What right do I have to judge?

Page 9

Recently I was sitting at an outdoor cafe enjoying some coffee and good conversation when I couldn't help noticing two men approaching the patio.

Still on the sidewalk, they came along the railing that enclosed the patio, stopping at each table, asking for money. They looked quite ragged, drunk and had obviously seen better times. Both were Native. I am Native.

As I watched these two men of the street hustling money from a captive audience, I felt something. I wasn't sure what it was. Embarrassment, shame, pity. I had never felt these emotions toward fellow Natives before and it troubled me.

As I sat there feeling ashamed, something occurred to me. What right do I have to feel ashamed of these men? It's their life. It's a free world. Then I began to feel ashamed of myself for taking such a high moral position.

Over the past 13 years, I have been involved in various capacities with the media. During this time I have worked on approximately 17 documentaries about Native culture, arts, and substance abuse. I have also written many plays, short stories and television shows. I have done enough research, been to enough communities, talked to enough people to know that, in the vast majority of cases, it's not their fault that they live this existence.

I know all the stories and all the reasons. The factors that contribute to this situation include improper adoptions; the after-effects of residential schools; choosing to come to the city to seek work only to find an environment which is totally alien and unwelcoming; despair over a disappearing culture, language and way of life. I could fill up the rest of this column with a steady stream of contributing factors. But the result would be the same. Tragic stories which lead to tragic lives.

But still, in the back of my mind, were these two men panhandling from middle-class white people, perpetuating stereotypes and giving credence to an image most Native people have spent their life fighting.

There was the case of one prominent Native artist in the city who, when approached for money by such a person, got into a terse discussion about the image they were presenting to the public. The discussion quickly deteriorated into an argument about attitude and rights and the artist walked away, frustrated.

In this city, I have seen and constantly recognized approximately one to two dozen hard-core street dwellers who pursue the same practice as these two foraging men. On the other hand, there is an estimated Aboriginal population in Toronto of around 70,000 people. Not a bad ratio, all things considered.

But because of the preconceived alcohol-oriented luggage, and the fact that these Native people tend to stand out in one's memory more than a white street person, their image will stay with a passerby more readily.

I can see people at those patio tables telling friends: "A drunk Indian hit us up for money." And again, I shudder.

Perhaps the fault is within myself. There is a term used in Ontario, most often Toronto, that is an off-shoot of Anishnawbe, the word Ojibway people used to describe themselves and their people. Basically, it translates as the "original" or "first" people.

The term has been modified to accommodate the growing Aboriginal middle-class that has appeared in Toronto and other major cities. They are sometimes referred to as "Anishsnobs." As I sat there drinking my cafe au lait, I couldn't help wondering if I was an "Anishsnob."

I see these men. I know their story. I feel anger for what has happened to them, yet seeing them at the corner of Queen and Bathurst or at this patio, harassing people for money, against my will, I get embarrassed.

Does this make me a bad person?