Under the same sky

Leaving the community

I find that endings are the hardest part to write, let alone realize. They are hardly ever definitive, intuitive, or neatly planned. Sometimes they just happen and I find myself momentarily stuck, nestled in the afterthought, trying to make sense of it all. I think endings are difficult too because they are based entirely on our perspective; they require a narrative — the sifting through of experiences to isolate events that we later name as beginnings, middles and ends. One of my students — a student who is the same age as myself — told me that the way she gets through it all is by seeing her life as a story. She said it makes it easier that way; she can detach and look at events in her life almost like clips from a movie. She can appreciate them and still carry on. Because, as she said, my life is a sad story. 

Students helping to prepare for grad

I find myself a little stuck now trying to make sense of my year up north. Trying to make sense of all the sad stories I’ve heard. To piece together why I went in the first place, why I decided to not stay, and why that year has now become part of my story and will forever shape how I see the world. Coming to that decision wasn’t easy. Being able to walk away from poverty, addictions and hopelessness relatively unscathed is such a privilege and one that does not come without some feelings of guilt. I had made a commitment of two years after all, one which I was initially eager and excited to fulfil, and it’s always hard to recognize that there is a subtle lack in one’s life that is rapidly becoming so large that it is soon unbearable. To realize too, that the lack I felt was nothing in comparison to the lack I fear my students are both aware and unaware of in their own lives. I grieve for them. For my students. I grieve the absence — how many of my students will never get to see how beautiful and vast the world is; how their education is deplorably limited, and strategically fails them; how, when colonization is not making Indigenous peoples invisible, it is infantilizing them, placating them with chicken dinners and treaty days, stripping them of dignity and an ability to self-determine.

Victoria BC view

I am left with these thoughts as I sit in a waterfront Airbnb looking out to the Pacific ocean thinking about the three shades of blue — sky, mountain, ocean. Thinking about how awfully gorgeous the world is, and how painfully my new view juxtaposes with the equally blue sky I left in northern Ontario. A sky that is the same, but one that hangs over a different place. A place with houses held together cheaply, garbage bag windows whipping in the wind, children playing among stacks of garbage, beating eagerly at my front door, saying: Lindsay, can we have almonds?! I do not know how make sense of this. How some people get to live in 5 bedroom houses, and some in oven-heated homes. I am aware that this late awareness is a product my privilege. Still, it is hard to reconcile. It is hard to reconcile as I sit, watching seagulls pick at garbage cans and tourists kayak along the shoreline. Part of me has always wished I possessed the ability to turn off my brain and resist analysis. But alas, that is not the brain I have been given, and so this benign scene becomes a symbol for me. A symbol of our country. How some are afforded a great quality of life, while others are not. How we all share the same sky, but these worlds do not often collide; they remain disconnected, making it easier for those who do not in poverty, to enjoy their life of privilege, unperturbed. 

While uncomfortable, it is important to acknowledge this dissonance. It is especially important now, during this year, when we celebrate 150 years of Canada. This year that we reflect on how the formation of Canada devastated and continues to violently disadvantage Indigenous peoples. Here are a few things that I have learned about First Nations education in my local context. I cannot speak to whether this relates broadly to other regions in Canada or other reserves in Ontario, but these are bits of information I have gathered from my time in northern Ontario.

1. Many First Nations children and youth living in remote communities do not have access to the same quality of education as other Canadians. My understanding is that First Nations education is federally funded while public schools are provincially funded. At the school I worked, funding was based on the amount of students who attended near the beginning of the year. 

2. Many First Nations communities have boil-water advisories.  

3. Power and running water are not reliable in the community I lived. I once saw someone post on Facebook that they needed water because they had not been able to bathe their baby in two weeks. 

4. There are a considerable amount of First Nations High schools — many of which are not located in these remote communities — that do not offer academic/university level courses. In Ontario, there are three streams in high school (locally developed/workplace, applied/college, and academic/university). Academic/university level courses are required for university, meaning that students would not be able to apply to university without them. 

5. Despite the hoopla of media attention focusing on mental health, there continues to be a severe lack of mental health resources in these remote communities. I spent much of my time talking with students, trying to scrape together resources, just making space to listen, and hoping they would be okay.

Walking down the street

These are just a few of the everyday injustices. This does not speak to the lack of food security, the rampant addictions, and how navigating through this world makes it difficult for people to form secure attachments, to learn how to cope in healthy ways, to prioritize education, or to envision a better future for themselves. Such living conditions demand survival first, and that is what people in that remote Oji-Cree community are doing. They are surviving. They are doing it well. They are doing it the best they can; they are still there. This being said, they deserve so much more.

