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Photo credit: Jerry Adams

A few of you have reached out and asked, “Helen, did you topple the statue of Gassy Jack on Monday?”

The short answer is, “No; I did not topple the statue.” 

Nor did I know it was going to be a part of the march. And, I feel it was really important that I, and other members of St Clement’s, participated in the Womens Memorial March on February 14th, a day to honour the lives of missing and murdered women, and all women’s and gender-diverse peoples’ lives lost in the Downtown Eastside. Let me recount what happened that day and try, I hope, to explain what I mean.

Around 11 am the morning of the march, I picked up a neighbour who lives on the north shore and we travelled over to Main and Hastings. We arrived just as the family speeches were wrapping up. Organizers had asked that members of the general public arrive at noon to allow for families to gather that morning and share stories of loved ones who had gone missing or who had been murdered. As the speeches were wrapping up, one of the speakers offered a word of thanks to the members of the public who were starting to gather in the streets to take part in the march. 

“Thank you for being here to witness our pain,” they said.

The march began shortly thereafter. I experienced the mood as sombre, reflective, and deeply spiritual. Prayers were said at the end of each city block. Wellness workers smudged as we walked. As we rounded the corner to the place where the Gassy Jack statue stood, the march once again came to a stop. There were a number of Indigenous people standing around the statue. They appeared to be young adults—similar in age to me; people who could be my peers. I remember my neighbour turning to me and saying, “One thing that’s different about this march from church on Sunday mornings, is I’m the only person here with white hair!”

The statue came down in one, fell, audible, “swoop!”. There was a person speaking on a megaphone calling attention to the history of Gassy Jack’s marriage to a 12 year old girl from Squamish Nation. What I heard was anger and grief. I had always imagined that if I ever witnessed a statue coming down my response would be disappointment. Instead, I felt tremendous sadness: I tried to imagine what it would be like, at my age, to have had so many of my childhood peers or relatives go missing. I thought of my young niblings (nieces and nephews)—my own sister. Watching the statue come down, I wondered if the reason I was there was to “witness the pain”.

In the reflections I have been reading from Indigenous people who organized the march on Monday, I am seeing that the toppling of the statue may not have been planned or previously agreed upon by the folks who were responsible for organizing the Womens Memorial. There is some feeling that the statue distracted from the original intention of the families and organizers. I want to make sure that I listen very carefully here. Indigenous justice is complex and layered and my reflection tells only one perspective. 

As my neighbour and I left the march that afternoon, we wound up at the same intersection where the march was continuing to pass through (we had left a bit early). I looked at my neighbour and we both sort of shrugged. Where else did we need to be, really? I turned off the ignition to my car and we sat and watched as thousands of people came streaming past. At one point my car was smudged.

If you'd like to chat further about the Womens Memorial March or any other issues of Indigenous justice, please reach out to Helen by email to helen@stclementschurch.ca