When I was a little girl, I used to go visit my dad in the summertime — and it wasn’t on the reserve.

I was around 8 or 9 years old when I visited him in a town in Connecticut called Noank. He would do projects with the Mashantucket Pequot Tribal Nation just a few miles away. We would drive to Mystic, Conn., and he’d point out the pizza place where Julia Roberts got her big break.

When I was a bit older, my dad moved to Montreal. He lived in Côte Saint-Luc and did business with Kahnawake First Nation just across the St. Lawrence River. I used to hang out at the paddle club with my sister, and went to my first ever powwow in that community.

When I was a teenager, my dad lived in downtown Toronto. He worked with Six Nations reserve and sponsored a scholarship at the Native Canadian Centre on Spadina. I was introduced to the people who worked at the Miziwe Biik Aboriginal Training and Employment Centre, next door to the Native women’s centre at Shelbourne St. and Gerrard St. East.

When I was 19, I worked at the Mi’kmaw Native Friendship Centre here in Halifax.

When I was 22, I lived with two Mi’kmaq brothers who grew up in Dartmouth. We’d jokingly refer to our apartment as the “reserve.”

I came to understand who I was through my experience with urban Indigenous communities. Yes, I have deeply personal experiences tied to the reserve, however, so many of my formidable Native experiences began as a Mi’kmaw person in Halifax.

The first Native boy I kissed grew up in a city. I made my first Native friends while I was attending university in the city. The first time I danced and drummed was in a city. My first job working with the Indigenous community was in a city. The first time I felt like I belonged in my skin, culture, and metaphorical moccasins, was — you guessed it — in a city.

What shaped my sense of who I was didn’t come from growing up on reserve but rather understanding the way we, as Mi’kmaq and many other Indigenous peoples, migrate between the urban and reserve setting and the rich and beautiful culture that continues to grow and thrive in the concrete jungle.

After all, cities were built on Indigenous territories.

When you say “Toronto, Ontario, Canada”, you’re speaking an Indigenous language. Toronto is derived from a Mohawk word, while Ontario is from the Ojibwa language. And who can forget the infamous Canadian Heritage Minute where Jacques Cartier stumbles over the pronunciation of “Kanata”— but I digress.

Our urban Indigenous communities may not be as obvious as a sign that says “Welcome to Millbrook First Nation” but the city does say “Pjila’si” as you drive into it. We might not all look how you expect us to look. You might walk right by us on the street and not realize you are passing someone who carries a culture that is thousands of years old. We are just as much as part of these streets as the next person.

But we hold a connection to the earth under the asphalt, steel, and glass the rest of you don’t have. I’m not being flippant, nor am I implying a mysticism or stereotype associated with us. But rather, we have an unbroken occupation of this land for millennia, something no other living person on this continent can claim.

We tell stories so we know who we are, where we come from, and where we are supposed to go. This week, our stories are being told by this publication so that you can situate yourself in relation to Kjipuktuk, Mi’kma’ki.

Some might say I’ve buried the lead of this column, that I should have gotten to this part sooner.

But that is the point. Our stories can last days. Our stories do not stick to a linear concept of time. We have stories within stories. Our stories are measured in impact, not word count or order. This week is going to have an Indigenous perspective which includes stories. Stories that weave and set context for those who are listening. How can you go forward, reconcile, or come back, if you don’t know where the starting point is?

You should be thankful that I began this story when I was 8, instead of when I was first born in Fredericton, and lived next to Oromocto First Nation until I was 3 years old.

But that, my friends, is a story for another time.

A note from the editor

StarMetro Halifax is turning over much of its coverage this week to a special series titled Indigenous in Halifax.

The series is months in the making, and includes work from staff reporters at StarMetro as well as contributions from city-based freelance journalists and Indigenous student reporters.

We would also like to thank Rebecca Thomas, a Halifax Indigenous advocate and former poet laureate for the municipality, for being our guest editor.

The point of the series is simple: to tell stories about the Indigenous community that aren’t being told well enough in today’s mainstream media landscape, including at StarMetro Halifax.

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We will explore the triumphs and challenges of being a young business owner. The experiences of a front-line health care worker, or that person helping guide teachers to bring Treaty Education into the classroom. There’s also the hopes and wishes of future Indigenous leaders on what Halifax can become.

We can’t tell everyone’s story in this series, and recognize that no one Indigenous person speaks for all, but we feel it’s a start. From now on, StarMetro is committing to doing a better job when it comes to what kinds of Indigenous stories we do.

Please share with us your thoughts on the series, or if you have story ideas that we could follow up on afterwards. We can be reached on Twitter or Facebook using the hashtag #IndigenousHFX, or send us an email at philip.croucher@metronews.ca.

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