John Melenchuk argues his case at a press conference in Saskatoon. (photo from Global News)
Chapter Nine: John Melenchuk and the Pat Lorje Controversy
I spent Tuesday, March 20th, 2001 relaxing at my apartment with my children. My wife attended university on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which were my days to spend with the kids. I still hadn't found a job and I tried to view my position as Leader of the First Nations Party as a job worthy of all my time and attention. However, the truth was the benefits of the "job" were far outweighed by the costs; My lack of legitimate political activity often left me bored and depressed, affecting my self esteem and psychology.
Still, I took delight in the fact the First Nations Party was being recognized officially in the results of the by-election the night before. I'd often run down to the corner store with my children in their wagon to check out the Leader Post. Or I would stop by the Hotel Saskatchewan smoke shop after supper to check out the Saskatoon Star Phoenix. I continued to post newspaper articles mentioning the First Nations Party on our web site, FirstNationsParty.com.
I was unable to reach John Melenchuk by phone, so I left messages at various phone numbers asking him to call me. He called me Wednesday afternoon and I immediately congratulated him on rallying over one hundred votes for the party. I asked him how he felt about the result, and he replied that he was content with everything. John was excited to tell me how he spent Monday evening at Premier Lorne Calvert's victory party held at his campaign headquarters. "Oh, good for you," I replied, admitting "I completely forgot to head out to the victory party the night of my by-election!" (The tradition of congratulating the winner was lost on me amidst my defeat.)
I was curious how the party unfolded, and John told me "everybody was there- even (former) Premier Roy Romanow." Of course, John's new friend Ted Merriman was present to congratulate Premier Calvert, too. Then John added, "Something did happen that I'm wondering about, Brendan…" I asked him to continue, and he told me, "I got into a fight with Pat Lorje."
Visions of John assaulting a cabinet minister entered my mind, and I anxiously asked, "What happened?!" John explained that he met Aboriginal Affairs minister Pat Lorje and began discussing his grievances with her. "I expected she would say something like 'Good job, John. It's good to see aboriginal people having a say in provincial politics,' but instead she just said 'Mister Melenchuk, you should go home and lick your wounds like the rest of your people.'" He added, "The conversation didn't go too well, I guess."
While I was happy to hear that his "fight" was only a verbal exchange but, being disturbed about the content, I asked him again what she said and he repeated: "You should go home and lick your wounds like the rest of your people." I was shocked. "Are you sure, John?" I asked. "Are those the exact words she used?" John repeated the phrase again, word for word, and asked me whether I thought it was a racial slur. I said that she might have been referring to his campaign team, but John added: "I don't know, Brendan. I smelled alcohol on her breath. I think it was a shot at us aboriginals."
Now I was more than intrigued. John was telling me that our Aboriginal Affairs minister, Pat Lorje, was under the influence of alcohol when she not only told him to go home, but go home and lick his wounds- and on top of that, lick his wounds like the rest of his people! I challenged him again on the wording. Was it "like" the rest of your people, or "with?" Was it "your people" or "you people?" John was firm. "You should go home and lick your wounds like the rest of your people."
I told John I would write up a press release and send it to the NDP caucus and the Sask Party caucus, and wait and see what would become of the comments. I wasn't convinced the comments were meant as a racial jab, but I did think they were insensitive enough to warrant an apology. I asked John whether anyone witnessed the exchange, and he told me his campaign volunteer Myles Ducharme was with him and heard the conversation. I requested that John get Myles to call me before I sent out the press release, and he told me to call back in an hour and gave me a phone number.
During that hour, I wrote up the press release. I titled it "First Nations Party candidate demands apology." Very brief, I explained how John and Myles attended the NDP victory party and "were shocked when an intoxicated Pat Lorje told them: You should go home and lick your wounds like the rest of your people." (I later regretted using the term "intoxicated," believing that "inebriated" would have been more concise.) I called John and he told me Myles had agreed to be named as a witness; I told John I'd send out the release overnight to the caucus offices. I suggested Pat Lorje could easily respond with an apology if indeed the remarks were innocent.
I programmed my computer to fax the press release, dated Thursday, March 22nd, 2001. The release went to the caucus offices of the NDP and Sask Party, as well as the Liberal Party headquarters. Unbeknownst to me, the Opposition Saskatchewan Party Aboriginal Affairs critic Arlene Jule questioned cabinet minister Pat Lorje the next morning in the legislative session about the remarks. I can't remember whether anyone called that morning, but I decided to venture down to the legislature to see what was happening.
I arrived at the exact moment Pat Lorje was being scrummed by the media in the rotunda, and joining the swarm of reporters, I tried to hear what she had to say. I am not proud to admit this, but I ended up acting in a very confrontational manner with Lorje, too. I couldn't quite hear everything she was saying, and I threw out my own ignorant question from among the reporters. "Did you have anything to drink that night?" I asked.
