I was in the camper van this morning with the door open looking for a headlamp. I heard a man’s voice say, “Hello?”
I thought it was maybe one of the guys who are working on the reno wanting to ask me a question. When I stuck my head around the corner I saw a rather thin guy wearing a Saskatchewan ball cap and carrying a backpack that had half a watermelon, in a grocery bag, tied onto the back of it.
He chin-pointed to the old Toyota Previa van that was parked on the opposite side of the pad. “Are you thinking of selling that?” he asked
I smiled, “No.”
“I was talking to my buddy and he says those are really good vans. My wife has had cancer for the last 6 years and we’re just now able to get out. I’d like to be able to take my family places. How old is it?”
“This one is 28 years old.”
“So you’re not thinking of selling it any time soon?”
“Nope. I’ll drive it until I can’t get parts for it anymore.”
“Ya we’ve been looking them up, my buddy and me, the prices and stuff, and that’s what he says that they’re great to drive but you might have trouble getting parts for them. I know some mechanics. I’ve got connections.”
“The problem is,” I reply, “there aren’t parts available. It was broken into in a backcountry parking lot about 12 years ago.” His face wrinkles in concern. “They took a crowbar and levered up the back hatch. We got the second last tail light in North America.”
“Oooo, I’m sorry you got broken into. I’m one of the sixties scoop kids. You know about the sixties scoop?”
I nod.
“I grew up in Ontario. If this van was in Ontario it wouldn’t be in nearly this good shape.”
“There’s a bit of rust.”
“Ya, but it would be way worse if it was in Ontario. People don’t believe I’m First Nations with a name like Carlos. My mom was First Nations and my dad was white. My foster dad was German and he had a farm, cows, pigs, chickens.”
“He told me, ‘if you can work for me you can work for anyone.’ I didn’t know what he meant. Some of the folks took in kids because they wanted the money. My family didn’t. They took me in because they wanted to help.”
“My foster dad said to me, ‘When you go to work what do you take with you?’ Tools, Dad, I said, You take tools. ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘and when you go out into the world you’re going to need life tools. You may not recognize them for 20 years, but every day I’m going to give you a life tool. I’m going to put it in your backpack so when you get into the world, you’ll be able to reach into your backpack and pull out a tool.’ He was strict. He disciplined me. If he thought I wasn’t behaving, even if we were in church, he would grab me by the ear and hoist me up. I learned. If you show up on time, do what you said you’d do and your work is good, nobody cares if you’re black, brown, or white. He was right: it’s taken me 20 years to find those tools. Sometimes I reach back, hunt around, and there’s another one.”
He shakes his head. “These kids today, they can’t wait until they’re 16. They can’t wait to get away from home and they don’t have the life tools. They’re like a pet dog that you take to the park and you take the collar off and let it go. It goes to run with the wild dogs and it doesn’t come back, so you put a blanket out and hope it will come back. It won’t come back. It has all this freedom, so why would it come back? But it doesn’t know how to get along because nobody ever taught it. My dad taught me. I’m lucky.
My wife is from the Philippines. People say those people work hard and they do. They’ll work three or four jobs so they can save and afford to buy a house. We’ve been married for 25 years. My oldest daughter, she’s a lawyer, beautiful person. My youngest daughter, she just turned 18 and got a job. That’s why I’m looking for a van. It would really help her to get around. I’m a painter. My foster granny lives just up there next street over. Every day I go to see her. I gave her half the watermelon. She said she couldn’t eat a whole one, so I’m taking half home.
Some folks say to me, ‘You can’t be Native,’ and when I say why, they say ‘cause you don’t have a skinny ass.’ Then I tell them my mom was Native. ‘Well, you got your dad’s rounded ass they say.’”
I laugh and Carlos smiles.The timer on my phone goes off. I have laundry to put in the dryer and I haven’t found the headlamp I was looking for. I turn off the timer, put the phone in my pocket and step down onto the pad.
“God bless you, Ma’am,” he says as he turns away to walk down the alley.
“You have a good day,” I say to him, as I close the door to the van and lock it. Turning toward the garage door I hear his, “You too.”
