Writers challenged to reflect lives of Indigenous people on the street

The Oasis Society, a non-profit organization for urban Indigenous people, wants to help Victorians to “See With New Eyes and Hear With New Ears” when they look at people on the streets.

That was the theme of the Dignity of the Streets Writing Challenge, created by the society and launched in September. The challenge, supported by the TD Bank Group, sought writers, poets and graphic artists who could see the dignity of Indigenous people living on the streets.

The challenge, the society said in a statement, “was held in the hopes that people could be moved to more greatly appreciate and express how important it is to recognize and support the inherent value and worth of every human being, acknowledging the dignity of every person, irrespective of circumstance.”

“The Oasis Society … is concerned with the integrated recovery and lasting healing for Indigenous peoples affected by intergenerational trauma. Over the past 18 months, it has been on a pathway of Indigenizing its work, its policies, its programs to better serve Indigenous peoples and communities in Greater Victoria.”

Four judges evaluated the entries to choose the winners, including one story to be illustrated by Gareth Gaudin, cartoonist and owner of Legends Comics & Books. The challenge offered prizes of $300 each in the prose, poetry and graphic art story categories, and $100 for the youth category. The awards were handed out at a reconciliation symposium called Walking Together, on March 9 at the Ambrosia Conference Centre.

The Times Colonist, which was not involved in the organization or judging of the challenge, is printing the winning entries, as submitted.

Poetry winning entry: ‘on a bench’ 

I am a South African citizen by birth but now waiting on being processed as a Canadian citizen in my sixth year of living in Canada. I am the widow of Prof. C.F. Cresswell and mother of three children.

I have been writing poetry for most of my adult life but, for reasons of political safety for many others using our home, I never published until the second millennium, after which, in 2003, I was invited to participate in the annual International Poetry Festival in Durban. This is the first poetry award that I have won. I am not in the habit of entering competitions, but was attracted to this one.

‘on a bench’ by Evelyn Cresswell

mainly men

straight-or-cross-legged

sitting on the street

caps inverted

I quickened my pace

too many too much

too early too cold

lone on a bench

wind catching his shirt

cap upturned

he smiled I passed by

stepped back then fumbled

felt for his scarcity of clothing

dropped coins

I remarked on his supposed chill

he smiled more broadly

‘you try Winter in Montreal

this is summer in California’

I melted at his humour

couldn’t resist a hug

gave it one oldie to another

he cannot know this man

with straggled hair

what gift he gave that day

that day upon recall

enables me to laugh

and dance the day

to the tune of his smile

Prose winning entry: ‘I Will Rise Above It’ 

I am a born writer, probably thanks to my early grade school teacher Mrs. Boches, Mrs. Woods and the encouragement of my beloved mother, who was multilingual and an artiste. Writing saved my skin in high school. Writing and singing is my life! Through some unfortunate circumstance, I was homeless years ago in 1990 and it was hell! Some of the beautiful people I have known have been homeless, I believe homeless is simply just a label to classify people. This writing I submitted is really a tribute to them in loving memory, hope and my unshakeable faith in God.

‘I Will Rise Above It’ by Mark Idczak

"You have to move, right now! You’re on private property. Get a job. Bum!”

Crack head. Loser. I’m paying for you! Scum. Society would be so better without you! You’re better off dead!

Some of the pleasantries I have hurled my way in the course of the day.

Am I guilty? What have I done to deserve this? What crime have I committed? Am I these accusations or none? What if some of these names are true?

By being homeless you’re under attack. An easy target for people to pick on. Do they even know me or even care? Oh why do they snicker and stare?

Some of the quasi macho punks from the bar come and kick my tent and scatter my stuff around. Sometimes they kick me and urinate on me as they laugh. Am I that hideous and evil that I have to go through all of this? Sometimes I don’t want to live in this nightmarish existence. If people are that evil, I don’t want to be part of this world. God and something inside me always give me the courage to snap back and have this joie de vivre in this hell life.

Considering the abuse I have endured, pulling myself through. This is my normal life. I was so traumatised with damaged emotions I’m almost numb to any more pain. I knew I’m somebody. God doesn’t make junk. I was loved very much when I was a child, that is what makes me keep my dignity and character. When I go to the church soup kitchen, the happy friendly people and church ladies tell me I am loved by Jesus. Oh wait, what do I see? An angel of mercy comes to me giving me a hug which is better than a drug to me. This is the only hope I have to cling on in my life, I know I am somebody. Loved very deeply by God and my Mother and Father. Is homeless a label that suits me? I’m living in my body. I’m houseless. I have lived in some rent seedy flop houses. I want to roam wild and free near the mountains and sea. He doth lead me beside the still waters, I have made a comfortable cozy. Lean-to, I line it with plastic bags, cardboard and tarp. This is my turf. I’m living on Holy Ground. Sometimes it is ransacked and the violation of being stolen from, traumatizes me to no end. I don’t know if I can take all this stress and pain.

