'CULTURALLY SUBMERGED' - 'Journey of a White Rez teacher'.
For anyone out of Thunder Bay purchase through: Xlibris.com, or Amazon. It is a soft cover 'book' (164 pgs. 6 x9"). or order an 'e-book'>'search and text in' main title- 'Culturally Submerged'. You can buy it from the author, Vesa Peltonen, in Thunder Bay by e-mailing your request or mail to my Facebook or call 807-767-8126. Look for 'CONTACT' below
ABOUT THE BOOK:
'Culturally Submerged' reflects the experiences of author Vesa Peltonen, a teacher learning the ways of another culture, in N.W. Ontario, with adventure, musings, unexpected experiences and challenges, from humorous to some crazy and shocking situations. As an Instructor Peltonen tries to understand the culture and then realizes he too has to adapt in his 'immersion' just as aboriginal people need to do when they make their journey into another place. Much has to do with inner strength, emotional intelligence, being a survivor' not a victim. These mental states and behavior are similar in all cultures.
"Travel into another culture is not just about a place, but a new way of seeing things".- author, Henry Miller.
PRICE: $22.00 (CAD). : Available NOW, paid by cheque or cash.
In Thunder Bay to order, simply contact: Vesa Peltonen to:
105 Iris Cresc., Thunder Bay, ON P7A7Z9. E-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org or call: 807-767-8126
Excerpt from ‘CULTURALLY SUBMERGED’-author: Vesa Peltonen
I was heading out of a small town N.W. Ontario airport, jammed in this 16 seat plane. Natives on board mostly, a white guy with a suitcase, at the back with sunglasses. Maybe a government official to check the student count at the school. This government officer is usually the most welcome, since he looks at the registration enrollment and after a cut off date, the education authority gets paid per student on that enrollment sheet. The drop-outs are many after, but still the money will be paid according to the list he saw.
I look out the window and we are flying so low, I can see the hair on the back of the moose. Apparently, this low flying avoids the turbulence above. Suddenly the befuddled plane came to a grueling stop. Whoa! Huh! On gravel? Smoke and dust all around, Where the hell is the pavement airstrip? My heart skipped a beat. In the field was a single red jeep. To the left was the airport terminal, looking like an abandoned garage. A policeman was coming towards us, to look at our baggage site on the ground, and curious of the new faces. Some of the passengers, came with many boxes, bags and of course, lots of groceries from some big town with lower prices. They were the first ones checked randomly, looking rather awkward and nervous to me. The police, called NAPS, ‘Native Aboriginal Police’, took a quick look through one bag, and another, asking in Ojibway to an old man what was in his box, I figured. With his wannabe state trooper sunglasses, he left the old man, spying a native lady with a baby. She had plenty of grocery bags & diapers in her arm. The officer immediately tore it open and scattered the white diapers around, likely looking for booze. He found nothing. She seemed distraught and was left to chase diapers, wind blown, by the airplanes propellers, which was already leaving for the next reserve. I picked up a few, and she said nothing....I felt rather sad for her.
Inside the garage size terminal, an 'official' looking native lady came over to me and decided to check my small gym bag, which was bulging a bit, much stuff was randomly stuck in there. When she opened the zipper, I suddenly realized my Tim Horton's donut's were on top, a dozen, minus a few eaten on the plane. The bag burst and many of them fell by her feet. She looked quite embarrassed. She didn't say much, and when she saw my books, realizing my occupation, "Oh, you must be a new teacher", and walked off. I offered her one out of the bag, and said, "Bye," and walked to the room where they check thoroughly with some of the more suspicious bags.
I picked up the few donuts. With very little backage, she felt she had done her bit. She had more peoples' bags to look at. To the dismay of the local natives, I was never checked thoroughly at that moment and never check again. It would be the only occassion, where this white rez teacher was given guest first class service, in the 'donut ritual'. Many reserves are called a 'dry reserves'. No booze allowed. But it get's through. Let's thank the 'Hudson Bay Company' long ago for starting the trend of selling booze, and now the store won't serve it. The airport terminal doesn't have a lounge. Well for that matter no bathroom no vending machine. Life is kept simple or they just feel all that belongs in the white society, where the natives can look forward to a fun time sitting in a luxury of a white culture’s convenience store like airport. ...