Irony holding Winnipeg back
In the July 2 Free Press (City awards sole outreach contract to Main Street Project), Marion Willis rightly expresses outrage that Street Links was 'frozen out' of a city contract to provide mobile outreach services. The contract went in a competitive bid process to the Main Street Project.
The irony is that the City of Winnipeg has non-profits competing with each other (and at $275,000, a paltry amount of money compared to what it spends on responding to people who are homeless).
To make a serious run at addressing homelessness, rather than having non-profits compete with each other, the city should set up process to see non-profits competing with costs the city is incurring.
I'm not talking about privatizing city services which would result in private companies delivering services now offered in the public system (firefighters and paramedics, for example).
I'm talking about reducing pressure on city services by inviting all non-profits to be paid when they get a job done. In this case it would be successfully housing someone who would otherwise be homeless.
The city could go further and pay them for every month that person stays housed and does not return to interacting with municipally funded emergency services.
This way we can get more non-profits attacking the problem rather than cutting the number by two-thirds, which is what the city is doing.
Yes, this is very different from how governments engage non-profits now, but given the state of the city when it comes to homelessness, I would argue that the only thing that will work is different.
I live in St. Boniface. I can testify that Street Links does an amazing job getting people into housing.
They treat our unhoused sisters and brothers with kindness and respect to get them transitioned into housing, then proudly clean up the site for all Winnipeggers to enjoy.
Main Street Project is also doing amazing work across the city. We need as many non-profits as possible working flat out.
Actually addressing homelessness offers huge financial benefits to the city.
But having non-profits competing with each other is like taking a squirt gun to a forest fire.
With such a major homelessness problem, and so much money being spent ramping up paramedic, firefighting and policing services, wouldn't it make more sense to deploy all our options to address homelessness? The city's approach results in capacity to respond sitting idle.
Meanwhile our downtown struggles, police response times are unacceptable and our tax dollars are not being spent effectively.
Now some will argue that this sounds like 'mission drift.' They will say that the city should leave addressing homelessness to the province. To them I offer two thoughts.
The first is that the city is already deep into our coffers responding to predictable and repeating crises. Winnipeg spends a higher percentage of its budget on emergency services than almost any other city in Canada.
I'm not suggesting the city spend more. I'm suggesting the city spends less.
The second argument is that yes, the province is also guilty of keeping non-profits under-resourced when it comes to addressing homelessness. Just look at justice and health expenditures over the last decade or two. Our courts and emergency wards are overwhelmed responding to folks who are homeless. These departments too have nonprofits competing with each other for paltry resources.
Manitoba Justice could be paying non-profits for their success at cutting court appearances and nights in jail.
Manitoba Health can cut wait times in emergency wards by paying non-profits for their success at preventing visits. This is what effective government looks like.
Imagine the progress we would see with the city working with Manitoba Health and Manitoba Justice to partner with nonprofits in this modern way.
Instead of non-profits lamenting being frozen out, they'd be busy doing what they do best — housing people and keeping them there.
Shaun Loney is the author of An Army of Problem Solvers. He was awarded EY Entrepreneur of the Year for his career in the social enterprise sector. He ran for mayor of Winnipeg in 2022.
