I Met Some Amazing Mi’kmaq
Cuzzin, a funny thing happened on the way to Cabot Trail...
I’m cruising through the heart of captivating Cape Breton, when I see a small place called Skye Mountain Pizza in We'koqma'q First Nation. I ain’t never been to We'koqma'q, and I’m all about supporting our own, so there’s no doubt imma stop for a giant slice in this rez paradise.
I finish a cozy prerolled joint then walk into the cozy pizza joint, which is more of a neat little kitchen shed tucked in their yard. The smell of fresh dough and sizzling toppings smacks me right upside the head. I’m the polar opposite of cool, as I drool like a fool on the first day of school.
Amber Bernard, the daughter of the owner, spots me as soon as I walk in. She’s the real deal—once a reporter for APTN (Google her, she’s incredible). With a grin on her face, she calls out, “Heeeeey, you’re Jason EagleSpeaker, aren’t you? Mom, this guy’s Facebook famous and rez famous! He writes some cool books!”
I freeze, suddenly self-conscious, but also slightly disillusioned by weed: “Uhh… maaaaybe?”
Tina Bernard, the owner, comes over with a huge smile. She calls the whole family in. There’s laughter and love in the L’nu air—this place feels like home. I think of my late grandma and how she always welcomed guests into her humble home in that woman warrior way, that good way.
“Oh, cool! We all follow you!” Tina says. “Order whatever you want, it's on the house, as long as you take a picture with us!”
My bloodshoot eyes blink 7 times in disbelief. “For real? No way! Okay, how about… an 18-inch Meat Lover’s Pizza, with extra moose meat and eel, and four lobster rolls … oh, and a big bottle of Bepsi, eh, cuzzins?”
Tina laughs: “It would be an honor to cook for Mr. Jason EagleSpeaker. Come back in 25 minutes, we’ll have it ready for you.”
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Twenty-four minutes later, I’m back. And sure enough, the whole Bernard crew is there, waiting outside with open arms. They tell me how they donate meals to local non-Native families who lost their jobs when a local company shut down. Every day, they draw a name, and the lucky family gets a huge meal. I gently weep.
Tina hands me a pizza so big it could feed the entire Salvation Army. The whole family gathers around, posing for pictures. I’m trying to hold it together, but I can’t help it—I start to cry… and not no smooth warrior war cry, I’m talking full on crocodile tears ugly snot cry. These are the kind of M’ikmaq families that make Mi’kma’ki the true paradise it is for a Blackfoot like me. They’re proof that there’s no excuse not to give back, to care for others. Their love and kindness physically radiates from them brightly, like a Care Bear Stare.
“Next time you’re on the rez, you’ve got a place to stay,” Tina says, with a warm, open smile.
I thank them, my heart full. I can’t believe what just happened—what they just gave me. It wasn’t the pizza, it was something deeper. Something real. This is what community is all about.
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With a heart having just grown 7 sizes, I continue on my journey. My strange estranged dad, who’s visiting from Seattle, is in the passenger seat. Now, to be honest, my dad and I never see eye to eye… well maybe we did once, but I was 10 and we both wanted to see the breakdancing movie Breakin’ (but I’m pretty sure he was just pretending he wanted to). He’s never really paid attention to my career, never read any of my books. But today, he’s quiet, taking it all in.
As we drive along the winding roads of Cape Breton, he suddenly says, his voice breaking a little, “You know, O’mahk’siik’iimi … those Bernards didn’t give me that pizza, they gave you that pizza. They gave it to you because of the impact you’ve had on their lives. You’ve touched peoples’ souls, coast to coast, north to south, rez to rez, all over Turtle Island. And here I am, your own damn father… I never even read one of your damn books.”
I glance over at him, surprised to see tears welling up in his eyes.
“I’ve been wrong, son,” he continues, his voice thick as bear grease. “I’m sorry for doubting you. I didn’t realize the good you were doing in the world. That changes today.”
Tears fill my eyes too. I wipe them away quickly, not wanting to break down in front of him. But it’s hard. My dad, finally seeing me, finally seeing the work I’ve been doing, the life I’ve been living—it’s a huge moment. The weight of it all hits me like a tsunami.
“Thank you,” I whisper, trying to steady my voice. “I love you.”
We sit in silence for a while, letting the moment settle between us. Then, we continue our drive toward the Cabot Trail, the road ahead now feeling a little brighter, a little more full of possibility.
