I grew up in a blue collar, working class neighborhood, the type of which is not lucrative to build today. Located in south Winnipeg, it is surrounded by agriculture, once-secluded monastic ruins, and a landfill. The Red River snakes through its easternmost boundary. As an only-child, I explored this space by bike and foot on my own creating stories in my head of adventure that were bigger than anything present in the reality of suburbia. While I didn’t grow up wealthy, my imagination was allowed to flourish and became rich.
Approaching the road leading to the neighbourhood I grew up in during a recent visit to my hometown, an encampment consisting of several tee-pees, canvas tents and a longhouse caught my eye. As did several news trucks. It was the start of a blockade protesting government inaction in the search of a Winnipeg landfill for the remains of two Indigenous women who were murdered and disposed of in a most inhumane way. Discourse surrounding the decision centred on cost and safety, but was remiss in excluding race. The protestors vowed to stay until a search was conducted. During my childhood of backyard and beyond exploration, this isn’t something I ever encountered or learned about. Although, it probably was by design.
It is only in recent years that I’ve learned about Canada’s true history with its Indigenous population (thanks in big part to an employer that prioritizes this education for all staff). Now whenever I hear news stories like this, I see how First Nations communities are transparently treated as “other”. As a different, other sub-class of people denied the opportunities and, at times, dignities, that are offered to the general population. Being forced to accept that your loved ones are viewed as literal trash is part of that. I can’t imagine anyone else subjected to that without at least an attempt for proper closure.
Books of wonder and fantasy offered escape as a kid. But the books I gravitate towards as an adult are rarely light. The words on the page can be dark and cause discomfort as is the case with Red River Girl: The Life and Death of Tina Fontaine by Joanna Jolly. This was my summer reading before I knew about the protests at Brady Road landfill but each is intertwined with the other and needs to be studied in tandem. Tina was murdered and disposed of in the Red River in 2014. This discovery led to federal government action on an inquiry into the many missing and murdered Indigenous women in Canada. Some argued this was long overdue as the phenomena of MMIWG2S stretched back decades (and continues today).
While reading Red River Girl, I couldn’t ignore the contrast of our adolescence. From a young age, I was encouraged to discover, supported to grow, and empowered to become. I felt safe and had a sense of belonging in my community. Tina never had these opportunities. At just fifteen, she had a very, very different life than my own. One punctuated by loss, addiction, exploitation and abuse that no child should ever have to endure. Her story’s ending also lacked closure; the main suspect in Tina’s murder was acquitted.
The book was a hard read that shared a Canadian story that is ongoing. Indigenous women and girls are the most vulnerable members of our society. Canada, and, as such, Canadian society, needs to do better in ensuring their wellbeing is protected and their value to our cultural mosaic is respected.
As I prepare to depart Winnipeg, the protest at Brady Road landfill continues.