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Winnipeg Free Press
2 days ago
- Winnipeg Free Press
Fifty-nine people moved out of tents and into homes
The province has moved 59 people from encampments to housing as it works on a strategy to find shelter for an estimated 700 Manitobans who live in encampments. 'They're taking pride and flourishing,' Housing, Addictions and Homelessness Minister Bernadette Smith said Friday of the people who have been housed. 'We want to make sure everyone gets the proper support and they're successful.' Since the government's strategy Your Way Home was announced in January, 53 of the 59 former tent residents have moved into social housing. Six live in private rentals, a spokesman for the minister said. MIKE DEAL / FREE PRESS FILES Housing, Addictions and Homelessness Minister Bernadette Smith said nicer weather draws more people to tent living, but the province is working with the city, the federal government, community partners and private landlords to 'get people into housing that's a more desirable place for them.' In March, the federal-provincial welfare top-up program to help those living in encampments afford market rents stopped accepting new applications. In May, the province announced 67 new social housing units, all of which are occupied, Smith said Friday. As expected, encampments have expanded during the summer, prompting neighbours and Winnipeg city councillors to express concern about health and safety concerns — for residents in and near the tent villages, and motorists who drive by them. 'This is what happens when you normalize this type of living in tent encampments' said Marion Willis, executive director of St. Boniface Street Links. 'In the past, people seeking resources looked for someone to house them. Now they're told 'come and join us,' she said Friday. 'We've normalized an incredible level of social dysfunction,' Willis said. On Friday, Coun. Ross Eadie, whose Mynarski ward is home to several encampments, released a letter he had written to Smith, Winnipeg Mayor Scott Gillingham and one of his constituents who's asked officials to address the 'crime' and 'chaos' from encampments. 'Your Way Home has the policy of providing 24/7 support for those getting out of encampments,' Eadie wrote. 'Well, we need 24/7 support for the residents living near encampments.' Smith said nicer weather draws more people to tent living, but the province is working with the city, the federal government, community partners and private landlords to 'get people into housing that's a more desirable place for them.' 'We are doing everything we can to bring as many units online as possible, and we believe the province is also working to bring every possible housing unit online as quickly as they can.'–Jamil Mahmood The head of Main Street Project, which received the only contract from the city to move people from tents to housing, said many more units are needed — and quickly. 'We are doing everything we can to bring as many units online as possible, and we believe the province is also working to bring every possible housing unit online as quickly as they can,' executive director Jamil Mahmood said in a statement Friday. Main Street Project hopes to have another 12 social housing units available in the next two weeks that can house 15 to 20 people from encampments, he said. 'The social housing being brought online has all the supports needed for people to be successful,' Mahmood said. The non-profit organization is concerned about those in private rentals relying on rent top-ups becoming at risk for homelessness again, he said. 'The rent top-up highlights how the private sector cannot fill this gap, and the need for more funded social housing is key to addressing this housing crisis,' Mahmood said. Two years ago while campaigning to become premier, Wab Kinew said it was not 'realistic' to rely on social housing alone to end chronic homelessness — that the province needs to work with the private sector and landlords to move people out of bus shelters and tents into housing. 'The premier was right on the mark,' said Willis with Street Links, which relies on private rental units to move their clients from tents to apartments. Even without the federal-provincial rent subsidy, Street Links has housed 28 people so far this month in private rentals, she said. On Friday, they were in the process of housing a couple — a pregnant woman and her partner — who had been living in a tent in the West End. They had been receiving food and water from outreach workers who suggested they get on the social housing wait list. 'It's more efficient to work with people in a housed situation than an unhoused situation,' said Willis. Low-barrier housing with some stability and security is better than no housing, she said BROOK JONES / FREE PRESS FILES Encampments have expanded during the summer, prompting neighbours and Winnipeg city councillors to express concern about health and safety concerns — for residents in and near the tent villages, and motorists who drive by them. 'You're in a house that has heat, with a toilet and fridge and stove,' she said. 'A terrible place to live is a dirty encampment on the riverbank.' On Thursday, Kinew said that when his government took office, it was constrained by the lack of housing units after the former government sold some of its housing stock. He said they're in the process of building and restoring social housing units and helping those estimated 700 Manitobans move from tents to homes. 'We're working hard,' said Kinew, who credited city and non-profit partners for working together. 'We're all on the same page,' he said. 'It's just going to take years of consistent effort to get to that 700 number. When we first committed to this, we said it would take eight years. We're two years in. If we maintain this pace, I think we'll get to where we need to go,' the premier said. — with files from the Brandon Sun Carol SandersLegislature reporter Carol Sanders is a reporter at the Free Press legislature bureau. The former general assignment reporter and copy editor joined the paper in 1997. Read more about Carol. Every piece of reporting Carol produces is reviewed by an editing team before it is posted online or published in print — part of the Free Press's tradition, since 1872, of producing reliable independent journalism. Read more about Free Press's history and mandate, and learn how our newsroom operates. Our newsroom depends on a growing audience of readers to power our journalism. If you are not a paid reader, please consider becoming a subscriber. Our newsroom depends on its audience of readers to power our journalism. Thank you for your support.
