Early the next morning, James was off to have breakfast with Catherine Bird and Tara Friesen, the Native education consultant for the school district, before heading up to Chezgh’un together. When he stopped for gas at the Chevron station, an aging white guy loitering at the coffee counter asked James what he was doing there. After James’s upbeat response, the man said, “Well, you know, us locals won’t drive out that way anymore. Too afraid to get shot. The Indians are so violent, and for no good reason. You should’ve seen my friend’s pickup truck after he ventured out that way last summer looking for pine mushrooms. He had parked at the edge of the forest for just an hour, and when he got back to his vehicle, it was riddled with bullets. Ten dents and five holes, right through. Some of ’em near the gas tank.”
“There’s hardened criminals on that reserve,” the clerk added, waving her hand in the air, motioning toward the lake as she continued. “One Indian was convicted of attempted murder and I know there are others out there who have killed—gotten away with it ’cause the cops are scared to go out there—and the Indians all look the same anyways, even share the same last name. Don’ know what the fuck that’s all about.”
Was this blunt racism, or was there a kernel of truth in what the locals said?
When James arrived at the diner, he recounted the dire warnings from the Chevron. Tara became noticeably restless as James spoke.
“A lot of kids have fetal alcohol syndrome on that reserve. Lots of gas sniffing too, as well, to this day. And I’m sure the kids are performing way below their grade levels. But they’ve likely never been assessed. By the way, how did you come to be so well-spoken, James? Your diction and pronunciation are so smooth… elegant even.”
James felt himself wince. “Well, Tara, my Scottish-Canadian brother-in-law taught me to speak like this—corrected my grammar and pronunciation every time I opened my mouth for years, even at the dinner table. That, and I’ve had seventeen years of education—none of it in my birth language.”
“Well, perhaps you should call your brother-in-law to thank him. It serves you well.”
Catherine shifted uncomfortably in her chair and spoke. “They’re goot people t’James. They’re misunderstood, and they’re scorned by so many because they’ve kept to themselves, their skin is darker than any other community aroun’ here—behin’ their back, people say they’re black, ’n they’ve kept up the traditional ways.” Catherine paused, then raised her open palm in the air and continued, “But you know t’James, more than one noble fam’ly in our region has their roots in that community.”
James believed Catherine. He wanted to believe her. After all, he came from a Cree community that had been rife with violence similar to that he’d been warned about here in the North. His mother had told many stories of people chasing each other with axes, or worse, with hunting rifles. He took the warnings of the well-meaning locals, including Tara, to heart, but they only made a slight ripple in the swells of his elation. He was getting his own school—and returning to a Native community much like the one he’d grown up in, he imagined. He wasn’t going to let these stories discourage him.
The drive from Fort St. Pierre to Chezgh’un was a blur. James loved studying the copses of mountain alder, trembling aspen and black spruce that rushed by as Louise drove along. He felt a rush of adrenalin at the thought of making this trip on his own. Oh, the freedom and independence of travelling alone through the daunting wilderness—with just a vehicle to both transport and shield him from the omnipresent dangers he was all too aware of from having grown up in the bush of Northern Alberta. Back home, black bears were the largest and most feared animal, although incidents with them were rare. But this was grizzly country—the one animal species that will actively hunt humans as prey. An uncle of James who was a hunting guide loved to recount a story of a grizzly crushing a man’s skull in his gigantic jaws, ripping out and eating just the belly, leaving the rest as carrion to be devoured by crows, vultures, hawks, eagles, wolves and rodents—the maggots of blowflies.
The incessant fine dust made James’s eyes water. It lined his nose and left grit on his teeth. And the constant shimmying of the vehicle on the rough gravel road made him lightheaded, but, still, none of this could dampen his enthusiasm. He was in his element. Twenty kilometres or so northwest of Fort St. Pierre, Louise veered to the right, onto another gravel road, this one even narrower. With confident dexterity, she manoeuvred around a gravel truck, a grader, logging truck after logging truck. James heard the occasional trucker announce his rig number, direction and “twenty” on the radio phone.
