Tough Guy

By Kali Skalan, March 13, 2010
Based on a True Story

1982. Blood Alley Square, Vancouver, BC. The traffic into the UNN Outreach office was minimal. The zoo was full-tilt, triggered by Welfare Wednesday. My colleagues relished the quiet, even if for two days.

2:30 PM. My 8 by 12 cubical office was nested in the back. My success-wall is full of 3 by 5 inch filing cards paying a small tribute to aboriginal clientele who finally landed a job. They would come in, pour themselves a cup, and scan the wall. “Sam M? Is that Sam Muse? He got a job with the Eastside Janitorial Service? Cool!” I could just hear the wheels turning, “If he could get a job, I could.” Zoned out, I could read their new posture, now a little more inspired to make it in the big city.

2:46 PM. A big commotion erupts in the front. “I don’t want a fucking thing from you people. I want to talk to someone who knows who they are.” Even from my small office in the back, I could smell the stench. The waiting room empties, people all of a sudden had to be someplace else.

“Do you want a cup of coffee, sir?” asks Wanda, the receptionist.

“I told you. I don’t want a fucking thing from you.” Quiet. My phone buzzes.

“Yeah?”

“Aah. George, there’s a young man here. He wants to see you. Send him in?”

“No. I’ll be right out. You okay?”

"Just hurry!"

I step into the adjoining room. I see Wanda make a hasty retreat for the bathroom, gagging. The person, dressed like Johnny Cash, The Man in Black, wheels around in his black cowboy boots. I feel his eyes measuring me. I pause, size him up.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Hey. I’m George. I’m the Outreach worker,” offering my right hand to shake his. I quickly withdrew. His were grimy. I see his eyes laughing.

“Coffee?”

“I don’t anything from you. I want to talk to someone who knows who they are. Do you?”, challenging me.

“Yeah. I do. I’m Gitxsan. My name is Wii Ts’ak of Wilps Gyamk, Gistkaast. I was raised in Gitanmaax. Our family territories are Lax Dii Taax. I sing two of four of our limx o’y. We are matrilineal. We are …” I get cut off.

Somewhat surprised, the tough guy softens his demeanor. “So…you do know who you are.” Long silence. “I don’t.”

Finally, I say “You want me to take you to emerg to get your eye looked at and treated. It looks bad and smells.”

A smile cracks his practised face. I see him relaxing.

“Nah. I’m okay. I don’t want any treatment.”

“How about I take you to the detox and get you cleaned up. You really stink.”

“Yeah? I didn’t know that.” Now I see a genuine smile come through. So, I wait through another long silence, uncomfortable. I see there is more to come.

“I was adopted by a wealthy white family and brought up in West Van. My parents were awesome. I had everything.” Long pause. “Except … “

“A couple of years ago, I searched for my biological parents. I knew I was native. I have relatives, family somewhere.” That admission triggered a deep sob, a deep lonely private longing, a deep sadness. I could just hear him, “I want to really belong.”

I give him lots of room. Through heart-breaking sobs, his story emerges.

“Even though my foster parents gave me everything a son could ever want. And, I had it all, they weren’t able to give me what I wanted the most.” More sobbing.

“I want to know who my mom and dad are. I wanted to meet my relatives, my community, my people, see my territory. I want to be like you.” I feel the weight of his wilted and maligned spirit. I feel the deep sorrow. My soul cries. I know there is no medicine that will give this young tough guy relief.

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen this August.”

“How the hell did you end up like this?”

“Easy. I ran away from home. I ended up on Granville. I found others like me. Lost. They gave me comfort and painkillers. It did kill the pain. But, now I’m hooked. I need more and always something stronger. The street obliged me.” He pulls up his sleeves and pant legs to show me the scabs, up and down, like they were his trophies. I shake my head.

“We tried everything to find my people, my tribe. Nothing. Dead ends. Someone knows.” Pause. “I wonder if my real mom and dad ever thinks about me?”

I have no words for him. No medicine.

“Hey.” I wait for him to look me in the eye. “I’ll be your dad.” His eyes smile.

Nah. Thanks anyway.” Silence. “Guess I better be on my way. My buddies are always waiting. Thank you for sharing. Usually people don’t want anything to do with me. Because of my gangrene eye and smell. I don’t blame them. I just wanted to meet someone who knew who they are.” Pause. “You know? You’re an alright guy.”

Smiling, “You too!”

He gets up, pauses, tips his head at me, gives me a smile and walks out.

I never saw him again. He probably died on the street, falling on his own sword. People do that. Rather than giving into the system, they opt to fall on their own sword. So many aboriginal persons do that.

Yeah, another awakening moment for me: Covet your tribal essence, identity, and family. It’s critical to your well-being and health.