That is both the reason I went up and the reason I had to leave. I am so profoundly proud of my students for simply showing up to school, for trying, for not giving up, and even if they did leave my class and never come back, once again, I am proud of them for trying. These might seem like low expectations to unknowing bystanders but they are the farthest things from it. When people are telling me stories of how their step father stabbed their pregnant mother with a fork, how they are drinking away their baby, how they were sexually assaulted, how they wear a black sock and white sock to remind themselves there is good and evil in the world, how they tried to unsuccessfully hang themselves two weeks ago, how it is has been a whole few months since they have drank or sold drugs, how they have a special room they go to get away from the parents who take in more children so they can have child tax, you understand these are not low expectations. These children, these youth, these adults are not victims. They are survivors of a broken system. They are a product of colonialism. They fight every day to stay hopeful in a world that does not favour their odds. They have given me such an incredible gift — an awareness I was lacking.

Despite this important gift, I know that if I stayed, I would probably need to turn into a harder person; I would need to become desensitized to the poverty, to the abuse, to the addictions. I would have to reduce my experiences to a story so I could make it through the day. This is not all bad per se. After all, the great Thomas King once eloquently said, the truth about stories, is that’s all we are. I am acutely aware of this, yet I don’t want to see life abstractly. We are alive, after all. We are stories, yes, but we are also people. We construct narratives to make sense of the world, but sometimes the world doesn’t make sense. Our stories signal real lived experiences and I do not want to become desensitized to the lives of those people I was honoured to get to know — to their struggles, their hopes, their fears. I do not want to accept that survival is enough. I want more for my students and I do not want to work within a system that I feel I cannot change from within it — where I feel complicit in a faulty structure. What I think these students need is something different than what we are currently offering. This is not a revolutionary idea. It is just an onerous one to realize. I think these students need relevant, culturally based educational material; they need experiential learning opportunities; they need the chance to become leaders in their communities; they need adequate resources so they can develop healthy coping strategies. Above all, these students need more opportunity. They need a change in the structure of Canada, of our country, so that they don’t need to ask for basic human rights while others paddle board along the ocean or skip university classes or complain about traffic or go out for dinner.

I will leave you with a story from one my students. 

It is the last week of school and she is frantically trying to complete her work for the year. She works part-time, looks after children, and comes to school, trying to complete three credits (one more than is typical in a term). She is telling me about how she is scared of being done. How part of her just wants to give up and she is afraid that people are going to judge her. Of how she wishes her dad was still alive to see this moment. One question on her final project is to write a poem about a transition in her life. She is nervous. She twists in her spiny chair. 

Please, Lindsay, she asks, Do I have to write a poem? 

I smile, jumping up from my chair. Poems are the best! Speak from the heart. Let the words flow out from you. I am going full-throttle into my teacher enthusiasm. 

But what do I write about? she asks. 

I pause. Think about your life. Think about an important moment or moments. Think about how those moments shaped you. I can tell I’m losing her. She stares blankly at the screen in front of her. I’m trying to find a hook, then she looks over at me. 
I don’t want to think about the past. When I think about the past all I see is sadness. It doesn’t make me feel good. My life is a sad story. It’s like a movie. She laughs at that. If I told you about it, you wouldn’t think it’s real. 

I sit and listen. Okay well, a transition doesn’t have to be in the present, I say. What about this transition? What about where you are now and where you want to be? 

You mean goals? You’re always on about goals, she jokes. 

I smile. Um yeah, I say, that’s my job, I chuckle. 

Alright, I can do that, she says. This is what she wrote.

Goals

From none to one.

From working to schooling.

From my world to another.

From numb to feeling

From silence to speaking.

From picking up drugs to picking up a pen.

From knowing it all to learning more.

From pleasing everyone to pleasing myself.

From being locked up with no hope to receiving my key for an open door of opportunities.

I’ll let this be the ending to my northern teaching experience. I’ll let the hope stay with me. I’ll let it carry me through. And when I look up to our same blue sky, I will remember those northern warriors. I will smile and believe that someday it will be better. That someday all of us will make it better.

Correlations between a big heart, a little stew & greater student engagement

One student learning about ecosystems

I’ve been trying to write a new post for a while, but the truth is, I just didn’t know what to write. See, I have this rule: I won’t share my thoughts until I feel they are balanced enough. Until there is enough positive and negative. I do this because words are so powerful. They take up space. They shape perspectives. They influence thoughts. They determine actions.

So what do I want to say? Rather, it should be: what do I want to ask? That is because there is no simple, easily packaged answer, ready for delivery about education and First Nations, Metis & Inuit peoples. It is not a one size fits all question or answer. It is local and it is nuanced. I live in an Anishinaabe, Oji-Cree fly-in community. That might be very different from another community or the urban experience of First Nations youth living in Toronto. Education, and its legacy of colonialism, is a complex issue, and as such, merits real discuss, for which I offer a very small glimpse into a larger conversation where my voice should never be raised to more than a whisper.

