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.