The Dashing Chronicles: The Demise of The Chocolate Hotness
- Winston McLean | November 12, 2013
For this month's installment I thought we would try something completely different.
I could have written about how funding cuts to First Nations is creating chaos and confusion. Without dedicated organizations to defend Treaties, individual First Nations will fall prey to a new form of extortion: play ball or starve. Those who cave Harper will baptize "willing partners."
Instead I will share a chilling story of how a perfectly innocent First Nation child was forever changed on a calm spring day almost 50, no 40 years ago, when he was only 6 months old.
Armed with a full tank of gas, a limited education, enough food for a week, a First Nation father his new Metis bride embark on a journey to Saskatoon with their newborn in search of a better life.
It is key to the story that the baby was born with a sweet coco with cream like skin, earning him the name "The Chocolate Hotness" from his aunties.
Upon arriving they park their 1958 Ford POS next to a phone booth. During the day, dad walks the streets, looking for work while mom waits by the phone in case employers call. After days of searching one business after another, putting his best foot forward, there are no calls. Supplies are running low.
On the mid-afternoon of day five mom and dad assess the situation. They cannot afford another night of running the car off and on during the night, for there is just enough fuel for the two hour drive back home.
On the way home, they talk. They conclude dad's dark skin, rippling muscles, grade 10 education, and his thick Indian accent make him unemployable. They vow never to teach their kids Cree, that every one of them will be educated, and pray the rest will have "good" skin.
When they return to the reserve they head for grandpa's where, as luck would have it, one of the uncles has killed a deer. A family reunion of sorts unfolds. Wobbly-pops may have been consumed by the adults - there is conflicting testimony on this point.
What is known is that The Chocolate Hotness was strapped into a plastic reclining seat, wearing only a cloth diaper - these being the days before Pampers.
At some point during the festivities someone ventures into Grandpa's house. Someone else follows that person. In no time at all, everyone has piled into Grandpa's place, leaving The Chocolate Hotness exposed to the gaudiness of nature.
Grandpa had a huge German shepherd. A daft, moron of a dog, "Cookie" had all the discipline of a three week old pup. All brawn. No brains. And ridiculously happy.
With no one around, Cookie spies The Chocolate Hotness alone, on the lawn, and lunges for the unprotected innocent baby.
The story, as it was reported to me, has it that Cookie then licked all the brown stuff off The Chocolate Hotness. Gone was the creamy, dark caramel coating. All that was left was a faint vanilla-brown sugar-like sheen.
I was that baby.
As a youth I often wondered why I was so white when everyone around me had that golden mocha covering. When I finally mustered up the courage to ask dad, that was the story he chose to give me.
I believed that story for decades. Last week, mom told me to stop telling that story as it was a load of poo -- that's how she talks.
Dirk says, I don't have birthdays. I level up.
I could have written about how people of a certain quality are drawn to Harper's vision of Canada - think Duffy, Brazeau, Wallin, Flannigan, Oda, Carson, the list is almost without fathom. People of that moral character will be willing and even eager to afflict those of less value to the great Harper dream.
Speaking of the unworthy, I could have written about how Harper is not a racist. His vision demands a merciless commitment to marginalizing any inconvenient elements standing in the way. Scientists, environmentalists, unions and, yes, Indians qualify.
I could have written about how funding cuts to First Nations is creating chaos and confusion. Without dedicated organizations to defend Treaties, individual First Nations will fall prey to a new form of extortion: play ball or starve. Those who cave Harper will baptize "willing partners."
Instead I will share a chilling story of how a perfectly innocent First Nation child was forever changed on a calm spring day almost 50, no 40 years ago, when he was only 6 months old.
Armed with a full tank of gas, a limited education, enough food for a week, a First Nation father his new Metis bride embark on a journey to Saskatoon with their newborn in search of a better life.
It is key to the story that the baby was born with a sweet coco with cream like skin, earning him the name "The Chocolate Hotness" from his aunties.
Upon arriving they park their 1958 Ford POS next to a phone booth. During the day, dad walks the streets, looking for work while mom waits by the phone in case employers call. After days of searching one business after another, putting his best foot forward, there are no calls. Supplies are running low.
On the mid-afternoon of day five mom and dad assess the situation. They cannot afford another night of running the car off and on during the night, for there is just enough fuel for the two hour drive back home.
On the way home, they talk. They conclude dad's dark skin, rippling muscles, grade 10 education, and his thick Indian accent make him unemployable. They vow never to teach their kids Cree, that every one of them will be educated, and pray the rest will have "good" skin.
When they return to the reserve they head for grandpa's where, as luck would have it, one of the uncles has killed a deer. A family reunion of sorts unfolds. Wobbly-pops may have been consumed by the adults - there is conflicting testimony on this point.
What is known is that The Chocolate Hotness was strapped into a plastic reclining seat, wearing only a cloth diaper - these being the days before Pampers.
At some point during the festivities someone ventures into Grandpa's house. Someone else follows that person. In no time at all, everyone has piled into Grandpa's place, leaving The Chocolate Hotness exposed to the gaudiness of nature.
Grandpa had a huge German shepherd. A daft, moron of a dog, "Cookie" had all the discipline of a three week old pup. All brawn. No brains. And ridiculously happy.
With no one around, Cookie spies The Chocolate Hotness alone, on the lawn, and lunges for the unprotected innocent baby.
The story, as it was reported to me, has it that Cookie then licked all the brown stuff off The Chocolate Hotness. Gone was the creamy, dark caramel coating. All that was left was a faint vanilla-brown sugar-like sheen.
I was that baby.
As a youth I often wondered why I was so white when everyone around me had that golden mocha covering. When I finally mustered up the courage to ask dad, that was the story he chose to give me.
I believed that story for decades. Last week, mom told me to stop telling that story as it was a load of poo -- that's how she talks.
Dirk says, I don't have birthdays. I level up.