Lifting First Nations from poverty

I walk on the reserve everyday. I feel dirt and dust under foot, and from the earth comes the understanding that to lift the reserve out of poverty would take any government the sort of policy they would never dare even contemplate. They would have to 'throw money at the problem'.

Effort, patience, and investment. That's what we First Nations need from the government to help get us out of this debilitating poverty. All three, however, are in short supply from provincial and federal governments, all of which would rather ignore the social problems and personal difficulties that have beset and dominated First Nations over the past centuries since first contact.

Addiction, alcoholism, violence, gangs, and such and such, all which are symptoms of dire poverty and social injustice do of course need to be addressed directly, but the commitment has to be coordinated and on a scale which would put to shame what is currently available as services for many First Nations, many of whom lack for even basic necessities such as food, clean drink, clothing, and shelter, which in the past had been made purposely unavailable, and remain inaccessible today because of complete indifference.

Effort, patience, investment.

My own reserve is poor. Oh, the band itself has some money, but it is never enough to keep at bay the creeping chaos of the immediate future. Oh, if the band had the money to hire its workers full-time, we could much more quickly and efficiently respond to the small problems that transform into larger problems over time. Oh, if we had capital, we could open stores so that we could save ourselves time we must spend travelling to cities (and also insulate our micro-economy from excessive capital leakage). If we had the funds, we could create warehouses or lumber-mills or factories, or even find a niche industry that can support the community from generation to generation. However, we only have the money to patch up our community's torn social fabric, and only with materials that are discarded from the larger community that is Canada.

I know I'm not alone in these thoughts about the reserve. I see it in the eyes of my relatives and friends. We are each searching in our own way for a path, for a solution, for what might be described as salvation. As the days pass, we each perhaps gain a bit more courage as we each on our own come to a conclusion. With this little courage, it is inevitable we shall not merely ask for more, but to seek more with our own means, using whatever little is available to us.

I am and am not a Canadian, but I am Secwepmectsin

On March 27th, I did up a post called The Cons are simply racist. I got a response, which is here. I wanted to respond to it directly, but my thoughts twisted and turned about, leaving me a bit lost.

I wish to wander about in my thoughts, and was thinking perhaps some of you all might want to come along for the walk.

I'll start in my memories. We'll begin at the Trans-Canada, at the entrance to my reserve.

---

My hometown I.R. #3. Standing at the mouth of the reserve, we're looking down the old dirt road. We can see quite a ways, but it turns gently rightward. More so than the road, however, we see potholes. Deep, deep potholes. It's my own belief that there have been cars lost in them. The highways department grades the road every spring, but the potholes are ancient, having existed before time began, and so return the very next day, simply waiting.

Now before we actually start walking, let's have a show of hands. How many of you people have ever been on a reserve before? You may experience a bit of culture shock, but I can't guarantee that. Many things are the same, but things are also different. It's difficult to state what exactly, but you'll probably notice the small details.

Behind us, across the highway, we see a funeral home, and a towing company. Where the funeral home is, there used to be a fruit stand. When I was seven, I used to buy cigarettes from there, uh, for my mom (they weren't for me at all).

Anyway, let's return to the rez itself. Right away, there's two small, two bedroom houses. They're both over fifty years old. There's about seven or eight houses that age on the rez. There used to be more, but they were torn down due to being crappy houses. Right from the beginning, they were poorly built buildings. The carpenter that built them cheaped out on the materials, and pocketed the difference. The band was never able to get the money back on those houses. People still live in them though, condemned as the buildings (and us Secwepmec, it would seem) are. It's that, or live in tents, or leave the reserve entirely and disappear into the cities. And it's likely those tiny two bedroom houses are overcrowded as well, with two people per bedroom, and three in the living room.

Anyway, let's leave these houses behind. We've still got a ways to go.

Past the houses are empty fields. It seems strange to have these fields here, and it's doubly odd that there's no development happening on them, I suppose is what some of you might be wondering. All that space, and nothing.