One student's art sculpture

So what question would I like to echo out into the inter-webs? I want to inch closer to: What is our responsibility as settler teachers to our First Nations students? How can we not reinforce colonialism as white teachers? How can we reimagine education in meaningful ways for our students with the resources that we have to create real space and opportunity for them?

I’ll draw on five events that have happened since my return to NSL after the Christmas holidays to order my scattered Sunday thoughts:

• I started to try to have a warm meal for my students everyday.
• One my mature students buried his murdered son.
• One of my students lost her boyfriend to suicide.
• The dog the teachers usually look after was eaten by a wolf.
• And for about four weeks, my attendance went up from three regular attendees to eight students.

The students getting out of the class

So how do these things relate to those questions? Well, since I came back from the holidays I started caring a little less about the academic side of school and started focusing in on how to get students coming to school. On how to get them feeling hopeful and capable and appreciated. On how to shoo-away some of the widespread tragedy that seems to skulk around every corner in the north.

I remember before I left for the holidays one student and I were talking and he said: “Lindsay, it is just so incredibly boring sitting at a computer trying to do high school.” I looked at him, and in that moment, all I could say was: “Yeah, I’m sorry. That doesn't sound fun”. I’m grateful for his frankness because it gave me a greater drive to make my alternative classroom more engaging for students. To try to do more with what I had because I don’t like it either: this incredible lack. Lack of choice, lack of resources, lack of opportunity, lack of hope. I caught this same student looking up an article back in the fall, and asking him: “Oh, what’s this?”. He said: “They found my father.” The newspaper article read: Homeless Man Found Dead In Winnipeg River.

Fun photo scavenger hunt

My students are not just dealing with what designer shoes to buy or if their friends like them. They are dealing with confronting those who have sexually assaulted them in court. They are dealing with the death of murdered family members. They are dealing with suicide, with depression, with anxiety. They are dealing with hunger. With bedbugs. With lice. They are dealing with parents who have addictions. They are dealing with not becoming parents with addictions. All the while, they are making the choice to come to school. Or the choice to not come to school.

So what’s my job? What’s my place and my role as a privileged individual coming into this underprivileged community with its own complex past and present? I still don’t have an answer to that question, but I do have the feeling that if I am to impart anything to my students, it is simply that they matter. Their stories, their accomplishments, and even their failures are important. I do not have the expertise of a special education teacher. I do not have the experience of a veteran teacher or the first hand cultural knowledge of someone who is FNMI (First Nations, Metis or Inuit).

One student's art project

All I know is that I care. I am human. I am flawed, but I care. I can give them food. I can give positive reinforcement. I can say good morning. I can set high expectations. I can be consistent. I can build their confidence by scaffolding them at the level they are instead of imposing expectations of where they should be. I can make them tea. I can ask them how they are everyday. I can treat them with respect. I can honour when they need space, and I can know when they need support. I can model kindness and humility. I can encourage them to do the same. I can give them prizes and awards for doing their work. I can give them leadership opportunities. I can listen.

These are all things I can do.

And while there is a lot of hurt here — and being the sensitive soul I am, I cannot help but acknowledge that deeply — these small things I can do make my story up here worthwhile. At least that is what I tell myself when I am afraid I'm doing my students a disservice. When I feel the lack.

I want to see my students laugh and make positive associations with school. I want them to see the possibilities they have in front of them. I want them to have a new story when it comes to school. I want to learn from them and their culture and make space for that. Because maybe, just maybe if they believe they matter, they will forget about schooling, and just focus on learning for themselves and no-one else. Focus on their story and their next life chapter.

It’s a long road ahead, but with every student that comes into my class — and that keeps coming — I feel hope. And hope is what keeps me going. It's also what I suspect keeps my students going too. So thank goodness for hope. Tomorrow is another day, and another chance for me to tell my students just how much they matter.

8 thoughts on how to emotionally survive and thrive in the north

Some kind letters from elementary students.

I think most people who teach, and who love teaching, know that it is a difficult profession. It is especially difficult as a new teacher. Difficult because there are seemingly never enough minutes in the day to let every single student know that you care, to plan lessons, to mark, to communicate with parents, to keep up-to-date with professional jargon, to maintain a smile on your face, and to have a personal life. This balance is even more important when it comes to teaching at risk youth. This is because their needs are often more momentous and their resources, more limited. Here's a snapshot of my class and the internet high school where I teach in North Spirit Lake, a remote First Nations community in Northern Ontario.

