Truth & Reconciliation - on Being a Witness

This is the second in a series of blogs I'm writing on my experience attending the Truth & Reconciliation event in Victoria last weekend.  The Truth & Reconciliation Commission in Canada addresses the Indian Residential School system that existed between 1840 - 1996 (see their website for more information).  If you haven't read my introductory blog entry, you can read it here first.

In many First Nations along the West Coast, especially those with ceremonies in longhouses, there is a tradition of choosing witnesses.  These people are given a small amount of money, and are formally charged with carefully observing what happens at that ceremony, so that they can tell future generations, and others who are not present.

In his speech at the Opening Ceremonies of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission event in Victoria (which I attended this past weekend),  Justice Murray Sinclair, one of the three commissioners, told us that if we had chosen to come to the event, no matter who we were, we had become witnesses.  We were "commissioned" to share what we learned at the event, to inform our communities and networks.

Justice Sinclair said that part of what the Truth and Reconciliation Commission will do is make it impossible for future generations to deny that the residential schools existed, or to deny what happened in these schools.  Students' experiences are recorded on official record, preserving a national memory that cannot be erased.  I had never considered how easy and convenient it would be for Canadians to minimize or gloss over these painful and shameful experiences.

I pondered the fact that I had not even heard of Canada's residential schools until my Native Studies class in first year university (!).  I still remember sitting on my bed, having just read a first-hand account from a former residential school student.  I wept in disbelief and anger, especially over my discovery that the Church had been so intricately involved in the abuse and cultural genocide.  This truth must be witnessed to, and must be spread broadly, not just to the few people who happen take Native Studies.  If we do not witness to the injustice, we risk repeating the injustice, for although we'd all like to think we've come a long way, the colonial attitudes that implemented residential schools are still buried in our minds like seeds.

The responsibility to witness is especially relevant for people who follow Christ.  Last summer, at the first annual Creative World Festival, which takes place on the grounds of St. Mary's Residential School, Ched Myers said this: "For Christians, the luxury of historical amnesia is unequivocally prohibited.  Jesus said, 'Do this in remembrance of me.'  He told us to ingest memory."  Ched challenged us to actively remember the people whose lives had been profoundly dis-membered on those very school grounds.

So I am attempting in these blog posts to fulfill my duties as a witness - to tell you what I saw and heard and felt in Victoria.  In my next post, I'll begin my witnessing.

Truth & Reconciliation... in Canada?

This past weekend, some friends and I attended a regional event put on by Canada's Truth and Reconciliation Commission in Victoria, BC.

The phrase "Truth and Reconciliation" often brings to mind race-based conflicts in places like South Africa, Rwanda, El Salvador, and Guatemala.  Due to the absence of a high-profile genocide or civil war, many Canadians are surprised to discover that Canada is also currently in the middle of a nation-wide Truth and Reconciliation process. 

Canada's Truth and Reconciliation Commission addresses the 130 Indian Residential Schools that operated in this country from the 1840s until the last one closed in 1996 (!).  About 150 000 First Nations, Metis and Inuit children attended these government-funded, church-run schools, which intended to "kill the Indian in the child."  About half of these former students are still alive today.  The Truth and Reconciliation Commission calls them "survivors," and often refers to their children and grandchildren as "intergenerational survivors," since they, too, experienced the negative impacts of the schools, especially in the difficult family dynamics that ensued.

Over the last couple of decades, several residential school survivors have filed claims against the government for the abuse they suffered at these schools.  In 2007, a settlement was reached, which allocated funds to survivors and to healing centers, and mandated the creation of a Truth and Reconciliation Commission.  This was followed soon after by the (in)famous apology by Stephen Harper to survivors and their families.

The purpose of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission is to do research, collect statements from survivors, and make a permanent archive establishing the truth of what happened while the schools were in operation.  They also seek to educate Canadians about the schools, their legacy and impacts, and to encourage and suggest steps toward reconciliation between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people in Canada.

This Truth and Reconciliation process is unique in a lot of ways.  It is the first court-ordered commission.  It is the first one to study such a long period in history (150 years).  It is one of the first Truth & Reconciliation commissions in a First World country.  Of particular interest to me, it is the first commission examining a situation where the oppressed parties were primarily children, and where one of the main oppressors was the Church.

