I remember a man from my youth, who after being involved in a terrible car accident, was left without the ability to mentally function again in a normal way. A bad fracture of his forehead was doctored by the installation of a steel plate where bone had once protected his brain. ‘Jimmy’ was never the same afterwards! He ended up living on the streets of Ottawa, where on several occasions I chanced to meet him. When Jimmy and I did bump into each other, I would invite him to have a meal with me in one of the many ‘greasy spoons’ found in Ottawa in the 1970’s. He was homeless and fun loving! He was gentle and honourable! Jimmy died of an epileptic seizure when he was only 38. May he rest in peace!
For as far as my ‘city’ memories go, I see that I have always nurtured a warm place in my heart for ‘street people’, no doubt placed there through the friendship I had with Jimmy. Creator knows that back in 1973 I came very close to ending up on the street myself! At that time I and another alcoholic began buying 40 oz. bottles of Club House Golden Sherry and sitting in a park all day, getting drunk. This was something I did for half the summer of 1973. I was able to break free! Many could not! My drinking buddy of that summer never left the street. He died a drunkard less than 10 years after beginning his street life.
Almost 60% of Ottawa’s street people are of Indigenous bloodlines. I wrote a poem dedicated to those people of Indigenous ancestry who die on the streets. The poem is titled ‘Do Not Pity me’. The City of Ottawa recorded it when I served as Ottawa’s English Poet Laureate. I dedicate this poem to the Indigenous people who weren’t able to endure the weight brought down on them by the tremendous force of the Indian Act! Here is the link to it if you have an interest in hearing and watching it: https://youtu.be/pgrm84TOgSE.
Keep the Circle Strong,
South Wind (Albert Dumont)
This poem is helping me see things in a new way.
Thank you.
Michael Whelan
Ottawa
In the late 1970’s I be friended an elderly wino by the name of Jimmy Smith. He was a veteran of the 2nd World War. He had a dislike for most police officers, but he respected me and I never disrespected him. One day while driving Mr. Smith to the cell block, I asked him if he had any words of wisdom to share with a young police officer. He remained silent for several minutes then responded “listen to the kids”. These words meant nothing to me at the time however came back to haunt me years later. With the revelation of the abuse at residential schools and the Alfred reform school. Albert your poem has reignited this memory.