I have approximately 25 students registered. Of those students, three are regular attendees. They come to school, do a daily check-in where they let me know what class and activities they are going to focus on for the day. On a good day I have about six students in attendance. On a bad day I might have one. As many people do not have phones up here, I use Facebook -- armed with a spiffy professional profile -- to message students and their guardians on a daily basis.  I register all my students. I help track down their transcripts. I help them select what classes to be in. I keep track of the assignments they've handed in each week. I mark assignments each week. I make my students tea and treats. Drawing on my nutrition budget, I buy them food for the week. I make them a fancy breakfast meal at least once a week. I run a weekly baking club for the whole school. I am always keeping my eye open for community members or activities that will help engage my students more. I am the only high school teacher in the community I teach.

There is a lot of "I" in that last paragraph. I suppose that is because it's easy to feel isolated and overworked up here. To feel the weight of "I" sink in. Also the weight that it is never enough. But that is not a fair picture. What I do, and the tiredness I feel from bribing my students to come to school with bacon and eggs, or moose hunting, or baking club, or photography time, is nothing compared to the tiredness that I imagine my students feel on a daily basis. The tiredness from trauma, from neglect, from racism -- systemic disadvantage that permeates all arenas of their lives. That makes bedbugs and lice commonplace. That means many do not have running water. That makes education seem like an elite, useless pursuit. That means many have experienced sexual abuse. That many have witnessed or succumb to alcoholism or various other addictions. That I fear some of my students could take their lives. That I almost witnessed that happen.

I have learned more in my short 3 months up here from my students about the resilience of the human spirit than I could have learned teaching in a public high school. So here are some tips for any teachers considering teaching up north, or Indigenous students, or at risk youth. Here's my emotional survival guide 101.

1. Be kind to every single person you meet. You do not know their story until they share it with you. Also be kind to yourself. Even though you know your story, it's easy to forget self-compassion.

2. Boundaries matter. Always care, but learn when to disengage. You cannot fix the problem. You are not a counsellor. You are not a parent. You are not a social worker. The problem is bigger than you. It's bigger than them too.

3. Get involved in the school and the community but learn when and how to say no. Learn and fine-tune your listening and social-awareness skills. Really listen to what other people want and need and put your energy towards that. It will be noticed and appreciated even if it's never openly expressed to you. You will also be able to conserve energy.

4. Live for the little successes. Save every smile or laugh in a mental bank. Jump up for joy every time you see a student you haven't seen for a few weeks. Sometimes showing up is the biggest success. Know your students so you can know what success means to them depending on where they are.

5. Hold onto when students soften and let it carry you through. There is nothing as sweet as watching students open up to you. To begin trusting you and feeling safe in your class.

6. Be sad and angry about the injustice. Carry that. Spread it around. Get more people angry about it. It's not right. We, as a society, need to change it and the only way we will be able to is if, we, as a people, start to own it. To take responsibility. Once we have witnessed it, once we have internalized it, once we have processed it, we cannot deny it's wrong. That is what is going to move us forward towards making it better. It will take time though, and that is okay. Learn patience in the process.

7. Make sure you have really strong support systems and keep developing them. Lean on those support systems. Learn how to lean on yourself if you don't already. Taking care of yourself matters most. Think airplanes. You always put your mask on first before the child's.

8. Do it. Go teach up north. If you are teacher and you want a rich, challenging, life-altering experience, do it. Know that it will be hard. You will have days when you feel inexperienced. There will be many days when you are inexperienced, but do it. Just learn how to be okay with imperfection, with messiness, with uncertainty, unfixable problems, and continuously changing circumstances. It will make you a better person and a better teacher.

Where the earth is slivered and sore with green

Exploring North Spirit Lake with fellow teachers.

There was a moment when the tiny fragile plane was coming over North Spirit Lake that I couldn't believe it. This, my mouth thought but did not say, is my new home for the next two years. Never had I seen so much green. It all felt very surreal, the plane vibrating, my bag clutched in my hand, fellow teacher Angela giggling, the elementary school principal, Adrian, and Grade 7/8 teacher, Monika, making small talk with the Chief. When did this become my life? It didn't seem that long ago that I was living in Victoria, a stone's throw away from the Pacific Ocean. And now here I am, rattling through the sky downward to a remote northern community onto a sandy strip of land.

Even now, it's been three weeks, and I still ask myself this question. When did I become a teacher, a mentor, a counsellor, a cook, a baker, a negotiator? But it's not a wistful longing sort of question; it's just a it takes time to adjust to a new place and new roles kind of question. Along with this question comes the curious onlooker question: How is it up there? What's it like? I don't know exactly how to describe this experience. I think part of it is because I haven't come to an understanding of how to express what I've seen. The beauty, the pain, the resilience, the community. I've only seen a little piece of it, and I suspect that even when I leave, I will only have seen a small piece.

Making omelettes for my students Friday morning.