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I have never written a series of blogs before, but I feel like my experience at this Truth and Reconciliation event in Victoria merits more than one blog entry.  I hope to publish four blogs to summarize my experience and my reflections:

- Being a Witness
- Listening to Survivors
- How (not) to Apologize
- Forgiveness and Reconciliation

I look forward to sharing more with you over the next couple weeks.  But I also recognize that there's no substitute for attending these events yourselves. 

So please get out your calendars. 

If you are a friend of mine living in Saskatoon, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission will be hosting a National Event there in just a couple months, June 21-24, which they hope will attract over 20 000 survivors, and even more guests.  It's free to attend.  Check the website for more details as plans come together.  Don't miss this chance!

If you are a friend of mine living in Vancouver, you have to wait a little longer... the Commission won't be here for another year and a half.  It will come to Vancouver September 18-21, 2013.  But it will be big... rumours from the planning committee include a 50,000-person march to kick it all off.  Expect to participate!

A Bud Osborn Poem for Good Friday

This afternoon, on Good Friday, we walked around the neighbourhood for the fourth time in our little church's life together.  Our first ever service, three years ago, was a Good Friday service.  So happy third birthday, God's House of Many Faces!  

As we walked, we stopped at various places to remember parts of the crucifixion story.  At each site, we each planted a wildflower seed and sang, "Unless the seed falls to the ground, ain't gonna be no life at all."

We also read excerpts of poetry by Bud Osborn at each stop.  Bud Osborn is one of the coolest people I know.  Actually I don't really know him at all, but I know his work, and every time I see him in the neighbourhood, I feel like I want to ask for his autograph.  He's a DTES resident, prolific poet, activist (especially against homelessness and against the war on drugs), a very humble and courageous soul.  The story goes that he began following Christ after having been given the book "The Prophetic Imagination" by Walt Brueggemann.  

Today, for our service, Jodi chose several excerpts from Bud's poem "Street Sermon" that I've copied out in full below.  It's from his book "Hundred Block Rock."  The first time I read this poem, when it was printed in the local Carnegie Newsletter last year, I found myself weeping.  For some reason, the title and disclaimer led me to expect a full-on anti-Christian diatribe.  Instead I got one of the rawest, most moving sermons I've ever read.  I write it here in hopes that you'll be similarly moved this Good Friday, and in hopes that you'll buy some of Bud's poetry.

The poem is long, and there is some language, but I promise, it's worth it.

Street Sermon

(after hearing one too many preachers haranguing about hell-fire on granville street)

brothers and sisters    fellow low-life    listen    we are in luck    one 

guy at least    came just for us    a tremendous low-life    jesus    he 

didn't come down here    to this blood-stew    for no limousine 

riders    no bible thumpers    no hotshot angle-shooters    no

came down here    I believe it's the truth    for me and you    I 

mean    junkies    winos    hookers    cripples    crazies    thieves

welfare bums    and homeless freaks    lowest of the low    least of 

all

do your parents hate you?    your teachers hate you?    po-lice 

hate you?    your friends hate you?    you hate you?    you're 

really in luck    everybody hated jesus too    you got nowhere to 

live?   nowhere to go?    nowhere to hang your hat?    jesus said 

to a cat    'even the foxes of the field    and the birds of the air

got somewhere    to lay their weary ass down    but not me    oh 

no'

do people scorn you?    put you down?    tell stories about what 

a problem    you are?    a judge told me    I was of no use to society

the president    of a university    told me I was trash and obscene

my own mother    god bless her    told me I was     the world's 

biggest asshole    but all that    just makes me eligible     to hook

up with jesus    who got nailed up    bleeding    sweating    balls-

naked    to a wooden cross    to take    all that bad bullshit   off my 

back

jesus tells you    not to hate your own self    which is easy to do

out here    running around like a fool    but just ask jesus    he'll

help you with that    'love yourself' he says    'so you can    love 

somebody as    unloved    and unlovable   as you been'

