Weathered Wood, Enduring Truth: A Canada Day Reflection

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The Billboard

I was out riding recently when a stripped-down billboard caught my eye. There was no ad, no polished message — just weathered wood and the faint sense of something once more vibrant. All that remained was a faded banner that read:

“Resilience. We’re still here.”

I didn't need context to understand it. The words were worn, but they carried power — like they had been etched into the land, not just the wood. They felt like a rooted presence: still standing, still speaking.

Later, I learned that a mural once stood on that same billboard — animals, land, people, and spirit — painted by a Syilx artist and raised on Canada Day as a reminder that this day isn’t a celebration for everyone. It was a message of presence, survival, and strength.

The mural is gone now, stripped away by time, weather, or maybe something else. All that’s left is the message — as if someone needed us to remember, even when the color faded.

I rode past slowly, the wind quiet around me, and felt something deeper stir: a low, aching grief. The words may have been put there years ago, but they weren’t meant for the past. They were speaking now.

The Memory

That evening, a memory came back to me.

I was in grade five. We were in a portable classroom at the edge of the schoolyard — one of those makeshift trailers they used when there wasn’t enough room inside the main building.

There was an Indigenous boy in our class, and I remember that a couple of kids sitting near him complained to the teacher that he smelled bad. His clothes were unwashed, and it was clear he hadn’t bathed. At the time, I didn’t question why. I didn’t wonder what was happening at home. I just watched.

The teacher responded by moving his desk outside, onto the narrow landing at the top of the stairs. She made up a reason for it, something casual. He didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong, but that doesn't mean there wasn't. After she moved him, she looked at the kids who had complained and gave them a wink. Like they were in on something. Like the “problem” had been solved.

I didn’t know what to do with what I witnessed. I was ten years old, and at the time, I didn’t have the language for it. But I remember feeling a tightness in my chest, a quiet sense that something wasn’t right.

Now, looking back, I see it more clearly.

I wonder what was happening at home.  

I wonder if he was okay.

If anyone was taking care of him.  

I wonder why we, as ten-year-old kids, weren’t taught acceptance instead of judgment — why we weren’t shown how to treat each other with dignity and respect.  

And I wonder why, instead of being met with care, he was removed. Separated.

I think about the legacy of residential schools — their purpose to remove Indigenous children from their families, from their culture, from their sense of belonging. And I can’t help but feel the echo in that moment: he was being separated again. Not violently. Not loudly. But with the same cold logic — you don’t belong here.

"We're Still Here"

I don’t know what happened to that boy.

I don’t know where he is now, or whether life gave him what it withheld in those early years.   

But I think of him often.   

And I think of how many others have been pushed quietly to the edges — not just by institutions or history books, but in classrooms, in hallways, in workplaces.

In moments so subtle they go unnoticed. Unless you're the one it happens to.

That’s what the message on the billboard means to me now.

"Resilience. We’re still here."

It’s not just a statement of survival — it’s a declaration of presence in a world that tried to erase it. And sometimes, it’s not painted in bold colors. Sometimes it’s scrawled on weathered wood, barely holding on — but still visible. Still speaking.

I live with privilege in this country. I know that. And on Canada Day, I take the opportunity to reflect — to acknowledge what I've been given, and to feel deep gratitude for the safety, comfort, and possibility that shape my life here.

But not everyone experiences Canada the same way. For many, Canada Day is not a celebration — it’s a reminder.

Of colonial violence.   

Of separation.   

Of injustice — then and now.

So this year, I’m not waving flags or lighting fireworks.

I’m remembering that billboard.   

I'm remembering the boy in the portable.  

I'm remembering all those who've been pushed outside and told they didn’t belong.

And I'm remembering that on Canada Day, as on every other day, some truths can't be erased.

Billboard on Highway 3 in Cawston, BC. Located in the traditional and unceded territory of the Syilx (Okanagan) people.