EASTSIDE LIFE HITS NATIVES HARDEST

Community Leaders Say Education And Strong Cultural Links Are The Key
To Improvement

Eddie Taylor was scared, shaking and in tears when he called his dad,
begging to be rescued.

Fleeing a childhood filled with violence and neglect -- an alcoholic
mom used as a punching bag by abusive boyfriends, older sisters who
were sniffing glue, fights and brawls at parties, a series of foster
homes -- the nine-year-old Taylor and his twin brother left Edmonton
to live with their dad at a hotel beside Oppenheimer Park in
Vancouver's Downtown Eastside.

"It was a better lifestyle," recalled Taylor, who is from the Gwich'in
First Nation on his dad's side and Cree and English on his mom's side.
"I felt safer and more comfortable, and had better opportunities to be
a kid and not be so afraid."

But it wasn't long before old habits crept back into Taylor's new
life.

Having experimented with alcohol and glue when he was seven, Taylor
started sniffing gasoline, inhaling the noxious fumes from parked cars
with friends.

When he was 13, he started drinking -- casually at first, then more
and more until he began skipping class and getting into trouble.

One day, fed up with the boozing and late-night knocks on the door
from police, his dad -- a residential school survivor and recovered
addict -- kicked the two boys out.

Couch-surfing and living on the streets, Taylor started using cocaine
and heroin and began getting arrested for drug possession, thefts,
robberies, assaults and break-and-enters, descending into the
addiction and violence he thought he had left behind in Alberta.

Nowhere in Canada is there an aboriginal population as diverse as
Vancouver's.

They come from almost every nation in the country, pushed out of their
hometowns or reserves by a lack of opportunity, abysmal living
conditions and dysfunctional families. They come, drawn by the warmer
weather, in pursuit of jobs, education, medical treatment, long-lost
family members or a familiar face.

"It's the bright lights they talk about. But they come here and find
out there's not really many bright lights, or they're not shining in
our community," said Lynda Gray, executive director of the Urban
Native Youth Association.

Many also struggle with social ills such as broken families, domestic
abuse, alcohol and drug addiction -- consequences of colonization,
Canada's destructive policy of residential schools and the general
failure of modern political leaders in Canada, both native and
non-native, to find a way to undo the damage.

They come, seeking greener pastures. But with little money, few skills
and inadequate education, many settle in the barren landscape of the
Downtown Eastside, where on the streets, in single-room occupancy
hotels and shelters, the faces of the poverty-stricken and
health-afflicted are disproportionately native.

Although aboriginal people make up only four per cent of B.C.'s
population, they comprise 10 per cent of Downtown Eastside residents.
Because of the number of aboriginals living in the area, it is
nicknamed by some the "Urban Rez."

"It's really a sign, a symptom of a larger problem of how native
people exist within this community," said Gray, a member of the
Tsimshian Nation who grew up near Main and Hastings. "It's the most
blatant and obvious sign of damaged spirits."

By almost every measure of quality of life, B.C.'s aboriginal people
lag behind the rest.

The drop-out rate of aboriginal students in the Downtown Eastside is
40 per cent, compared to a provincial average of 23 per cent. Teenage
pregnancy among First Nations youth is also double the provincial rate.

Aboriginals make up nearly 25 per cent of inmates who are in B.C. and
Yukon jails for violent crimes such as homicide, manslaughter and
sexual assault.

In health, improvements have been made in life expectancy, infant
mortality and youth suicides, but overall, aboriginals still face
greater health risks than non-aboriginals and are more likely to die
from accidental poisonings or contract chronic diseases such as
diabetes and Hepatitis C.

A recent study also revealed that aboriginal drug users are twice as
likely to contract HIV/AIDS as non-aboriginals.

Some say the reason is social networking. Aboriginal drug users tend
to stick together and, when sharing needles, expose themselves to a
higher risk of infection due to existing HIV-positive rates in the
community. Others say there is a continuing lack of awareness about
methods of transmission.