I thought it was maybe one of the guys who are working on the reno wanting to ask me a question. When I stuck my head around the corner I saw a rather thin guy wearing a Saskatchewan ball cap and carrying a backpack that had half a watermelon, in a grocery bag, tied onto the back of it.
He chin-pointed to the old Toyota Previa van that was parked on the opposite side of the pad. “Are you thinking of selling that?” he asked
I smiled, “No.”
“I was talking to my buddy and he says those are really good vans. My wife has had cancer for the last 6 years and we’re just now able to get out. I’d like to be able to take my family places. How old is it?”
“This one is 28 years old.”
“So you’re not thinking of selling it any time soon?”
“Nope. I’ll drive it until I can’t get parts for it anymore.”
“Ya we’ve been looking them up, my buddy and me, the prices and stuff, and that’s what he says that they’re great to drive but you might have trouble getting parts for them. I know some mechanics. I’ve got connections.”
“The problem is,” I reply, “there aren’t parts available. It was broken into in a backcountry parking lot about 12 years ago.” His face wrinkles in concern. “They took a crowbar and levered up the back hatch. We got the second last tail light in North America.”
“Oooo, I’m sorry you got broken into. I’m one of the sixties scoop kids. You know about the sixties scoop?”
I nod.
“I grew up in Ontario. If this van was in Ontario it wouldn’t be in nearly this good shape.”
“There’s a bit of rust.”
“Ya, but it would be way worse if it was in Ontario. People don’t believe I’m First Nations with a name like Carlos. My mom was First Nations and my dad was white. My foster dad was German and he had a farm, cows, pigs, chickens.”
“He told me, ‘if you can work for me you can work for anyone.’ I didn’t know what he meant. Some of the folks took in kids because they wanted the money. My family didn’t. They took me in because they wanted to help.”
“My foster dad said to me, ‘When you go to work what do you take with you?’ Tools, Dad, I said, You take tools. ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘and when you go out into the world you’re going to need life tools. You may not recognize them for 20 years, but every day I’m going to give you a life tool. I’m going to put it in your backpack so when you get into the world, you’ll be able to reach into your backpack and pull out a tool.’ He was strict. He disciplined me. If he thought I wasn’t behaving, even if we were in church, he would grab me by the ear and hoist me up. I learned. If you show up on time, do what you said you’d do and your work is good, nobody cares if you’re black, brown, or white. He was right: it’s taken me 20 years to find those tools. Sometimes I reach back, hunt around, and there’s another one.”
He shakes his head. “These kids today, they can’t wait until they’re 16. They can’t wait to get away from home and they don’t have the life tools. They’re like a pet dog that you take to the park and you take the collar off and let it go. It goes to run with the wild dogs and it doesn’t come back, so you put a blanket out and hope it will come back. It won’t come back. It has all this freedom, so why would it come back? But it doesn’t know how to get along because nobody ever taught it. My dad taught me. I’m lucky.
My wife is from the Philippines. People say those people work hard and they do. They’ll work three or four jobs so they can save and afford to buy a house. We’ve been married for 25 years. My oldest daughter, she’s a lawyer, beautiful person. My youngest daughter, she just turned 18 and got a job. That’s why I’m looking for a van. It would really help her to get around. I’m a painter. My foster granny lives just up there next street over. Every day I go to see her. I gave her half the watermelon. She said she couldn’t eat a whole one, so I’m taking half home.
Some folks say to me, ‘You can’t be Native,’ and when I say why, they say ‘cause you don’t have a skinny ass.’ Then I tell them my mom was Native. ‘Well, you got your dad’s rounded ass they say.’”
I laugh and Carlos smiles.The timer on my phone goes off. I have laundry to put in the dryer and I haven’t found the headlamp I was looking for. I turn off the timer, put the phone in my pocket and step down onto the pad.
“God bless you, Ma’am,” he says as he turns away to walk down the alley.
“You have a good day,” I say to him, as I close the door to the van and lock it. Turning toward the garage door I hear his, “You too.”
