Home lands

I grew up in a part of Mississauga known broadly as Clarkson, Sheridan Homelands on a more granular level. (Now that I’m an adult with critical thinking skills and an awareness of Idle No More, I am mortified that those Homelands are rightly the homelands of the Mississaugas of the New Credit First Nation, and that I lived there in blissful ignorance, probably occasionally cheering on sports teams called the Mississauga Indians, god help me.) Aaaaannnnnyyyyyhow. I grew up there. It was the seventies and eighties. I am doing my best now.

And let’s be honest, from the time I was about six years old, I was determined to leave behind the burbs for the city, and that’s what I did the first opportunity I got. In Mississauga, I saw little evidence of the kind of life I wanted. I never encountered an artist, never saw an example of that sort I could follow. My parents encouraged me, and that paired with my insatiable drive to write, propelled me along my current path.

But Mississauga holds a place in my heart, of course it does. It holds the surviving members of my family of origin, for one thing, the home in which I grew up still the place to which I return several times a year. Despite the many other homes I’ve found in my life, Sheridan Homelands is still my home.

So it was a strange kind of thrill to see this on Friday. Probably one of my first childhood goals, met.

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