Learning about people is something I’ve come to enjoy. I love hearing their stories. People in this job come from all over, and have all travelled a different path to get onto the same one that you are currently both standing. While some of us grew up in a small town, with three stubborn siblings, two supportive parents, one blue minivan, and a ton of hand-me-downs, others grew up in three different communities, earned two DUI’s, one high school diploma, and saw a parent wither away from a degenerative disease. And yet, here you sit, shoulder to shoulder, with someone who holds no higher or lesser rank than you, on a private plane, to go fight some fire. We are so fortunate to have exposure to many different people, and to use lessons from their stories to reflect on our own.

It’s so heartbreaking to be woken from a deep sleep in your tent by a negative experience from your crew. To hear their voices raise, and to feel the tension heighten when they come back from late night at base camp that ended with insults and racial slurs.

“Nevermind Root, go back to bed.”

“Tell me. What’s going on.”

“Just typical. So typical. I’m sick of this shit. I’ve been dealing with it my whole life, people like him. Comments like that. I’m just sick of it.”

Racial slurs. With so many other things I’ve learned being in Kenora, racism is one that is new. Serious racism. Is that not a thing of the past yet? Name-calling. Judgment. Disrespect.

“Lazy Indians.”

“Go back to the res.”

Judging someone’s misfortunes. His situation. Her current status.

“He’s always posting that political stuff on Facebook.”

“I’m so sick of hearing his rants.”

Undermining the importance of pride? Disrespecting freedom of individuality or identity development? I completely believe that racism is a learnt behavior and attitude. No one is born with the ability to distinguish and discriminate between skin colours.

“I wanna write something about racism.”

“Oh. That. Well that’s certainly something to write about”

“Why do you think it’s even still around?”

“Just generations of treating people a certain way. You know what they say, that you aren’t born with ability to hate. That’s all taught.”

“I don’t really get it. I mean, at the end of the day, you’re just limiting your ability and opportunities to grow and learn about others and about yourself. It must be exhausting to hate some people all the time”

“Well. People are afraid.”

“What do you mean, ‘afraid’?”

“You know that quotation: ‘Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.’ The fear just goes way back, to when Europeans first came here and met us. They were just afraid.”

Regardless of the explanation, it doesn’t justify the continued behavior. The continued state of mind. The continued judgment. A lot of the racial slurs indicate that First Nations people are lazy, or drunks. Useless contributors to society. Complaining about the past and never moving forward. Using the system to get government money for drugs and alcohol. Laughing at their homeless status.

My first months in Kenora, I was a bit confused on how to feel. Homeless people make me feel uncomfortable—seeing them outside the grocery store in this small summer-home town was unexpected. I didn’t know how to respond when my crew would laugh and take pictures of the homeless men hanging out on the shady grass. I wasn’t sure what do when I walked into the Scotiabank late one night, and a drunk man on a high was catching some zzz’s under the window sill. And so I turned a blind eye. I ignored it. Hearing the racial slurs on work time, I just ignored it. And then they started to creep into my head. And when I would see people hanging out on that same shaded grass, in my head, I would let out a sigh of exasperation and an eye roll. And when I saw that man, dreaming in the Scotiabank, I walked across the street, and told an OPP officer. And when I was waiting my fourth hour in Emerg for stitches, and I heard the doctor questioning a sobering man what he took, lecturing him on options for how to seek help, I thought “you’re wasting your time.”

It’s pretty easy to absorb and assume the opinions, observations, and attitudes of the people surrounding you. But accepting a racist stance is not where I came from. I grew up with equality. So racism is a little unnatural. It makes me feel mean. Confrontation is a little unnatural. It makes me feel aggressive. But overcoming racism requires more confrontational people, to say “Hey, that’s really rude. Stop saying that.”

It’s pretty hard to deny your own observations indicating that the majority of the homeless people in Kenora are First Nations; that a lot of the post-bar fights involve someone from the reserve; that pretty much all of the people hanging out on the streets are battling a substance use problem. But, in the science world, what comes after observation? Your study doesn’t stop there. What about the analysis that follows—how you’ll interpret your own, untainted observations, in order to make reliable comparisons.

If racism really is sprouted from fear, then I can understand a bit better why it continues, despite efforts to minimize its presence. Perhaps some people choose to belittle others to feel power or strength. Furthermore, judgment is part of human nature; we rely on it for survival—is that man trustworthy? Is this food edible? The problems arise when a judgment continues with malicious intent. At this point, the judgment is doing nothing but limiting your opportunities for growth and development.

