutes I realized I must have looked like an Ojibway bobblehead. Feeling ridiculous, I stopped.

It took walking just a few blocks along Portage to understand why people call Winnipeg “Capital Rez”. Aboriginal people are an especially visible and increasingly crucial part of the social fabric in the city and across the province of Manitoba. Up to that point, I lived most of my adult life in Toronto, where Aboriginal people are the biggest in numbers compared to other Canadian cities, but largely invisible, diluted across thousands of neighbourhoods. So whenever First Nations people crossed paths on the street, it was a big deal. But experiencing this presence on Winnipeg’s streets was invigorating. I ended up getting the job, and over the next four years I learned why Winnipeg is the most culturally important city in North America.

That large Aboriginal population means many non-Aboriginal people in Winnipeg are more familiar with the culture and background of First Peoples than in other much larger North American cities. The odds are more people have gone to school, worked or at least socialized with someone who’s Cree, Ojibway, Dene, Metis, or Inuit (and et cetera). It’s naive to think all these encounters have been positive. But I’ve come across people in other bigger cities who didn’t know “Indians” even existed. Even just knowing someone different than you is the first step to building a bridge between cultures. Because of all this shoulder-rubbing in Winnipeg, there’s a stronger foundation than anywhere else.

Winnipeg is also one of the most diverse and culturally-rich places in the world. It’s home to the largest concentration of people from the Philippines than anywhere outside of that country. Many neighbourhoods have strong connections to waves of immigration from the Ukraine and other eastern European countries. Subsequent waves from southeast Asia and many African countries have left the city with a colourful face that on the surface, is strikingly beautiful. That diversity is rooted in the positive relationships spawned by the fur trade, resulting in a powerful Francophone community.

However, putting those facts and the rose-coloured glasses aside reveal a city that is struggling with a cultural transition. This is reflected mostly in what we see in the media. Stories of gang warfare on downtown streets, violence against sex trade workers, racially motivated attacks, and random beatings and killings. Sadly, most people immediately assume the characters in these stories are Aborginal. And a lot of the time that’s true. Therefore, stereotypes are still very alive, floating through the air. But on the ground, there’s hope, and it’s pretty easy to find.

I was fortunate enough to have a job that kept me on the ground and introduced me to dozens of people who taught me about that hope. Like a former prominent gang member who learned about his Metis culture and storytelling to escape that life. Like the two teenaged sex trade workers who surprisingly gave us an interview on Manitoba Avenue. Their sole reason was to warn others about the dangers of the life and how they wanted help out of it but worried they were trapped. Like the residential school survivor who told me that despite all of our problems, he’s the most hopeful he’s ever been in his life because now he finally feels at home in Winnipeg among other Anishinaabe people.

I felt immediately at home upon my arrival in Winnipeg. Not only thanks to the diverse and welcoming Aboriginal communities in the city, but also to the innate warmth of everyone else. All those colourful open arms embraced me. I fell in love with the city and the province and I firmly believe nothing can tarnish that. I’m proud to have called it home for four years and I think everyone who lives there should be even prouder of the great things that are coming. Winnipeg will be an example of cultural harmony that other North American cities will follow.

I walked down Yonge Street in Toronto yesterday. It felt like the first time again because it has changed so much. The city is alive, colourful, and vibrant and I will always love that. But I already can’t wait for my next stroll down Portage Avenue. If you see me, just try to nod back.

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