After miles of dips, grooves and interminable stretches of brain-rattling vibration, at last the gravel gave way to a bumpy dirt road and they drove across a makeshift bridge of wooden beams and planks, swerving to miss a couple of giant mud puddles. James knew they had finally arrived in Chezgh’un.
Wooden shacks lined both sides of the street. Weatherworn plywood sheets served as siding, some of which had long ago been painted blue or white, but most had now taken on the silvery-brown hue of aged or untreated wood.
In a meadow past the row of the houses on the creek side, a single large cow, chocolate brown with splashes of white, grazed lazily. The animal looked up as Louise’s white vehicle approached, but when it was clear there was no danger, it continued munching grass and young yarrow. What on earth was that cow doing there? It seemed so out of place in this wilderness setting. Then James remembered something he’d read about the residential school in the region: the church and state had colluded to coerce the Dakelh and other people who were students there to become farmers. Perhaps this was a remnant of that era, maybe someone had actually tried to give cattle ranching or raising dairy cows a try.
A stubby wind-worn steeple of a Catholic church lay straight ahead. The paint, which two decades earlier would’ve created a glossy sheen of ecclesiastical blue, was now peeling.
Louise pulled up to an old two-storey building with worn cream-coloured wooden siding, surrounded by quack grass and gravel. Bare patches of weathered wood stood out here and there—grey asphalt roofing shingles, a number of which were missing, a few others askew. The wooden railing of the entryway stairs and landing had recently been replaced with pine planks that hadn’t yet been painted. The large banks of windows that ran almost the entire length of the side that was visible declared it the schoolhouse.
The three leapt out of the jeep, yawned and stretched.
At the sight of the school, James felt shock and sadness. There were no school grounds as such, just a grassy meadow directly behind the schoolhouse, with an off-kilter stand-up merry-go-round and the remains of a teeter-totter: a partial plank protruding at a sixty-degree angle from a rusty fulcrum and frame off to one side of it. Didn’t every school in the country have playing fields and decently equipped playgrounds?
My God, what was he getting himself into?
“We’ll have to get rid of that broken equipment,” Louise said. “It’s depressing.”
“I wonder if we could build a skating rink,” James said, then went silent, worried it was obvious he was trying to conceal the feeling of defeat that was rolling over him in waves. “We’ll have to plan a solid outdoor rec program,” he continued after a pause of a few seconds, as he, Catherine and Louise walked over to the building.
“Let’s have just a quick look inside,” Louise offered. “Too disruptive to have so many strangers, especially administrative types, show up in the classrooms. You can come back tomorrow, James, on your own. The whole building will look better, inside and out, with a bit of paint and a few touch-ups here and there, which can all be done over the summer.”
James nodded. He stepped onto a patch of quack grass near the school to examine the corroded and barely legible plaque that was screwed into its exterior wall. It read:
chezgh’un school, department of indian affairs
The year of construction and the corresponding federal minister’s name were illegible. For how many years had the federal government run this school, instead of the local band or school district? Just a couple of feet to the right stood a white flagpole with a ragged, wind-torn, red and white maple leaf flag—snapping haughtily in the spring wind. Nearby, a faded and corroded satellite dish hovered over a badly vandalized telephone booth. The phone booth looked so out of place, and it was hard to imagine anyone ever using it—how strange it must have felt to stand outside of the schoolhouse in this tiny village talking by phone to someone who seemed light-years away—not only physically but psychologically and culturally as well.
Inside, the large bulletin boards in the hallway were bare, except for an official-looking notice pinned to one of them—the page yellowed and curled up at its corners. Louise and Catherine stood farther up the hall, at the entrance to the combined office and staff room. James sensed their discomfort in touring the facility, but he had to get the straight goods. Facing issues and challenges head on was always better—especially the inevitable. A handsome, young-looking elder poked his head through the office door and introduced himself as Patrick, the school custodian.
“Hadih, Princip’l, I’ll show you ’roun’ the buildin’.”