Winnipeg Free Press
2 days ago
- Winnipeg Free Press
Indian Act's ‘second-generation cut-off' poses an existential threat to treaty people in Canada
Lou Moodie is gesturing at an easel with a golf club. On the paper behind his makeshift pointer is a set of unconventional math formulas, including 6(2) + 6(2) = 6(1) and 6(1) + 6(1) = 6(1). 'I call this 'Indian arithmetic!'' pronounces the 61-year-old from Nisichawayasihk Cree Nation. With that, Moodie starts quizzing the group of 15 or so people assembled at a hotel on Long Plain First Nation's urban reserve in Winnipeg, for this April training session on the intricacies of Indian status. Moodie is the retired recreation superintendent for Nisichawayasihk, some 850 kilometres northwest of Winnipeg, who, with the enthusiasm of a camp counsellor, runs a game of Simon Says and jokes about the foibles of technology. ('This mouse did not eat today!' he quips when a file won't load.) Despite moments of levity, the topic Moodie has driven nearly 20 hours round-trip to talk about — a particularly convoluted section of the Indian Act — is not a lighthearted one. Lou Moodie wants to see the cut-off repealed; in the meantime, he's trying to help families get around its limits. (Mikaela MacKenzie / Free Press) Written into law in 1876, the Indian Act has long sought to control the lives of First Nations people in Canada, including the very question of who — as far as the federal government is concerned — is an 'Indian.' And though that term is considered offensive when used by non-Indigenous people, it remains the signifier lodged in Canadian law. The part of the act Moodie is concerned with is a more recent addition — it became law on April 17, 1985. After this date, whenever a First Nations child is born to two parents with Indian status, they can be registered under Section 6(1) of the Indian Act. But when a child is born to one parent with status and one without (or where the child's father is not identified), they can only be registered under Section 6(2). People with 6(2) status are faced with a harsh reality: unless they parent with another person with status, their children will no longer be eligible for status. This is known as the 'second-generation cut-off.' Moodie describes the cut-off as genocide 'in paper form' — a discriminatory, assimilationist policy designed to legally get rid of First Nations people, akin to earlier iterations of the Indian Act, which forced First Nations children into residential schools. He wants to 'take a flamethrower to this entire sub-section' and see it repealed. In the meantime, he's trying to help families get around its limits. 'We want to determine who our members are. We, First Nations, not you,' Moodie says. 'We don't want this category 6(1), 6(2). We're not numbers — we're human beings.' Indian status is the vehicle for First Nations people to access the rights and benefits to which they are entitled. And while many First Nations people see the concept of status as offensive and paternalistic, there's also the sense that without it, the federal government could skirt the responsibilities, obligations and promises it has made to First Nations people. As far as its significance, holding status can give a person the right to hunt and fish on their treaty lands; to reap (often minuscule) treaty payments; receive financial aid for post-secondary education; and a tax exemption for income earned on-reserve. It also provides insurance for certain health-care costs, such as counselling, dental work and medications. As trailblazing Cree lawyer Delia Opekokew said in 1986, the reasons for someone desiring status are not just legal, but social. They might include the pride of being part of a collective group, with a protected birthright; the right to live in one's community; and even in death, to be buried on-reserve and remain there with the ancestors of their First Nation, Opekokew explained. The 6(1) and 6(2) delineations were added to the Indian Act in 1985 as a result of legislation known as Bill C-31, which ended the federal government's practice — over more than 150 years — of stripping status from First Nations women who married non-status men. (First Nations men who married non-status women did not receive the same treatment; in fact, their spouses were given status). While Bill C-31 enabled tens of thousands of First Nations women and some of their descendants to receive status, it quietly implemented a more restrictive system for passing on status than had existed before. The current system, which has seen several piecemeal amendments since 1985, is often described with words like incomprehensible and nonsensical — or, as an act of 'retaliation.' For children born after April 16, 1985 Today, of the 1.1 million status First Nations people in Canada, nearly 325,000 — or 29 per cent — are registered under Section 