When days are rough and tough I allow myself to cry and pray for a better day. It seems when I pick myself up and feel good, a senseless mean-spirited security guard or police and even people in my own situation victimize me. God is listening I believe as I pour out my soul. An angel of mercy comes smiling at me administering unconditional love. I am loved. If I could find a comfortable apartment, my own space. The lord will provide as I am his own. I will raise my head over this temporary life style. Tomorrow is another day!

Youth winning entry: ‘Ignorance is Bliss’ 

My name is Maddy Hooson and I was born on the unceded Coast Salish territories (specifically Lekwungen and WSÁNEC peoples) and I am white. I wrote this poem as an apology for all the times I’ve been silent when witnessing racism, or came up with any excuses like “it wasn’t because of their race.”

I spent a long time researching and reading articles so I could try to understand others’ stances and solidify my own. I entered this contest to share my apology and what I learned, but my voice isn’t the one to be heard. While my poem centred on my experiences witnessing racism, my hope is that it doesn’t replace the voices of Indigenous people who have lived it. As the contest stated, I want to remember to see with new eyes and hear with new ears.

‘Ignorance is Bliss’ by Maddy Hooson

Judges’ pick for graphic art adaptation: ‘Ignorance and Its Assumptions’ 

Both of my parents work for the Times Colonist so I’ve essentially been groomed to write. I was read to a lot as a child; I read a lot now. Whether it’s a screenplay or short story, writing is sort of my creative exercise. It lets me explore possibilities that literally I could only dream of.

‘Ignorance and Its Assumptions’ by Rowan Watts (youth entry)

“Hey, man. What’s his deal?”

“Aw, c’mon. Dude, you know I’m not good at this game.”

“All you do is make up a backstory for the guy.”

“Alright, alright. Gimme a second, I wanna get a better look.”

My buddy unclipped his seatbelt and crawled over my lap to stick his head out of the driver-side window into the rain, accidentally bumping his coffee and cranking the radio. I cursed under my breath and manoeuvred around his legs to right his Thermos in the cup holder and silence the pop music. I caught a glimpse of the traffic light ahead of the long row of cars. Still red. After far longer than a second, I tapped my buddy on the back as a signal to stop resting his hands on my thighs. He backpedalled his hands over my legs anyways, then sat back in his seat with a sigh.

“Well?” I pushed.

He shook his head like a dog in response, sprinkling droplets across my seats and radio.

“I think,” he began as he stilled his body, “he was once a businessman. Stockbroker, hedge fund manager — I don’t know what those actually mean but they sound like positions a crook would have. He was a party guy who did it with strippers and coke and a smokin’ wife. One day he’s caught with coke in his piss. That was that. One discovery led to another which led to another and before he knew it he was sentenced to twelve, fourteen years.”

I furrowed my brow and turned to look through the open window. I studied the man standing on the curb. He was short, shorter than an average guy. Dark weathered skin. Freckles haphazardly splattered across his broad face. Small eyes and mouth. A grimy baseball cap left his face in shadow and a multitude of tattered layers shielded him from the elements. His fingers, however, flew across the frets of a guitar, dancing to his merry tune despite the frigid downpour.

“Whaddya think?” My buddy steepled his hands.

I shrugged. “Let’s ask him.”

“What?”

I left his question unanswered, instead sticking my arm out of the open window and beckoning the man over with a wave.

“I don’t carry change. Do you?” I asked.

“Jesus. Yeah, hold on.”

I held my gaze on the approaching man as a handful of coins were handed to me.

“Morning, sir. It’s not much, but it’s all we got.”

As I held my alms out into the rain, the man, holding his guitar in one hand, used the other to remove his cap. I dumped the coins out.

“Thank you very much, sir.” He bowed as he spoke which muffled his gravelly voice. He straightened and turned to leave.

“Pardon me.” The man froze in place at my voice but I continued. “My friend and I were just talking. If it isn’t inappropriate of me to ask… What has your life been like?”

From the sidelong profile view I had of the man, his exasperation was visible. Shoulders slouched lower and eyes rolled to the sky. “Why am I homeless, you mean?”

I stumbled over a response. “Well, I don’t —”

“No, it’s fine. Drug charge — that’s why.”

I blanched at the man and turned to my friend in a vain attempt to hide it. He almost looked triumphant at his correct prediction; arms crossed and smirking. Despite my obvious discomfort, the man continued.

“I was a contractor. A friend of mine from high school was coming into town and needed a place to stay. I offered. Turns out he was a dealer. I never did drugs in my life and there I was busted with a kilo of this guy’s coke I found in my closet by the cops my neighbours called on me. They heard my friend going nuts in the yard. Twelve years in prison. Once I was out, I couldn’t get a house. Agencies won’t accept me ’cause I got a drug charge. They don’t want someone selling drugs outta their apartments. Now I’m playing my music.”

“What’s your name?” I asked the man.

“Richard.”

“It was nice talking with you Richard. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you too.”

I sat still for a moment looking at Richard. Blaring car horns jolted me from my trance.

The light had turned green. Despite an open window and a shocked passenger, I hit the gas and drove away from Richard.

“He was cool.” My buddy blurted.

“Yeah,” I replied, “he was.”

