Local derelict was just a freedom-loving rebel

I was disappointed to read the article in your September 22 publication which announced – so unceremoniously – the death of Opeetee Atagooyuk. I for one (and many others I suspect) felt his passing a tragic occasion and a real loss to this town. You also note Opeetee’s “addiction to intoxicants such as hair spray and Lysol.” I am not an expert in these things, and I can’t claim to know what Opeetee was or was not addicted to.

Generally speaking, people who are drinking hair spray and Lysol aren’t doing so because of any particular affinity for either product, but because there is no better alcohol available. Yes, Opeetee drank, and drank hair spray and Lysol when bootleg booze was too expensive, with devastating consequences. Opeetee, however, should be remembered for much more than this.

One of the first times I had any real dealings with Opeetee occurred in the courtroom. Opeetee was up on some charge or another. At the time, Opeetee had a crude Mohawk (crude because his hair appeared to have been shaved down to the scalp by something blunt) and caked orange face paint. And I remember thinking, naively it turns out, that I will get this guy off on account that surely everyone can see he is nuts.

But when, a few minutes into our first interview, I asked him about the rather scary looking war paint and Mohawk, I ran into an answer that, like so many dealings throughout the rest of our relationship, made me ashamed to have prejudged and discounted Opeetee. In the least crazy way possible, he shrugged and then replied “it’s just my style.”

“Style?” I asked.

“Yeah you know, style… your style” he said, gesturing toward me, “my style.”

All this delivered in an almost exasperated way that suggested that he could read right through my question, that he knew that I expected some wild answer to confirm the craziness. And all I got was what I deserved, a simple and honest explanation that chastened me and my preconceptions.

Opeetee and I worked together to get him out jail on a few occasions. The trouble he got into was usually fairly minor (one of his biggest problems was that he often had no safe place to go.) Nobody likes jail, of course. But prison is more unbearable for some than others. Opeetee was such an individual: freedom was the only structure in which he seemed to manage. And so helping Opeetee get out was always especially thrilling.

Of course Opeetee was eccentric and his behavior sometimes erratic. Opeetee was known all over town for this. He was known in the Northern store parking lot for socializing and demonstrating and sometimes protesting. He also was known in the courts for troublemaking, he was known at the hospital. He was banned from half the businesses in town.

Opeetee was also known for his generosity, for his humour (of which he had plenty), and for many people in town (ask around, they’re not hard to find), for his friendship. Just two weeks ago, Opeetee brought me a gift, some whale bones from the beluga he caught earlier this summer. Yes, Opeetee caught a beluga in a whale net he tended at the causeway; I don’t know of anyone else who can make this claim.

His presence on city council, should he have been elected, would have given voice to a growing group of our neighbours who live without that which we take for granted.

I am sad for the loss of Opeetee, sad also for his life, and sad for our loss. I am happy to have known Opeetee Atagooyuk, grateful for the unspoken message he spoke: don’t judge me so fast, don’t write me off, I am here and I matter.

Christopher Debicki
Iqaluit