The Indian Stereotype

Growing up, I hated the Indian stereotypes I grew up hearing. I hated them because they were all too true.

My dad was an Ojibwe man from Manitoba. In 1999, he died of a drug overdose. It was a few years after abandoning my mom, my brother and me. I couldn’t tell you why he left. It didn’t make sense to me – it never will. And once he was dead, it reinforced my hate for those stereotypes I grew up hearing.

I felt so much shame. It was embarrassing knowing my dad chose cocaine and heroin over me – his son. I carried that shame and pain for years. But after a while, I got sick of being ashamed. Why should I fall into a spiral of self pity, like my father did and his father did?

In 2007, I began taking classes at the First Nations University of Canada. And in 2011, I graduated with a degree in Political Science and double minor of English and Indigenous studies. Now I have a beautiful wife, an amazing daughter that brings me more energy than she takes and I work for a multi-billion dollar corporation. I’m not rich – or even remotely close to rich for that matter – but life hasn’t been this good since I was a blissfully ignorant eight-year-old.

I want you to understand what I’m saying here. As a kid, I idolized my dad. And the older I got, the more my idol disappointed me. But, he was disappointing me because I was still idolizing him. That meant, the only way to stop being disappointed was to stop placing him on a pedestal he didn’t deserve. So that’s what I did.

But, by the time I was able to do that, he had been dead for nearly a decade and I had pissed away the first half of my 20s. It took so long to take him off that pedestal because I was still thinking he was the loving, strong, happy, smart and invincible father I remembered. But that’s impossible, because a man like that would never die the way he did.

The truth is, Dad was a flawed human being. Just like me and everybody else on Earth. I’ll never know why he chose to live and ultimately die the way he did, but even if I did understand that, it would change nothing.

Sometime after my dad’s death – maybe it was a month, maybe a year – my mom said to me, “It got to the point where your dad can do more for you dead, than he could alive.” Those words changed the course of my life. They also changed his.

So now, those Indian stereotypes I grew up hearing still bother me. But it’s not because they’re true, it’s because they’re not. The new Indian stereotype doesn’t look back to find shame. The new Indian stereotype looks in the mirror. The new Indian stereotype refuses to fall into a downward spiral. The new Indian stereotype is proud and humble, strong and sensitive, smart and forever learning.

I am the new Indian stereotype and you can be too.

Religion is not spirituality

We capitalize specific religions because they are proper names. Spirituality requires no capitalization, except of course if it's the beginning of a sentence. But how often does that happen, really? The word spirituality requires no capitalization because it is a humble word. Words like Catholic, Islam, Mormon even the Church of England all require capitals because they are proper names, they are proud.

It's okay to be proud, but it's far more satisfying to be humble. Famed martial artist and creator of Jeet Kun Do, Bruce Lee once said, "Learn everything. Keep what works."

Religion is one ideology at a time, one belief at a time, shared by many. Spirituality can be everything we've ever learned. Spirituality is best used to help us recognize and understand life as individuals.

Grand

My Grandfather built a grand house as strong and sturdy as He
Poured the foundation nearly a lifetime ago
Bags of concrete He carried on His back
Generations held together inside

A bench in the dining room is fastened to the wall
Floating against the wall and strong as a tree
Babies turned to parents, whose babies turned to parents
Whose babies run and jump and eat on that floating bench like all those before them

I once fell from the roof of the house with nobody near
Hanging by the tips of my fingers, the ground a grand distance below my small body
Afraid for my life, I struggled to hold on
With ease He reached up to save me and lowered me safely
I took comfort in the scolding that followed

He built a second garage because one wasn’t enough
Bloodied and scarred, His bear hands worked without pause
Grizzly strong words, authoritative and wise
One gusty day He climbed the family elm just to trim the branches
That’s when they told my Grandfather, it’s time to slow down old man


Thick-skinned and weathered, His grand house fears nothing
Only peach coloured house on the block
Children, grandchildren and He painted the rings
But the latest layer of paint is not peach, it is a faded yellow instead
And it has been applied by a contractor whose name I’ll never know

Grandfather stood up from a conversation we recently had
Put on His coat and said He was gonna’ be late for work
Afraid to break the news, I told him He’d been retired for 20 years
“Fired?”
He sat down in disbelief, “Why would they fire me?”

Slow down, old man was more than a request
It was His last era's beginning
An era he didn't much care for
His powerful voice became weak and uncertain
Mourning began before he was gone

Grandfather earned his peace.

