I am a Treaty Person

There was a flurry of activity this morning at work. We needed to cover the first and last months' rent for a couple of Indigenous women who have a history of conflict with the colonial Canadian justice system. The payments had to be sent by noon so the women could move into their new homes immediately. Thankfully, I managed to have the EFT requisitions signed by our ED just in time, enabling me to initiate the payments.

I stayed logged into our bank portal, refreshing my browser, waiting for the payment confirmations to be available for download. Finally, after a few minutes of waiting and refreshing, I was able to download the confirmations and send them to the staff, who then forwarded them to the property owners as proof of payment.

Shortly after, my coworker walked into my office, beaming. "We got two women into their homes today!"

After she left, I still felt energized; I could feel it in my legs. I stood up and paced around my office. One question kept repeating in my head: What does it mean to be a Treaty Person?

I am a newcomer to this land now called Canada. My ancestors—or those who came before me—entered into agreements with the First Peoples of these lands. These agreements, or treaties, were meant to govern how our societies would interact and coexist. Today, as I paced in my office, I asked myself: What are my rights and responsibilities as a Treaty Person?

As a newcomer, I have benefited—and continue to benefit—from the privileges of being a Canadian citizen. Through the sacrifices of my parents, especially my mother, who had to leave her young children behind in the Ilocano province of La Union, to care for a white family in Toronto, I now find myself here—living in Canada’s largest city and working professionally as an accountant. I drink clean water, breathe relatively clean air, and live in a home with plumbing that shelters my elderly parents and me from the elements.  My husband and I are earning enough income to allow us to send financial supports to several family members back in the Philippines.  Currently, my husband and I are helping my cousin and my niece with their post-secondary fees as they earn their university education in the Philippines.  We are also financially supporting my cousin who has lost both her parents, and are unable to work.  We are also sending monthly remittances for my elderly aunt who helped look after me and my siblings when we were kids in the Philippines.  My other cousin, who I helped earn her university degree years ago when I was still single, is now working as a caregiver in Hong Kong, and is now one of her side of the family's breadwinners.

Early in my crystal meth addiction, I used to suffer from severe psychosis. One time, while high, I walked along Gerrard Street from the east end to downtown, too paranoid to take the streetcar because I believed people were following me. As I walked in the middle of winter, I kept hearing voices in my head, shouting: Go back where you came from! You don’t belong here! At the time, I didn’t realize the voices were just in my mind. I truly believed people were yelling at me throughout my entire walk. Finally, I arrived at my parents’ apartment downtown. I knocked, and when my mother opened the door, I burst into tears.

"Ma, they’re following me!" I cried as she let me in.

Tired, exhausted, and hungry, my father cooked me a plate of food, which I took into the washroom and ate while sitting on the toilet seat.

"Anya met datoy anakkon," my father said sorrowfully as I begged him to close the washroom door.

Inside, I ate, feeling safe.

At night, sleep wouldn’t come easily. I routinely experienced night terrors—if that’s what they were. I would have vivid nightmares of a figure—a monster—sitting on my chest as I lay in bed. I would be suspended between sleep and wakefulness, desperately trying to escape the nightmare of this menacing presence. Eventually, thankfully, I would manage to wake up. Then, I would gather my pillows and blanket and move to my parents’ bedroom, creating a makeshift bed on the floor at the foot of theirs.

"Ok, dita ka nga maturog ngarud," my mom would say. Refuge. Safety. That’s what it was—sleeping on their bedroom floor. I don’t know what exactly comforted me—their presence, the sound of their steady breathing, or their warmth. Whatever it was, I always managed to sleep soundly there.

But that was years ago. Now, I am an accountant working for an Indigenous charity, pacing in my office, contemplating what it means to be a Treaty Person.

One way to see it is that I am a protected person—not in the sense of a diplomat or a war journalist but in the sense that I am shielded from poverty and violence. Protected by the Charter. I have rights.

The kicker is: I also have obligations. I can get creative in listing my responsibilities as a Treaty Person. And as I reflect on that list, it makes it easier for me to ignore the PnP invites I get from guys on Sniffies.

I can’t get high right now because I’m a Treaty Person.

I still want to get high—don’t get me wrong. Crystal will always have its allure. But I don’t exactly know why it’s easier to say no these days. It just is.

All this is to say that, as a Treaty Person, I am part of something larger than myself. I am part of a community I need to care for—or at least contribute to caring for. When I call myself a Treaty Person, I am no longer a bystander. I am no longer merely surviving. I am no longer a plastic bag tossed by the wind.

The Treaties, I have realized, root me to Turtle Island. And though I occupy only a small piece of it, with my own two feet—all 5’3” of me—I still matter. My recovering heart might say that my impact is minimal, just one among millions living on Native Land in Canada. But my wise heart says: I am enough.

Enough to help two Indigenous women find homes today.

Tomorrow is International Women's Day, March 8. Here’s to celebrating them today and every day forward.