The Invisible Indian

By Keith Corbiere

MONTRÉAL— When I first moved to Montréal in April of 2016, my mind was a whirlwind of possibilities. What would it be like to live on my own? How would it differ with everything I had experienced so far? And—coming from a predominantly Caucasian town in southern Ontario—would this finally be the point I would encounter other Indigenous people?

At that point, I had already met many Indians on the pow-wow trail, where I’d vended crafts and jewelry with my mother since I was a boy. Although I took these encounters for granted back then, I came to miss them when I was in my fourth year of high school with no Indigenous— or any minorities— around me to speak of. My teachers, my neighbours, and my friends were Caucasian. I felt no different from them, except that I went home every day to the smells of bannock and leather, sage and sweet grass. These were not Caucasian smells.

Montréal was a dazzling cluster of old buildings and bright lights, twisting staircases and glittering towers dwarfed under the tall mountain. As I got out of my cab at the Auberge L’Apéro, the thought loomed in my mind like the immutable mountain itself; here I was in the city, where were my urban brothers and sisters? How did the modern, city-dwelling Aborigine live? And how big a rock had I been living under for the past 20 years?

For months, I did not see them. I looked for the silky-haired, sinewy dancers who had tread the grounds back on the pow-wow trail. At my jobs, I looked for the black hair; I looked for the cheekbones.

Montréal was the most diverse place I had ever stepped foot in, and yet, here I was again, the only Indian in a factory— a call centre— that employed hundreds of people.

Then, I saw them. The Indians were in the streets. Unwashed and dirty, strung like paper-people along the major arteries of Boulevard Saint Laurent or Rue Berri. In the winter, buried in coats and huddled together for warmth; sometimes begging, sometimes strung-out, poor and hungry. At the Native Centre, the only work available was traversing the city to hand out clean needles. Even today, I’m familiar with Natives downtown who will openly admit to doing crack, and who spend days begging outside the Rue Saint-Catherine McDonald’s.

I felt lost. The brothers and sisters I had looked for were decimated. I felt guilty. Why had I been spared this fate? What had I done to deserve a better life? It was while looking in the mirror at my hostel that I realized: I am an Indian. I have no braids. My hair is not black. My cheekbones are moderate. Like most other Natives, I do not walk around in regalia. My name is not Hawk nor Hole in the Day. I realize now that at the times when I felt alone—in my hometown or high school, or upon moving to the city—I could very well have been looking into the eyes of a brother, or sister, another Invisible Indian— an entire family of them— and neither of us would have ever known.

There must be thousands— thousands of lost, Invisible Indians walking the streets, living their lives, witnessing the damage, every day— and I call upon them now to come forward, raise their voices, and be heard. Visit pow-wows. Go to the Native Centres. Cease being invisible so that together, we can work to pull our brothers and sisters out of the cold street. It is not something we can do by ourselves; it is something that we, as a People, must do together.