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It's a rainy Friday rush hour in downtown Vancouver when I have an extraordinary exchange about being Canadian.
The bus is almost full but I spy an open seat near the back. I manoeuvre along the crowded aisle, politely saying sorry, sorry, excuse me, sorry, as I squeeze past oblivious passengers flipping through hypnotizing content on their phones.
"Let the old lady sit down," I hear, just past the armpit of a guy wearing a backpack who is blocking my progress.
I peer past the backpack to an empty seat partly filled by a big man.
"I said let the old lady sit down!" the big man repeats.
I look around to see if anyone else could be considered an old lady, but it appears not. I'm a bit miffed at being characterized as old, but I have to admit that it is convenient at the moment.
I check him out again. He is indeed big – over six feet tall and looking a bit rough around the edges. His legs are splayed into the bus aisle, meaning I'd have to step around them to get to the offered seat. A fully stuffed black duffel bag takes up another chunk of the aisle and I wonder if there is even room for me.
The big man and I lock eyes. The bus rocks as it starts up again and I swivel and plop down onto the empty seat, as if yanked down by a string.
He shifts sideways toward me to get a better look.
"Where are you from?' he demands in a disconcertingly friendly way. The passengers on the other side of the aisle look up from their phones, look at him, look at me, then look down again. I don't respond immediately, hoping to convey that on buses, especially crowded ones, strangers don't usually talk to each other.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see he's still looking at me, expecting an answer.
So, having been taught to be polite, I mumble, "I'm from here" into my lap and busy myself with rearranging my belongings. The passengers across the aisle glance over again, watching our exchange. "From Vancouver," I clarify.
"Ha! You're not from here," he bursts out, his voice gravelly. "I can tell. The way you look." He passes a large hand across the air somewhere in my general vicinity.
I studiously observe the overhead advertising.
But he wants to talk to me, so he rephrases, "Where's your family from?"
I look straight into eyes that twinkle with mischief.
And I keep on looking. His face is dark and shiny as a burnished chestnut, skin thick like tanned leather from being outside a lot. He has a long face, a slightly crooked, wide and slightly flat nose pocked with age and experience. His eyes are deep brown, almost black, set in wrinkled lids creased from squinting into the sun. His chest is broad under his jacket; he's built like an aging football player.
I hesitate, not sure where this conversation is going, then try again, "Yes, my family is from here, too."
"No," he disagrees. "Your family's not from here. I can see it in your face."
The big man peers at me intently, noting the colour of my eyes and the tone of my skin, and I begin to see myself as he might. I see what I got from my mother, who had platinum blonde hair, ice blue eyes and ivory skin. My hair, now mostly grey, retains a bit of my former reddish blonde, my eyes are mossy green, and my skin is light, but less prone than hers to burning in the sun. The big man wouldn't see my father in my colouring; my father's dark brown hair, dark eyes, and olive complexion that easily tanned went to some of my siblings.
We assess each other for a few seconds. Then the expression in his eyes changes from humour to sadness.
So I turn the conversation over to him. "Where are you from?" I ask. His face brightens. He is happy to talk about himself, but I only glean bits and pieces of his story. Something about Alberta, south of Calgary, and something about travelling.
I ask him if he is going home today. He looks all packed up to me.
He laughs ruefully, his expression friendly but sad. "No, I'm not going home."
Then he stops and stares at me directly. He seems to want to tell me something important. He reaches out both of his hands toward me and I automatically recoil. He pulls them back.
Suddenly he points one finger thick as a sausage toward my face. I feel my eyes widen.
"We let you stay," he says, more gently than the gesture implies. His tone is slightly accusing, but still friendly. "We helped you stay."
The big man heaves himself to his feet, lurching slightly as the bus bounces to a stop, almost losing balance as he digs for his duffel bag. Heading for the door, he dips his head to avoid grazing the ceiling.
"They call me Bear," he tosses over his shoulder in parting, and people scatter out of his way as if he really is one.
Then it dawns on me: We weren't talking about being from Vancouver. We were talking about being from Canada.
What Bear said to me that rainy day on the bus revealed a depth of pain, sadness and betrayal that I had not seen up close until that moment. As I watched him depart into the rain, I thought about what he may have endured growing up as an Indigenous man in Canada. And I hoped that wherever he was going, it would be easier.
Christy Costello lives in Vancouver.