Lorje answered that, yes, she had had "one drink- a white rum with a whole bunch of coke and two limes in it." She added she normally drinks red wine, but it was unavailable at the victory party. Regardless, she drove home that evening. My presence amongst the throng of reporters obviously didn't please Lorje; we exchanged stern glares before I decided to move aside and allow her to answer the media.
CTV's Wayne Mantyka approached me and asked whether he could get a few comments on camera. I agreed and his cameraman prepared the shoot. He asked what I thought of Pat Lorje's explanation that John was acting belligerently, which prompted her response: "I looked at him and said 'Mister Melenchuk, why don't you go home and lick your wounds, and when you're prepared to be polite, then I might be prepared to talk to you.'" (There was no mention of the phrase "like the rest of your people.")
I backed John. "I would believe my candidate's version of events," I told the reporters. "I can see no reason for a candidate in a by-election to be making up stories like that." I explained that all we were asking for was an apology. Wayne asked me why we had waited a couple days to make the allegation. Why didn't John confront the issue right there at the victory party where every member of the media was present? I explained that the allegation was not just a knee jerk reaction to a perceived slight. "You know, for the past few days, in fact, he hasn't been too sure what to do. But he felt very strongly that he feels that an apology is necessary." With that, my scrum was over.
I went home and waited for John to call, which he did in short order. I asked him what was happening, and he told me a few reporters had called him, he stuck to his story, and still demanded an apology. I told him I spoke with a few reporters, too, so we'd wait until Friday's paper came out. John mentioned a couple reporters suggested he hold a press conference and provide his witness, which I felt was a good idea. I called the Indian Metis Friendship Center in Saskatoon to book time the next day. Then I phoned John at yet another phone number and explained Myles' participation was absolutely vital.
I watched the evening news and realized just how outrageous the story was becoming. Pat Lorje admitted telling John to go home and lick his wounds, but denied saying "like the rest of your people." It was now up to Myles Ducharme to confirm the remarks were indeed made. When Friday morning came and the story was on the front page of the Saskatoon Star Phoenix (and prominent in all Saskatchewan papers) I realized how explosive the story was becoming.
I checked the radio stations and, sure enough, the top story was "Cabinet minister denies making racial slur." Within hours, the story became national news. The reputation of the government and our party hung in the balance. John called and said "everyone" was demanding he hold a press conference, even suggesting it was all a big farce concocted by Brendan Cross. ("They think you're behind it all," he told me.) I convinced him a press conference was the only answer- if he could deliver Myles, I'd immediately fax out a press release announcing he and Myles would hold a press conference at the IMFC at 1 P. M. John agreed.
I began to get really nervous worrying that John's press conference would fall apart. It was shortly after 10 A. M. and I figured I could speed all the way to Saskatoon and make it to the Friendship Center just in time to appear with John at 1 P. M. My wife had to attend classes at the university, which would require me to take care of the kids. We phoned around frantically in search of a babysitter and a vehicle, but no options existed. As she left me in frustration, my rage became uncontrollable. With both children crying, I threw my son's tricycle against the wall, frightening my kids like never before. Recognizing this, I calmed down, but it took minutes for me to comfort and reassure my children completely.
After preparing lunch, I phoned John on his friend's cell phone just before 1 P. M. "John, it’s Brendan. What's happening?" I asked. John was quiet. "They're all here, Brendan. All the reporters are waiting. I've got to go and start the press conference," he whispered. I told him, "Just be honest and everything will work itself out." I hoped to God that everything would. Nervously I waited through the hour for his call. Just before 2 P. M. it finally came. John wasn't happy.
Apparently, while John was sitting at a table taking questions from the media, Myles was approached by some reporters and asked for his version of events. Myles said that, yes, Pat Lorje told John to go home and lick his wounds, but when challenged on Pat Lorje's denial of saying "like the rest of your people," he acquiesced. What did she say? Myles recalled, "Something like 'John, you should think about what you're doing,' about knocking her premier and stuff like that, and then it come out to 'John, you should just go home and lick your wounds,' or, I don't know after that."
Susan Burton of CTV continued probing: "John says she said something like 'Go home and lick your wounds with the rest of your people.'" She then asked, "Did she say that?" On camera and in front of a couple reporters in the lobby of the Friendship Center, Myles revealed, "Ah, no, just told John to go home and lick his wounds." I didn't know how to respond. Myles was our witness; we had asked him to clarify events on our behalf. Believing in the power of truth, I had not cross-examined Myles myself. I had trusted that John had everything under control.
Puzzled about the way things turned out, I asked John, "Didn't you talk to Myles about what to say beforehand?" John told me no, he didn't want people to think that he was influencing Myles or putting words into his mouth. John felt bad. ("Did I do good, Brendan? You told me to tell the truth and I did.") I assured him that I was proud that he wasn't feeding lines to Myles, and yes, the whole affair had been sorted. All anyone wanted to know was the truth.
