Micro Aggressions

Before you read this week's teaching, I invite you to pause and and consider the gift that George Harris Jr. so often shares with us. What follows is not easy to share. It is the kind of writing that comes from real hurt — from moments that linger in the body long after they have passed. George has chosen to let us into that hurt, not for pity, but for understanding. That is an act of generosity. 

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Uy skweyul siiye’yu (Good day friends) ,

The weekend of February 20th, I had the opportunity to travel to the mainland for some work with the BC College of Oral Health Professionals. It was important work. The kind of work that asks us to hold systems accountable while also holding space for relationship and hope.

The trip began in a simple way. My wife and I stopped at Starbucks before catching the ferry. We went through the drive thru because we were heading straight to the terminal, but we realized we had more time than we thought. So we sat in the parking lot and enjoyed our drinks together. It felt calm. Ordinary. Just two people sharing a quiet moment before a busy weekend.

Before heading to the ferry, we both decided to use the washroom. My wife went first while I waited in the car. When she returned, I walked toward the building. As I stepped out, I noticed a security guard crossing the crosswalk toward Starbucks. As I approached the entrance, he stared at me in a way that felt heavy. It felt intentional. I could not tell if he meant to intimidate me, but I felt it in my body. Our paths began to cross and I quietly pulled out my phone, just in case. Nothing happened. No words were exchanged.

And yet something did happen.

That stare stayed with me. It reminded me of the many non verbal aggressions that Indigenous people carry on a regular basis. No slurs. No raised voices. Just suspicion. Just surveillance. Just the quiet message that says, you do not belong.

The next day I had the honour of sitting in a room with my dear friends Jenn Smith, Carmen George, and Katy Carson. Together we spoke about the changes we hope to see for Indigenous people within BCCOHP. We spoke about cultural safety. We spoke about accountability. We spoke about the responsibility that institutions carry when they say they want to walk in a good way with our communities.

Our hopes went beyond policies and procedures. They reached into the spirit of the organization. We talked about how change must move beyond one circle of care and ripple outward into the whole world. It was powerful to sit in that space and imagine something better.

The following day, my wife and I planned a light hearted afternoon exploring liquidation stores across the lower mainland. At our second stop, we were greeted by a settler woman. I acknowledged her and said hello. After walking around for a few minutes, I noticed she had begun to follow me. She had an empty shopping cart and appeared to be pretending to organize items, but her focus was on me.

I knew what was happening, because it has happened to me many times. 

She was watching to make sure I was not stealing.

This is something that happens more often than many people realize. I continued browsing and eventually came across a broken hanger. I decided to walk over and place it in her cart, saying, “I found a broken hanger.” She thanked me. I then moved toward the children’s section to look for clothing for the young people in my family. And there she was again, right behind me.

I began to feel disheartened. I waited for my wife to come around. My wife is also a settler, and often when people see that I am with her, they leave me alone. I pointed out that the woman had been following me with her empty cart. I wish I could say it stopped there, but she continued to trail us for another fifteen to twenty minutes.

At one point I quietly said to my wife, “This is why I do not like to go out shopping very much.”

When we reached the checkout, she was the one assigned to help us. I felt hesitant. There was no other staff member available. My wife placed the items on the counter. Instead of confronting her, I chose to engage her in conversation. I shared that we used to shop at a similar liquidation store on the Island and that we missed having one close to home. Her tone shifted. She began to respond warmly.

And still, the damage had been done.

When we got into the car, I broke down. Tears came. Tears of anger. Tears of frustration. Tears of sadness. I wondered if this discrimination toward me and my people will ever end. I thought about the young ones I was buying clothes for. My nieces. My grandsons. I wondered what it will be like for them when they grow up. Will they have to carry this same weight?

I thought about my parents. My grandparents. My great grandparents. They endured far worse than suspicious glances and store surveillance. They survived systems designed to erase them. And yet here we are, still navigating subtle forms of racism that remind us we are seen as threats in spaces that should simply be public.

Over these few days, I experienced two clear micro aggressions. The security guard who stared me down. The woman who followed me with her empty cart. No words were spoken. But their actions spoke loudly.

These moments are not isolated. They are part of a larger story. A story of how Indigenous people are often read through a lens of suspicion. A story that continues despite reconciliation statements and land acknowledgements.

And yet, I hold on to hope.

I think about the work we are doing with BCCOHP. I think about the conversations happening in rooms where change is possible. If we continue to move forward in a good way, if we continue to speak truth with humility and courage, we can create ripple effects that extend far beyond any one organization.

Like Martin Luther King Jr. once shared his dream, I carry one too. I dream that my grandsons will walk into any store, any office, any public space and simply be seen as young men full of possibility. I dream that they will not have to brace themselves for suspicion. I dream that they will move freely, without anyone projecting aggression or doubt onto them because they are Indigenous.

Teaching Tuesday is not only about lessons learned. It is about truths lived. I share my stories and experiences not to invite pity, but to offer insight. I share them so you can better understand what our people continue to face in everyday spaces. My hope is that by bringing these truths into the light, we can work together to dismantle racism and discrimination toward Indigenous people, and create a world where our presence is met with respect rather than suspicion.

May we all reflect on the ways micro aggressions show up in our daily lives. May we challenge them when we see them. And may we continue to build systems where our young people can thrive without fear.

Huy ch q'u | Thank you

Wholwolet'za | George Harris Jr

Thank you, George, for your courage and your honesty. For trusting us with something tender. These are not easy stories to tell, and they are not always easy to receive — but they are necessary. May we carry what you've shared with us into our everyday lives. May we notice more. May we do better. And may we keep working, together, toward the world you dream of for the young ones who come after us.

<3 Kim