Mr. Holman Dreams: Part Two of Two

RACHEL ATTITUQ QITSUALIK

Even in the dream, he has a slight limp — the result of a war wound that he never talked about. Actually, his only tangible connection to the army was a framed poem called “High Flight,” and a photo of a B-52 bomber that hung in what we called the “Rogue’s Gallery.”

It was right next to a photo of me posing proudly in a group of students on our first meeting with Pierre Eliot Trudeau, who was then the prime minister of Canada. In it, I’m wearing some kind of purple, ruffled creation straight out of a department store catalogue, and black glasses.

I wonder what ever happened to the Holman’s personal collection of old photographs, photos of how we lived in the past. There were the old campsites, Aklavik as a hamlet. Some of my favourites were photos of our leaders today, as they were when children.

I wish there was a way to set up some kind of a memorial to all of his great work, maybe open a library, or name a street after him. Maybe even an Internet address list of all those who grew up in Stringer Hall? It could be called “The Stringer Hall Club” or something. I wonder if a reunion is possible, if anyone would be interested.

At the very least, it would be a good excuse to listen again, together, to old Santana singles.

As an adult, I’ve run across several other Stringer Hall kids. They always hug me, and say things like, “Remember when you came in really drunk and got grounded for a month?” Sheesh — nobody ever remembers the great grades I got, or the time I saved the basketball game against Grollier Hall by slam-dunking past their tallest guard. (Why did they have so many tall kids over there?)

Stringer Hall is no less a common bond today than it was then. I don’t know if Mr. Holman would have approved or not.

Despite some minor rivalry with the Grollier Hall kids, the only kids that were truly distrusted, perhaps even disliked, were the “squares.” I guess that even the term itself goes to show how much time has passed.

The squares lectured us all against the dangers of smoking, at a time when smoking was the least of our troubles. Don’t have sex till you’re married or you’ll be considered “cheap.” We all know now, in retrospect, how trivial this advice was. Save your money for a rainy day. Ladies don’t spit on the sidewalk. Too bad there wasn’t a different group to advise us against the real dangers, like suicide and substance abuse.

Years later, I literally had to practice spitting and smoking on the sidewalk in order to break free from the inner straight-jacket that my overly proper and unforgivingly strict upbringing had laid upon me. Yet even when I really finally drank for real, I made sure I always tipped the taxi-driver, because that’s what ladies did.

I think, tragically, that what at last bought my mental freedom was the blinding agony of my younger brother’s suicide. Compared to that, many things paled in importance. What did I care about a society that had failed him, and myself to a degree? I realized I had a choice. To move forward, or freeze forever.

I guess, in a way, that is what makes my dream of Mr. Holman so symbolic to me. He stands there in my unconscious mind, and I remember that it seemed that he could foresee an uncertain future for us, and in some way try to shore up the fissures in it. Despite our surroundings, despite our difficulties, he would fight to enrich our lives as much as was within his power.

I wish I could say that he had had some witty, parting shot for me, some bit of last wisdom either in life or dream. But such was never the case.

You see, he was a strong father substitute in a time of need, and none of us were ever really quite close to him. He was always a distant figure, looking off somewhere, lost in thought. He was a worried man, standing alone and haunted by his hopes for our much greater and brighter future.

Pijariiqpunga.