It crosses my mind to wonder where we fit in this ‘vertical mosaic,’ this colour colony; the urban pariah, the displaced and surrendered to apartment blocks, shopping malls, superstores and giant screens, are we distinct ‘survivors of white noise,’ or merely hostages in the enemy camp and the job application asks if I am a Canadian citizen and am I expected to mindlessly check ‘yes,’ indifferent to skin colour and the deaths of 1885, or am I actually free to check ‘no,’ like the true north strong and free and what will I know of my own kin in my old age, will they still welcome me, share their stew and tea, pass me the bannock like it’s mine, will they continue to greet me in the old way, hand me their babies as my own and send me away with gifts when I leave and what name will I know them by in these multicultural intentions, how will I know other than by shape of nose and cheekbone, colour of eyes and hair, and will it matter that we call ourselves Métis, Métisse, Mixed Blood or Aboriginal, will sovereignty matter or will we just slide off the level playing field turned on its side while the provincial flags slap confidently before me, echoing their self-absorbed anthem in the wind, and what is this game we’ve played long enough, finders keepers / losers weepers, so how loud and how long can the losers weep and the white noise infiltrates my day as easily as the alarm, headlines and ‘Morningside’ but ‘Are you a Canadian citizen?’ I sometimes think to answer, yes, by coercion, yes, but no . . . there’s more, but no space provided to write my historical interpretation here, that yes but no, really only means yes because there are no lines for the stories between yes and no and what of the future of my eight-year-old niece, whose mother is Métis but only half as Métis as her grandmother, what will she name herself and will there come a time and can it be measured or predicted when she will stop naming herself and crossing her own mind.