SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Giving Notice - Friday, Sept. 29, 2017
Accepting Offers - Tuesday, Sept. 26, 2017
Indian/Polish Wedding - Thursday, Sept. 21, 2017
The Builder - Wednesday, Sept. 13, 2017
Rupert Part II - Sunday, Sept. 10, 2017


Wednesday, Nov. 10, 2010 @ 9:43 pm
Young Missy



Night number two, alone in a city, left to my devices.

I made friends with a girl in the class. Well, friends according to my standards. I haven't talked with an unrelated female for so many consecutive sentences in... a... long time. Let's leave it at that. Refreshing.

The instructor invites me out for drinks in the hotel bar. I accept, which is out of character. I put on my blue collar outfit, my blue collar face.

I sit at a table with First Nations operators and a white instructor. Middle aged (am I creeping up to that??), divorced, kids. And I find him attractive? What has become of me. It must have been his dog.

I am not an operator. I have seven years of post-secondary education. I come from one of the more affluent areas of the lower mainland - and perhaps Canada. Not that my family was rich or anything, but comparatively speaking, I now understand that I was privileged. But even still, I sit around a table with these folks - real Canadian rural folks - and attempt to hold my own. At least I can say that I'm currently from Prince George, and they associate me with that rather than the white picket fence I played within.

In the workshop, I sit across from a Chief. My life is being directed in ways I never imagined. As a child, I read book upon book of prairie Indians, wishing to live amongst buffalo and ride ponies bareback through tall grasses. Yet magically, here I am, speaking one-on-one with the very leaders I yearned so desperately for. The quiet way. The quick wit. I sit in silent reverence.

The instructor picks up on my keenness. I am a keener to a tee - a perfect student. One hand is in the air while the other rubs the tummy of his loyal dog. He invites me out for beers.

In the pub, I try to not meet his eyes, except in brief passing. I don't trust myself. I try to contribute to the conversation, so awkward, but I think that it goes over OK. I don't give much away.

I reach for my wallet. I rummage through my cards for the right one. He says, "I got your beers."

Thank you.

He refers to me as 'young missy'. Of which I am neither. Diminutive? I can appreciate it, I really do, that's why I'm writing about it here, because it's nice to be reminded about things like that.

Good night.

And I walk quickly away while he is tied up saying goodbye to others.

I will be back here in December.





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