So what have I seen? I've seen children wander around the community in pink and blue dresses asking for apples and water and a game of zombie tag. I've seen two lakes meet through an accordion of rapids. I've seen fish with spikes and fish without spikes. I've seen fish lie still in my hand and fish jump out of my hand. I've seen my students drunk and high and hungry. I've seen elders making hamburgers, feeding babies, and saying prayers in Oji-cree. I've seen my students fashion weapons for self-harm out of spoons and pop cans. I've seen them cry and wipe away their tears and express dreams of leaving and coming back. I've seen my students write poems. I've seen my students show up and not show up. I've seen survival. I've seen kindness. I've seen hurt and compassion and courage. But I've only seen a little.

How can I write about this? How can I express my rage and my hurt that it is a reality that there are no counsellors here? That it costs $7 for a box of cereal or $8 for a jug of milk. That children ask for water first because it's a boil water advisory here. That somewhere along the way the majority of my students have been placed in locally developed classes -- classes that do not allow students to pursue post-secondary education options if they want to. That many of them do not see how incredibly bright and wonderful and unique they are. That I worry most about my students who could go to college or university because their awareness sometimes makes them want to erase themselves and their surroundings. That they are too aware.

How can I write about how amongst this unspoken, ongoing lived pain, there is incredible beauty. That the sky cracks open to reveal colour. Pinks and greens and whites. That it's both wild and domestic here. That people hunt moose. They call to them and wait and share the bounty of their efforts. That people know how to laugh here. That people both laugh at you and with you. That they know how to laugh at themselves.

My students hard at work.

How can a person capture that? I'm not sure if that's an achievable aim. I only know that I'm here now. That this is my home for the next two years. That our education system needs to keep changing. That no teacher or student can do this alone. It's too big. For now, it's just one day at a time. For now, it's just my job to let each and every one of my students know just how incredible they are. To make sure they have something to eat. That they have a safe space to come to. That they know I'm here and no matter how much they push, I'll still be there. I'm showing up. It's a start.

Top 5 takeaways from SEP

While knee-deep in packing, sifting through sweaters and jackets and cans of chickpeas, not only is it difficult to decide which will help me survive more in the throws of North Spirit Lake winter, it's difficult to believe that Teach for Canada's Summer Enrichment Program (SEP) ended a week ago. It seems like yesterday that I arrived, surrounded by 31 other teachers, who like myself, were teetering precariously between nervousness and excitement as they contemplated their future as a teacher in the north. Looking back now, it's hard to remember all the details. Rather it's the feelings that stick. Instead of letting those feelings find their way back to their usual crannies, I'll draw on them to make sense of those three weeks of little sleep, hikes, basket making, language learning, fishing, feasts, zumba classes and lectures packed with the kind of knowledge you don't usually learn in school. So here are my top 5 takeaways from SEP.

1. Stories are powerful.

We were told many stories throughout SEP, but the one that sticks out the most was about fish. Eric, the storyteller, began the story by telling us to open our eyes. He told us that if we want to find tradition, all we have to do is look. He then proceeded to tell about a time he went fishing with a local First Nations man and was confused to see him taking his largest catch of the day and throwing it across the lake. Why would he do that? Eric was asking himself, but before he could ask, an eagle swooped down and carried away that fish. Eric learned that his fishing companion had strategically caught fish for various animals. That he was honouring different animals and practising ways of being that have been around for centuries. This, Eric explained to us, is traditional knowledge. While this story is about fish, it's also about perspective. About how easy it is to forget that what one person thinks is right or logical can differ greatly from what another person thinks. And as we know, when a group of people have been told their way of thinking and being is less valid than another group, it has ongoing consequences for those people. So what can you do when people perceive and think about the world differently? Pay attention, I suppose, and develop double vision. I think stories help us develop double vision. I also think that it's our job as educators to ensure that our students and ourselves are exposed to as many different types of stories as possible. That our students are exposed to stories that reflect and validate their way of being and thinking -- stories which have in many cases been stolen or suppressed for Indigenous learners -- and also stories that are completely different from what they know. This exposure, I hope, will enable us all to better appreciate difference in its various forms.


2. "Hurt people hurt people".

This take-away is really about empathy and self care. There is a proverb I remember from my childhood: Do onto others as you would have them do onto you. But what happens when people don't do onto you how they would want you to do onto them. What if people instead do onto you what has been done onto them: hurt. This, I learned, is lateral violence. When a person is working through unresolved feelings of shame, anger, and/or rage and instead of finding healthy outlets for those feelings, that person begins to harm members of their own community. This harm can be starting rumours, passive aggressive behaviours and/or emotional abuse. This term was explained within the context of a workplace, and we were told that we will most likely encounter people who are working through feelings of frustration and anger. Importantly, lateral violence is not unique to First Nations communities. Workplace bullying and toxicity can happen anywhere; however, lateral violence does seem to happen with greater frequently in communities where people are marginalized and facing ongoing oppression. So what is useful about this information? Why is it valuable to know that "hurt people hurt people". It's a valuable lesson to understand because greater awareness can lead to more informed action. And if we are more informed about the motivations behind the harmful behaviour of others, as educators we can empathize with our students and/or coworkers who are in pain while also de-personalizing their actions. We do not need to internalize what other people say about us. We possess the ability to see ourselves, and consequently to be the version of ourselves that we wish to be.


