Dear Boundless Friends:
I visited 50 Inuit people at the Ranch yesterday, watching them build an Inuskshuk. They wanted to leave a lasting impression of their time here. Ala, one of the Elders, told me, “Every year forward it shall grow, with new people making their mark. This place shall be celebrated.”
I saw seniors, “vintage people” as their facilitator Kevin referred to them, doting on about twenty kids. The moms were there. Dads too. Teenagers were loitering, a little bored. All were painting their names on the rocks, gently placing them in the burgeoning Inukshuk, eagerly contributing to this effort at posterity.
I sat down on a rock about five metres away taking in the scene. A young girl, this exquisite piece of heaven clad in a t-shirt that exploded with colour, sauntered up to me and asked meekly, “What is your favourite colour? I will bring you a rock and some paint.”
“Purple”, I replied. “That’s my favourite colour too,” she said.
I told her that I am a lousy artist. “I failed Kindergarten.”
She giggled. Bringing the supplies, she then hovered over me making sure I wouldn’t screw up my name in her language, guiding my hand over the rock. One Inuk Elder told me that their children were often their parents in previous lives. This young woman was surely my auntie.
Her efforts were so gentle and kind that I started crying. My sunglasses concealed the tears, thank goodness. For about ninety precious seconds, I felt my job was worthwhile.
But really, why would I be squeamish about revealing my emotions? This group was composed of a bunch of masters at accepting each other’s humanity.
Over almost a week, I caught brief glimpses into their lives. They shared a lot. Sometimes in tidbits, and other times their biographies flowed freely like the Madawaska River they revelled in the past five days.
If you were an Arctic Tern on the wall, you would have beheld a lot.
Like when a dad told his son for the first time that he had to surrender him when he was a baby to Children’s Aid for six weeks, so I could “clean myself up”. This 19-year-old is working at a job to help his dad buy a scooter that was stolen last month in Ottawa. The dad proudly boasts that, “I would be nothing without this kid.” The lad is beaming.
You saw a bevy of Elders visiting for two days at a time, swooping in from Ottawa with seal meat sent down from the north, imparting lessons on art and culture, possessed with an uncanny ability to connect with young children.
You would have been amazed at how fifty people prepped and cleaned up meals without chore groups. They spread out the tasks non-verbally, using only their loving pheromones. Except for the teens, who were too often seen playing pickleball, conveniently after meals. Ala the Elder rallied the bunch on a cleaning mission that kept the vintage gang from casting their stern gazes.
You would observe with solemnity how about a quarter of the adults were grieving the loss of two of their relatives to suicide this past summer. They carried their pain silently. They rarely were alone.
You would get the sense that most of these families are refugees in one way or another, resettling from the north to the south because of a dearth of support services. Many are faring well. Inuuqatigiit, their lifeline in Ottawa, works miracles.
At the program’s conclusion, one of the older women gave me a piece of seal skin as a gift as a gift. “You’re an Elder, right’?
“More like a grumpy old man.”
“Ah a curmudgeon!”
We laughed. Then she said, “This place brought us together. The people here are so kind.”
Sincerely,
Steven Gottlieb
