Defying statistics may lengthen life span

Page 9

Recently I turned the magical age of 33 far-too-experienced years. And it hurt. That particular event was difficult enough but then I remembered a good friend telling me that when he turned 33, he described it as being his "Christ" year. Evidently Jesus Christ was 33 years old when he died. Charming.

And on a more Aboriginal note, the famous warrior Crazy Horse (of Custer and Little Big Horn fame) was also 33 when he was murdered back in the late 1800s. Two icons of different cultures that often overlap; the same age when they passed away. Not an auspicious beginning to enter a year with. Normally this type of information wouldn't make me feel so uncomfortable because famous people (both Native and non-Native) all through history have died by the millions at every conceivable age.

So 33 shouldn't make all that much difference. Theoretically.

But many Native people believe in omens and signs. And it's no secret that the lives of Native peoples, and how old they are when they die, have been well documented, studied and embraced by the wonderful world of statistics.

During the summer of 1982, I had the dubious distinction of working for the Department of Indian Affairs as a summer student. In that time I had access to all those remarkable charts and numbers concerning Aboriginal people amassed by various governmental departments over the years. Depressing.

And in that mess of information I discovered the tragic data that young Native males, between the ages of 17 to 24, had a violent death rate almost six times the national average. I was, unfortunately, 20. Right in the middle. This stuck with me for a while because I had not known many peers that had not made it though that window of pain. Unfortunately.

Needless to say, my 25th birthday was one of the happiest in my life. I remember being so proud that I had beat the statistical odds. I cried out to the governmental gods " I spit on your ratios and equations. It's smooth sailing from here."

It was a few weeks later I learned that the life expectancy of a Native male was substantially less than the national average. At that time I think the age was somewhere in the late 50s. It seems I couldn't win. These statisticians and irony were out to get us.

Then I remembered an experience I had while visiting the town of Kenora, not more than a few months after leaving the DIA all those years ago. This Native man was telling me of the folly of statistics. He wisely told me of a police report that stated there had been around 400 arrests of drunken Indians in that town last month.

To me as a young naive Native person, that sounded ominous and disgraceful. Then he clarified the numbers by pointing out that in actuality, it was the same 10 or 15 people just getting arrested over and over and over again, in a town surrounded by almost a dozen reserves with a Native population in the thousands, perhaps tens of thousands.

So contrary to what the numbers say, there were not more then 400 drunk Indians roaming the streets of Kenora, just a couple of number counters with nothing much better to do. I finished my beer with a clearer conscience. Aye, there's the rub. Statistics say one thing, experience tells me another.

So as I sail into this year of Christ and Horse, I turn my back on what the numbers say. If I die, I die. If I live, I live. I know there's a hundred-per-cent chance I will eventually die, and an almost 100-per-cent chance I'll live through (or for) the day. Who can ask for better odds?

Besides, I've calculated there's an 87 per cent chance the statistics will be wrong and I'll live to be a ripe old age. Four times out of five, anyways.