You Just Never Know ...

One of the recurring -- and possibly overworked -- points I make when I talk about the Downtown East Side is that anyone is just one misstep away from winding up in a situation similar to the "street people". It might be something obvious or it might be something seemingly minor, that sets off a cascade of events.

I've known Mike since I started at Gospel Mission eight years ago. Nice-looking, pleasant, polite, 40-something, he would sit at or near the back and sing lustily during Worship. He loved singing, and had been in his school's choir in Prince Rupert, which had won awards in festivals.

But as the years went by, one could see changes in him. He'd be prone to outbursts of anger -- not directed at us, but he would come in and bend our ears about the way some of the advocacy groups he was involved with, like VANDU (the Vancouver Area Network of Drug Users) would treat him. He was angry that they would ask him to leave meetings for being disruptive. How he was disruptive was never clear.

Certainly, Mike could be candid and maybe less than judicious in the things he said. When supporters of InSite -- the supervised injection facility -- turned out en masse for a court ruling regarding federal health-care funding, Mike was a no-show. "I missed out on thirty-five bucks," he said, explaining that had been promised to those who came for the demonstration. He then told me that he and others were given box lunches and a trip to Victoria for a demonstration at the Legislature.

Aside from exacerbating Mike's anger issues, the drug use has savaged his physical state, with ghastly open sores appearing on his face. I found it very easy to judge him, saying to myself, "so how are those 'drug users' rights' working out for you?"

Then, a couple of weeks ago, he shared a piece of information.

"My mother died 35 years ago this month," he said. "She, my auntie, my grandma, my sister and brother -- all killed in a car accident. It was just outside Edmonton on Highway 16 and they hit a tanker truck."

That was a jolt. I remembered that crash well. It was one of a number of fatal crashes in 1980 along what the papers were calling "Death Highway". Shortly after that, I had to drive that highway en route to my first radio job, in Lloydminster.

And now, here was someone directly affected by that string of disasters.

He went on. "My grandpa said, 'I got a bad feeling about Mikey going with you.' He didn't want me to go. 'I got a bad feeling,' he said."

"Wow," I said. "So you stayed home."

"Oh, no," Mike replied. "I went. I was the only survivor."

Suddenly, a lot of things fell into place.

So now, it becomes understandable that Mike would turn to drugs as the solution to his pain and his lingering grief ("survivor's remorse" is probably a part of that). Personally, I'm no more in favor of people doing drugs for any reason -- and certainly not in favor of making them "safer" to take. But Mike's experience reminds me that there are so many deep-seated issues that need to be dealt with and frankly, only God can reveal and only Jesus can heal. Anything else is a damned lie.

==

"My mother. Did. What she thought. Was right."

Denise spoke very deliberately, as if she was forcing the thought out of her mouth and into the light. Her mother had handed her over to a children’s aid agency when she was a baby, and her point was that she couldn't hold any anger against her. Mind you, her determined way of saying it suggested she had had a long and difficult time to get to that stage.

Ironically, Denise, herself, parted ways with her children. She talks with them from time to time, and then they go about their lives; but there's still a sense that there are still a lot of gaps in their relationship.

Denise is the one who said, "I'd have to kill you all!" when I asked if she'd share her life story for my "In His Image, Too ..." video project, so this was a remarkably candid revelation. She's in her mid-fifties, petite, still attractive with grey threads through her black hair and has definitely “seen it all”. But she refuses to play the victim and blame the myriad people who could be and are regularly blamed for what happens to our Native brothers and sisters. Instead, she’s what I'd call an actionist – someone who just gets in there and does what she can to help. In her case, it’s serving at the women’s centre on the Downtown East Side, helping other women – particularly the young ones – cope with the situation.

“Just show me a Native woman who hasn't sold her body at some point,” she said recently. Someone had had the face to ask her if she'd ever been a prostitute and she was her usual direct self. But with the annual Memorial March for Missing and Murdered Women about to happen, Denise was equally emphatic that it would have to go ahead without her.

“Nothing changes,” she said, meaning the impact of the marches. “But more than that: I'd like to see a march for missing and murdered men. You never hear about that, but that’s what happened to my husband and I wish someone would talk about that.” But almost immediately, she added, “Not me, though: I'm not goin’ on that crusade!”

Denise believes that handing her over to a child protection agency (ironically, the same one that was under the microscope last year in connection with the death of a little boy in Ontario) was not the right thing to do. And yet, it's clear that the experiences Denise went through as a result have led to this calling on her to help others. Who knows how many people she's blessed, just by being there for them?

I would say Denise has a calling of God on her life: I don't know if she'd see it that way, but I'm reminded of Romans 8:28 "All things work together for good, for those who love God and are called according to His purpose."

==

When we went to Australia in December, we walked around Circular Quay in Sydney (I love the Aussies' directness in many things in their language: it's a quay; it's shaped like a circle; therefore, it's named "Circular Quay") and one of its features is "Writers' Walk". This is a series of plaques, in tribute to the writers from Australia and around the world who have, in one way or another, had a connection with Australia. Alongside Nevil Shute, Jack London, Rudyard Kipling and James Michener, there is this plaque from Kath Walker, an Aborigine who took the name Oodgeroo Noonuccal -- the name of her tribe.

I could tell you of heartbreak, hatred blind,

I could tell of crimes that shame mankind,

Of brutal wrong and deeds malign,

Of rape and murder, son of mine.

But I'll tell instead of brave and fine,

When lives of black and white entwine,

And men in brotherhood combine -- 

This would I tell you, son of mine.

Note that this poem was written in 1964, at about the same time Martin Luther King was delivering his speech, in which he said, in part, "I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood ... that ... one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers."

Eloquence from two different parts of the world, at the same time, with the same thought towards brotherhood, equality and, yes, integration. For what it's worth, it's my own prayer for our First Nations in Canada, because the current situation, I believe, is geared to keep them oppressed -- just in a different way. But it's one thing for whitey, here, to talk about integration and brotherhood: hearing it from the oppressed people themselves, gives it credibility.