Gabor Mate, a physician who has worked in the Downtown Eastside for 10
years, has a simpler explanation.

"Because when people have been badly hurt, they take less good care of
themselves," said Mate. "The more traumatized you are, the less kind
you are to yourself, the less careful you are, and the more desperate
you are for the drug."

Out of the patients he sees, about 30 per cent are aboriginal and
"there isn't a single aboriginal woman I deal with that wasn't
sexually abused."

It's this multi-generational damage that Dave Dickson has seen in 30
years of working in the neighbourhood, first as a Vancouver police
officer and now as an outreach worker.

He estimates only about five per cent of kids he first met in daycare
grow up to lead healthy lives.

"They were born into that world," he said. "That's one of the biggest
problems: How do you undo generations of damage with the resources
that we have?"

Advocates and aboriginal leaders say it starts with education,
especially since aboriginal youth aged 25 and younger make up 60 per
cent of the population.

"We need to be able to show kids that they have an opportunity to make
their lives better and it can be something different from what they
have experienced so far," said Calvin Helin, a successful lawyer and
member of the Tsimshian Nation who has been critical of what he calls
the "welfare trap" for aboriginal people. "Sometimes it may not be
possible to reach the generation of their parents, so we need to get
to the children . . . In the Eastside, there are a lot of kids who
have both parents in jail or don't get a meal in the morning, so we've
got to reach them."

Gray believes community, culture and self-pride is what can help her
people.

"I would say 90 to 99 per cent of aboriginals who are leading healthy,
strong lives [are doing so] because they have a strong sense of self,
primarily through culture," she said.

But many aren't even aware of the legacy of residential schools, even
if it has shaped their lives.

Growing up in a troubled home with an alcoholic mother, Gray herself
didn't find out about residential schools until 1995.

"The first time I heard about it, a light bulb went off and my entire
life made sense," she said. The knowledge helped her. "It gave me a
sense that this doesn't have to be the way it is for me and my
children. It gave me a great sense of hope and purpose to fight
against it."

Mate said aboriginal people have suffered more, chronically and
continuously, than any other segment of Canadian society.

"When you crush people, they need a lot more support to rise from
that," he said.

He acknowledges that individuals have to be responsible for their own
actions. "But the question is, what can we do to help them take that
responsibility?" he asked. "I can't be responsible for their lives. I
can't change their lives, but I can help provide the conditions for
that change."

Eddie Taylor, now 35, sometimes wonders why he was able to beat the
odds of his disadvantaged childhood when his siblings couldn't.

Three of his sisters are dead, killed by their addictions. Another
sister is still hooked on painkillers and cocaine. His twin brother,
who just got out of jail, still struggles with his demons. His mother
has been in hospital for a month, battling the ravages of alcohol abuse.

"I don't know why," he said. "I don't feel there was too much pain
there that I can't deal with. Maybe my struggles and hurts and pains
aren't as deep as my sisters' and brother's, because their addictions
are so prolonged."

Even in the depths of his addiction and crime spree, Taylor knew he
wanted something more for himself. He's seen a better life through his
dad, who worked honest jobs after getting clean and who, despite being
distant and a harsh disciplinarian, was a strong source of support.

As a kid, Taylor also had other aboriginal people in his community act
as strong role models for him.

When he was 19, it was his dad, lawyer and probation officer who
worked out a deal with the judge where he entered a rehab program in
Coquitlam instead of jail.

He emerged clean eight months later and began working part-time in the
community. He completed his high-school equivalency and today works at
Bladerunners, helping youth find jobs in construction.

Now living in Burnaby with two kids -- six-year-old Eddie Jr. and
four-year-old Jesse -- the proud dad has high hopes for the next
generation of Taylor boys.

"I hope the best for them," he said. "They can be hockey players or
police officers or doctors, whatever they want."

"I just want to provide them with a safe and happy and positive
environment so they'll be happy and successful and stay away from the
environment I was involved in."