I mean    jesus didn't come all this way    go through all that

trouble    to send you and me to hell    no    maybe these other

soft successful    types    I don't know    but not you and me    bona 

fide losers    you and I know    this world    is all the hell    we're 

going to see    jesus came to cool us out    from this hell    right 

here    right now    for real    with love    not handcuffs    editorials

or plastic gloves

do you slash-up?    overdose?    drink lysol?  stick rigs in your 

arms?   or pull a knife on somebody else?  well    jesus is just for 

you    he was the world's    all-time    biggest    loser     the straight 

people    the priests    and judges    hated him because    he said

low-life scum    would get to heaven     before they did

and at the end    when jesus needed his friends    they all took off

on him    except for a hooker    named magdalen    but all his 

close friends    split    said 'no way I don't know him'    except for 

his friend judas    who    turned jesus in    to crimestoppers    his 

friends made him    take the rap    all alone    you know how that 

feels    and jesus     kept his mouth shut    when pontius pilate

the chief of police    wanted jesus to cop-out    with a plea

so if you feel misunderstood    nobody know how you feel    or

what you talking about    that's jesus too    he know about you

he been    through it     and don't you allow these    puffed-up

self-righteous    chumps     sell you no    goody-goody jesus    hell

no    jesus got pissed off plenty times

when jesus was    wandering around    no bus fare    all his 

buddies    kept saying    'what should we do?    what should we 

do?    we're scared'    jesus told them    'lay down your life for 

your friends    and if    your enemy    rip-off your coat    give him 

your shoes too     give up this     money-grubbing    power-tripping

fantasy-acting    ego bullshit    give it up    and you won't be 

scared no more'

but jesus got    hung up    between two thieves    just another 

criminal    and everybody thought so little    of jesus    was down

on him    so bad    they let    a mad terrorist bomber    go free

instead of him    but jesus told that thief    hanging on the cross

next door    like he telling you and me    'right now today    this 

very hour man    I take you with me    to paradise'    jesus told a 

death-row thief    he was going to take him    to paradise

jesus didn't tell    a stockbroker    didn't tell    a rock promoter

he told    the brokers and promoters    'you can't get to paradise

the way you going'    a young banker    came up to jesus    said

'I dig your rap    what I gotta do?'    and jesus told him     'give it 

up brother'    said    'give all your money to the poor    the punks

the drunks    the bums    give it up'    and that banker    did to 

jesus    what most people    do to you    when you got    your 

hand out    he just walked away    'anything but my sports car'

in his own hometown    they called jesus    a crazy motherfucker

I been called crazy    lots of time    in my hometown    locked up 

in the nuthouse to prove it    and jesus    his neighbours told him

'we know you boy    don't go pullin    none of them miracles

around here'    and tried    to grab his ass    but he ran fast   damn

but you know    what that's like

and if you think    you got trouble    just keeping your name

straight    jesus    confused many fools    with that    'are you god 

or what?'    they were always asking him    he said    'who do you 

say that I am?'    a smart-ass    jesus was always being told     'you 

can't do that    it's against the rules    it's against the law'    but 

jesus talking about    the spirit    body and soul    the whole deal

real    real life    not just    bingos    lotteries    and videos

and jesus believed    in having a good time    told those tight-ass 

bastards    his kingdom    was like a wedding reception    and first 

thing jesus did    was turn water into wine    so they wouldn't run 

out    and the authorities    called him    a drunkard    but jesus

just kept saying    'help each other    love each other    no matter 

what    it's the only thing    you can count on'

so     fellow low-life    just know    jesus loves you    if nobody else

does    I know he loves me    especially when I don't    love myself

or anybody else    it's hard to believe in love    in this cruel city   in 

this    nightmare time    that everybody else pretends    is just fine

but remember    no matter what kind    of nasty shit you pull

jesus loves you    in fact    you can't make jesus    not love you

but when you been    kicked around    since you were born    love 

is like    an insult    'oh we love you so much    we want to hurt you 

some more'    but not with jesus    when you suffering    real bad

just reach a hand    out of your    heart    and he'll help you make 

it    jesus has already    helped you make it    you just didn't know it.