Well, there's a story there too. Let me take you all back to the mid-eighties. We used to have a potato, cabbage, and corn field here on the left side, and if you stare across the field on the right, you'll see way on the other side an old greenhouse. We had managed to get a grant to develop all this farmland, but we weren't able to break into the market, being shut out by the rich farmers in the area. The funding dried up, as did our interest.

Moving along. We come upon a bit of forest, which now that I think about it, should probably be spaced out, as the underbrush is rather thick. I remember when I was small, and troubled, and walking after dark, I was always afraid of bears coming from that forest.

Now we've come upon the A-Frame, which as the names suggests is an a-frame building. It used to be the reserve band office, but there'd be years when there was nobody working in it, as the main band office is over in Chase. Right beside the A-Frame is where the Log Building used to be. It was used as a meeting place. I remember for a few years, we used to have bible readings there, but attendance was always minimal, especially after we started having bingo on the same night up on the other reserve. I do remember those Christians scared the wits right out of me when they described Hell, and the Apocalypse. I was only eight or nine years old, and I spent the whole night crying thinking the world would end. A week had passed, and the world was still turning, and I never saw any sign of either gods or devils, and I honestly became an atheist right then because of that experience.

Behind the A-Frame and Log Building was the Root Cellar. We kept our potatoes and corn, as well as the farm equipment and machinery, there. My friend (the only other kid my age on the rez) and I used to play around in there, despite the stories my parents would tell us about the Potato Rats, which were apparently the size of greyhounds. Never saw any, although I did look out for them.

Right across from the log building is where my old home had stood. Mind waiting a moment?

We Secwepmectsin believe homes have a soul or spirit. That old house of mine wasn't a happy spirit, although it wasn't terribly unhappy either. Perhaps it was a tad on the optimistic side despite having been built on the cheap. It was a tiny little thing. Two bedrooms, with two people per room, with three in the living room. There were three beds in the entire house. We had an uneasy and even adversarial relationship with the mice though, with which we were waging a long fought war of attrition, which, in hindsight, I think we were losing, as the mice had allied with the termites, and had also built up a huge stock of dog food, which they had used to replace all of the insulation in the entire house. The mice were in it for the long haul, while we were only surviving on food from week to week.

There used to be a parked truck near the root cellar, which me and the other kids on the rez used to play around. All of my cousins were older than me, so they knew a lot which they used to share with me, such as it was possible to get high sniffing gas.

I know. Shocking. Native kids sniffing gas. Oh, how horrid.

We sniffed right up until the point one of us went into a state of.... Don't even know what to call it. The kid wasn't right in the head at all. We all thought the kid would never be the same, and the kid never was the same, although s/hey did recover his/her senses eventually, much to our relief, since we never had to tell our parents. Although in hindsight, that was probably a mistake. Although in hindsight, with the rampant alcoholism on the rez, I'm not sure if anyone would've actually listened to us then. That's when I myself stopped sniffing, though. I was simply too scared of what happened to that kid to continue. Reflecting, I sniffed gas because it was a relief. I never saw it as a solution, but as a way to lift the troubles in my soul and mind. Even back then, I knew life was tough, although I couldn't understand many of the complexities. Still don't, although now I do understand all problems revolve around capital and poverty, as having the former allows you participation in whatever pittance of democracy exists, while being poor damns you into obscurity.

Where my old house used to be, the burr bushes and stinging thistles now stand tall. It's almost symbolic. A representation of the old, which is gone.

The new is right next door. Not my home, of course, but it's one of the new houses bands have been building for their residents, which is basically the same design for every house on the reserve. There's some cosmetic changes from house to house, but otherwise, they're basically all the same on the inside.

Lemme tell you bout the new houses. They're okay. They're definitely worth whatever was paid for them. Seems they'll last for some time. What's odd though is how even these houses, with four or five rooms each, are still overcrowded. Or maybe not. My own home has my parents, my siblings, and their kids. Three generations worth of family in one house. We also take in other kids, usually kids of relatives in the big city who for whatever reason are unable to look after their own children.

