getting to where we need to go

Gack! [ed: or maybe something just slightly more obscene, hmm Winter?] I knew I should have left a minute earlier! I hate when this happens. Oh well, maybe this can give me something to blog about: Shitty Ways To Start The Day. (Or maybe just Poopy Ways To Start The Day, depending the extent I want to censor myself.) This could be number two; number one would be stepping in cat puke on the way downstairs to get socks. Number three? Sleeping in? Maybe. The list needs more thought.

My pace slowed. There was no rush now; I had another nine minutes before the next bus came. Just enough time to think about what the first task accomplished should be when I sat down at my desk. Just enough time to wonder how Adoring and Wonderful Husband really is adjusting to the life of a stay-at-home dad (he says No Big Deal, but I know better: I know it takes more than two weeks to come to terms with the fact that The Outside World spins without you, that it's okay to nap twice in one day. So even though I’m sure he's happy as a clam, I still worry.)

It’s cold in Ottawa today. Perhaps I judged Global Warming too quickly. Maybe it was just nervous, needed time to digest its drink before it felt comfortable to speak without stuttering, to lure me into a conversation I didn’t know I wanted to have until we started talking. Global Warming? He’s not such a bad guy. Give him another chance, you’ll see. I tucked my ears into my coat like a turtle, bracing for the next seven minutes. Examined the bus stop graffiti with the sensibility of an 80-year-old. Stonerville? Where’s that? My 18-for-life persona chimed in: Maybe I should go.

"Morning," he said, crunching into the shelter. I had seen him once before.

"Morning," I replied, and looked away. A too short wait for our ride seemed to preclude anything further; a too long wait in the cold pressed me to keep my mouth moving so as to keep warm.

"Ottawa police have too much time on their hands if they’re able to come out to every little fender bender that happens," I remarked, gesturing to the car with a broken tail light flashing its emergency signals just down the street, and the police cruiser blocking traffic in the next lane stopped behind him. "That’s one thing I found really different when we moved here. Where I come from, your car has to be practically totalled off before the police will come. You practically have to be in the hospital from the injury."

"Oh yeah, where you from?"

"Regina," I said, with the measure of pride I reserve for when people ask me about the Queen City, as if my prior address was a war wound. "Been in Ottawa about three years now."

"Oh yeah, I’ve been here two. I’m from Iqaluit."

And that’s how I met B., from the Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, Canada’s national Inuit organization. During my 30-minute commute, which usually takes, like, forever, but not so much this morning, B., a grandfather of three and who is close to retirement (don’t worry, Adoring and Wonderful Husband; I only have eyes for you), told me a little bit about his past, the places up North he’s been to, the places he recommends I see. ("You’ll really like Whitehorse when you go there. Lots of really unique urban pockets sprinkled throughout the city.") He also reminded me how woefully ignorant I am about Aboriginal issues (though not so pointedly as to call Bullshit). ("Who do people think of as the spokesperson for the Aboriginal perspective? Phil? How about Mary Simon for the Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami? Or Chartier for the Métis?" I had to admit the latter failed to cross my mind, and that the former, well, I didn’t even know it existed.)

We talked about land claims and political jurisdiction, and about sports and cars and retirement. ("Of course Ottawa doesn’t see the issues facing Aboriginal people in the same way as people in Regina do," he agreed, going further: "People here have cars.")

Blink.

Blink, blink.

"I’ve never thought about it that way!" I gushed excitedly, because even on issues of such solemn gravity I am happy to learn. (And my, oh my was I learning.)

"Often the issues are the same for every community," he went on, because I wanted him to, and because I think he is a teacher at heart. "I had a neighbour who everyday goes to the bar, from four until eight, gets drunk, and drives home. But society doesn’t see him on the street, they don’t judge him the same way as they do someone stumbling down the road, because he has a car. He can make his problem invisible in a way an Aboriginal cannot."

Not because he (or she) is different from you or I. Not because we all can’t be as tortured in the same way (and, on the other side of the coin, be as successful and productive). But because one person has a car, and the other doesn’t. (If they're lucky), The Other has to take the bus, like I did today, when I became him, and B. became me, and I learned that - for want of a steering wheel - we are each other.

"It was nice to meet you, Winter." "It was nice to meet you, B. I am sure we'll see each other again." And I tucked my ears into my coat, bracing myself for my two block walk. Hmm…next blog post? How about, Super Ways To Start The Day. Number two? Not stepping in cat puke.