and the gospel tell you    the gospel just    the highlights of a

low-life    jesus believed    in the devil too    the devil that runs 

around    in him    and her    and me    and you    and all over

everyplace else    seems like    jesus knew the devil personally but 

jesus didn't    go on and on    about some    therapy-self-help-

socialworker-shrink-headed-victim-disease-shit    jesus knew we 

couldn't be    this crazy    this miserable    this goddamned 

mean and vicious    without a lot of help    from the devil    so 

jesus    kick-boxed the devil    right out of people    jesus knows 

we're weak    and easily possessed    by all the crap    in this world

jesus    knows all this stuff

so the devil    came to see jesus    one on one    when jesus was

strung-out    from not eating    and hanging-out    in the desert

near kamloops    and the devil said    to jesus 'if you're such a 

bigshot   turn this stone    into a loaf of bread    and feed yourself'    

and jesus said    'forget you    I'd rather be    hungry    than do   

what you tell me to do'    did you ever do that?    refuse    and have 

people say    'you don't know    what's good for you?

then the devil    said to jesus    'look here    I show you    all the 

world  cars    drugs    power    sex    beer    in the    whole world    

I'll give you all that    just say you're mine'    but jesus    could not 

be bought    and the devil kept     working on him    the devil said    

'okay    you so stupid    jump off this cliff    and see if your big 

daddy save you   like you always    talking about'    jesus just 

laughed    he knew better

I haven't always known better though    those deals    the devil 

offered jesus    sound pretty good   to me    but I have been    

mostly fucked-up   in my life    so I ain't the best expert    on 

my own life  I do need help    so   all you    nuts    junkies    freaks

jesus is always    by your side    like a kind of   no bullshit    

truth-talking guide    always with you   but not     so close by    

he'll get on    your nerves

I mean a lot of times you think    he's not there at all    cause he

ain't doing    what you think   he ought to be     doing for you   but 

he's there    knowing what you need    better than you do   knowing

you    better than you do    just like    the devil do

but that's good    because everything    I know how to do   and 

everything    you know how to do    has got us both    right here   

probably broke    maybe on dope    no real hope    listening to a 

lunatic   like me    because neither of us    has figured out anything    

better to do    with the    mountain-moving love    jesus   has made us    

all    to be

(Bud Osborn)

The Deserving Poor

Not long ago, I read a blog that raised an interesting question: why do Christians and churches in North America tend to give more to the poor overseas (especially to Africa and to places where natural disasters have occurred) than to the poor in their own cities?

Robb Davis, the writer of the blog I read, thinks it has very little to do with the fact that overseas poor people are poorer than our poor people.  He thinks it has more to do with the fact that we generally see overseas poor people as deserving, and our own poor people as undeserving, or at least less deserving.  I tend to agree.

Whether or not we care to admit it, I think we all have a subconscious scale of who really deserves our help (money, mission trips, prayers, attention).  It probably looks something like this:

MOST DESERVING

Children born into poverty in third-world countries

Victims of natural disasters
Adults in third-world countries
Prostituted women in other countries, trafficked into North America
Children born into poverty in North America
Adults in North America who have lost their jobs due to the recession
Adults in North America who have never had stable jobs
Prostituted women born in North America
Drug addicts
Drug dealers and other criminals
Sex offenders

LEAST DESERVING 

Ok, maybe that list is splitting hairs a bit.  But I do think we have this natural tendency to decide who deserves our help based on how much we think their choices led them into their circumstances, that is to say, based on how much we think their poverty is their fault. Children in Africa definitely didn't choose to be born into malnourished, war-torn environments where they will receive little education and few opportunities.  We have no qualms about helping them.  Natural disasters are nobody's fault (or the developed world's fault, if you consider climate change), so we're definitely supposed to help those people.  Trafficked women were kidnapped or tricked into prostitution, so they're deserving - the worst we could accuse them of is naivete.


But prostitutes in my neighbourhood?  The popular opinion is that they're choosing to do that work.  And probably choosing it because they need to fund their drug addictions, and it's their fault that they're addicted.  No one forced them to do drugs.  And look at all the social assistance programs and advantages they have!  They get an education and plenty of opportunities like everyone else in North America.  So if they're still poor, obviously they lack initiative; they're just working the system, choosing to remain poor and taking welfare money from hard-working middle class people.  Why would we enable their bad choices by giving them more hand-outs?

This sounds harsh, and most of us don't go that far in our thinking, but believe me, when I am dumb enough to read the comments on online news articles about the DTES, I see far more scathing opinions about the poor people in my neighbourhood. 

