I've had my character attacked, my heritage questioned, my writing mocked, and yes, it fucking hurts. I cry. I'm human.
But then I remember the message given to me:
“I didn't build you like the others. You have work to do.”
And here I was thinking Creator was talking about my big stature, my nonverbals that apparently scare the shit out of people before they get to know me, and this thick skin I've spent almost 50 years developing just to survive the world around me.
Because some of the things people say to me, particularly in private messages, are downright ugly. The microaggressions, the racism, the personal attacks. Some of those screenshots, if I ever shared them publicly, could do some serious damage to people's reputations.
And as much as I can be an asshole, I'm not a cruel one. There's a difference.
I don't need to destroy somebody's reputation just because they've shown me who they are. Sometimes knowing is enough.
But all this has me thinking about governance, politics, and what it really means to put yourself out there.
I know my calling involves governance. I feel that right down in my spirit. I just really hope Creator isn't planning on throwing me into municipal politics, because holy fuck.
I've already had a little taste of what that might look like.
I'll never forget walking into the grocery store in Massey one day. I was looking for milk, and there was a woman standing at the cooler looking for eggs. She couldn't find what she wanted, so I pointed out that there were some brown ones right there.
Without even looking at me, she said something along the lines of, “We've got enough brown around here already.”
Then she turned around.
And there I stood. A big ol' brown person.
She looked at me and said, “I guess I should watch who I'm talking to.”
Grabbed her brown eggs and walked away.
I remember thinking, you don't need to watch who you're talking to. You need to listen to what the fuck you're saying.
Because the problem wasn't that she accidentally said something racist to a brown person. The problem was that she was perfectly comfortable saying it when she thought there wasn't one around.
And that's the part people don't always understand about racism in small communities. Sometimes it's not loud. Sometimes it's standing beside you in the grocery store, looking for eggs.
Now imagine putting yourself in a position where you're publicly challenging decisions, asking questions about accountability, and reminding elected officials of their responsibilities.
You're not just disagreeing with somebody anymore. You're challenging systems, relationships, and sometimes the people who've grown comfortable with nobody questioning them.
And suddenly your heritage becomes the topic. Your character becomes the topic. Your writing becomes the topic.
Anything but the actual governance question.
I watch municipal councillors get verbally attacked for doing their jobs, and I think, fuck. You really need to be a duck to survive politics.
Water off a duck's back.
Just let it roll off.
Don't absorb every insult. Don't react to every provocation. Don't carry somebody else's ugliness home with you.
Be a fucking duck.
And then it hits me.
For fuck's sake. I'm a loon.
And I started laughing.
Because maybe there's a teaching in that too.
A duck can let the water roll off its back. But a loon? A loon dives beneath the surface.
It goes deeper.
It doesn't spend its whole life floating around pretending there's nothing underneath.
And then I started thinking about my clans.
I'm Loon and Bear Clan.
In the traditional governance teachings I'm learning about, Loon is associated with internal governance, leadership, relationships, and resolving matters within the community. Loon looks beneath the surface, paying attention to what is happening where others might not see.
And Bear carries responsibilities associated with protection, healing, health, and the well-being of the people.
Now, I'm still learning these responsibilities. I know that teachings and clan structures aren't identical across all Anishinaabe communities, and I certainly don't claim to speak for everyone.
But I can't help noticing how these responsibilities seem to intersect with the work I've been drawn toward throughout my life.
Housing. Homelessness. Harm reduction. Advocacy. Social justice. Governance. Accountability.
Looking beneath the surface to understand why systems fail people, while trying to protect and support the people living with the consequences.
And suddenly that message comes back again.
“I didn't build you like the others. You have work to do.”
Maybe I misunderstood what being built differently meant.
For years, I thought my strength came from how much I could withstand. How much pain I could carry. How many times I could be knocked down and still get back up.
I thought having thick skin meant nothing was supposed to hurt me anymore.
But it does hurt.
When people question my identity, it hurts. When they attack my character instead of addressing my arguments, it hurts. When racism shows up dressed as community concern or political disagreement, it hurts.
And sometimes I sit here and cry.
But maybe being strong was never supposed to mean becoming somebody who couldn't feel anything.
Because if I stop feeling, if I stop caring, if I become so hardened that nothing gets through, then what happens to my ability to recognize when somebody else is hurting?
How can I protect people if I've taught myself not to feel?
And how can I understand governance if I forget that every decision made around a council table eventually reaches somebody's kitchen table?
That's something I've been thinking about a lot lately.
Governance isn't just about who gets to make decisions. It's about the responsibilities that come with making them. It's about relationships, accountability, protection, and understanding how those decisions affect the people we're supposed to be serving.
And sometimes fulfilling those responsibilities means asking uncomfortable questions.
Sometimes it means challenging people you might otherwise get along with.
Sometimes it means being the person in the room who refuses to look away.
But it also means knowing when to stop.
Because there's another lesson I'm beginning to see in all of this.
The Bear doesn't need to attack everything it encounters to prove its strength. And the Loon doesn't need to stay beneath the water until it drowns.
There is a time to protect, a time to challenge, a time to listen, and a time to rest.
And just because somebody hands you their ugliness doesn't mean you're obligated to carry it.
I'm starting to understand that accountability and revenge are two very different things.
I can hold somebody accountable without humiliating them. I can question someone's actions without attacking their humanity. And I can recognize when somebody has crossed a line without feeling obligated to cross it myself.
That doesn't mean I'm going to be quiet.
Fuck no.
It just means I'm learning that not every battle deserves the same amount of my energy.
And maybe that's part of the work too.
I don't know exactly what Creator meant by that message. I'm not going to pretend I do. I'm still learning, still reconnecting, still trying to understand the responsibilities that come with who I am and the path I'm walking.
I also don't know where that path is going to take me.
I know I'm being drawn toward governance. Whether that's through First Nations governance, policy, community advocacy, or something I haven't even considered yet, I don't know.
And if Creator is planning on municipal politics, well, we might need to have another conversation about that.
But I am beginning to understand something.
Maybe the work was never about becoming powerful enough to fight everybody. Maybe it was about learning when to stand up, what is worth protecting, and how to challenge what needs changing without losing myself in the process.
Maybe my sensitivity isn't the weakness I've spent years trying to hide.
Maybe it's part of what keeps me connected to the people and the responsibilities I care about.
And maybe being built differently wasn't about how much abuse I could survive.
Maybe it was about what I could learn from surviving it, and what I would choose to do with that knowledge.
Because I've spent enough of my life being told to be quiet, make myself smaller, stop asking questions, or just accept things the way they are.
I'm not doing that anymore.
I'll still cry. I'll still get angry. I'll probably still swear more than I should. And there will be days when I wonder why the hell I keep putting myself through this.
But I'll keep learning. I'll keep asking questions. And I'll keep trying to understand the responsibilities that come with whatever work Creator has put in front of me.
I thought I needed to become a duck to survive this.
Turns out, maybe I was never meant to be one.
I'm a fucking loon. And I'm Bear Clan too.
One reminds me to look beneath the surface. The other reminds me that strength carries a responsibility to protect.
And both have me thinking about what it means to serve people rather than simply hold power over them.
So maybe the lesson isn't to let everything roll off my back.
Maybe it's to know when to dive, how deep to go, what is worth protecting, and when to come back up for air.
Because even a loon can't stay underwater forever.
And even a bear needs to rest.
And I still have work to do.