Watch! Listen! You might learn something!

By Basil Johnston, O.Ont., LLD, B.A.

Before going to Toronto in 1955, I received all kinds of advice from elders which consisted mainly of “Watch, listen! You won’t go wrong! Watch what the white people do! Listen to what they say! You don’t want to act like a country bumpkin.”

So I watched and listened but could not rid myself of my habit of looking on the ground to make sure I would not step into a hole in the ground or on a snake.

It was in this manner that I was walking back to Crown Life Insurance company to newly found work in the Premium Accounting Department.

“You!” I heard a voice command – an unfriendly female voice. I stopped; looked up.
In front was a tall good-looking young dark-complexioned woman. She was looking at me fiercely with dark blazing eyes.

“You’re Indian, aren’t you?” she accused me. “Yes!” I stammered in astonishment.
“Well; You belong in the Indian Club!” “Yes! Where?”
“We meet at the YMCA on Tuesday evenings at 8:00p.m. at College and Yonge – opposite Fran’s. See you there!” And she marched off.

On Tuesday evening I went to the Indian Club, not without some misgivings. At the entrance and standing by the reception desk, greeting guests as they came in – “Hello! I’m Patricia Salter, Six Nations. Glad to see you here. And this is Dorothy Jones, Jasper Hill or Big White Owl, Ethel Brant-Montour.” There were many whom I met. Their names I’ve forgotten.

Within a few weeks I felt I could make my way in this concrete jungle constructed of grey, rectangular buildings. On the floor of this canyon snaked cars, one line heading north, another bound south, the sound of their motors reverberating off the walls of the canyon. Unsmiling, grim-faced people, all strangers, hulling their way down Yonge Street against a file of unsmiling grim-faced passersby rushing in the opposite direction.

So many cars, street cars, people – all going in contrary directions. Where were they going? Where were they coming from? To be sure, there were laggards who dawdled along from store to store, casting envious glances at the merchandise displayed behind glass windows.

There were no trees to give shade or shelter, or a haven for birds or animals, except for pigeons.

I had to be civilized so I had to learn to live a treeless existence; no longer would I be a Woodland Indian.

I just didn’t settle in Toronto to be swallowed up in the mass of long- faced white strangers. I found quarters in Forest Hill Village, a district occupied by the upper crust of Toronto and its business community. I found lodgings with the R. W. Wadds family as sitter and dish washer. Mister Wadds was a rising executive with McLeod, Young, Weir, investment dealers, now Scotia McLeod. He went on to become chairman of the board and to rise to higher positions in the world of finance.

I had Tuesday evenings off. One Tuesday evening after dinner – (I no longer had “dinner” at noon, having had to ditch this plebian practice. I now ate dinner at a civilized hour) – I set out on foot for the Davisville subway station.

I found myself in a crowd of warmly-dressed would-be passengers, huddled within themselves waiting for the train to rumble in. Many waiting passengers were leaning over the subway platform casting anxious glances for the tardy train, then looking at their watches. One could almost hear a sigh of exasperation when the lights of the train hove into view.

When the train came to a screeching halt and the doors opened, the waiting passengers rushed into the train after the arriving passengers had wormed their way out. Many of those boarding the train ran into the coach and flung themselves on the seats and stretched their legs out, others flopped into seats and curled up as if tired and needy of sleep.

One of the last passengers to enter the train was a tall man; he didn’t step in or walk in, he lurched in and stood unsteadily at the doorway, finding support from the upright poles by the entrance.

From this wobbly position he ran his eyes about the coach end-to-end with a bemused look.

“For Heaven’s sakes! It’s Christmas! Smile, look happy. Why so gloomy … so unhappy … miserable … glum? Did somebody die? Are you sad? Mad at somebody? Dismal about something or are all Choronto people like that?”

Then he cast his vision in my direction. “Hey, buddy,” he slurred, “ever seen anyone as unfriendly as these people? They should be be happy, laughing – ha, ha, ha! It’s Christmas … isn’t it? But these people look as if they came from a wake or are going to one.”

The man listed and reeled in my direction and occupied a seat next to mine. “Thanks for the seat buddy!” he breathed heavily, befouling the air with alcohol.

I didn’t know what to think, what to do; I was embarrassed. I wanted to or felt like moving elsewhere but I was cornered. Besides, he was bigger than I was. If I were to show any sign of disdain that would rouse him to anger there was no knowing what he might do. It was better to humour him. Do as the White people do.

“Ever seen anything like this?” he asked, “Don’t know how to celebrate, these Choronto types? You know, buddy … They should be laughin’ an’ singing songs. Don’t you think Buddy?” By this time people were casting surreptitious glances at us, me, a Buddy to this lush. “Let’s get them to smile, laugh … sing. Come on buddy, stand up with me.” I stood up, against my will.

As we left Davisville Station the lush stood up and in a loud voice invited the passengers to join as “Me and my buddy here ish gonna sing a Christmas song, ‘Silent Night’.”

“Silent night. Holy night. Come on Buddy! Sing!” and he clapped me on the back, nearly knocking me forward. By now the people were smiling.

At St. Clair Station, the conductor came into the coach. In a loud voice: “All right you two. Quit bothering the passengers! Or else I’ll have to call the police. This is as far as you’re going. Get off.”

“Jeez! Me an’ my buddy, here, we’re jis tryin’ to bring some cheer to the people on this train. Jeez, you got no sense of humour!”

In the brief argument between the happy lush and the sour subway conductor I escaped, boarding the train in another coach, occupied by a dismal crowd of passengers.

What happened to my erstwhile friend, I don’t know; I hope he didn’t end up in the slammer.

“Watch! Listen! You might learn something!” echoed in the caverns of my mind.

Basil H. Johnston, Chippewas of Nawash, is the author of numerous books, including Ojibway Heritage and Ojibway Ceremonies. In 2012 he received the Debwewin Citation for excellence in Anishinabek Nation Story-telling.