Wednesday, March 17, 2004

 
Campaign aims to get Manitoba school team to change name

If they think that a team named the Mohawks and a mascot that's a cartoon carciature of a Mohawk is offensive, then I wonder what they'd think of my highschool's team name, The Redmen. It doesn't strike me the least bit coincidental that the school had consistent problems with racism. I say had because now the majority of Native students who went there or would have went there attend a high school on their reserve (Eskasoni). Oh I'm sure there's still racism at Riverview, but there won't be walkouts anymore where white students upset over another student's suspension (he had written quite a few racial slurs on a desk and then uttered them when native students confronted him) yell out, on camera no less, "White Power!" There won't be anymore instances at dances where Native students and Redmen hockey players fight in the middle of the gymnasium. There won't be anymore fights in the front of the school at 9:30 in morning where the majority of students are either partaking or watching and noone is in class.

There won't be any of this, but there'll still be racism.

 
Dear You,

Remember when your credit card was rejected at the library Monday and I, a total stranger, said "Don't worry about it, I'll cover you, just come back Wednesday night when I'm working and pay me back"?
Well remember how you said that you would?

I should have got your name and number then because I'd be calling you up right now and asking for that money.

I'm a chump.

 


I never met you and I'm not sure of what connection we have other than that you're my mom's father, but somehow we seem inextricably linked. Oh I realize there's genetics and all of that, but beyond that I can't think of many reasons for me to care so much that you existed. There's the obvious rationale that my mom gets rather nostalgic when your birthdate comes around and so I should feel empathy for that, but my mom gets nostalgic for a lot of things. She ponders dates so much that after a while they all just sort of blur together and lose their uniqueness.

I hold on to your things tightly. There's a wooden cigar box that you presumably used, a photo you might have taken, a lighter shaped like a fish that I can only assume not only needs fluid, but a new filament as well and finally there's also one other thing I can't quite shake. Apparently you always use to talk a lot about next year. You'd talk about how next year you'd take Toe Blake up on his offer. Next year you'd go to Montreal. Next year you'd go see the Canadiens play.

There's not much of a next year left for you, but I picked it up for you.


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