Malik worried because he wore jeans, a nice shirt, and a leather jacket.
I assured him he’d be fine.
He was.
During my meeting with my MP, he hung out in the reception area and entertained her staff.
I rolled my eyes yet again, but was pleased when she asked him for an autograph—for her grandchildren.
He was thrilled to do that…and grabbed a CD, signing that as well.
While I met with indigenous band members in North Vancouver, about what TLIO could do to coordinate with them on several pressing issues, Malik joined a guided hike around the area. He should’ve worn more appropriate footwear, but I hadn’t been certain how the day would progress. With the brilliant sunshine and mild temperatures, pretty much everyone who wasn’t in our meeting wanted to be outside.
On our ride back across the Lion’s Gate Bridge, he continued enthusing.
I sat back and let his words wash over me. I tried not to think about how much work I’d created for myself during my two meetings today.
“…so cool.” He sighed. “Counterflow.”
I laughed. “We’re headingintoDowntown Vancouver while the bulk of the commuters are headed home to North and West Vancouver. We’ll survive.”
“At least my vehicle is electric.”
I patted his knee. “You’ve done all right.”
“Today was enlightening. I didn’t know the band’s history before. I was…humbled.”
“That happens. One of my distant, distant, distant relations wrote a guidebook to fells in the Lake District in England. My family came to Canada over a hundred years ago, but I’m well aware we’re newcomers.”
“Like, I’d never heard of Triquet Island.” He tapped his hand on the steering wheel. “The settlement they found? Fourteen-thousand years old. That’s three times older than the pyramids.”
“That is cool.” I clutched my messenger bag as a huge SUV in the counterflow lane came awfully close to us. “So you heard about the six-thousand-year-old arrowhead they found up near Williams Lake?”
“Right. Closer, though, is the Matsqui First Nation. Out near Mission City? Nine thousand years.” He nodded. “And Tsleil-Waututh, Squamish, and Musqueam first nations? Around this area…?” His hand swung from the windshield where Stanley Park approached back to North Van where we’d just come from. “I learned about this stuff in school, but…” He tapped the steering wheel. “I almost feel like it’s not my story to tell. Not my song to sing.”
I wasn’t certain how to answer that. “You’re not trying to take someone’s identity. To tell the story as if it’s your own.” I tried to let that sit.
“But my perspective might be different because of my cultural heritage?” He eyed the GPS. “Every route between here and your place is red.”
“We could stop and eat at White Spot for dinner. Wait until traffic thins before we head home.”
“Moses?” He glanced at the GPS again as we inched through the magnificent Stanely Park.
“Will not starve. Plenty of nights I’ve worked late, and he hasn’t expired. He’s got kibble. He knows how to eat it—he just chooses not to.”
“Would you if you had the choice?”
As we came around the causeway bend that turned into West Georgia Street, we picked up a bit of speed.
“I eat plenty of things I’d rather not.”
“Ha.” He signaled to pull into the restaurant parking lot. He selected a spot, parked, killed the engine, but didn’t get out.
I held myself still.
“I’ve faced discrimination.”
“Yep.”