Patrick led him downstairs to the basement first. Once there, Patrick hesitated and pointed to a miniature wooden bridge he’d built over an open drainage channel. A thin stream of water trickled through it into a six-inch pipe that had been installed to pass through the very bottom of the west wall.
“We need this for spring runoff… otherwise basement floods—gets real mouldy fast.” There were stacks of desks and a pair of rusty filing cabinets—rows of unmatched cross-country skis lined one wall.
Patrick pulled James aside and handed him a raft of papers.
“Thought you should see these, princip’l—the mos’ recen’ inspection reports.”
James glanced at the papers then tucked them under his arm—he would read them later.
“Thank you, my friend. I’m sure you do the best you can with the place,” James said and smiled.
Patrick led James back upstairs and down the corridor. He stopped in the doorway of a room that held a rundown-looking photocopier, a beat-up teacher’s desk and a round table with six chairs around it.
“This is yer office, princip’l—and the staff room. And right beside it, here, is the school kitchen—we don’ use it much, but maybe you will—till you get yer house. Ha ha ha,” Patrick said as he patted James on the back.
James stepped into the kitchen and looked out a large picture window toward the lake and the treed hillside that descended toward it.
“Well, it’s got a stunning view, that’s for sure. I’m sure the school will make good use of it—and me too,” James answered with a smile.
“We kin never get goot teachers or princip’l here. The goot ones er too ’fraid ta come or they come ’n jus’ stay fer few months or a year.”
By the time he packed up his things from the office to leave, James—whose emotions had swamped him in waves of feelings he didn’t understand… sorrow, grief, frustration, desperation—was now seething. The Chezgh’un school had neither gym nor playground, let alone an all-weather sports field. James couldn’t help but recall the large high school they had toured in Fort St. Pierre, eighty kilometres away, and the large adventure playground at the town’s elementary school—how state of the art it was. James felt betrayed.
The federal government was far richer than any Indian band, school district or province—yet this school building was likely one of the worst in the country. It rivalled some of the rundown schools he had seen in Mexico. The irony was too much. Simply because they fell under a federal government jurisdiction, the children of Chezgh’un attended school in an antiquated and grossly inadequate building while just eighty kilometres away, children attended classes in what was likely one of the most modern schools in the Western world. All because it was under provincial authority, which drew provincial funding formulas along with the requirement to meet provincial standards—provincial building codes and regulations about student safety. Now he truly understood why the local Dakelh community leaders had decided to take the administration and control of these two schools away from the federal government—in an attempt to level the playing field somewhat. In any case, he thought, how could any government official, provincial or federal, have let things get so horrendous? He felt his anger growing.
Why hadn’t Louise warned him? Only the chief had given a slight hint of the state of the school facility in Chezgh’un. He was sure it was because she really wanted him to take the job, and oddly, somehow, this gave him some reprieve from his frustration.
James had never been good at masking his feelings, but he couldn’t let his rage shine through. He had to be on his own for a bit. He tripped down the grey wooden steps of the schoolhouse and wandered down the main road, unsure of where he would end up. One second, he felt gut-wrenching sadness, and the next, optimism and bliss percolated within him. He stopped at the picket fence around the cemetery just outside of the village. Good—here no one could see him. This was perfect. James would speak to the ancestors of Chezgh’un—ask for their guidance and support.
He gazed at the wall of spruce trees around him. He looked up at the mountains in the distance, and then turned to focus on the vast calm water of the lake. Then, with his hands interlocked in prayer in front of himself, he beseeched the ancestors silently, with telepathic messages, occasionally mouthing a sentence or two. He lost all track of time.
A cool breeze brought the new principal out of his trance, and it occurred to him that Louise would be looking for him—worry and concern written all over her face. Community members, on the other hand, if they knew what he was doing, would understand. This tough situation wouldn’t defeat him—there was no way. He was determined to make the best of things, and to work with the community to make things work—and work well. They would deliver exceptional, customized learning for the children of Chezgh’un and help them prepare to address and turn around all the historic injustices their community had survived.