Finding My Groove: From the Dark Green Forests, to the Cold White Arctic

I have this vision for myself when I write. I see myself in a small cabin surrounded by kilometres and kilometres of dark green forests, and the subtle sounds of birds singing so eloquently that their songs can only be heard if I listen for them. I imagine I am sitting at my desk in front of a large picture window. Occasionally I glance out the window, just one look rejuvenates me. The words I write always illustrate the great freedom I am feeling every time I breathe the inspiring tranquility that surrounds me. This imagery is all I need to keep my pen to my paper, or my fingers to the keys. The environment I write in can be anywhere: a busy office or cubicle, a crowded noisy library, my personal office at home or even on a big bus with a notepad. There is something liberating for me that emanates from blank pages that will soon be covered in words. Writing feels like freedom. Sharing my words with others is exciting. I write in hopes that readers will experience the same feelings I did when I filled those blank pages one thought at a time.

Writing is not merely mushy feelings and birds singing; there are many types of writing. I recall writing an essay on climate change and not knowing anything about the topic. In order to simplify the topic I decided to narrow my perspective slightly and focus on a specific issue of climate change: polar bears. I was always fascinated with their massive size and their intimidating presence. I find something courageous about an animal trekking alone in the cold blowing snow of Earth’s most northern region, trusting itself to go the right direction with every step it takes. By narrowing my topic in the essay from climate change, to the effects of climate change on polar bears, the essay suddenly seemed more manageable. Like the polar bear navigating through the Arctic with a purpose, I now had a direction; I was no longer wandering.

As I began my research, the proverbial doors began to open. One fact led to another fact and in a very short period of time, the essay was practically writing itself. This left me with a great feeling. I began the essay early, so I would have time to revise, and it was a good choice. By the time I handed the work in, my essay was a representation of the dedication I used to write it. My final mark on the essay was 85 percent (I think!). At the risk of sounding cliché, I remember the feeling of accomplishment I got when the instructor handed back my work. I felt I did a great job and so did she. The instructor even asked me to email her a copy so she could use it as an example in her future classes.

Looking back on the essay in the above example, I realize I was enjoying the work because I focused on what I wanted to accomplish. Realizing any goal means knowing what you want to accomplish. Focusing on what I want automatically sets my pace and forces me into the type of groove that inspired this page of words. I look forward to the many blank pages that await me tomorrow.

Sunday Drivin'

We veer left off the number 10 highway somewhere west of Balcarres; we head south. The paved road did not take long to transform into a dirty, dusty back road. An upcoming junction in the dust indicates a decision had to be made, and it was. Had we not gone east we would have drove to the Motherwell Heritage site: a stone house and farming property that has become an important piece of the Canadian historical puzzle for reasons beyond my understanding and knowledge, despite having gone there on a field trip in Mrs. Edwards’ grade four class over a decade ago. But there was no time for Motherwell, not today – that’s for sure. After one more turn, we head south once again.

Dusk grasps onto the hills of the surrounding valleys for as long as its grip could hold – 20 minutes, maybe. We pick up speed and kick up dirt seeming reluctantly certain that we are going the right direction. Guided by our faith and a dirt road, the crunch of gravel beneath the tires of the red 2008 Impala slows as the trail dives and twists downwards. I slip ‘er into third . . . “Whoops! That’s neutral . . . There we go.” I slip ‘er into third.

Anybody who says South Saskatchewan has got nothing to see hasn’t driven through the grid road valleys on the cusp of clear and colourful sunset. Orange, amber and if your lucky, even purple; colours so brilliant that the greatest poet would not dare to rhyme them. The scenery is vivid; I continually remind myself to keep my eyes on the road. We carry on through the dips and dust, trusting whatever direction the road steers us.

Finally, the dirt trail straightens for the time being. Confident and calm from the soothing sunset’s subtle withdrawal only minutes ago, our speed increases. On either side of the road we can see hidden farm houses through the tall trunks of their matured shelterbelts.

“WHOA!” Out of the trees dashes a big brown animal! I jerk the steering wheel left but fear it’s too late. We’re going to smash into it. Will we be okay? Will the car be okay? I accept that I am about to kill some kind of wild beast with big shoulders. There is going to be damage to the car. These thoughts and more circulate through my brain within the fraction of a second it took for this drama to unfold. It's a dog; a Rottweiler. We pass by without hitting it, but the swerve at high speeds on loose gravel and the shock induced screams from the two of us were humbling to say the least. The fear and panic of this heart-stopping moment spawns laughter. The near death experience suddenly becomes uncontrollably hysterical. Our laughter intensifies.

