Moving to the Yukon while Black
In an excerpt from her essay, Paige Galette asks “Would I be the only Black person in town?”
We all talk about Black History Month, but what about Black futures? This new book “Until We Are Free: Reflections on Black Lives Matter in Canada” does just that. It is edited by the founders of Black Lives Matter Canada, Rodney Diverlus, Sandy Hudson, and Syrus Marcus Ware. Its essays and discussions explore Black and Indigenous life, movementbuilding and “the deepening of Black and Indigenous solidarity in organizing over the past few decades.” In Paige Galette’s essay “From Cheechako to Sourdough: Reflections on Northern Living and Surviving, while Being Black” she explores a move to the Yukon.
Those were my winters in Ontario. They sucked the life force out of me. The winters were harsh, and compounded with the stresses and pace of urban life— it was almost too much to take. I would leave my apartment and go to work, feeling so fraught I would be gasping for air. I needed to breathe. I needed space to be alone for a bit, to think, to laugh on my own, to be me! I couldn’t breathe. Even in summertime, laid back on a blanket in Christie Pits Park in Toronto, alone. I should have been relaxed, admiring the scene. But I couldn’t breathe.
The pace of the city was unbearable. I’d ride my bike, hoping for some relief from the exercise. But I would constantly worry about drivers passing by who might harm me or the other cyclists and pedestrians. I would meet up with friends and get dressed up for an event, only to waste forty-five minutes in a line-up for only one or two hours at the actual event.
It always amazed me that, in a city of millions, I always felt alone. With this loneliness, depression crept up on me and decided to tag along. It tagged along with me to work, to outings with friends, and found ways to ground itself comfortably in my activism.
I used to be described as fun and bubbly. Now I was angry and pissed off, 24/7. Depression made me unrecognizable. I needed to breathe. Back in 2014, friends of mine invited me to visit them in the Yukon. “The Yukon?” I thought.
Black people don’t go north, let alone the Yukon.”
But with a heart full of love for these friends, who assured me that the Yukon was a magical place, I left for my first visit to the North; my first time travelling on my own.
I was nervous. The friends I was visiting weren’t Black. So, as much as I believed them, I began to panic. All I knew is that I was heading to a hunting area … Would I get shot? Would I be asked questions about my Blackness and forced to contend with inappropriate stares? Would I be the only Black person in town? What if my friends lured me into a place where their whiteness and privilege prevented them from seeing the dangers that were present for Black and racialized folks? The experience of travelling to somewhere new is often fraught for Black people. Wherever we go, we need to consider whether or not we will be treated with dignity. Add the fact that I am a woman, queer, and unapologetically outspoken; I was truly nervous. But I needed to leave the city.
While leaving the airport in my friend’s car, I looked in the rear- view mirror and gasped at the multitude of mountains looking back. As I walked in the streets of Whitehorse, I couldn’t help but notice the number of Indigenous people. Suddenly I didn’t feel so alone. Yukon is home to fourteen First Nations, eleven of which are self-governing. This is a fact that is barely discussed in Canadian history, politics, or education. I hold a bachelor’s degree in social sciences and political science. Never did we learn about Indigenous governance. But I was required to learn about the colour of the carpet in the House of Commons and the Senate. Am I surprised? Absolutely not. This country is founded on colonialism, racism, and genocide. I was ashamed that I had assumed that white people had power and control in this land simply because that’s what I was used to seeing.
I hadn’t played in the snow for such a long period of time in so long until that Yukon visit. Growing up I often cursed the snow. As an adult living in Canada I’d ask myself why the hell was I still living in this cold-ass place. Yet, after one experience of Yukon winter, I had a different, a very different view: She (winter) was gorgeous! A wonderland to discover, so inviting. With fauna that seemed so mysterious, like out of a fantasy novel. There was caribou, elk, bison, arctic fox and lynx.
People here were laughing, always wanting to do things outside and be cozy inside. I allowed myself to ask the real questions: Are there Black people here? Other racialized people? Could I move here? Would I be happy? Could I find community? Sure, I give credit to my friends: they were the ones to invite me up to visit in the first place. But the greater credit goes to my friend Reem: she inspired me to be who I am and to embrace my love for camping and hiking and loving the North’s winter while still being true to myself. She showed me that we POCs can enjoy life not fitting “the norm.” I decided to take a bold step and move north.
And so I packed my car and drove across the country, refusing to look back.
From the book Until We Are Free: Reflections on Black Lives Matter in Canada, edited by Rodney Diverlus, Sandy Hudson, and Syrus Marcus Ware, Copyright © 2020.
Reprinted by permission of University of Regina Press.