3. The brain, like the heart, is a muscle.

Two teachers from the previous Teach for Canada cohort led a very useful session on growth mindset. For those who are unfamiliar, growth mindset refers to the idea that intelligence is not fixed; it is the belief that we can become smarter and smarter over time through taking risks, making mistakes, and learning from them. This adorable video explains the difference between a fixed and growth mindset. While I was already familiar with the idea of a growth mindset I appreciated the recap and emphasis on it. I also appreciated taking the time to talk about how teachers can develop and model that mindset to our students. After talking about many challenges that we will be facing, it was good to spend time talking about how we are going to fail and how those failures are going to make us better. It's empowering to know that effort and caring does matter, and that our brains, just like our hearts, can grow.


4. Thriving is a tightrope walk.

Perhaps one of the most important take-aways from SEP was to consciously and consistently take care of oneself. Self-care cannot be stressed enough. As teachers, or any professional, or any person for that matter, we need to be able to take care of ourselves. Part of the gruelling application process for this job were multiple interviews that were meant to determine if we possess six qualities: humility, a genuine love of children, optimism, community-mindedness, an adventurous spirit, and resilience. Resilience, I have learned is not possible without self-care. Resilience isn't about experiencing anger or frustration or seemingly insurmountable pain. Resilience is about persisting through pain; it is about transforming those emotions into personal strength. Feeling is not weakness. Feeling enables growth. Our students are incredibly resilient. They remind me all the time that it is possible to take hurt and turn it into self-sustaining strength. This process, as I have experienced it, and witnessed it in others is not always a smooth road. Thriving takes practice. Thriving takes time. We cannot go from 0 to 100, and that is not necessarily resilience. Resilience is going from 0 to 5, 5 to 10, 10 to 20, 20 to 40, 40 to 80. Resilience is not giving up on yourself or the world. It's saying it will be better, and you will be part of that better. Angela Lee Duckworth has a great video about resilience, or more specifically what she calls grit.

5. Hope is not a noun; it is a verb.

Last but not least, these three weeks reminded me that hope isn't so much a state of mind, but a climb. Optimism doesn't mean being happy and positive every single moment of every single day. At least not for me. (Perhaps I'm a bad optimist though). Optimism for me is about sifting through moments -- the highs and the lows -- and distilling good from it. It's about seeing people for their good. It's about seeing every misstep, every mishap, even every tragedy as a force that possesses the ability to push you forward towards who you want to be, and what you want the world to be. I would be lying if I said I am not angry some of the time. Angry that it's 2016, and I have never walked alone at night without being afraid. That I been catcalled too many times to count in my life. Been told that I am beautiful and a b---- in the same mouthful. That I do not need to look to come across thousands of youtube comments stating how disgusting LGBTQ* people are. Angry that many First Nations youth are living in extremely impoverished conditions without clean water and access to the internationally acclaimed education system Canada has to offer. But then I take a breath. I calm down my fiery spirit and choose every day to see good in people. To see the hurt that lives inside them is the same hurt that lives inside me, and that love that lives inside them is the same love that lives inside me. That is my comfort and that is my strength. And so it all comes full circle. Their stories are not so different from my stories. And that fear, that anger, that shame becomes connection, becomes universal, becomes truth. That is what helps me keep a smile on my face and be strong for my students. Because I genuinely believe that hope, like change, is an action that we can realize through living it.

So there they are, my top takeaways from SEP.  Thanks for the tips TfC. I think I am as ready as I'll ever be to teach up north. The next time you hear from me, I'll no doubt be in my new home.  I am so excited to meet my students and the wonderful people who live in North Spirit Lake.

Boozhoo, Lindsay ndizhiniskaaz

Greetings, my name is Lindsay. Objibwe, tears, stories, fantastic resources, diverse realities, and resilience. These are just a few of the nuggets from a fantastic week one at Teach for Canada's summer enrichment program. Teach for Canada is a not-for-profit that strives to connect 'outstanding' teachers with First Nations communities in Northern Ontario. I first heard of TfC just before I graduated teacher's college and was looking for a job. I was impressed by TfC's clear commitment to the communities and desire to better prepare and support teachers in the north. It was because this organization offers so much preparation and support that I felt confident enough as a new teacher to accept my offer to teach in North Spirit Lake First Nation.