This triggers a flashback for Jody, my beautiful wife, passenger and part time navigator to my right. Suddenly she remembers that road. She remembers that farm house, she even remembers that dog. For her it’s like déjà vu. Apparently, the dog is so familiar with his driveway that he can run full speed towards the road and stop on a dime without actually being in the way of traffic. I am telling you, it was inches from the car before it stopped.

Even more determined than before to find our way, we continue driving; still occasionally chuckling. It is dark now and I can see us approaching another valley. The entrance to this valley is not very steep, causing us to slowly engulf ourselves in its depth and darkness. The lower we get the darker the night grows. We see one car in the distance travelling on another road, perhaps on a Sunday drive of their own; it is refreshing to see that sign of life.

The curvaceous dusty trail leads us across a bridge, then across another. Jody begins reminiscing again about how she used to close her eyes because of the steep incline that we are approaching. It was very steep; I could see why it would frighten a weary young girl. She points left and remarks that the road used to be over there when she was a kid; now wild prairie foliage grows in its place. We climb the new road and out of the dark valley without looking back, knowing for certain that we are being led in the right direction, truly confident and moving forward.

It’s after 10 pm. Lights from the Trans Canada Highway can be seen as the empowering horizon quickly draws nearer. “It’s good to know these back roads”, says Jody referring once more to a childhood memory. We had survived our Sunday evening adventure. Unpredictable, unforgettable, beautiful, treacherous and even hilarious: this is our journey. It may be the road less travelled but I would not want it any other way.

Its Part of Life and Life is Real!

The lights were dim. Most of the eyes in the room were on me. Some of the people were drunk, yelling phrases not commonly heard; they were a paying crowd and could yell whatever they wanted to. It didn’t really matter what they yelled because I had the microphone, and I was yelling too. “This is it!” I remember saying with authority, pride and, most of all, confidence. “You don’t get another shot!” I reiterated. I was about to say it one last time, but then Dr. Dre’s, “The Next Episode” suddenly took over the speakers. The song’s hypnotic intro echoed throughout the small building as the men, women and children surrounding me almost unanimously jumped up and began to cheer – no, erupt. I had been in this situation so many times before that the song had burned itself into my brain and I knew what was coming next. His name was Big Daddy Kash. He was no bigger than me but no smaller than me either. He burst through the doorway and charged directly at me. For a brief second, I took it all in: the loud music blasting through the large speakers being drowned out by the even louder screaming fans that had grown to hate me and the Central Canadian Heavyweight Title belt that was around my waist. As Kash approached me with his fists in the air and swinging at my head, I thought to myself, “Is this real?”

Pro-wrestling, or as I have grown to lovingly call it, wrasslin’, is a spectacle that has shaped me into the man I am today. I have been involved with the wrestling industry since I was in high school. A common perception of wrestling is that it is staged, phoney and stupid. Of all the labels given to wrestling, there is one that I dislike more than any other: fake. To me, wrestling is anything but fake. It is very real; real emotion, real competition, real physicality, real pain and real life. Wrestling has allowed me to live moments that were far too real to be associated with the word fake. From near death experiences to life-changing injuries; from inspirational opportunities to death, wrasslin’ has taught me more about real life than I ever could have known without it. Professional wrestling is very real to me.

My dad died of a drug overdose in 1999. Looking back, it was near the same time I had my first professional wrestling match. I had been working with a local wrestling company for three years before that doing odd jobs like ring crew, security and music. I was given free wrestling training in exchange for my dedication and volunteer work. After over a year of being trained how to wrestle by Charley Hayes, Rex Roberts, Todd Meyers and Massive Damage, they finally agreed that I was ready to wrestle in front of a crowd. These wrestlers became my family; at eighteen-years-old, I was lacking any real male role-models aside from my older brother who was dealing with the same problems I was. I looked up to them and always tried to meet their approval.

Years went on, and I was still wrestling. Occasionally, I would travel to Winnipeg or Saskatoon to wrestle a show, almost always paying my own way there and using what little I got paid to get back. The hard work seemed to pay off because I was eventually given an opportunity to make some real money. The Canadian Wrestling Federation (CWF), which was the National Wrestling Alliance’s (NWA) Canadian affiliate, requested some wrestlers to go on tour with them; I would be one of them. This meant a lot to me because the NWA is arguably the oldest surviving pro-wrestling promotion in the world with lineage that stretches back to 1903.