When he got back to the school, Louise, Catherine, Tara and, separately from everyone else, two officials from the Department of Indian Affairs—who had shown up of their own volition—stood on the school’s staircase with looks of consternation.
“James,” Louise said as reached out to put her hand on his forearm, “I was just telling our friends here from Indian Affairs, they’ll have to lay off the existing teachers. They’re not up to snuff.”
James’s only response, a blank stare.
Louise and Tara couldn’t get out of there fast enough, James was sure. But for now, he just wanted to walk past them and wade into the water to honour the lake and its surroundings, to acknowledge and give thanks to the spirits of the place. He would do that at the far end of the lake, back in Fort St. Pierre.
The next day, James headed out to the logging road that led to Chezgh’un, his mind in manic mode with thoughts of all that he wanted to accomplish. He’d rework the provincial curriculum, incorporate the Dakelh culture and worldview, make it more relevant to the students. He would roll out the eco-adventure program he’d tried so hard to implement at the school in the city—teaching scientific experiences by spending time in nature, in all seasons.
In no time at all, he’d crossed the wooden bridge over the stream that he thought must circle the community. How odd: Chezgh’un was really on an island; the stream around it, a moat.
The front door of the school was locked, which surprised James. Art Thaddeus, the teaching assistant, appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and opened it for him. Standing there on the landing, he looked even taller than before, towering over James.
“Guess you’ll have yer own keys soon, eh princip’l?”
“Do you guys lock the door during the daytime?”
“It’s ta keep stragglers from walkin’ in at any old time—we give ’em fifteen minutes. If they’re not here by then, they don’t get in till the afternoon session. But you’ll have yer own keys.”
“Be nicer if you let me in every day, my friend. Then we can have coffee together and chat.”
“Hadih, but I need a smoke wit’ mine. No smoking inside the building. School rule.”
James stepped into the wide hallway alongside the two classrooms on the main floor and was impressed by the gleaming off-white lino tiles. Patrick had clearly worked hard last night to make the place look nice. James took a few steps over to the first classroom and opened the door to a scene that would have been any principal, teacher or parent’s worst nightmare.
Primary-grade kids were scattered everywhere—chattering, laughing and bickering. Some were crouched on the floor, engrossed in some game. A boom box produced the constant static of a radio station that had gone off the air, or that wasn’t properly tuned in the first place. An older-looking white woman with unkempt, long grey hair was perched behind the teacher’s desk, darning a sock that was stretched over a light bulb. Stacks of ripped and ragged textbooks sat in a pile off to one side. A few kids looked up from their colouring or worksheets. One boy took his Walkman headphones off, anticipating James would say something. Once the kids grasped that James was going to stay awhile and guessed that he might be somebody important, they went quiet. The teacher glanced up at him, then returned to her darning. James walked over to her and put out his hand as he spoke.
“Hello. I’m James, the new principal. Start in September. Nice to meet you.”
The only response, a curt nod.
He decided to join a group of kids colouring on the floor near the bank of windows that overlooked forest. As he sat on the edge of a loosely formed circle, he felt a rush of joy, something he was sure must be bliss. Children with hearty, coal-black hair, pretty much growing wild—tattered clothing that had probably been handed down a few times or had been sent by some charity in Prince George or Vancouver. Fresh faces and shiny brown eyes. The fragrance of woodsmoke and Dial soap, and that unique smell young kids everywhere seem to carry of fresh breath and innocent sweat.
As a child, school had been his solace, a safe refuge from trauma and tragedy that had resulted from his mother becoming an alcoholic when he was in first grade—likely as a result of his extended family’s forced relocation from their settlement in the woods to the closest village where the established residents were almost exclusively white. James wanted to recreate this safe haven for other children. There had to be a library, or at least a collection of books in the interim. Books had been his échappatoire and his salvation.