Unfortunately many people have negative pre-conceived notions about teaching in northern communities. One of the speakers we heard this week, a teacher, Lawson, who had spent three and a half years teaching in Kashechewan, told us about his experience applying to teach up north. He began his speech with a letter he read after being invited for an interview. This letter had appeared in The National Post and was written by a teacher who had had a not-so-fun experience teaching in Kashechewan. The letter told horrendous stories about students destroying her classroom, smearing feces along the wall, hanging dead dogs in front of the principal's house. With such accounts, it is no surprise why it is difficult to get committed teachers up north. Lawson followed this anxiety producing letter with a letter he had written. A letter filled with gratitude. A letter beaming with hope. He showed us videos of students singing songs. He told us stories of students working together and coming alive in his class. He also told us how important it is to tell positive stories about these communities. To not add to discourses that simplify these communities, that perpetuate stereotypes, that reduce all students to 'troubled kids in a troubled community'. Certainly Indigenous communities have all been impacted by colonialism -- the horrific national drive "to kill the Indian" and assimilate FNMI (First Nations, Métis, Inuit) people into the Canadian "body politic" as Duncan Campbell Scott would have hoped -- but each and every community is different, and as such, copes with colonial trauma differently. 

The concept of diversity within FNMI communities was stressed again and again this week. We heard from so many different speakers that highlighted how different experiences can be for different individuals living in these communities. This idea of diverse ways of being extended to spirituality. We were told about how some communities predominately practice traditional First Nations ceremonies while others can be quite religious (Christian, Catholic, Protestant etc.). In addition, some communities can be both religious and traditional and require a nuanced understanding to allow for space for people to live out their beliefs how they so choose. As a general rule, we were told that drive-in communities tend to be more traditional, while fly-in communities lean towards religious practice. (Emphasis on the fact this is a general rule, and again no community can be painted with a broad stroke). 

The spirituality talk was perhaps the most challenging aspect of this first week for me. It was challenging because I am queer, and wondered how this new community may or may not accept me if they are highly religious, and their religion does not support LGBTQ* people. This is an old fear; I always enter new spaces a little cautiously, sussing out how safe I feel. Yet this process seems to weigh a little heavier on me each time I do it. I resent the feeling that to feel safe -- physically, emotionally, financially -- I might need to suppress part of myself, represent myself inauthentically. A fantastic Two-Spirit speaker, Ma-nee Chacaby, came in and bravely shared her story of navigating space as a lesbian woman in a northern First Nation community. Her story inspired me, but also left me with sadness. She is an incredibly resilient woman who has been through more than I could ever imagine. Yet, she emphasized that LGBTQ* people need to be careful entering these communities. We need to hold back a little of who we are, and anticipate resistance. While this saddens me, it also fuels me; as a strong queer woman, I now have the strength to be what I need to be to make spaces better for LGBTQ* youth. If I need to be a little quiet at first so I can be loud later, I will.  

All in all, I really appreciated this first week's emphasis on understanding how diverse these communities are -- through introducing us to both traditional and religious ways of being in the north -- and also how the program delved deep into exploring colonialism's negative impact on FNMI people. We were extremely lucky to have the opportunity to partake in a sweat lodge, a sacred healing ceremony, where we were able to cleanse our bodies and hearts. This incredible experience was one of many traditional ceremonies we got to learn about. We got to see and participate in a Pow-Wow, we got to make bannock, we learned different songs and participated in smudges. All the while taking in these traditional activities, we learned about colonialism's far-reaching impact on Indigenous people. The blanket activity, an experiential learning activity and simulation to represent the cultural genocide of FNMI peoples, was particularly powerful. It left me and many others in tears. The facilitator, Shannon, an inspiring First Nation educator and former member of the Assembly of First Nations (AFN) provided us with hundreds of resources the following day. While my heart still propels around my chest, it is less frantic -- it is now more focused.  This is because each day I am gaining new insights, acquiring new resources, and building a network of support. I am incredibly grateful for this opportunity to learn more and I cannot wait to get started working with youth in North Spirit Lake. Miigwech (thanks) TfC for this chance and to all those teachers I get to grow alongside.

Meet my heart, the helicopter

It's three days before my three week intensive training starts, and my heart is circling around in my chest like a helicopter. With each propeller thought, I am reminded that only a few months ago I agreed to teach for two years in a remote First Nations community in Northern Ontario. I have since learned that I will be teaching Grade 9 Family Studies and Grade 12 English (Workplace, College & University) at an internet school in a fly-in Oji-Cree community, North Spirit Lake. This community has somewhere between 200-400 inhabitants that is connected to two communities by roads during the winter months. North Spirit Lake lies couched somewhere in the Canadian Shield close to the Hudson Bay Lowlands (cue the geography lesson), and sits along what google maps shows as a large lake, aptly named North Spirit Lake. So what brought me here? What led me to decide that going north, and particularly to a First Nations community, would be the right path for me as a white settler, cisgender female, queer, able-bodied educator?

