White painted privilege.

This verse has graced the fuel tank outside of our camp kitchen since before we took it over a year and a half ago. I can't say for who the words were originally intended but it serves as an impromptu welcome sign and also, for me, a reminder of where I am (geographically, socially, culturally, historically.) I had some white paint on hand and so tonight I brushed away the verbal offence into plain colourlessness. The symbolism was not lost on me - am I whitewashing my problems? Painting over my privilege? Certainly given my status as white and male there are some other identity groups that may feel validated in sending me such a message. As a Settler Canadian working full time on First Nations land I feel like a little abrasive shoulder-rubbing is allowed from time to time.

The last few days have been a trying exercise in patience and nearly overwhelming disappointment eventually boiling down to a sullen sadness - a place where it felt like these words, no matter how hard we try to do the right thing, have been spat in our face.

It's been a reminder of how difficult it is to operate in an arena where, when placed into the context of time, the weight of world history is bearing down on it. Colonialism is far from dead and those working directly in the face of those forces are true heroes.

These are scenarios that cannot be painted over and forgotten. Rather they need to be appreciated for their complexity and depth. While my current challenges have more to do with individual employee behaviour and relationships, Canada's long history of colonial activity within its own borders has certainly been what has allowed those relationship to happen. And so here we are.

But at least tomorrow the first thing I see in the morning won't be Fuck You and maybe for tomorrow that's enough.

Fort Severn, ON.

When it's your day.

Fort Severn, ON.

One of the challenges and pleasures of working shift work in the North is dealing with extremes. Weather aside, the social circumstance of essentially living two lives - one in the North as a temporary resident, one in the South as an absentee friend, family member, lover - adds a distinguished layer of stress and, if one is not careful, an emotional hardness tempered by cancelled flights and missed birthdays. It's not a line of work for everybody and it runs a personal cost for most who stick it out.

But no matter who you are, or what your trade is, when your day comes and it is time to go home after twenty or more working days in a row, there is often intense feelings of elation, release, and promise.

Today was not my day but it was for a few others. It warmed my heart to see them go with joyful exuberance knowing full well that my day will come soon too.