Perhaps a few of you are wondering why us siblings simply don't move out then. Let me tell you the reason. We have moved out, each of us, at one time or another. We've had jobs in the city, worked our butts off, but have always returned home. We've always been defeated in our return.

To escape poverty is an incredibly difficult task. You have to work to exhaustion. You have to stay focused. You have to remain disciplined. You must always keep a little extra patience stored away for the days when you're short of it.

To leave the reserve is to escape poverty. You're chained to the perception of the bosses who would hire you. You're a slave to the rent and bills. Food is a luxury for those who make more than minimum wage.

Have you ever seen a spider in a steel sink? It'll run up the side, reach a certain point, and then slide back down. Again, and again.

But we're not spiders. Eventually, perhaps after the second or third time, we stop trying to climb the sink. We all are too capable of recognizing futility. So we remain on the reserve, providing an all too important unemployed mercenary army for the local seasonal jobs: apple/fruit picking, firefighting, logging, and so on, and so on.

Let's leave this topic. Let's leave these houses behind. We've got a walk ahead of us.

Maybe on the reserve, we've got a dozen houses, with maybe two or three dozen on the Chase reserves. But we have maybe four hundred band members. There's something wrong with that, as in we don't have enough houses.

Our walk has taken us past the houses, and we're walking past fields and forests. All undeveloped, although some of the fields are used for hay for local farmers.

But we're coming upon the railway. The railway has used up a lot of lives. People I know, and people I love have died on those tracks. Do they lay on the tracks, and wait for tonnes of steel to end it all? I don't know.

I used to lay rocks on the tracks, in long, long lines, and then take off running. The sound of the rocks being crushed under the wheels could be heard miles away. They had an engineer come into my elementary school after a whole summer of doing that. We were told not to place things onto the tracks, especially not pennies and rocks. I never put a penny onto the tracks. What a waste of money that would've been, in all honesty.

You know, that railway is on native land? We actually never gave permission for CP Rail to build on our land, but still the rails are there. We've never taken any money from CP Rail. They did offer some, some few years ago, but many felt it was a pittance of an amount and an insult, and so we rejected it. What is the worth of our land, split into two, such as it is? Were it whole, and not cleft apart as it is, what could we develop? If we were not trapped between the highway and the railway, how far could we spread our wings?

Our last stop is the graveyard, literally, and even metaphorically. Lots of good people up in there. A few bad people there too. All are gone. Many from disease. Many from alcohol. And far too many from suicide. Weeds grow in much abundance, as we have no one to constantly care for the grounds. The ground is mostly clay, which proves a huge difficulty in digging new graves. There are many forgotten graves back where the trees are now growing tall. Those graves are from the days of smallpox and the flu, when there were so many deaths that entire families were buried together. So many names lost to history, and the most these forgotten people ask is to be left alone. The forgotten graves stretch so far back into the forest that they built part of the highway over top of them when they drove that monstrous thing through our reserve (again, without our permission). It too uses up a lot of lives, but in a different manner than the railway – there's a fatal accident on that stretch of highway every couple of years or so, especially around that blind corner at the rock bluff, right after that straight stretch. (Slow down, people! And don't drink and drive.)

Anyway, such is my home. I think I got most of everything in here. Missed out on the new Health Centre, but it's just a new band office, but without any mice.

Let's return to the highway. As we're going there, I'll think aloud for a bit.

---

If this were a story of hardship and triumph, we'd have something to show for our generations of poverty and powerlessness From all our decades of adversity, we'd be standing tall and proud with the very solution to all our problems within our hands, held tightly and confidently. Tomorrow, we'd....

Well, in all honesty, tomorrow will remain the same as today, but we may be a bit more positive than negative, or a bit more pragmatic than foolish, or whatever. It may be raining sunshine, or pouring rain, but not much will change.

We will still be struggling, just hoping to get to the day's end with a bit of good news or a funny story to share around the dinner table.

We're all still searching for something better, although we're not quite certain what that is. Living from cheque to cheque doesn't provide much time for observation.

