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Authors: Wayne Arthurson
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the system to print all the articles relating to these three when Larry came by my desk.
“Can I talk to you for a sec, Leo?”
I set aside my work and turned to face him. “Sure, Larry. What’s up?”
“How’s the story going?”
I shrugged. “Not much happening. Police haven’t released the ID yet so there’s really nothing to be done. So in the meantime, I decided to check the morgue for any similar stories from the past. Don’t want to repeat ourselves too much.”
“You did?” he asked, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “That’s some good reporting. Find anything?”
“Only a few articles on similar deaths. Nothing like the type of story you’re looking for.” I wasn’t sure if I should be insulted by his reaction, because it could have meant he didn’t think much of my work ethic. I decided to let it go because the other day he did stand up for me and gave me a chance when he didn’t have to. He was also the only one at the paper who knew about my background so maybe he was justified in his reaction.
“Is that why you came over to talk?” I asked him.
“Actually, I had another thing in mind,” he said, perching at the edge of the desk behind him. There was another reporter working there—another crime reporter named Edgar Franke, decent writer but more interested in joining the sports section—and for a second, he looked like he was going to say something about Larry sitting on his desk. But he changed his mind and went back to writing his story.
“I seem to recall that sometime during our past conversations, you told me one of your parents was Cree. Your dad, right?” Larry continued.
“Actually, it’s my mom.”
“And what does that make you?”
“I don’t know, her son, I guess?”
“Don’t be obtuse. I’m asking if that makes you an Indian.”
“They’re no longer Indians, but natives, First Nations, Aboriginal.” I guess I should have said we but getting used to the fact that I’m an Indian was a constant process. Sure, growing up, I knew where my parents came from and it was kind of cool letting friends know that I was half Cree or one quarter Cree or one sixteenth Cree, depending on what story about her bloodline Mom was talking about.
Back then, it was neat to pretend I could smell things in the air other people couldn’t or hear the sound of something approaching from a distance, or track the trail of another kid when playing hide-and-seek. It was all bullshit, no doubt about that, but it was no different than Mike Hamilton saying he was a better basketball player because he was black or Randy Brignell saying he knew kung fu because his mom was Korean. Those kinds of differences were okay growing up on the army base. They were fun differences, differences that made playing war or hide-and-seek or James Bond or whatever more fun.
They were safe differences while behind them we were pretty much all the same, just a bunch of army brats trying to make friends as fast as possible and have as much fun as you could until you or someone else was posted to another base, best friends lost forever in the administration of the Department of National Defense.
Of course, Mike Hamilton may have been black, but his family didn’t celebrate Black History Month or Martin Luther King’s birthday. And Randy Brignell’s mother may have been Korean, but the only time they ate Korean food was never, because there wasn’t a Korean restaurant near the PMQs. And though my mom was Indian, or native, First Nations, or Aboriginal, nobody spoke a word of Cree in the house. Nobody spoke a lick of French, either, but that was Dad’s side of the family.
“Yeah, right. Whatever the word is these days,” Larry said offhandedly.
“Aren’t you the sensitive type? Maybe I should file a grievance if you’re going to talk that way,” I said sarcastically.
He was about to respond to that but I cut him off. “But if you’re asking if I got a treaty card, the answer would be, No, I
“Can I talk to you for a sec, Leo?”
I set aside my work and turned to face him. “Sure, Larry. What’s up?”
“How’s the story going?”
I shrugged. “Not much happening. Police haven’t released the ID yet so there’s really nothing to be done. So in the meantime, I decided to check the morgue for any similar stories from the past. Don’t want to repeat ourselves too much.”
“You did?” he asked, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “That’s some good reporting. Find anything?”
“Only a few articles on similar deaths. Nothing like the type of story you’re looking for.” I wasn’t sure if I should be insulted by his reaction, because it could have meant he didn’t think much of my work ethic. I decided to let it go because the other day he did stand up for me and gave me a chance when he didn’t have to. He was also the only one at the paper who knew about my background so maybe he was justified in his reaction.
“Is that why you came over to talk?” I asked him.
“Actually, I had another thing in mind,” he said, perching at the edge of the desk behind him. There was another reporter working there—another crime reporter named Edgar Franke, decent writer but more interested in joining the sports section—and for a second, he looked like he was going to say something about Larry sitting on his desk. But he changed his mind and went back to writing his story.
“I seem to recall that sometime during our past conversations, you told me one of your parents was Cree. Your dad, right?” Larry continued.
“Actually, it’s my mom.”
“And what does that make you?”
“I don’t know, her son, I guess?”
“Don’t be obtuse. I’m asking if that makes you an Indian.”
“They’re no longer Indians, but natives, First Nations, Aboriginal.” I guess I should have said we but getting used to the fact that I’m an Indian was a constant process. Sure, growing up, I knew where my parents came from and it was kind of cool letting friends know that I was half Cree or one quarter Cree or one sixteenth Cree, depending on what story about her bloodline Mom was talking about.
Back then, it was neat to pretend I could smell things in the air other people couldn’t or hear the sound of something approaching from a distance, or track the trail of another kid when playing hide-and-seek. It was all bullshit, no doubt about that, but it was no different than Mike Hamilton saying he was a better basketball player because he was black or Randy Brignell saying he knew kung fu because his mom was Korean. Those kinds of differences were okay growing up on the army base. They were fun differences, differences that made playing war or hide-and-seek or James Bond or whatever more fun.
They were safe differences while behind them we were pretty much all the same, just a bunch of army brats trying to make friends as fast as possible and have as much fun as you could until you or someone else was posted to another base, best friends lost forever in the administration of the Department of National Defense.
Of course, Mike Hamilton may have been black, but his family didn’t celebrate Black History Month or Martin Luther King’s birthday. And Randy Brignell’s mother may have been Korean, but the only time they ate Korean food was never, because there wasn’t a Korean restaurant near the PMQs. And though my mom was Indian, or native, First Nations, or Aboriginal, nobody spoke a word of Cree in the house. Nobody spoke a lick of French, either, but that was Dad’s side of the family.
“Yeah, right. Whatever the word is these days,” Larry said offhandedly.
“Aren’t you the sensitive type? Maybe I should file a grievance if you’re going to talk that way,” I said sarcastically.
He was about to respond to that but I cut him off. “But if you’re asking if I got a treaty card, the answer would be, No, I
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