For a few moments he sat quietly, observing. A couple of children were gripping their crayons tightly, concentrating on colouring within the lines—one with his tongue sticking out—while others, who had decided the whole page was fair game, enthusiastically glided their crayons back and forth and up and down or in spirals. Another observer might have thought he was being ignored, but James knew better. He knew there would be no eye contact, since in both Dakelh culture and his, eye contact with a stranger, an adult, would’ve been disrespectful. And, predictably, they were shy. Busy work, he thought—so not his teaching style. Sure, colouring and printing were important for fine motor skills, but from the stack of loose sheets of hand-coloured pages and arithmetic worksheets strewn haphazardly around the room, he guessed the kids spent many hours colouring and in rote learning mode.
A little girl in a flowery blue dress with white lace trim and white socks inched closer to him and said in a meek voice, “Hadih, you da new prinicp’l?”
James caught her stealing a sideways glance at him, so he smiled and said, “Yes. Yes, I am.”
A little boy looked up from his work, then looked back down at his worksheet and said, “Hadih, they say yer Indian, like us. S’true?”
Before he could answer, another little girl looked up and said, “Kin you coun’ ta ten in Indian?”
“Yes, I can—but my language is differen’ than yers,” James caught himself adjusting his pronunciation to sound less formal. That was something he’d have to weigh carefully—yes, he should model proper English pronunciation and grammar, but for now acceptance was more important. He knew this was a test, and it was important to answer fully and promptly, so he rattled off the numbers one to ten in Cree, “Peyuk, niso, nisto, newo, niyanan, negotwasik, tepakohp, ayinanew, kekac mitahtat, mihtat.”
“Hadih, efer differen’. Nothin’ like Dakelh,” said the first little girl. Us, we say: lhuk’ai, nankoh, taki, dunghi, skwunlai, lhk’utagi, lhtak’alt’i, lhk’utdunghi,’ilho hooloh, lanezi…
James was dazzled by the girl’s pronunciation of the numbers as she counted, convinced she must be a fluent speaker. The difference between the two languages was striking—Farsi to Swedish. The sing-song Nehiyaw pronunciation seemed basic and simple compared to Dakelh. Unlike Cree, Dakelh had clicking consonants, aspirated vowels and glottal stops. Maybe it would be trickier to learn than he’d hoped. James was surprised that neighbouring tribes could have such distinct languages. But the Canadian Rockies kept them apart—kept them from melding their languages, cultures and dna.
“Hadih, will you be teachin’ us?” asked the little boy who’d spoken earlier.
The boy reminded James of his own brother, Trevor—Teddy Bear. He was cute, caring and energized as a child, but after spending years in and out of foster homes, his life was plagued by drug use. James choked up as he answered, “Music. Yes.” He coughed, cleared his throat, then continued. “I’ll teach ya music, but y’ll have a homeroom teacher for nearly everything else.”
He stood up abruptly, nodded in the direction of the teacher, and stepped into the hallway, across the hall and into the staff washroom. There, he took some deep breaths and said a prayer to his ancestors to give him strength. Strength, clarity and wisdom.
The neighbouring classroom was much quieter and more organized. Lanky middle-grade kids, many with longish hair, sat at desks doing worksheets. Math exercises, he guessed. The antithesis of his math classes back in Vancouver, with the problem of the day, weekly problem, code-cracking contest and activity centres with math manipulatives. He’d have to order all the same books, equipment and supplies he had in Vancouver and scan the catalogues for more culturally appropriate material. These kids deserved the best.
The downstairs space, a combined classroom and woodworking shop, was intended for high school–aged kids, but it sat empty. James took this as a personal challenge. In his prep for the job interview, he’d read that in many First Nations communities students dropped out from the age of thirteen, when they should’ve been in the eighth grade. He would investigate the situation in Chezgh’un and strategize. Maybe he could visit a few elders to see what they thought was happening with the adolescent dropouts.
Another day, James would return to the school to go through the piles of ratty books to see what could be salvaged. For now, he decided to look through the boxes and filing cabinets he’d seen in the basement. As he rifled through the files and loose documents he found there, his consternation mounted. He flipped through a few student registers, which were legal documents in provincial schools. Student attendance had been carefully documented in September and October, but then trailed off. Upstairs in the office, he located a filing cabinet with a top drawer labelled student records. He pulled it open only to find that it was empty.