Trapped on this old self-administered concentration camp called a reserve, we've come to view the world as openly hostile. Whatever the Charter of Rights may bestow within a court of law does not apply to politicians hoping for a little success appealing to the very most ignorant of human emotions by declaring they would rollback any progress in regards to First Nations rights via referendum, or by championing the 'opening up' of native lands to corporations as a small political favour to their friends however so much the current occupants of said land object to such treatment. We cannot help but be witness to the governments declaring our own governments as corrupt, and then installing their own choices to soften our protests to whomever we'd appeal.

Should we choose the court of law, considering we're far too poor for any protracted action, we're all too often beset by forced delays, the government's lawyers using many legal tricks to keep any case before a judge from advancing.

And to appeal to the general public is to witness our pleas for understanding and collective action drowned out by the cacophony of the everyday news, and to be regulated to page 17, opposite the ads for strip clubs and adult video stores.

Am I to somehow reconcile my bitterness of hearing of stories of police dumping drunk natives in allies where later on the poor man dies of hyperthermia (and the coppers face as the worst punishment a slap on the wrist), with a vision of Canada that I have never actually observed to really exist?

Whether I offend or shock or startle you with my next pronouncement, I cannot be certain of your reaction, but I must state it loudly and clearly. A Canada in which I am a citizen of equal standing with somebody who is white does not exist (although there are plenty of white people who are equal to me when considering such in reverse).

That Canada, in which all are truly equal, whether in political power or in the court of law, seems a faint pipe-dream that I should not dare envision.

But I do dare, much to my own self-inflicted disappointment.

I admit that I consider myself a Canadian, but such an admission is painful and frustrating, as like redressing a wound over my injured heart.

Anyway, I thank you for coming along with me. Perhaps we'll travel this highway together, and find that Canada somewhere down the road, eh?

Crossposted at A Creative Revolution

Some organic musing on the band system

Recently, I've been thinking about the band/reserve system. It's a rather ridiculous setup. Some cities, such as my home town of Salmon Arm, have three bands for a reserve population of 200 First Nations, and in the city itself are 200 more (and that's not even taking into account non-band or Metis). And none of the bands are even based in Salmon Arm but in neighbouring city Chase.

And between the bands, it's a competition for resources and funding from the government. Whoever gets in the best proposal first wins, and so it's also a competition of the bands to get the best people. However, the poorer bands will lose, as they are unable to pay their own workers what other organizations will offer them once they gain the experience working for the band. It's a huge sacrifice people have to make working for a poor band when they could be making far more money elsewhere.

And when you look right into the heart of the problem, it's obvious: poverty. One band might provide a middle class atmosphere for some of its residents, but the others haven't much opportunity. Any capital that is earned by a reserve's residents is drained away in the city rather than kept in the community. And the bands haven't the capital themselves to create an internal economy, as it would take millions of dollars to create the necessary foundation and infrastructure.

The government has oft promised to provide these funds, but at the expense of First Nations self-rights and determination, which is simply unacceptable, for if First Nations come under the direction of the governments, we will be purposely forgotten in the system. We will come under the mercy of any projects the government deems to be more important than our former lands and homes, and have our fates in the hands of whatever corporations are friends of whatever political party is in control of the government. To lose our self-governments would be to be defeated, absolutely and utterly.

The band system as it is now is ridiculous, but it's what we have. The solution is of course obvious and simple: the local bands need to unite. However, it's been a hundred years, which shows the government's success in segregating our people from each other. Conflict and distrust is our current relationship rather than unity and cooperation. To openly unite would also to openly state our defiance toward the provincial and federal governments, as a united First Nations would have a common purpose and destiny, which would be complete odds of the government's, which has always been to open up First Nations lands for exploitation by the capitalist interests the government serves.

Unfortunately, there seems to be no clear and easy path out of this grinding poverty that has been forced upon my people. If anyone tells you otherwise, they're lying.

Turning the Corner on Suicide

This is an old draft I was keeping around for the past two years which I never got around to finishing. It still feels incomplete, but I hope to draw a bit more attention to this issue so here goes.