The tour gave me a chance to travel to multiple Northern Ontario reserves in a plane that comfortably seated 12. At the end of the tour, our crew was ready to leave Kitchenoomaykoosib-Inninuig to fly back to Sioux Lookout, where we had driven to catch our first flight two weeks ago, but we still had to make it there. During our take off, I looked out the window and saw the darkest grey storm clouds I had seen all summer long. I asked the promoter, “Are we flying into that?” His reaction was a lot more satirical than I was hoping for, but I decided to relax and enjoy the ride. It wasn’t long before our plane was engulfed by those very same clouds. The rain pelted the windows so furiously it sounded like we were under attack. I could see lightning in the distance – at least I hoped it was the distance. The plane no longer flew in a smooth straight line; instead, it shook nervously like a boiling pot of water that had been pushed to its limits. In an effort to lighten the mood, Baron Von Meaner and Sammy Sadistic to my right began to sing Richie Valens’ “La Bamba”, while behind me Plum Loco and Spyder were yelling at the pilots using their best Joe Pesci impersonations. Suddenly the plane dropped! We weren’t even flying, we were falling. I cannot remember whether we all went silent or screamed brief expressions of fear, but I will not forget that moment. As quick as it fell, the plane levelled out again, only to do this a few more times. Everybody started acting serious. I heard one of the pilots saying “Mayday, Mayday” followed by what I assumed to be our location. Eventually, we did make it back to the comforting dirt runway of Sioux Lookout unharmed but slightly humbled and perhaps better off because of it. There was nothing fake about this experience; it was the reality of a pro-wrestling tour.

In total, I must have talked to just short of 10,000 kids about the importance of goal setting and drug-free lives. During these tours, a group of wrestlers would go into the schools before the wrasslin’ shows to talk to kids of all ages; some of these kids were in desperate need of role models. There were times when it would get quite emotional as we wrestlers would talk about personal experiences that we felt were beneficial to the kids. One community had just experienced the death of some kids after they had gotten drunk and fallen through a frozen lake; another community had just had a gang-related murder, we even cancelled a trip to my home reserve, Peguis because of snow-mobile related death. We went to a place called Kashechewan that was featured on the news shortly after we left because the children were getting diseases from the water; luckily we knew to never drink the water at these communities. Sometimes being a role-model to these kids was a little too real.

I have been told by specialists that I no longer have an anterior cruciate ligament in my knee and that my medial collateral ligament is partially torn with some damage to the cartilage surrounding the knee. This happened while defending the tag team belts with my partner, The Screaming Eagle. I was fortunate he was there to help carry me out afterwards. The pain was excruciating but the promoter and I felt I had to wrestle one more time to lose the tag belts so I could get some time off. One month later I wrapped up my knee and endured the pain for the good of the wrestling promotion. I would return a few months later, never fully healed.

The reality is that pain and wrestling are inevitably linked. It is the job of your opponent to do everything he/she can to minimize that pain; however this is not always the case. Many wrestlers are very aggressive and feel the need to punch and kick for real. Some guys are simply too big to control their power. I have wrestled the seven foot, 360 pound Titan Tower many times, and he is not delicate. He hits very hard and needs to be struck back the same way in order maintain realism; the bigger the man, the bigger the swing. I wrestled a massive steroid induced man named Rock Jaw Radcliffe who knew nothing of the word fake. Even though pro-wrestling is a cooperative performance by two or more professionally trained people, it is a live-action portrayal of violence that includes real contact, much more than it is often given credit for.

I’ve hit the ditch in the middle of the night during a white-out somewhere between The Pas and Moosimin. I’ve toured some of the most beautiful parts of Canada. I’ve been rescued by a man on a snow mobile from an isolated frozen forest after a day of stone-cold fear; we almost lost two guys to the cold that time. I’ve seen wrestlers have to fight off angry fans that have jumped into the ring to attack them. I’ve met wrestling legends who have more booze in their gym bags than anything else. I’ve been in communities where we wrestlers were seen as iconic and the kids were crying just to meet us. I’ve been beaten with a chain that I wished was fake and I’ve been smashed through tables that I incorrectly thought were meant to soften the blow. I’ve been on the receiving and giving end of injuries. I’ve heard wrestlers’ stories of their experiences in the business, some of which are far more surreal than mine – a first-hand version of the murder of legendary Bruiser Brody at a wrestling show in Puerto Rico is just one example. I’ve had conversations with wrestlers that have died shortly afterwards due to the enormous stress and abuse induced by the wrasslin’ business. I’ve watched close friends age much more rapidly than they deserve. I’ve seen and been part of real fights breaking out between opponents while performing. I’ve been one half of amazing displays of athleticism and showmanship during matches that are already locally remembered as classics.

