I wear a toque (sp.?) with a patch on it that reads: “you are on Native land.”
One day, I was helping Is get her snow gear off to use the washroom. “I see that you’re looking at my hat,” I said.
“What does it say?”
I read it to her. She asked me what it meant.
I had to think for a few minutes. How did I want to approach this? Is is an intellectually mature child; she tells me about how the Earth is filled with lava, and the differences between male and female bees.
“Do you know what it means to be Native?” She said no.
“Okay, do you know what it means to be Indigenous?” No again.
“That’s okay,” I had to think again. “They’re people whose families have lived here for a loooooong long time.”
“Like brown people?” She asked.
“Yeah, so usually we use words like ‘Native’ or ‘Indigenous,’ but yes.”
“White people took their homes. My friend E is Indidleous. And they come back and they have babies. But E still has a home.”
I admit I was confused. “Who comes back and has babies?”
“Indidleous people.”
“Oh, I see. And your friend is Indigenous?”
“Yeah, and she still has a home.”
“That’s good, I’m glad she has a home.” I had to pause and wrap my head around what she had told me and what she already knew.
“So, Is, you know that Indigenous people still exist, right? It’s important to me that you know that.” She nodded. “Okay. And, when white people took their homes, do you think that was very kind of them?”
“No.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so either. So, my hat is a reminder that it wasn’t a kind thing to do.”