6(2). With their descendants at risk of being excluded from their rights, the second-generation cut-off has triggered a disquieting question: without treaty people, what happens to treaty lands? Even Ottawa has previously stated that the status populations of First Nations are expected to decline in the coming generations because of its restrictive rules, which could impact federal government funding. Virtually since the cut-off was enacted, there have been calls for its repeal. They've come from a Senate committee; from First Nations political bodies like the Southern Chiefs' Organization; legal scholars and advocates like Sharon McIvor, whose landmark case in 2009 forced Ottawa to remedy some of the lingering discrimination against women in the Indian Act; and recently, the United Nations Committee on the Elimination of Discrimination against Women. 'I think we have inadvertently invited in an evil that threatens our very existence as treaty Indians,' wrote Jack Grieves of the Keewatin Tribal Council, which represents 11 First Nations in northern Manitoba, in a 1992 open letter. Predicting that Bill C-31 would ultimately lead to a declining treaty population and 'empty and unowned' reserves, Grieves went on to ask: was it already too late? 'Is there anything we can do to remedy this situation confronting our treaty people and those who thought they were getting their treaty rights back for future generations?' Growing up on the south side of Berens River in the 1960s, Carrie Whiteway Prystupa was taught to be self-reliant. Still decades before a road would eventually come to the community on the eastern shore of Lake Winnipeg, homes were built with logs, water was hauled from a hole in the ice and light came from coal-oil lamps or gas lanterns. Across the river was Berens River First Nation. In the winter, Whiteway Prystupa's family would travel there by snowmobile, and in the summer, by boat. And that's the name of where Whiteway Prystupa grew up: 'agamiing,' meaning 'across' in Saulteaux, which she grew up speaking. This isolated piece of land, cleared by her Whiteway family, was also known as the 'Métis side' of the river. As far as Whiteway Prystupa was aware at the time — and, as far as the federal government was concerned — she and her family were Métis. When Whiteway Prystupa and her family visited relatives and shopped for essentials on the reserve, that separation was clear. Some people referred to them as 'ozagamoog,' or, 'outsiders.' Carrie Whiteway Prystupa poses for a photo in the early 1960s on the 'Métis side' of Berens River, along with five of her eight siblings. From left to right (lower) is Carrie, Eileen, Diane (held by Eileen), Myrna and Jo-Ann. At top is Whiteway Prystupa's maternal grandfather Jacob, who is holding Gilbert, and grandmother Alice. Not pictured is her sister Nancy, while siblings Jackie and Stan hadn't yet been born. Alice was the granddaughter of the first chief of Berens River First Nation. (Supplied) It hadn't always been that way. Nearly a century ago, Whiteway Prystupa's grandmother, Sarah, a status member of Berens River, married a non-status man. Her Indian status erased, Sarah left the reserve and went agamiing, where, with her husband, she raised 10 children, including Whiteway Prystupa's father — none of whom held status growing up. Thirty-odd years later, in 1955, Whiteway Prystupa's mother, Helen, who also was a status member of Berens River, married her father, Fred. Helen had attended an Indian day school run by Roman Catholic nuns and her great-grandfather was a signatory of Treaty 5. Nonetheless, with their marriage, Helen also lost her status and went to live agamiing. Several years after Bill C-31 passed, Whiteway Prystupa, who was then in her early 30s and married with three kids, became a status member of Berens River for the first time. Four decades later, she explained what it meant: 'Maybe, I am not 'ozagamoo,' an outsider, after all.' But for her descendants, this reclamation of status could prove brief. Carrie Whiteway Prystupa grew up believing she was Métis. She is among those calling for a repeal of federal legislation that she says is discriminatory and fails to recognize her heritage. (Mikaela MacKenzie / Free Press) With Whiteway Prystupa's marriage to a non-status man, the second-generation cut-off has begun to loom over their family. Her first son, who was born in 1982 before C-31 was passed, was ultimately able to be registered under Section 6(1). But her younger two sons, born in 1986 and 1991, were registered under Section 6(2). Though all of her three sons have non-status spouses, their dates of birth are critical. The children of Whiteway Prystupa's oldest son have 6(2) status, while the future children of her two younger sons will not be entitled to it. It was about five years ago when Whiteway Prystupa first learned there