And so, as I sit, on plane with 99 other tan-shirt, MNRF employees, I’ll look around. I’ll ask questions, and I’ll listen. 99 brass tags that represent 99 different stories. Different paths. And here we are, all currently standing on the same one. In a leather seat on a Boeing 737, bound Winnipeg for fuel, then Abbotsford to go work together, shoulder to shoulder, on a BC mountainside.

Author Ariel Root is currently in Kenora in her fourth season working as a forest fire fighter for the Ontario Ministry of Natural Resources and Forestry.  She has a BSc in Food Science & Nutrition from ĐÓ°ÉÔ­´´ University in 2012, and is currently a graduate student in the Health Science, Technology and Policy program at ĐÓ°ÉÔ­´´ University. She has been featured on APTN’s new hit TV show, Playing with Fire, Season 2.

Come back for next week’s instalment.

Photos by Ariel Root

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A permanent population of 16,000. One Walmart. Three grocery stores. A long history of various mills. One beautiful Lake of the Woods. And about a million gorgeous small lakes within a stones throw. With rock cuts on every part of the highway, cell phone reception was spotty at times. Locally owned and brewed coffee cost $2.75. And finding and buying a spaghetti squash was unlikely. Regardless, it was obvious that I was going to easily fall in love with “lake life.” It also became obvious that there was a lot of unspoken history; a lot that I wanted to know more about.

I was dispatched to my first fire before the end of my first week in Kenora. Basemap 36555—that’s all I knew. Small white smoke. Values to the west. Pumping distance: 200 ft. The radio chatter was overwhelming. Where were we going? How long will we be staying there for? As we flew over the community, I remember feeling confused. Seemingly unorganized dirt road-networks joined small houses with yards full of garbage and abandoned vehicles. The fire itself was right beside someone’s house…in their yard. Even after we landed, community members would drive, walk, or quad by, completely unfazed by the fact that four MNRF (Ministry of Natural Resources & Forestry) employees were suppressing a fire in their neighbour’s yard. Gangs of children biked by, wearing no helmets; isn’t this a school day? The home homeowner sat on her porch, and watched us working. This was an ordinary occurrence. This was no big deal. My crew leader told me to keep an eye on our jerry of gas; there were a couple curious people hanging around our pump site. Why did I have to hang around the pump gas? Why did no one seemingly care about the fires on their properties? Why were there so many dogs running around the town? Was I missing something? A few other fires started nearby that day. Mainly grass fires. All human-caused fires. Basemap 36555 marks the First Nations community of Wabaseemoong, just northwest of Kenora. I soon learned to anticipate spending most of my springtime fire fighting in basemap 36555.

The summer months brought heat and cottagers. The population doubled, and the streets were filled with sun-kissed shoulders. And homeless people. There always seemed to be people hanging around outside the Laundromat, No Frills, and some of the government-owned housing. While the homeless population didn’t seem to faze locals, it wasn’t something that I associated with small towns. Alcohol and drug abuse was something that bad people did. Unemployment was a tragedy that was short-lived. Needle drugs were seen in movies. And residential schools were something that I might have heard about, once, somewhere, maybe. And yet here, in this beautiful, quaint, little town, there were always people, wandering the streets, or passed out in public spaces somewhere around the town. I often heard people playing it off as a joke—“Oh those are just the drunk natives.” It wasn’t something that I was accustomed to seeing in a small town. It was something that I had only ever associated with the downtown of big city centers. And it was never a joke. Online sources describe Kenora as the Muskoka of the north. But I knew there was more to the story that I was interested in learning about. I wanted to know why.

I’ve spent three summers and one winter in Kenora, having worked at the bowling alley, the library, the high school, the pool, and of course, as a forest fire fighter for the MNRF in the summer months. I am constantly inquiring and learning the stories and histories from local First Nations residents from in and around the town. People from the nearby communities, Wabaseemoong, Grassy Narrows, Rat Portage, Shoal Lake, Whitefish Bay, and Sabeskong all bring forward different stories, different experiences, different explanations, though commonalities in historical events, racism, and inequities in available services persist, contributing to the continual tensions. From my time in Kenora, I’ve used the power of observation and inquiry to learn more about the First Nations communities living within the Treaty 3 district. It’s been a wild ride so far; one that I don’t anticipate ending anytime soon.

Author Ariel Root is currently in Kenora in her fourth season working as a forest fire fighter for the Ontario Ministry of Natural Resources and Forestry.  She has a BSc in Food Science & Nutrition from ĐÓ°ÉÔ­´´ University in 2012, and is currently a graduate student in the Health Science, Technology and Policy program at ĐÓ°ÉÔ­´´ University. She has been featured on APTN’s new hit TV show, Playing with Fire, Season 2.

Come back for next week’s instalment on homelessness.

Photos by Ariel Root

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