It's never easy to nail down all the particulars of a decision. But here are a few factors that contributed to me wanting to teach in a Northern First Nations community.

Well, there was definitely a practical dimension. How, as a newly qualified teacher, I was eager to have my own class -- an opportunity to develop rapport with students, to plan and implement my own lessons, and to feel like I had a place in a school as opposed to the transient feeling that I had drifting from school to school as a teacher on call. I know many teachers enjoy the unpredictability of teaching on call. Also, how when you come home at the end of the day you can turn off: no marking, no worrying about Johnny or Marsha. But not me. I yearned for more connection. Even to worry -- about students, about lessons, about marking -- because at least I would feel that I had some responsibility and impact on those around me. The three year estimate before having a chance at a full-time position if I stayed in Victoria BC became less and less appealing.

There was also the personal dimension of the decision. Seven months earlier, I made the decision to end a serious relationship. A year and a half ago I had made a cross country move from Kingston ON to Victoria BC because I was madly, undeniably in love and was convinced that I had found my life partner. We were together for three years altogether and the realization that sometimes love is not always enough was hard lesson to swallow, let alone digest. And so starting somewhere new, somewhere unknown, as an independent woman following one of my great passions -- teaching -- called to me.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly there was the political dimension. Canada prides itself on being a cultural mosaic, yet we have a long way to go before we can claim that we are accepting of all differences. The history of our country is deeply racist -- a fact that many of us prefer to overshadow by saying that we have changed. And our national denial and downplaying of racism is, in fact, racist. Stephen Harper apologized to First Nations, Inuit & Métis peoples in 2008 for residential schools. Why can't Indigenous people just 'get over it'? I have heard many people ask. Prime Minister Justin Trudeau has started a nation-wide inquiry into the hundreds of missing and murdered Indigenous women out there. That's progress, right? A lot of people believe we are doing all we can. I agree that we seem to be doing a lot more than before, but that is not an excuse for us to become complacent and not confront the fact that there are many wrongs that have not been righted. That stereotypical and singular understandings of First Peoples are the only understanding that many Canadians possess. Furthermore, starting an inquiry into murdered and missing Indigenous women is not proof so much of 'how far we have come'. Rather, it is proof that there remains insidious hatred -- and willful ignorance -- towards Indigenous people (also women) in our country.

One detail that I learned through my process of applying to this job is that many schools in Indigenous communities do not have high schools that go past Grade 10. I was shocked by this. What's more I was saddened that many people probably don't know this. Most people probably don't know that many Indigenous students need to relocate to a city, away from family and friends, to graduate high school. For a country that boasts its ability to educate, and the right of all to access education, the reality that First Nations, Métis and Inuit teenagers living in remote communities would need to relocate away from their families to finish high school seems shameful. Because I believe that education is a tool for empowerment and social change, I felt intrigued and compelled, albeit scared and unqualified to teach in this setting.

As a queer woman, I also wondered what sorts of LGBTQ* communities young people would have access to in these northern contexts. Research that I have done over the past year has told me that in comparison to other provinces, Ontario and generally speaking northern communities across the country have the highest reported rates of LGBTQ*-negative talk in schools (Taylor et al, 2015, p. 53). But I wondered to myself: how would Two-Spirit, LGBTQ* people and issues be received in this First Nations community? I remain unsure about this, but in either case, I know that I will be entering this teacher position from a place of humility and learning. I see myself as an ally, and do not enter this job with the belief that I will be 'saving' students. They will be teaching me, just as much as I, them. And I will be entering this community from a place of listening first.

So on that note, here are my big learning goals for this teaching experience:

• Listen to and learn from the community (from my students, from their families, from other teachers)
• Learn Oji-Cree and about traditional stories and practices
• Learn more about different Indigenous communities in Canada
• Develop a stronger understanding of what the community wants from my presence and how to be a good ally according to their needs
• Learn more about land-based pedagogies
• Learn how to respectfully integrate Indigenous content and knowledge into my teaching practice without inadvertently appropriating it

These are just a few goals I have for now. My heart still knocks around my chest, and there is lot I have left to learn to be an ally and effective teacher in this context, but I have these moments every once and a while where it calms and I remember with such comforting clarity just how lucky I am to go somewhere I have never been before, to teach young people, and to learn from them and their community.

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Taylor, C., Peter, T., Campbell, C., Meyer, E., Ristock., J., Short, D. (2015). In Egale Canada Human Rights Trust (Eds.), Every Teacher Project: Final Report on LGBTQ-Inclusive Education in Canada’s K-12 schools.  Winnipeg, MB: The Manitoba Teachers’ Society.