Being Canadian

No man can produce great things who is not thoroughly sincere in dealing with himself. James Russell Lowell

He walked alone. A tall man. Slender. Black hair. Black t-shirt. Black jeans. Native. He was steady on his feet. Arms swinging freely by his sides. I didn't really notice him as I drove towards him until a police car swept in front of me from the opposite lane, stopping abruptly, nose to the curb, beside the man.

I approached slowly. Unsure why the car had so suddenly catapulted across the road. A tall, heavy-set officer got out. I recognized him immediately. B. Known by staff at the shelter where I work to be officious and not particularly kind to our clients. I passed him as he stepped around his car. He pulled on black gloves as he approached the native man who kept walking away.

"Stop right there," the officer screamed. "Stop."

The native man stopped and slowly turned towards the officer.

I kept driving slowly by. My eyes watching. The officer turned and saw me. I nodded my head. Raised my hand. He didn't smile back but he did stop pulling on his gloves.

I drove up the street, the girlfriend in the car with me visibly confused by what was going on. "Do you mind if we just stop and watch for a second?" I asked her.

"No problem," she replied. "Why'd he stop the guy?"

"I'm not sure. The man looked as confused as we do."

We pulled up against the curb further down the road, our eyes glued to the rearview mirrors.

The officer eyed my vehicle. Eyed the man standing in front of his car. The man spoke, obviously confused as to what he'd done wrong. The officer motioned to the lane from which the man had exited. The man shrugged his shoulders. He still seemed confused.

I watched as the man passed over what appeared to be his ID.

The officer got back in his car. The man waited. I waited.

A few minutes later another man came walking down the street. He was obviously under the influence. Staggering. Lurching from side to side as he walked. He saw the man standing in front of the police car. Stopped to chat. He was laughing. Pointing at the officer. The man in black motioned for him to move away. The man kept laughing. The man in black gave him a shove as if to say, "Go away." The other man persisted. The tall man in black took the man's arm and started to lead the man down the street towards the shelter. Suddenly, the officer leapt from his car, yelling at the man in black. The man let go of the other man's arm and stepped back towards the parked police car. The officer waved his arms in the air, still yelling.

I was too far away to hear distinctly what was being said. It was obviously not very kind. The tall man hung his head and stood silently in from of the officer. The officer passed the man back his papers. The man walked away.

I waited a few more minutes. The man kept walking. The police officer kept watching. He glanced back towards where I was parked. Looked towards the man walking away. Got in his car. Backed up and sped off.

It lasted only ten minutes but the pain of that encounter permeated my being. My girlfriend was also affected. "Why'd he stop the guy?" she asked.

"Unfortunately, it happens all too often" I told her. "Homeless individuals are often harassed for the fact they are homeless. For this man, compound his 'condition' with the fact he's Native and it's a double whammy."

"He looked so," she paused searching for the word. "Defeated."

Defeated.

It is the word I use most often to describe the people we serve. Defeated. Beyond depressed. Beyond angry. Beyond frightened. They carry their defeat like a blanket protecting them from the harsh winds of life that constantly swirl around them.

Defeated. A posture. An aspect. An outlook.

I hadn't wanted to get out of my car and approach the officer. I knew my presence alone would deter him. To confront him would have forced him to make up a story to validate why he'd stopped the man. I didn't want to risk worsening the situation. I wanted him to know he was being watched.

It is the sad reality of homelessness. So often, encounters with authority happen out of sight of watchful eyes. So often, encounters are pointless exercises of the authority given to someone by a badge, a gun, an oath to serve and protect that does not extend to someone the person in authority believes is criminal by the very label he carries.

I knew the officer last night. We had worked with the District to have him removed as his attitude has been excessively aggressive towards the people we serve. He's obviously still in the district. Still flexing his muscle when a kind word, a helping hand would go further to aid those suffering from homelessness.

I breathe.

I cannot change his attitude. I can adjust mine to accept that being watchful is as important as being present.

No question today. It is Canada Day. A holiday here on the northern side of the 49th Parallel. A day to celebrate what makes us uniquely Canadian. I wish being fair and kind and humane with all human beings, regardless of their socio/economic status was one of our attributes. I wish being Canadian meant everyone has the same value, equal representation, fair treatment, fair consideration, no matter their address.

I wish, Being Canadian meant everyone is special. Everyone experiences the joy of living their best without fear that where they're at is where they'll fall one day because no one was there to catch them. No one was willing to help them get back up.

I wish, Being Canadian meant the same for everyone. I wish it meant no one was defeated by life.

I breathe into my Canadian roots. Regardless of my land of birth, my birthright is the same as every human being. This is the journey of my lifetime. How I walk it is up to me. I cannot change the world. I can change how I walk through my world to create a gentler, kinder place all around me.