The truth was John didn’t have everything under control. In fact, his press conference had quickly gotten out of control. By the time he was challenged with Myles' version of events, he was left back-pedaling desperately. "Well, Myles was behind me, so he couldn't hear… what she had told me," he told CTV. By the time reporters were satisfied they knew what was going on, John was storming out of the press conference, shaking his head and muttering to friends, "They don't believe me, obviously. Pat Lorje's a godsend." The CTV news cameras caught it all on tape.
I decided to cut and run. It was Friday afternoon and I could see the story was over. When my wife got home, I drove down to the legislature (not in session Friday afternoons) to see if the Star Phoenix was available in the library. It was. It seems that when it rains, it pours. I opened the Saskatoon newspaper to find another Doug Cuthand column blasting me. Titled "Free advice to the First Nations Party," the article would appear in Monday Regina Leader Post, so I had the weekend to prepare for Mr. Cuthand's remarks to be spread onto my doorstep. Our love/hate relationship continued.
What advice did Cuthand have for the party? Well, let's start with the "flaky Brendan Cross," a leader whose support in two by-elections didn't even equal "(John) Melenchuk's support in one." (Cuthand's arithmetic is questionable. John won 115 votes, whereas I won 143 votes federally and 49 votes provincially. You do the math.) Cuthand urged members to "ditch the leader… the sooner… the better," before unveiling his solution- seeking the support of "the two mainstream aboriginal political bodies," the FSIN and MNS. I wondered whether Cuthand was even aware of the obstacles I had faced with the FSIN already.
My love/hate relationship with Doug Cuthand really bothered me because I used to admire his success as a native journalist, or at least respect him because he was my Elder. (My mom even knew his dad who was an Anglican priest.) His first column about the party was enthusiastic and supportive, but that was followed by very public criticisms that hurt. Because of my youth, my political instincts weren't as developed, and it was difficult knowing that the chiefs were forbidden to get involved. Even though my phone number was in the phone book (and on press releases and our web site), Cuthand chose to communicate with me through his syndicated newspaper column. It could have been different.
My wonderful week came to an end with Saturday's front-page story in the Star Phoenix: "Melenchuk's witness fails to back claim." The article was written by Betty Ann Adam, and I felt it adequately represented the week's events. Also printed Saturday was political columnist Murray Mandryk's "Tricky week for Calvert." Mandryk wrote, "It's doubtful that there was a racial element in (Lorje's) comment to John Melenchuk, but telling him to go lick his wounds likely didn't help."
Personally, I was quite disappointed that I had participated in such a weak attack on a political opponent. True, Lorje had once called an opponent "an unfathomable prick" and would later be accused of inappropriately slapping an aboriginal employee, but I was accountable for my actions, too. If I had been Pat Lorje and truly hadn't uttered a racial slur, I would have sued both John and myself for libel. Nobody needs false accusations. (I don't recommend low blows- they ask to be replied to in kind.) I began to doubt whether I had what it takes to remain a politician or engage in political warfare at all.
The media joined the war, too. On Monday, Prince Albert Daily Herald editor Barb Gustofson wrote an editorial condemning the whole Lorje affair as unnecessary. Gustofson said there was "no need to create ghosts that cannot be killed," a reference to questionable allegations, which "forced (Lorje) to defend herself against something she never said." Saskatoon Star Phoenix columnist Randy Burton awarded John with a trophy for "alienating almost everybody." He wrote: "In the space of a one-month byelection campaign, Melenchuk managed to insult all of his fellow candidates, the provincial civil service, the news media and most particularly, Aboriginal Affairs Minister Pat Lorje whom he accused of racism without so much as a shred of evidence beyond his own overheated imagination."
Luckily, on Thursday, March 29th, NDP Finance Minister Eric Cline released the first budget of Premier Lorne Calvert's government, bringing an end to the Lorje saga. The government promised to create new internships for aboriginal students, giving them the opportunity to train for government jobs upon completion of a degree. I listened to CJME while my wife was at school and heard that media and political types would be setting up in the legislature rotunda to respond to the budget. I decided to head down to the legislature to be part of it all.
When I arrived, I was directed to the art gallery where copies of the budget were being handed out. I walked into the room and spied FSIN Vice-Chief Greg Ahenakew sitting in the back row with FSIN communications director Darcy MacKenzie. Once again, I was excited about the opportunity to meet officials from the FSIN. I waved enthusiastically to get their attention as I slid down their row towards them. Neither of them acknowledged me, though. In fact, it appeared they were deliberately ignoring me. I sat a couple of seats away from them, perplexed at what I felt was very little class, and I left the room as soon as I received a budget.