Pro-wrestling is not just a hobby, or a sport, or even a job; pro-wrestling is a way of life. It evokes passion from those who are fortunate enough to be involved in it. It demands a certain willingness to accept that wrestling is a part of life and that life is real. Wrestling is as real as the hockey player that plays through the pain because he loves the game; wrestling is as real as the high school football team that is forced to take the long, silent bus ride home after a tough defeat; wrestling is as real as the sweat stinging the eyes of a tennis player as it drips off his forehead. I’ve been wrasslin’ for ten years and this is all very real to me

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An Untitled Compare and Contrast

The end result of an essay is often seen as the most important part. If an essay ends without coming to a conclusion, it would be hard to call it an essay at all. It is important to have a sound result but it is also imperative for essays to have a well thought-out approach before delivering the well thought-out conclusion. Writing a compare and contrast essay, for example would require knowing the words, compare and contrast, and their uses well enough to apply them in any given situation; this would strengthen the approach of the essay. Comparing and contrasting may seem like one in the same ideal; however there must be a key difference between the two words, despite their similarities. Otherwise, comparisons would not be so frequently accompanied by contrasts and contrasts would not so often dare to compare. Both a comparison and a contrast are different approaches in their own right but when combined as a compare and contrast, the approach is broadened in hopes of a reaching a result that is clearly sound.

The enormously credible Dictionary.com defines the two words as follows:

com⋅pare –verb (used with object)
to examine in order to note similarities and differences; to consider or describe as similar: to compare two pieces of cloth; to compare the governments of two nations.

con-trast – verb (used with object)
to compare in order to show unlikeness or differences; note the opposite natures, purposes, etc., of: Contrast the political rights of Romans and Greeks.

Despite the similarities when comparing the two definitions there is a stark contrast between them. The definition of contrast reveals the unlikeness of objects. Contrastingly, the definition of compare is designed to focus on the similarities between objects. Therefore, comparing things like apples and oranges is often seen as hypothetically unsuitable because they are different. Although, a brief comparison, by definition will show that there are many similarities between apples and oranges: they are both fruits that grow on trees, with brightly coloured outer skins, and can be found, relatively in the same section of the grocery store. This example shows that comparing two seemingly different objects can reveal their similarities.

In comparison, contrasting the same two apples and oranges should reveal the dissimilarities: they are two different colours and textures, they both taste very differently, an apple has an edible skin, while the orange has a skin that is normally peeled then discarded, and they are normally sold separately at a grocery store. This example of contrast focuses on why apples and oranges are different. When compared to the comparison before it, there is a contrast because the comparison shows why they are the same.

By the definitions given in this essay: a comparison is an examination of objects that makes note of their similarities and differences; and a contrast is a comparison of objects that focuses only on their differences. This means that a comparison will inevitably include some type of contrast and a contrast will fundamentally be based on a comparison. The contrasts between these two words are unavoidably linked by their similarities, yet when compared they both showcase their opposition. In other words, when seeking out their sameness, it is their differences that are revealed and when searching for their opposition, they are brought together by their likenesses.

Based on the evidence so far, a comparison can and normally does contain a contrast and a contrast will have to include a comparison. However, there must be some objects that when compared are found to be identical, thus revealing no contrasts. Identical twins are often viewed just as the name suggests, but personality traits are never exactly the same; even the physical traits would reveal some subtle differences in a comparison. The public was told that Dolly the sheep – forever known as the first cloned sheep – was truly identical to its other sheep self. This means that a true comparison between the two scientifically identical sheep would show no contrast, but contrastingly when shown in pictures, one of the sheep is sitting on the left side of the photo while the other is clearly sitting on the right side of the photo. Logically speaking, two different objects can never occupy the same space at the same time; therefore if two objects are in two different places, they are two different objects and the contrast prevails. It could also be assumed that when compared, two genetically identical sheep would not have each strand of wool on their bodies grow in exactly the same way. This comparison does then show a contrast between the two sheep, even though they are supposedly identical. When comparing this comparison of the cloned sheep to a contrast, it would naturally seem that the same observations would be found. Therefore, a comparison and contrast of two identical sheep will reveal the same similarities and dissimilarities; the only difference is the approach.

A contrast seeks the differences, a comparison seeks the similarities. Interestingly enough, both may end up at the same conclusion. This does not mean it is safe, when doing a compare and contrast to eliminate a contrast from the comparison, or a comparison from the contrast. The path to reaching any conclusion must include as many possibilities as possible. That is, the means to a result is just as important as the result itself – if not more so. It could even be argued that the comparing and contrasting of comparing and contrasting can be compared to the result that has recently been reached. In contrast, if the result has never been less clear than it is now, read the essay again, compare the results of both your readings and the contrast that arises should help to clarify.