From The Tyee

Good story from The Tyee. It's always good to see actual real-life social issues in the news instead of sensationalism (e.g. the Pickton trial). It's even better to see it's about First Nations, who are never in the news except for drummed-up controversy.

Anyway, here's my feelings all stirred up by the article. I'm told of a stretch of my reserve's history where there was in one year a suicide a month.

It's a strange cycle where a suicide convinces thoughts of suicide. The elders say the pain from a suicide doesn't disappear. It instead attaches itself to the people left behind.

There's also 'soft suicide' where the person lives life in a manner that'll end it, but there's little information that can be gathered for it.

Anger. Despair. Hopelessness. Resentment. Fear. Humiliation. Insecurity. Such feelings were forced into our communities, and we can make nothing from them. It's a heavy cycle, and even with our little strength, we're still trying to slow it, and stop it.

But the cycle of suicide is only one of many. There's the cycle of discrimination we contend with. The cycle of history and poverty and drug abuse and alcoholism. All these cycles can be seen as a chain (or a convoy). And one cycle can't be stopped unless all are at the same time.

And it's a national effort. A concerted effort to re-empower and re-invigorate the people.

I've been poor my whole life anyway

So this recession won't make much a difference to me at least

But here's some advice to you all if you lose your job due to downsizing, and can't get another one right away and have to live on the welfare pittance.

- Restrict all activities you know you can't afford. If you find yourself telling yourself, "I can't afford this", then you can't afford it, so don't do it. Repeat, repeat, repeat. And then beat yourself up later because you ignored your own advice (tends to be how I do things anyway. Maybe you have a stronger will than me).

- You can live on one meal a day. Just make sure it's the one right after you wake up though. I lived for a year on strictly macaroni, mixed vegies, and ketchup. If I can do it, then you can too!

- Buy in bulk. None of those one meal packages, unless you can get them on the cheap, or they're a part of the monthly food hamper you can get from a food bank.

- Know when you can get your food hamper. And don't be intimidated by the people who line up for them. If they ever got enough money to be able to groom themselves through welfare, they would do so. And don't ever let your pride get in the way of getting a helping hand. Especially if you got kids.

- Make sure you can't in any way touch your rent money. Get it all taken out of one cheque, and have the remainder for yourself. In today's economy though, with the high rent, and low income, you might only get maybe twenty dollars, but it's better than nothing.

- Learn how to live without a phone. Or cable. Or internet. Such luxuries were never meant for plebeians anyway. Besides, you can get phone and internet access at the local work search centre, and even more internet at the library. And you can get cable at the pub. And if it's internet porn you're after, then head for the nudey bar (remember my advice about pride before?)

- Get to know the names of the guys who work in the pawn stores, because you'll be seeing them a lot. Might as well be friends with them, right? But don't pawn your stuff. Just sell it outright. You don't need to be wasting time trying to ever reclaim your stuff, cause by the time you get it all back, it'll be obsolete due to new technology. Oh, and a word of advice. Never say you're thinking of just selling it outright. That's a huge, huge mistake, cause pawn shops are incredibly reluctant to actually buy anything, and if you try to pawn it afterward, they won't take your junk. Also, never ask if there's a difference in the price they'll give you for either selling or pawning, cause there isn't (and then they won't take your junk cause you mentioned you were considering selling it). That $4000 flatscreen TV is still only going to get you maybe $200 back. Just pawn it, and then abandon it.

- Avoid payday loan centres like they were the plague. Besides, they were made for those snobs who have jobs. Not broke mother effers like us. But they still loan on welfare. But still, don't do it. (It's worse than the pawn shop, cause these effers will attack and rape your bank account if they have to. And when they try to take out money that actually doesn't exist from your bank account, then your bank turns around, and gives it you in the arrears. $35 NSF fee? Bullcrap! The ATMs and Interac machines don't have a problem telling me there's dick all in my bank account! Why the hell can't the bank provide the same protection to my account from dicks that try to take out money that doesn't exist?)

- Stuff that falls off the back of trucks (and if the driver doesn't turn around to reclaim it) is fair game. Same goes for furniture in garbage bins behind apartment buildings.