I have begun to learn the real meaning of "choice" in the midst of the oppressive and degrading structural inequity that most people in my neighbourhood face.  Just this week I met a woman, who has likely been prostituted, in recovery for her addiction, using our hard-earned tax dollars.  She shared with me that she had been in twenty-four different foster homes over the course of her life.  Yes, she got an education... in fourteen different schools.  "Never really fit anywhere," she said.  No kidding.  The choices she has had to make and odds she has overcome just to get into recovery far outweigh any of my good life choices as a middle-class, stable-familied Masters-educated white girl.



So in light of this, who deserves our help? Who deserves our love? Who deserves our self-sacrificial giving?

In her book "Jesus Freak," Sara Miles tells a story about hosting a group of grade four kids at her church's food pantry program, and some of the questions they raised. They were concerned that some people who came to get food didn't really need it, or were cheating and taking too much. Like many adults, these kids didn't want anyone to take advantage of the church's generosity. Here's what Sara writes:

      "I talked with the kids about the idea of “taking advantage,” explaining that it was impossible to be taken advantage of as long as you were giving something away without conditions. “If it's a trade, than it's fair or unfair,” I said. “But if I'm going to give it to you anyway, not matter what you do, then you can't take advantage of me.”
     “How many of you have ever taken the best piece for yourself, or stolen something?” I asked, raising my own hand. Slowly, every hand went up.
     “How many of you have ever been generous and given something away?” Every hand went up.
     “Yeah,” I said, “You know, poor people cheat and steal and are really annoying. Just like rich people. Just like you. And poor people are generous and kind and help strangers. Just like rich people. Just like you.... In my church, we say that judgment belongs to God, not to humans. So that makes things a lot easier for us. We don't have to decide who deserves food.” (37)

I think Sarah Miles is on to something here. All of us do beautiful things and awful things, simply by virtue of being human. Yes, poor people in Canada cheat and steal. Poor people in Africa also cheat and steal, as I just confirmed in a conversation with a friend of mine who works in Darfur. Regardless of nationality, people who have been repeatedly abandoned and betrayed by others get used to cheating and stealing to survive. And yes, rich people cheat and steal, in ways that are often rewarded by society. All of us are sinners and letdowns, even the "noble" poor in the World Vision commercials. It's just that we're close enough to the poor in Canada to see their shadow sides. And they're close enough to make us feel very uncomfortable and guilty, and we can't just change the channel to push them out of our view.

Now, I do think we need to think carefully about the ways we try to help the poor, whether they're here or overseas, because our methods can often decrease their dignity and self-worth and increase their predisposition to want to cheat the system. Peter Maurin, a good friend of Dorothy Day's, said that we need to strive to make the kind of society in which it is easier for people to be good. This is a society in which we assume the best of one another, strive to see the image of God in one another, draw out each other's gifts and skills, love each other unconditionally over the long term, and uphold each other's dignity. In that society, no one will want to cheat the system, because they will belong; they will know they are needed, and they will have what they need.

This past Wednesday night at our worship service at Jacob's Well, a friend of mine did something that is really quite strange. She drew a cross on my forehead with ashes and told me that I was made of dust, and that one day I would die. She did the exact same thing to everyone in the circle, all of us, rich and poor... all of us bags of ashes and water, all of us sinners and sinned-against, all of us selfish screw-ups... all of us unable to be good on our own, unable even to sustain our own lives... all of us undeserving...

...all of us created in the image of God, the grateful recipients of unearned and undeserved grace, of each new day and each next breath...all of us empowered and sent to care for one another and to share with one another and to be healed and sanctified together. 

So, all of us - let's share what we have with everyone who needs it, in Africa, in Japan, in Canada, in the DTES, whether or not we think they deserve it.  And let's love each other so much that we want to be better people, in the knowledge that we'll never be good enough to deserve the love and grace God seems to want to keep lavishing on us.

The tale of an up-and-coming fancy dancer

Every Monday night since July, I have been trying out a new activity: First Nations traditional dance classes.

(Well, it hasn't been every Monday night... I took a bit of a break from dance after I stepped on a sea urchin while on vacation, but that's for another blog entry.) 


I will say this up front: I am the whitest regular attender of the drop-in class.  Last Monday, several new people joined us, so we did the customary go-around-the-circle-and-say-your-name thing, but we were also asked to share our tribal background.  There were Miqmaqs and Plains Crees, two Squamish girls, a Haida woman, a Gitxzan, and a few people from Tsawwassen nation.  When it was my turn, I said, "I'm Beth, and I am British/Irish/Swedish/Czech."