are two different types of status — and what that could mean for her descendants. And Whiteway Prystupa is not alone; she notes many First Nations people aren't aware of the cut-off. But Whiteway Prystupa is not giving up. Whiteway Prystupa written a book called Neen Ozagamoo, or Me an Outsider, which she self-published earlier this month. (Mikaela MacKenzie / Free Press) Last summer, she heard Lou Moodie talk at a Treaty 5 summit. That meeting led to her to join Moodie and other grassroots organizers on a cross-country trip to Ottawa, where they spoke with federal politicians and staff, calling for the repeal of categories 6(1) and 6(2). Whiteway Prystupa has also written a book called Neen Ozagamoo, or Me an Outsider, which she self-published earlier this month. 'I feel I'm being discriminated against and targeted,' she said. 'That's our inheritance.' Like Whiteway Prystupa, Joy Budd grew up without status, thinking she was Métis. After Bill C-31 passed, Budd became a member of Cumberland House Cree Nation in Saskatchewan. When she was signing her first status card as a teenager, Budd remembers a membership clerk telling her she held 6(2) status — and couldn't pass it on to her children. 'At that time, I didn't know what it meant — I'm 16 years old. And now the complication has come,' said Budd, who goes by Glenda, and now lives in Thompson. For Budd's family, the story of their loss of status began with the Second World War. Like other First Nations men, Budd's biological grandfather was 'enfranchised' — removed from the Indian registrar — as a result of his service in the Canadian military. While he was away at war, Budd's grandmother married a Métis man, losing her status as a result. In the next generation, Budd's father married a Métis woman and then when Budd, with 6(2) status, had children with a Métis man, the second-generation cut-off came to pass. Her kids weren't eligible. Budd raised her kids as a single mother — and despite her working consistently, there were financial challenges associated with her children being non-status, such as saving up for costly dental work. 'We were struggling just to try and have basic needs met. That means my children, I could never afford college or university for them,' she said. Joy Budd gained 6(2) status following the passing of Bill C-31 in 1985. However, her children and grandchildren currently lack status.(John Woods / Free Press) Budd lived for two years on the Cumberland House reserve when her kids were younger, but because they were non-status, they were not allowed to go to the treaty school. Her children are now 32 and 28 years old. Even though her son had children with a woman who has 6(2) status, his three children remain ineligible for status. Two have specific medical needs, but, because they are non-status, they aren't eligible for support from Jordan's Principle for medical appointments, she said, referring to the federal government's legal obligation to ensure First Nations children have access to proper health care, among other supports. Because of amendments to the Indian Act in 2017, known as Bill S-3, Budd is likely eligible to have her status changed to 6(1). If successful, her son could receive 6(2) status and her grandkids could receive 6(1). For years, Budd has been asking questions about whether she might be eligible for 6(1) status, but she never received concrete answers. First Nations advocates point out that because of the law's convoluted nature and Ottawa's failure to communicate its far-reaching implications, only a fraction of the people eligible to register as a result of Bill S-3 have actually done so. For people who were born before April 17, 1985 (or whose parents married before that date), and whose grandmother had their status taken away through marriage, S-3 means that they are eligible for 6(1) status. In the meantime, Budd wants Section 6(2) repealed. 'What's at stake is our Indigenous culture, our treaty rights, our rights as Indigenous people,' she said. As Budd pointed out, the treaties signed between Indigenous peoples and the Crown were meant to be in place for 'as long as the sun shines, the grass grows and the rivers flow.' 