- Find the loopholes in the welfare contract. They exist cause the government doesn't actually care if people take advantage of them. If they did care, then they'd fix them rather than using them every election as a prop for welfare reform promises, which are promptly forgotten upon taking office. Just make sure to do the bare minimum that's expected of you, so nobody bothers to raise a fuss.

- And finally, get a bike. It'll save you feet from walking KMs upon KMs fruitlessly searching out a job.

Crossposted at A Creative Revolution

Just a quick thought on 'Social Workers'

What the hell?

Is it just me? Or are 'Social Workers' merely jumped up curtain twitchers? Seriously, after tilting my head aside, what the hell is the point of their job? It's almost like their job to take kids away from their parents, and they have to find any god-damned excuse to do so! It's government sanctioned kidnapping is what it is! Leave these people alone. Seriously.

Bringing out the police was asking for trouble too. They wear heavy boots where heavy boots aren't needed.

And I'll be completely honest. Here, they didn't use a taser because the mom was 'endangering her kid'. They used it cause she wasn't complying! It was used to force the girl to submit to their will. It had absolutely nothing to do with the girl 'nearly smothering' her kid. They wanted to end this confrontation as quickly as possible, and they wanted to make sure the poor girl learned an important lesson.

You know, after a quick bit of thinking. Something's wrong with this system. These Social Workers can just enter a home, and take the kid away? No, that ain't right. Where's the court involved in this? Somehow, it just seems Social Workers, with the police could just enter a home, and steal away any kid they like, and use a trumped excuse to get away with it.

No, this has got to stop. Period. There needs to be a firewall between these Social Workers and families. They shouldn't even be allowed to touch the kids. Period. They must have to go to a court, and get a judge to sign off on having a kid removed from a home, but the parents must do the work of finding a temperorary home for their own children while they're in jail or treatment or whatever. The Social Workers cannot touch the kids, cannot affect where the kid goes, cannot direct the parents whatsoever. If for whatever reason the parents are unable to find a temperorary home for the kids (very unlikely), then the Social Worker should ask relatives to intervene. Social Workers need to be working with communities, not against them.

Now, I don't wanna have to say this again

But there's no sense in losing focus here.

Now, I'm going to repeat myself, but this time, I'm going add a bit of depth to my words.

There's no sense in despair. Trust me. I've been there, and I've found that although you can get drunk off of it, you can't actually gain anything from it. The feeling you truly need is hope.

Some find it in religion. Others in ideology. I've got no outside source for my own though. I need to dig deep to find it, but it's usually in my heart, far down past all my insecurities and fears. And boy oh boy, do I ever need it these days.

I'm telling you. The world is hopeless. There's none left about. Nobody leaves it lying around where just anyone can pick it up. No. It's a rare commodity. It can't be found in the ground or the sky or the water (although it can be found in the Earth, but that's something else altogether).

I know hopelessness. It's an old companion but not necessarily an old friend. It's just something that's hung around my entire life.

Things fall apart. That's how life can be.

Look, what I'm trying to say is. Don't give up. If it's not our choice who is in government, or if our government won't follow our wishes, then we all can't sit back and let it happen.

Our vote is only a step in the march toward a true and free democratic and equal society. A vote never results in our dreams fulfilled. It's a single and actually a very small step. At best, it's a signal of intent.

We too must form opposition to the government when it's clearly acting against the people's will. The worse the government, the more we must escalate our protest. Should the government place undue pressure onto us, the more we should spontaneously act. I'm not saying resort to violence. Instead, keep your mind as like a rifle. It is truly the greatest weapon you can use in defense of your beliefs.

Working poor: a letter to anybody who gives a shit

A few blogger's posts, and a few Bill Moyers interviews (here, here, and here), have encouraged me to write this down which are some thoughts on my own situation, right now.

First was a post by Christy Hardin Smith (of firedoglake fame, of course), and the post was The Working Poor: Survival In An Economic Darwinism America.