I am not only the whitest dancer, but also possibly the dancer with the least natural talent for dance.  Sure, I can move in time with a piece of music, but I have always lacked the confidence required to do it creatively and convincingly.  For much of my life, I have avoided school dances, and have made awkward small talk with other non-dancers during wedding receptions.


My whiteness and my lack of dance training combined to produce a fair amount of anxiety the first night I headed out toward the Vancouver Aboriginal Friendship Centre for dance class. As I walked, I rehearsed the reasons why I was going.

I need exercise.
The Friendship Centre is only a fifteen-minute walk from my house.  
The classes are free.

Those reasons were convincing (especially the last one, on a low-income pastor's budget), but they could apply to a lot of other potential activities.  They were not adequate to get me through the doors of the Friendship Centre.

I was invited to the class.  That was a better reason.  The teacher, who was fancy dancing at a National Aboriginal Day celebration put on by a local church, had invited the whole crowd to come to her class.  But I could still rationalize that the invitation wasn't specifically intended for a white non-dancer like me.

I tried to think of another reason.  I love to watch fancy dancing.  Fancy dancing drew me in from the first time I saw it, in Saskatoon, during my undergrad years.  I watched, dumbstruck, as the colorful ribbons of the dancers' shawls spun around them.  They seemed to spend more time in the air than on the ground, traveling by tiptoe, their feet stepping deftly, as though the grass under them were actually a bed of hot coals. Perhaps if I enjoyed watching it, I would also enjoy doing it.  Still, I had little faith I could reproduce such beautiful and free movement.

Thankfully, there was one more reason I had for learning to fancy dance, and this was the reason that pushed me over the edge: I believe I have a responsibility to protect and appreciate the cultures of my brothers and sisters, especially if those cultures have been denigrated, or threatened with assimilation and extinction. 


I co-pastor a predominantly low-income First Nations congregation in a neighbourhood that is home to one of Canada's largest off-reserve Aboriginal populations.  About a century ago, my people tried to take away the dances of their peoples; we called them evil and outlawed them in the name of Jesus.  We tried to rob them of many of the ways they worshiped their Creator and expressed their uniqueness.  We cut their hair, changed their names, and muted their languages.  It was only by their ingenuity and collective memory that they kept these cultural elements alive.  Today, some First Nations languages and practices are still very much in danger of extinction.

I have a responsibility to protect these cultures by virtue of being human, but even more so as a human who claims to follow Christ.  I believe that what my people did was sinful and unjust.  My Creator loves variety and values culture.  His plan for humanity is not for us to merge into a monoculture, but for all the kings and nations of the earth to march (or maybe dance!) into the holy city in our glorious diversity, bringing all our splendor (Rev. 21:24).

I did not think that learning to fancy dance would in any way undo the damage caused by my people.  I did, however, hope that it would take me a few steps closer to appreciating and understanding the beautiful culture I sought to protect in the name of Christ.  Besides, the slight discomfort and embarrassment I might feel as a white girl in dance class would, at most, be a small taste of the many marginalizing experiences most First Nations people face daily.

It turned out that my first dance class wasn't nearly as awkward as I expected.  Rather than explaining the steps, the teacher stood in front of me and demonstrated them over and over, which is a typically First Nations way of teaching.  She told me to keep trying them for the next hour of dancing.  I left exhausted but exhilarated.  It took me a full month to get a feel for the heartbeat of the drum, and many more months before I was able to combine the steps more creatively.  Now, I notice myself loosening up and relaxing.  I am even making a couple of friends. 

I am always ready to share my reasons for learning to fancy dance.  Yet to this day, not a single person at dance class has asked me why a pale-faced redhead would keep showing up.  Maybe in the future they will pop the question, but for now, they simply accept me as a fellow learner, laughing complaining with me during the warm-up abdominal exercises, and poking fun at me when I fail once again to anticipate the ending of a song.  It is a privilege to be so welcomed, and to work with them to preserve and promote something so beautiful.

Watch for me on the pow wow circuit years down the road.  I'll be the one blinding you with my white skin and my boss moves.