'And, you know, the sun is still shining, even though it's smoky over Thompson. I know there's a sun out there somewhere,' she said. The idea for the second-generation cut-off appears to have originated in a federal committee hearing in 1982. A now-defunct First Nations organization suggested a kernel of the policy, though specified that any child with less than 50 per cent First Nation ancestry should have their status determined by their band. According to Indigenous Services' website, to request a status category amendment you must compile the following: Your First Nation's office may be able to receive your application, or these documents can either be brought in-person to Manitoba's regional office at 361 Hargrave St. in Winnipeg, or mailed to: Application Processing Unit Indigenous Services Canada Box 6700, Winnipeg, MB R3C 5R5 The committee weighed the proposal warily: '(this) would probably create another series of inequities regarding children who do and do not have status in the same family.' Still, it became law soon after. Nearly four decades later, in 2019, a report on the lingering gender discrimination in the Indian Act flagged the cut-off as the inequality of 'greatest concern.' Smaller, non-isolated communities with a higher rate of 'marrying out' were set to see the negative effects more quickly, some in a single generation, wrote Claudette Dumont-Smith, a special representative to the Crown-Indigenous relations minister. She recommended the federal government launch a consultation process over the cut-off, which began in late 2023. A committee of Indigenous organizations was appointed to advise on how to proceed. According to an initial report, these organizations emphasized the need for First Nations people to have support conducting geological research. The Assembly of First Nations Manitoba also suggested the creation of a records office that would allow people to trace how their family lost status. Indigenous Services has also published a fact-sheet for each First Nation detailing the number of members who hold 6(2) status. (In Manitoba, this group represents 15 to 45 per cent of First Nations' overall status membership — see data for each First Nation in a chart below.) The same disclaimer is found on each fact-sheet: 'even as your Nation's population grows over time, (your Nation's) total registered populations are likely to decrease in size,' however in a comment this week, an Indigenous Services' spokesperson said their latest projections show the status population continuing to grow until the end of the modelling period in 2066. Public-facing consultation events and engagement sessions have yet to begin, the spokesperson, Eric Head, confirmed. Minister of Indigenous Services Mandy Gull-Masty leaves a caucus meeting on Parliament Hill in Ottawa. Despite repeated requests, Gull-Masty was not made available for an interview by press time. (Sean Kilpatrick / The Canadian Press files) Despite repeated requests, beginning a month ago, Indigenous Services Minister Mandy Gull-Masty was not made available for an interview by press time. Head said the department is committed to working with First Nations to address the cut-off, and added that the current consultation process is not focused on 'whether to address the issue, but on how to address the issue.' Claire Truesdale, a non-Indigenous lawyer who has helped around 50 people apply for status, believes more urgency is needed. She pointed to the fact the federal government has known for years — at least since the McIvor case in 2009 — how problematic the cut-off is. 'They've acknowledged that this is a problem but they have been incredibly slow to do anything about it,' she said. The government's stance — that there is not agreement among First Nations on how to proceed — is a poor reason for failing to act with urgency, she said. 'Kids are being excluded now,' she added. Drew Lafond, president of the national Indigenous Bar Association, said the question of Indian status has essentially become a 'red herring.' 'The debate over who is — and who is not — a status Indian, I think, ignores the fundamental, or foundational question of when did Indigenous peoples, if ever, relinquish their jurisdiction over determining who is and who is not a citizen of their nation?' Lafond said. 'To my knowledge, that has never taken place,' added the lawyer, who has long worked on issues surrounding status and citizenship, and is a member of Muskeg Lake Cree Nation in Saskatchewan, though he points out he maintains kinship relationships throughout Western Canada. A federal government that 'facilitates and authorizes' the disenrolment of Indigenous people without their consent is a violation of the human rights of Indigenous people, Lafond said, referencing Article 9 of the United Nations' Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, which states Indigenous people have the right to belong to their community or Nation in accordance with that group's traditions and customs. 