Poetry Honorable Mention: ‘Smelly Feet’ 

My name is Seth Michael Hefner. I am adopted. I was a good writer when younger. I like being creative and it’s a good outlet for expressing yourself and it makes other people happy, and it’s a gift from God.

I entered the contest because of the support that I received from people in the community saying that I was a good writer and I wanted to share my gift with a wider audience.

‘Smelly Feet’ by Seth Hefner

I was sitting on the steps minding my own business when a cockatoo that I knew

flew on by and whispered in my ear that the word on the street

is your dead meat because you have smelly feet

So I went and sat on a bench by Dallas street and many people walked on by

And I started to cry and a woman asked me why

So, I take a few deep breaths and tell her I was sitting on the steps minding my own business

When a cockatoo named Binjo flew on by and said word on the street is your

dead meat because you have smelly feet

She starts to laugh and I start to cry

And I say that’s not funny because I’m going to die of gangrene

She says what can I do to ease the sorrow until tomorrow

So I say if you want to ease the sorrow until tomorrow

you can make me my favourite dish of beef stroganoff

And If your going to give me money nothing less

than fifty but a hundred to a hundred and fifty would be nifty.

So she reaches in her purse and gives me one hundred and fifty then takes me by the hand

And leads me to her souped up BMW M4, corvette killer you know? (Plus it maintains its value.)

She drives me to her million dollar mansion

makes me my favourite dish of beef stroganoff

Gives me a place to clean my smelly feet and a place to sleep

But word on the street is my name is still smelly feet.

Prose honorable mention: ‘Light Change’

I am a retired librarian and I have been involved with Literacy Victoria. I guess you could say that my piece reflects that it is hard for one person to know what to do about homelessness (but we have to try).

I worked as librarian of the Ministry for Children and Families for 20 years. After retiring, I was involved with Literacy Victoria as board member and tutor, including tutoring several Indigenous learners.

‘Light Change’ by Rob Harvey

Green… Yellow… Red… Stop.

The man stood in the middle of the street, at the head of the traffic median surveying the latest offering of cars and drivers. Curled at his feet was a German shepherd cross, back to the cold wind, muzzle resting in its front paws.

This dog is my shepherd, I shall not want.

A scowl tightened his lips. He pushed crow-black hair off his reddened forehead, tossed down a cigarette and zipped up the front of his army surplus jacket. He wore low-riding jeans and too-big boots. A dreamcatcher hoop and eagle feather were pinned to his backpack, dangling precariously, as if the next gust could tear them away.

He had a cardboard sign tied around his neck that read: “Homeless & Hungry, Anything Helps”.

I remembered the music video of Bob Dylan flipping through placards such as these, letting them fall one by one as he growled through his song Subterranean Homesick Blues:

“Look out kid / It’s somethin’ you did

God knows when / But you’re doin’ it again”

The man started to trudge along the median toward me, in the first car in the line. He was supporting the bottom of his sign with his right hand while his left held out a baseball cap for change. I could see from the stony look on his face that he was just going through the motions. His eyes looked out with a thousand-yard stare.

That made it easy. No eye contact, no guilt, no problem. I felt a little flare of anger: if only he put some effort into it, he could make some real money. I quickly figured out the math. If he got a toonie for every traffic light sequence, he could call it quits after an hour, take his sixty bucks and head off for steak and frites at the Brasserie l’Ecole.

Or could he? Who was I kidding? No, even if he hustled, he wouldn’t be that successful. If he were lucky, supper would more likely be the all-day Grand Slam breakfast at Denny’s, the only time in his life he ever hit a home run.

I realized that I had no change to give him. Nothing in my pocket, nothing in my wallet, only credit cards and receipts, and nothing even in the little plastic flip pocket under the dash meant to hold coins for parking.

He was past me now, level with the second car in line and rocking forward as he walked on top of the round, cemented stones. I watched in my side mirror as he made his way to the end of the line and then turned to come back. His cap still drooped empty.

There was a heaviness in his footsteps that seemed to pound through to my brain. He must be so tired of marching along the median, back and forth, but still he trudged on, one foot in front of the other. I wondered if he saw little Chanie Wenjack in the distance, shimmering above the traffic, walking home alone along the railroad track; I wondered if he moved his feet in time with the drumbeat of his own heart.

I really had to give him something. There had to be a loonie or a toonie around here somewhere. With just four cars in the lineup I only had a minute until he would be back by my window.

Panicked, I tore apart the glovebox: my Autoplan insurance folder, paper napkins, a Vancouver Island street map, a package of Excel spearmint gum with white blobs crammed into all the little windows. Nothing. Unless you counted the shiny metal tire gauge, the size of a ballpoint pen.

I rolled down the window and flipped it into his cap where it sank out of sight. It was a good shot and the man didn’t have to break his stride. He carried on, not seeming to notice that the weight of it tugged his cap down.

I pulled myself together. It was better than nothing. Maybe he knew someone at a gas station and he could trade it for some smokes. It had to be worth something.

The man reached the head of the median and bent down to ruffle his dog’s shaggy head. It could have been a trick with the light, but I thought I saw him smile.

I looked up.

Red … Green … Go.