I want to speak candidly. I want to tell the truth

Brefny Caribou, 28, is a theatre actor and writer with a master’s in acting from York University. She is of northern Manitoba Swampy Cree and Irish-settler descent. She offers insight into her life experiences as the Stratford Festival dedicates its social media platforms to First Nations artists.

When I learned that I would be going to the Stratford Festival to play Zhaboonigan Peterson in Tomson Highway’s “The Rez Sisters,” I was overcome with excitement, joy and gratitude. What a gift to work in a room full of powerful Indigenous artists. This felt like an opportunity that I dreamed of during my school days. My dream, and the play, were ultimately postponed by the pandemic.

I spent six years training as an actor and I earned two degrees. During that time I gained many skills — but none of those skills would prepare me for what lay ahead. I could not have foreseen the amount of work I would be required to do. Work that had nothing to do with acting. As an Indigenous woman growing up in this country, I got used to the questions: “Where are you from?” I grew accustomed to the comments: “You’re so articulate!” I learned to smile, laugh it off and gently correct. “They mean well.” Mostly. This is how I learned to walk through the world safely.

As I journeyed from schooling into my career as an actor, I had not realized that the way I learned to walk through the world had grown into a fulltime job. No benefits. No pay. The ways I had educated family, friends, co-workers, strangers on the bus, I now had to apply to the world of directors, people of influence, of power, those who could hire or fire me.

I learned to be soft and agreeable so as not to frighten anyone.

“Of course, I’m not saying you’re racist.” I learned to put a lid on my anger and to be so incredibly patient.

“I know, I know you’re trying.”

I picked my battles and let things slide, and made offers and tried my very hardest to soak my words in syrup to make the truth more palatable.

I have run out of ways and words and sweetness. I want to speak candidly. I want to tell the truth.

The truth is my people are dying.

It’s hard to know what to say after that.

This is my truth. It is my truth when I walk into the rehearsal room, onto the stage and when I am alone with my thoughts. This truth is heavy and larger than the confines that this space allows. To share it comes at a cost and I am just one person.

I am feeling extra tender these days. I’m thinking about all the artists who came before me. I am angry. I am heartbroken. Everyday I am learning and unlearning. I understand that I am not untouched by the sludge of anti-Black racism, white supremacy, patriarchy and colonialism. Black Lives Matter.

There is so much work left to do.

I long for the day I can be in a space with my fellow artists again, whether that be in picturesque Stratford or anywhere art can be made. I believe in what I do now more than ever. I have to.

I believe that the art I help create can reach people, teach people, offer comfort and hope.

Yes, I do have hope to offer. Not always a surplus, but enough to keep the lights on. Yet there is still a lot more truth that needs to be brought into that light.

The truth is my people are dying. It’s hard to know what to say after that. This is my truth