Thistle - From the ashes: my story of being Métis, homeless, and finding my way

Simon & Schuster Canada

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Copyright 2019 by Jesse Thistle

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Simon & Schuster Canada Subsidiary Rights Department, 166 King Street East, Suite 300, Toronto, Ontario M5A 1J3.

This Simon & Schuster Canada edition August 2019

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Interior design by Carly Loman

Cover design by Jessica Lacy Boudreau

Photograph of boy in field Olha Solodenko/Shutterstock

Photograph of boys hair Radoslaw Sowinski/Shutterstock

Photograph of sky Jacobs Stock Photography/Getty Images

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: From the ashes : my story of being Mtis, homeless, and finding my way / by Jesse Thistle.

Names: Thistle, Jesse, author.

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190062770 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190062789 | ISBN 9781982101213 (softcover) | ISBN 9781982101237 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Thistle, Jesse. | LCSH: MtisBiography. | LCSH: Cree IndiansCanadaBiography. | LCSH: Homeless personsCanadaBiography. | LCSH: AddictsCanadaBiography. | LCGFT: Autobiographies.

Classification: LCC FC109.1.T45 A3 2019 | DDC 971.004/970092dc23

ISBN 978-1-9821-0121-3

ISBN 978-1-9821-0123-7 (ebook)

All photographs are courtesy of the author, except as noted. Portions of this text originally appeared on homelesshub.ca.

This book is dedicated to the families whose loved ones are taken, or disappeared, or lost to them. Those forever watching for their loved one to return home. I watch and wait with you.

It is also dedicated to Indigenous children who grew up with no sense of themselves through projects like the Sixties Scoop, residential schools, adoption, or other such separation from their nuclear family during which they were robbed of their Indigenous identity through no fault of their own.

The pages of this book speak to the damage colonialism can do to Indigenous families, and how, when ones Indigeneity is stripped away, people can make poor choices informed by pain, loneliness, and heartbreak, choices that see them eventually cast upon the streets, in jail, or wandering with no place to be. I dedicate this book to you. I walk with you. I love you. I know the loneliness and frustration you endure.

Lastly, I dedicate this book to my wife, Lucie, who loved me back into the circle. This also goes out to my brothers, Josh, Jerry, and Daniel; my mom and dad; and to my grandparents, who gave me a fighting chance. Our circle is strong; our fire burns; this book is but a torch from the hearth of our clans, and is hopefully enough to light the way for others to follow.

at night

alone

when the dope sickness set in

and the begging became too humiliating

Id wander from the ByWard Market to the Centennial Flame fountain on Parliament Hill

looking for respite from my addictions.

ashamed

i sat with my back to the Peace Tower

thrust my hand in the cool fountain water

fishing out the hoard of coins thrown by tourists and passersby.

the RCMP who guarded the fountain

always saw me coming

from way down at the bottom of the Rideau Hill

near the Milestones and Chteau Laurier

but he never stopped me.

instead hed sit and wait for me

watch as I shovelled wet change into my pockets.

then, before I got too greedy,

rush out and chase me away.

he always let me escape.

we both understood what was going on

why I was there

stealing from the Centennial Flame.

The kingdom of heaven suffers violence, and violent men take it by force.

Matthew 11:12

THE DEAD SILENCE SCREAMED DANGER.

Frenzied squeaks of jail-issued blue deck shoes on sealed cement followed by wet smacks, fast pops, loud cracks, and finally a dull thud confirmed it. A guy lay crumpled on the range floor, our range quartermaster told us. He wasnt conscious. His legs were seized straight, quivering uncontrollably. He had pissed and shit himself.

We didnt need to see it with our own eyes. The unseen, the unknown, in jail is often worse than the seen, the known.

The next day, after cell search, I heard that he had died en route to hospital.

Someone said hed stolen a bag of chips from another inmates canteen, but who knew?

Who cared?

It was jail justice. The thief got what he deserved. According to us, according to society. At least thats what I told myself. All I knew for sure was that I didnt know anything and I hadnt seen anything. Id only heard it, but I wouldnt even tell the guards that much. I had to survive, and the only way you did that was by keeping your mouth shut, turning your head away.

What was I doing here in jail anyway? Why had I put myself in the midst of this filth, this horrible violence?

The answer was simple.

I did it to save my legand my life.

I had this tiny bag

Had it since my family fell apart

It was red and blue with an Adidas logo on the side

And a golden zipperthe zipper of all zippers!

I had this tiny bag

I took it everywhere with me

When we moved with Dad

Hopped out windows at night

When we ran and ran

On to our next place.

I had this tiny bag

Grandma asked me to unpack it

But I wouldnt do it.

She asked many times after that

But I kept it filled with all my things

Tucked away

Under my bed

Just in case.

I had this tiny bag

It had my old life inside

When I finally got the courage to get rid of it

I left it on my bed

Then jumped out my window

Down two stories

But the grass broke my fall.

Why did you do that, Baby Boy? Grandma asked.

Because I always dream of dying, I said. And I cant take it to heaven with me.

MY KOKUM NANCYS PALM FELT leathery in mine as we walked alongside of the train tracks. Stands of poplar swayed and bent in the wind, and she stood still for a second to catch her bearings and watch the flat-bottomed, late-spring clouds slouch by. She mumbled, then began thrusting her gnarled walking stick into the tall brush ahead, spreading it open, looking for flashes of purple or blue. Purple was a clear sign that the pregnant Saskatoon berry bushes were ready to give birth and ease the winter suffering of bears, birds, and humans.

Berries, Kokum said, knew well their role as life-givers, and we had to honour and respect that. We did that by knowing our role as responsible harvesters, picking only what we needed and leaving the rest for our animal kin so they could feed themselves and their young. That was our pact, she said, and if we followed it, theyd never let us down.

My kokum wore brownish-yellow eyeglasses the size of teacup saucers, but her eyes could still see things my three-year-old eyes couldnt. I always tried to search out berry patches before she did, but she always got there first. Always.