'To say nothing of how ridiculous the formula has become over the years,' he added. In the past, the federal government has taken an ominous tone when discussing the possible effects of repealing the cut-off. During a Senate committee hearing in 2022, Christiane Fox, then a deputy minister with Indigenous Services, warned the move would lead to 250,000 more people with status, 'at minimum,' which, she added, 'will substantively impact the registration process and, of course, programs and services that are offered.' According to demographic projections by Statistics Canada, which had been produced just days before Fox's Senate appearance, the cut-off's repeal would lead to 173,000 extra registrants by 2041 in a medium-growth scenario. More recent modelling projects an even lower number: 121,800 extra registrants by 2046, according to Statistics Canada records obtained through an access-to-information request. What's clear from the records is that the federal department is closely tracking the financial implications of changing its registration criteria. (The Free Press filed a similar request with Indigenous Services nine months ago; after requesting a lengthy extension and failing to meet that deadline, the department has yet to provide the files.) The records give a sense of the possible population impacts facing First Nations — if changes are not made. In a medium-growth scenario, the annual rate of growth of the status population is projected to take a nosedive: from 2.05 per cent in 2021 to 0.05 in 2066. In a low-growth scenario, the growth rate is projected to 'turn negative' by 2055, indicating a decline in the overall population size. What's also clear from these records is that the federal department is closely tracking the financial implications of changing its registration criteria. In an email last fall, a project leader for Indigenous Service's registration reform team wrote: 'The team and I would like to begin costing out the differences in costing between keeping the registration provisions as is versus remedying the second-generation cut-off.' Seated in a Winnipeg hotel restaurant booth, Lou Moodie places a file on the table that speaks to his mission — it shows a family's successful journey in getting their child's status changed from 6(2) to 6(1). Because the father wasn't initially listed on the child's birth certificate, the child had been registered under section 6(2). Lou Moodie has made it his mission to educate First Nations peoples on how to reclaim status. (Mikaela MacKenzie / Free Press) While the federal government has taken some steps to make it easier for children to acquire status when their father is not listed on their birth certificate or is not known, the Indian Act still assumes the father is non-status if not identified. (Moodie often points out that there are many reasons for a woman not identifying the father, from relationship breakdowns to high-risk scenarios like rape or domestic violence.) In this child's case, the process involved ordering a new long-form birth certificate — not a copy — with the father included; filling out a statutory declaration from Indigenous Services, which has to be signed by a notary; and then mailing the package with copies of the parents' ID, along with, Moodie suggests, a letter of intent, reiterating the father's information. It's easy to use the wrong form or miss a spot for an initial, which can lead to lengthy delays. One of Moodie's pieces of advice is to avoid using correction tape and instead, cross out and initial any mistakes. But in this case, just a few weeks later, a letter arrived saying the child's registration category code had been amended. Since his retirement two years ago, Moodie has been travelling to First Nations to train their staff on how to convert children with 6(2) status to 6(1), as well to register non-status kids, when possible, while running a TikTok channel, where, with his daughter's help, he's amassed roughly 10,000 followers. He's also been hosting two-day conferences, with help from his family, including his wife, Edna; his son, Lou, Jr.; and his 'Irish son' Garrett, whom he adopted as an adult. He has no funding source behind him, whether from the federal government or his First Nation, which is what he tells people irritated by the $800 cost of his conferences. With nearly 325,000 people holding 6(2) status in Canada, Moodie points out that this problem isn't a theoretical one, it's already here. Depending on with whom these people parent, 'That's 325,000 treaties gone — just like that,' Moodie says, snapping his fingers. But there's another reason for Moodie's urgency. He wants his own grandchildren to be free to choose who they grow up to love, marry and have children with. 'I don't want (my granddaughter) to ever come to say to me, say, 'Papa, can I go out with this Anglo Saxon?' Don't ask me that question, if you love the man, go ahead. I'll never, ever say to you, 'no, no, you stick with your own,'' Moodie says. 'I've never agreed with that — never will.' Marsha McLeodInvestigative reporter Signal Marsha is an investigative reporter. She joined the Free Press in 2023. Read full biography Our newsroom depends on a growing audience of readers to power our journalism. If you are not a paid reader, please consider becoming a subscriber. Our newsroom depends on its audience of readers to power our journalism. Thank you for your support.