A video of one of my teachers fancy dancing.

Remembering Ricky

I don't want all of my blog posts to be about friends who have passed away, but, well, there's been a bunch of them lately.  Tonight, we're having a memorial for Ricky Lavallie.  Ricky was probably the closest and dearest DTES friend I've lost yet.  His death took a whole day to sink in (not to mention we didn't hear about it until 3 weeks after it happened), and I found myself weeping before falling asleep that night, remembering him and wishing we'd had more time together.

photo by Murray Bush - I hope he's ok with me using it everywhere - it's the best one!

I met Ricky a couple of years ago... maybe it wasn't even that long.  He would come into Jacob's Well on Fridays for our coffee hour.  He was a big Cree man, hunched over with his head sunken into his shoulders.  He lumbered slowly along the sidewalk with a bit of a sideways lean.  He always wore a ball cap and a leather jacket and sweatpants, and he never smelled very good. ;)

I remember the first time I really talked to him... he called me over and said I was "the only one who could pray for him."  This happened several times.  While I reassured him that everyone was capable of praying, not just those on staff or those known as pastors, I still enjoyed being chosen to lift up his requests, which were usually related to problems on his reserve back in Manitoba.  He focused particularly on First Nations children and suicide.

Over time, he opened up about his own childhood, and how his brother was killed with a cattle prod when they were both very young, at the residential school they were both forced to attend.  It never made sense to me how someone carrying so much church-inflicted pain could still be so eager to pray to God.  Ricky somehow figured out God was a God of justice, and that this God called him to share his story and fight against continuing injustices.  He lived out at Occupy Vancouver full-time only a month before he died.  He could endear himself to anyone, from anarchists to Christian conservatives.


About a year ago, Ricky started bringing his guitar to coffee time at Jacob's Well.  "His guitar" was always changing - I don't know if I ever saw him with the same guitar twice, and though he'd always say the last one was stolen, I'm pretty sure they were in and out of the pawn shop.  Ricky played with a barred finger in open D, which is easier than learning chords, but his skill came in that he could immediately figure out the chords for almost any song, and he could pick out the melody on the high frets, too.  He'd play with the guitar resting on his big belly, hunched over, eyes often closed.

He would jam with whoever wanted to play with him.  In fact, I think music didn't mean much to him unless it drew people around him.  I can't really picture him playing alone in his room.  He'd play on Commercial Drive, busking for money.  He'd play at all of the DTES Christian gatherings and missions and community centers and protests.  He'd play whatever he thought people would want to hear and sing along to, from worship songs, to gospel, to country, to blues.  His favorite was bluegrass.  He'd often make up songs on the spot, singing about whoever and whatever was near him, working in all sorts of humour and little joking insults.  My favorite songs to do with him were "I'll fly away" and "Ring of Fire" and "Folsom Prison Blues."

I miss you, Ricky.
I miss playing the chords while you riffed on the melody.
I miss tuning my guitar to open D so you could play it.
I miss the way you'd say "Jesus" when you prayed to him.
I miss your banter with Gary.  "Ask Gary..."
I miss you referring to people in the third person even though they were right there. 
I miss you asking "Where's Beth?" when I was in the office, and you wanted me to come to the table.
I miss making you posters to advertise your concerts.
I miss you asking when the next group of "young people" was coming in, so you could come meet them.
I miss the way you gathered people.
I miss your playful teasing.
I miss your threats to "bannock slap" me.  I'm glad I never found out what that felt like.


I wish I could have given you all those guitar picks I'd been collecting for you.  They were still in my pocket the day I found out you'd died.  


I wish we could have found a Santa costume so you could be our Santa at our Christmas tea, like you wanted.  It's ok though, we had a good time with those carols.



Remember the time when you played worship songs with us out on the Hastings sidewalk at the end of our Welfare Wednesday party in August, as the sun set over the old hotels, and the sky turned pink?


Remember when you surprised all of us by joining in on our dance party at Creative World Justice?  You were "party rocking" with the best of us, glowsticks stuck in your ball cap?


Remember playing old worship songs around the campfire at the same festival?  We stayed up until all hours of the night because you wouldn't let any of us leave.  You were in your prime.

Remember when you drew a picture of a buffalo dance, and drew a face in the sun, and told me I was the sun?