Second was a post by Dr. Frink, from A Creative Revolution. Incivility City, it was called.

Third was by the good Dr.Dawg: Big fat liars

Anyway, here goes,

I'm living on the edge right now. Another missed cheque, and I could wave my pride goodbye. I'd have to go move in with that guy who lives on top of a pinic table near the library just down the street from my apartment. Maybe he'd rent me the underneath for a bottle of fine wine.

Noticed a whole lot of homeless people around here in the armpit of BC, Kamloops. I'm not really surprised. It's a warm place to live in summer. There's also a shelter downtown, although it's always full, and there's no room for everybody. There's a new apartment going up which is for people living in poverty. Not sure who qualifies, but I know I don't. Cause I work, I guess.

Thirty-five hours a week, but that changes constantly. Nine dollars an hour.

Let me describe my job to you. I dig a hole, and then I stand in it, and then bury myself until I feel I can't escape from the hole I dug for myself, whatever I do.

Actually, that's a lie. But that's what it feels like I do for a living. The work I do means nothing compared to what is demanded of me. Rent, food, electricity, internet. Old bills from other companies. Student loans. Other loans. Altogether, that's more than the $1000 I earn per month.

I want another job. A second job. But nobody hires a dude with a job already around here. I find the employers around here want employees with 'flexible hours'. Note the apostrophes. I think the term 'flexible hours' is a lie, straight up. It's bullshitese for 'we want to monopolize your life'.

Also, I've left a string of jobs recently. Can't be happy with anything, I guess. Dull jobs, anal employers. No future beyond that of doing the same bs day in day out for the same paycheque year after year.

And it is the same paycheque. It ain't changed very much in the past ten years. I was making eight bucks when I was eighteen. Nine bucks now? And the rent has gone up two hundred fucking dollars in that same time? Bills have doubled and tripled?

Something's wrong here.

I found a report of what the living wage in Victoria probably should be. Over sixteen dollars an hour.

Sounds about right for here in Kamloops too. Hah! We ain't getting that.

Maybe Campbell will bite and raise the minimum wage a couple dollars. Who knows. That sure as hell won't help me very much though. Might as well quit and go join a gang and make money that way.

Not that I will though, but I can understand why they're gaining traction around here. Gangs.

People get angry. Anger at this kind of life. Where you going? Nowhere. You work your ass off, and get nothing. There's no escape from this. You go from bs job to bs job, and nothing changes. Nothing.

Let me say that one more time for emphasis. Nothing changes.

Who speaks of a dream these days? I dream of my hopes fulfilled, and retiring with a good pension forty or so years from. I know that ain't happening unless something good happens in my life. But right now, I only see the mediocre happening.

A letter to Dr. King

Common - A Dream

 

It's been forty years, Doctor King. Much has changed, but mostly in appearance only.

There are many today who are safer, but not better off. There are more today who would in their lives be in no different situation than in your day.

Has your dream wavered? I shouldn't think so, as it was so powerful. I can sometimes see that land you had spoken of, but it's distant. But still, even by accident, daily we make our way toward it as it remains the only light we can see.

We are promised daily our lives shall be better one day, but that one day never arrives. It is not tomorrow, nor the day following.

So we ourselves have set off in search of this day, our tired footsteps drowning out the cries of those who would have us remain still. We may feel lost, but perhaps everyday we bring ourselves a step closer.

We have gained little, and lost much since your time, but though our victories seem small, they remain ours, albeit barely.

We would lose our freedoms with a moment's carelessness. We may be cowed into fear, and then have from our grasp our own fate taken. And yet, through this time we've held onto what we have, scars from our own nails digging into our hands from our desperation to never release.

We've lost sight of each other. We can hear each other's voices, but cannot find each other. Though in your time, people had gathered together, it was but a moment, and the darkness had taken even that. Perhaps when we find each other, we will find our promised land too.

People have forgotten the value of the union, Doctor. Can you believe that? Perhaps you can.

People have forgotten what a union is. Why it exists. You know why, right?

Again, it is because we've lost sight of each other.

I can't say it's our fault though except in being unprepared.