Winnipeg Free Press
2 days ago
- Winnipeg Free Press
Moving homeless from ‘image routes' is just optics
Opinion To be charitable, you might describe it as 'out of sight, out of mind.' Uncharitably, describing it as an attempt to put lipstick on a pig seems more apt. Winnipeg City Coun. Jeff Browaty dressed it up as a safety issue, and it is, but it certainly feels like the safety part is only half — or even less than half — of the story. MIKAELA MACKENZIE / FREE PRESS An encampment along the Disraeli Freeway on Tuesday, July 22. Browaty wants ban encampments on Winnipeg's 'image routes.' And the 'image' part of 'image routes' is perhaps a giveaway. 'Along our major thoroughfares, our image routes, it's not just about the visibility of the encampments. There's an esthetic (issue) but, also, it's dangerous. It's dangerous for the people who are living at those encampments. The ones … around the Disraeli (Freeway) are so close to a major thoroughfare (and it) would be dangerous if (people) were to fall into traffic,' Browaty said. The move would add routes — including Disraeli Freeway, Pembina Highway, Portage Avenue, McPhillips Street, Main Street, St. Mary's Road, St. Anne's Road, Kenaston Boulevard and Regent Avenue — to a motion that is being put forward to halt encampments in community gardens, playgrounds, areas with spray pads and pools, community centres and other spaces designed for children and families. It's something that Winnipeg Mayor Scott Gillingham seems willing to get behind: 'When you've got people … camping close to roads, especially major thoroughfares, to me, it's an issue of safety. I think that can be and should be looked at,' he said. It's easy to understand why city councillors might want to make sure that encampments don't mar the esthetics of the city, because that's obviously something that might reflect badly on the City of Winnipeg and, for that matter, on its councillors. But leaning into the safety side of the argument sounds like more than a little bit of a stretch: after all, while it would be dangerous for encampment residents, especially those under the influence of drugs and alcohol, to 'fall into traffic,' it would be every bit as dangerous for others to fall into a river — and there are many, many riverside encampments. Those squatting in abandoned or fire-damaged buildings are equally at risk — as are those buying and using drugs from questionable and dangerous sources. Weekday Evenings Today's must-read stories and a roundup of the day's headlines, delivered every evening. Overall, this latest move looks more like addressing the optics of the homeless, rather than actually trying to solve the issue. And more than that — if it were successful, it would simply move a transient population to somewhere else in the city, and make it someone else's problem. It seems reminiscent of moves taken before large events like the Paris Olympics in 2024, when thousands of homeless people were moved from encampments near Olympic sites. The French government called it a security issue with no connection to the Olympics at all — activists described the move as social cleansing. The move of people out of Paris, interestingly, lasted only as long as the Games. It's almost become an Olympic tradition: before the 1980 Moscow Olympics, the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics, the 1996 Atlanta Olympics and the 202 Tokyo Olympics, there were also large-scale roundups of residents suffering from homelessness, poverty and drug issues. Roundups have also happened prior to large-scale economic forums, political conventions, and even prior to the 2022 Super Bowl. Safety is often cited as a reason for packaging up the homeless and shifting them safely out of sight. But, if the goal is really safety, then a ban has to have a plan. It has to include not only a place for the homeless to go, but a place that is also better organized and measurably safer for its inhabitants — and longer-term than simply through the tourist season, accompanied by a fond hope that no one returns to old haunts. Otherwise? Lipstick.