Remember when I came to speak at RAW, and I was still recovering from pneumonia, and you wouldn't let me go up and talk until you got a few people I didn't know to pray for me?

Thank you for being my elder and my friend.  
Thank you for sharing yourself with me.  
We will keep fighting your fights and singing your songs.
(We're gonna sing up a storm tonight, in your honour, you'll see!)
 
We'll see you soon, buddy,
hallelujah by and by.

Selma

I have lost a lot of friends on the DTES in the last couple months.  I don't always know how to grieve them, because sometimes their deaths are bittersweet.  A lot of them carry a lot of pain, and I'm glad to finally see an end to the pain.  But I miss them.

Selma was more of an acquaintance than a friend.  She passed away a few days ago.  As I've been remembering her this week, I started working on a poem about one morning I spent with her.  I have struggled over whether or not to share it online.  My hesitancy in posting it is that I don't want to sentimentalize or sensationalize her.  She was much more than this moment I had with her; she was a whole lifetime of moments.  In the end, I decided to post it because I want to try to let you in more on some of my experiences on the DTES.  I want to do so in a way that humanizes and does not exploit or commodify my friendships.  I really hope this is one such way.


Selma

today,

      she was calm

didn't remember me

asked for my name

first and last

she's named for her aunt

but her mom's name is Katherine.

I fixed her coffee.

      she was distracted

repeating little things

lipstick lips pursed

all whispers and mumbles

not looking at me

eyes fixed on her red Converses

thoughts a world away.

I watched her.

      she was delicate

slender fingers like a dancer's

small controlled movements

painting her fingernails

with invisible brushes

what colour? I asked

green

green like my dad's eyes

trailing off.

I couldn't make it all out.

      she was lost

her hand

her newly-painted nails

moving up her bare scarred arm

her thumb closing in on two fingers

an invisible plunger

my mom taught me

how to do powder

showing me

instructing me

delicate and careful

over and over

but my mom said

don't do it every day.

I didn't say anything.

      she was content

loved the room

loved the fireplace

said she wished she could

be 

in here

all the time.

Joy Will Find A Way

I just heard the bells ring at the Russian Orthodox church down the block.  It's Christmas.

My Advent season has been spent mostly with folks who wait not with eager expectation of Christmas, but with a certain amount of dread, because of the grief and loneliness that are so much more palpable during the holidays.

One woman said she tried to come up with a project to do in the last week of December so she didn't have to think about Christmas. Several others told me they didn't celebrate. It was just a time of year to be endured.

Last year this caught me off guard. I was accustomed to approaching Christmas with nostalgic, warm, fuzzy feelings. I didn't know what to do with my friends in the DTES who struggled to find reason for hope. I didn't know what to do with my own grief, as it was the first time in my life I'd missed the Christmas Eve service at Emmanuel Baptist in Saskatoon. Rain poured down on our poorly-attended church service in the DTES, and I longed for the familiar.

This year, I let myself enter into the grief a little earlier. I participated in several 'Blue Christmas' services that my colleague Al led in the DTES, where we provided space for less-than-merry emotions people were experiencing. People could light candles for loved ones they missed, or for other pain they carried, and we remembered together that the Creator held our stories, and would not leave us.

Tonight, we did our church Christmas Eve service. We were blessed with nicer weather, and we partnered with another community, so there were more people, and a real tone of celebration. I was grateful. We closed our service with a song we've been singing at church throughout Advent: "Soon and very soon, we are going to see the King". We inserted our own longings... "no more dying there... No more violence there... No more loneliness... We are going to see the King!". We remembered together that just as Christ came as a child to inaugurate his kingdom, he will come again and wipe away every tear, and bring total shalom. Nothing will be missing or broken. No one will be missing or broken.

I want to share one more song with you. At the end of each of the Blue Christmas services, Al played this song, by Bruce Cockburn, called 'Joy will find a way'. It's a song about death, but it has also become a Christmas song for me. This is the hope I cling to for myself, for my friends, and for any of you who may carry grief or disappointment or illness or family brokenness this Christmas. Whether we are blessed to taste this now, or whether we must continue to wait, know this... Longing will become love, night will turn to day, everything changes, joy will find a way.

Soon and very soon.

May this dangerous, inextinguishable hope break through the darkness for you, especially today.