We have enemies, people who believe in their own privilege. They have attacked in this darkness stealing from us all whatever they can. They would steal our sight. They would steal our voices.

They would steal our trust, and perhaps they have.

People are always surprised, Doctor, when I tell them we are the union. That we are not separate from it, and it through our solidarity thrives or our solitude wilts.

We each feel alone these days. The darkness is cold.

We shall find each other again though.

1st Of Tha Month - Bone Thugs-N-Harmony

It's not the first of the month around here. It's the last Wednesday of the month instead. Don't know if that makes any difference.

I was stuck on SA for nearly two years. Would go job hunting everyday. Walk, walk, walk.

Summer here is unbearable. The heat tends to blanket the earth, and sticks terribly.

I wondered if I would ever find work, questions abounded in my mind. Was it my appearance? Was it my skin colour?

I came up with the equation that it was not twice as hard for me to get a job as some white kid out of school, but eight times. The white kid would have parents who knew the guy doing the hiring, and I had a reputation, not a personal one, but my skin colour spoke to the hirer that I could possibly be trouble.

Seems a bit silly now that I've found work, but a hint of doubt remains in me. It's hard on native kids around here. Around anywhere. We have reputations for violence, and unpredicability. We have gangs. I know gang members.

But we're poor. That's the truth.

So many us don't work. But all the ones I know do work, drifting from one job to the next. Or living on seasonal work like firefighting, and then apple picking. They then go north for tree clearing jobs in winter. Spring's a tough time since there's little work then. It's EI time then.

Some of us go to the big city, and sometimes come back, but maybe half don't come back, since living on the margins there is no different living on the margins back home I guess.

The rez is no life, but we can't leave. It's in our blood. Its ours. If we leave, we lose it.

But it's not just natives hurting from this poverty.

I stand in the line at the SA office. I note the bulletprooft window that seperates the workers from the applicants. I taste the intensity in the air standing in that room, waiting in line, patiently as hours pass.

I stand behind the 'privacy' line, but I can still hear the person ahead of me, appealing to the worker: "I need money to last to the end of the week. I ain't got no food.... They turned off my power...."

And I can see why bulletproof glass is needed. People are stretched inside while inside that room. When that stretched out string inside of them breaks, they need to rail against something that won't.

Another person leaves in tears. Not crying loudly, but softly, trying not to be noticed.

You don't want to be there. It's shameful. But when you got no other choice, what else you can do to avoid losing your home?

Or maybe I can't see why bulletproof glass is needed. The person ahead of me is told they have to wait three weeks before they can qualify. They thank the worker, and leave.

I qualified, because I had been there three weeks earlier. Spent all that time couch surfing at various relatives, or walking the streets, or sitting in Denny's sipping on green tea, or just sitting somewhere safe waiting for night to pass. I looked for work too, but found nothing at all.

It struck me that perhaps that SA was designed to discourage people from seeking it. It's an intimidating setup. It's a room full of strangers. And then there's the glass. And the workers are hard-boiled. And when you apply, you have to wait for an extremely long time that it's almost too much of a bother. But you need the help, so you don't give up.

I once got into an argument with a worker over this. She said it wasn't that but instead to keep people who didn't qualify from getting it. I asked "Like who?" She then just repeated her earlier answer.

And when I got onto SA, I found it an ironic trap. You get just enough for rent. But not enough for food or bills.

Apparently, it's designed to discourage people from depending upon it.

It really encouraged frustration in me though. I punched a phone booth in desperate anger and fear once during a phone call to BC Hydro, completely afraid of losing my electricity. I had the coppers called on me, and I was brought to the hospital where I got stitches in my knuckles. They almost stuck me onto the suicide watch room, but I talked my way out of it, and left the hospital an hour later.

I remembered a teacher from high school. He's a cynical old boiled egg. He was speaking of when welfare was first introduced, it was because it was a tool to calm the frustrated poor from seeking alternative forms of government. That certainly wasn't in my textbook.

But oh, SA, would that you could've actually helped instead of dragging me lower.