i grew up on the highway of tears. that long, Spidiie,
oftentimes narrow stretch of road. the road that we thought
began on the pacific, crawling out of the ocean, rolling like
a wave from our dreams of the orient. some distance land
called the east, but was so obviously to my west. orient

to what? i thought. that road, the underwater road to the.
west, with its yellow embossed line must, it must, travel on

to haida gwaii. surely the highway went beyond the islands
of rupert. ai =
"i grew. up on that embossed yellow line.
double thick demanding. it’s division of sides. some-
times letting one side dominate the other, and often times
checked, blinking in the car mirror as you drive far, far
away to somewhere more civilized. somewhere not so
isolated. some where with more cities and towns with
multiple high schools and educational class divisions.
the only class divisions we saw were intro to mathemat-
ics, communications twelve, and the kids in poverty, kids
with trauma, kids who were not welcome by the dominant
system, the patriarchal, western, white education system.
dominant worldview. . kids that are statistically deemed to
not graduate or even make it past grade 10 un-pregnant. i
believe that those who were racist, and to this day probably
remain racist, did not see those divisions the way i did, the
way others did too. it’s the racist ones that make me afraid
of the highway, the blinking yellow divider highway, that
flash of mustard smeared on concrete toast an indicator that

sometimes ©

BY DIANDRA OLIVER
MARCH 2007

tattooed on my memory. §
i believe in this time f
itions. that said eagle wa
ancestral aah iene in

ace stewing wi ean she me a gall on her radio,
island, she is strong, not worried, doesn’t
uuld be a problem. she is not naive:
constant danger, being afraid is
she drives down the gravel slope,
of the park. it’s black and now
story. i wonder if the way i frame
inal and the perpetrators perhaps
h, tumbly, rural men with power
frame them in that way because
are they framed because of my
ded by racism. the men, both ©
hind the lake. out to where rich
ith docks. out to where rednecks
; my mom always warned me of
esi ediecks. they ope the cab door and that taxi si smell
hes ‘out into the hots er air.
_ ‘this.is where my memory fades andi ‘get caught a in
th thought of beer breath, strong biceps on woman driy-
ing taxi, qpiet dark ening roads up behind the blink-
~ ing lights of the kitimat-terrace airport. somehow the men
threaten the woman to the point where she isn’t driving,
they’ re § friving, and she: inhibited phywically 4 in the back .
an

ing stock of my house. cath g my dad’s cneannesesl sausage
surprise, thinned with ca ned soup. the wolves relegated
to “dream” status: populag
of school, white school, ic
dream”, there is no way mit
in our fural trailer represented a re
ily. i did not wake up with wolve:
my head, instead. 2

vho say, “it was just a
f wolves shacking up
ty for me or my fam-
my bed: wolves in

mine "fier this period. these i imag
to this day that i’m not sup if the

tions and understandings. how to start a tale that makes
shudder, that when i drive. up to the road behind, if ce airport

story on my "ind for the first ime speaking © - of
being on that stretch of road, not Specifical y
but the one of the many “ aa ies. me, rawhide, to the .
highway. / the Xac

so ething is there.

so ac out, 2 was lack, abo was wearing some leather

and silver fea ears Pert no ‘studs. gelled hair, 80s

, homeless © mon