She Wrote - by K.D. DeFehr

 

I asked a young white man to write

about what it means to grow up in our city.

He wrote, “if you play your cards right,

you can have a pretty good future here.”

 

I asked the little indigenous girl sitting next to him,

kicking her feet above the floor in pink running shoes,

the same question.

She wrote, “Alone. Ignored. Scared.”

She wrote,

“Disconnected.”

She wrote,

“Not safe.”

 

I wondered how this was possible.

“Scared” for so many of us –

for most of us, 

on most days –

is just a word, isn’t it?

In Canada, we don’t feel “scared”

a whole heck of a lot.

Do we?

 

Well, I guess that depends on

who we are

and who our “us” is.

I guess that depends on

more than just which cards we play,

but the cards we get handed in the first place.

My deck

was a full set.

 

I’m a white, middle class citizen.

I grew up with both my parents.

I never thought about food, clothing, shelter,

comfort. Neither did my childhood friends.  

We had all of those things in abundance

and every door was open to us.

Proper support was not only free, but expected. 

Tutors, therapists – whatever we needed to succeed,

we were entitled to. 

 

So how I came to be holding this

little pink sticky note with her words, Not safe,

was lost on me.

This was her land after all, wasn’t it?

If anyone should feel supported, comforted, safe,

connected here,

it should be her, shouldn’t it? 

My white privilege was showing.

Word on the street was that we had given them enough.

 

Them. Us.

Does that sound like enough to you?

 

There are tens of thousands of indigenous children

in Canada’s foster care system today.

In B.C. alone, over four-thousand of those children

are just like that little girl,

terrified of what will happen to them

when they turn nineteen –

when they “age out”

from every resource designated to help them,

but only through their adolescence.

 

Most of them will be raised by white families

because of poverty,

because of substance abuse,

because of neglect at home.

Because of a system that stripped their parents

and grandparents

of their culture,

of their language,

of their family and heritage –

of everything that creates a sense of self-worth.

 

I was raised

to respect everyone equally

and I’ve learned that I should always assume

my own ignorance before deniability.

But I was taught

First Nations Studies as a chapter.

And I was told

that their fate should not be my burden to bare.

 

Now I listen to my white friends talking

and they all have their backs up, saying things like

“my hands are clean” and

“how much longer am I going to have to pay

for my ancestors’ mistakes?”

 

I think about that little girl in the pink running shoes

and I want to shake them.

I want to dare them to look into her eyes

and ask her that very same question

so they can see for themselves

how it’s not about “them. Us”,

and how she could never be a burden to any of us.  

 

It’s about the thousands of children

who still are not at home in their own country,

who didn’t get a say or a choice

in their fate.

It’s about one that slipped

a little pink sticky note into my hand –  

scared,

alone,

not safe –

her answers that left me

asking so many more questions.