I knew Darcy MacKenzie because he was a reporter at CJME before working for the FSIN, and I had interviewed him while I was reporting for CJME. News Director Murray Wood was at the legislature with the CJME gang, so I walked over and visited with them while they set up equipment. Morning man Don Collins was always happy to see me, which brought my mood up a little. Otherwise, the whole experience was incredibly disheartening. I found myself wandering around watching people getting interviewed left and right, but I felt irrelevant because I didn't have a good grasp on the issues. And, of course, when I tried to position myself to meet Chief Ahenakew and introduce myself, he and Darcy would disregard my outstretched hand and turn their backs to me.
I managed to do a couple interviews, however. CTV's Nelson Bird and the Leader Post's Kevin O'Connor asked for comments on various aspects of the budget and I did my best to offer a fresh viewpoint. I approached Canadian Press legislative reporter Craig Wong and offered if wanted a comment. Wong immediately replied, "No," and was on his way. I realized that, for the most part, I was just hanging around taking up space, so I decided to head home. A message from a government employee was waiting for me. The Department of Finance was holding a budget party that evening and I was invited to watch the band and learn their material. Perhaps I could jam with them sometime. I accepted the invitation.
I arrived at the Regina Rugby Club shortly before 9 P. M. and met my musician friend for a beer. Premier Lorne Calvert was just getting ready to leave and was saying his goodbyes. Calvert greeted me warmly and encouraged me to have a good time. Minutes later, he was on his way out the door. I was glad I was able to bump into him before he left.
I sat with a girl I knew from high school and her partner. We reminisced about old times but were unable to fully enjoy ourselves because of the tension which existed, me and her having shared an interest in each other years before. Of course, I didn't want to interfere with her current relationship. When her boyfriend was busy at the bar, she told me how happy she was working for Finance, and how happy she was to see me. This particular evening stands out in my memory because I think it was the first time I deliberately chose not to drink more than the one drink I had already had. I recognized my needs would be met more appropriately by giving my regrets to the band and going home early.
The next morning, my rebuttal to Doug Cuthand's column was printed in the Saskatoon Star Phoenix. Under the title "Critics show no class in their attacks," I named Cuthand, Murray Mandryk, and NDP cabinet minister Keith Goulet as "three gentlemen for whom I reserve the utmost respect… one might even speculate on the potential camaraderie between us," given our mutual interest in aboriginal affairs and journalism. Instead, they chose to "belittle my character and ridicule my activity… (demonstrating) their complete lack of class." I went on to point out to Doug Cuthand: "If aboriginal people have anything to derive embarrassment from, it should be that it took a 25-year-old ex-con university drop-out to muster enough courage and initiative to establish a political alternative. (If Doug) had created the First Nations Party when he was 25, by now the FSIN might even be contemplating an endorsement."
I took shots at all my critics, including Jason Bear of the "non-partisan" Saskatchewan Aboriginal Education and Voter Registration Drive. He had "some work to do- other than rally votes for the Liberals," I wrote. And I admitted, "I fear that by next time, (Keith) Goulet will have succeeded in scaring the hell out of every little Indian in the province with his ghost story about my connection to the Saskatchewan Party." In closing I said, "Because my father taught me how to be a gentleman, I will be ready to greet any one of my critics with a handshake and a smile. Maybe some day they will acquire some class and treat me the same way."
The same letter was published in the Regina Leader Post a week later, and my uncle in Fort Qu'Appelle was so impressed he cut it out and hung it on his fridge. The Leader Post included two lines that were omitted from the Star Phoenix version. It was indicative of the battle I was having with depression. "Considering the large number of adopted aboriginals who resort to suicide, it's a wonder I even voted for myself in the recent byelection," I wrote. And I closed by saying, "The saddest aspect of my relationship with these three is that I will continue to judge them based on their achievements and treat them with the dignity and respect they deserve."
The terrible truth was I was battling a suicidal depression that would persist until I got psychiatric help years later. My marriage was falling apart- my best man Jeff Lowey, founding secretary Jessica Leverington, and two founding directors were refusing to speak to me in response to the way I was treating my wife. My reaction to rejection brought out the worst in me, making me desperate for community support. But, alas, even my priest abandoned me.
Add to that my belief that aboriginal leaders were rejecting me even though I was earnestly trying to contribute to the future, and the result was me parking at Saskatoon's power station one afternoon. I fashioned a noose from a long electrical cord, tied it to a ladder, and tested its strength to see whether it would support my weight. Once I realized I could indeed swing from it, I just fell to my knees crying. The thought of leaving my two beautiful children without a father kept my spirit alive, preventing me from becoming the next Saulteaux man to be found dead at the power plant.
Party president David Clinton's almost religious belief in me kept me alive, too. Dave wrote a letter to the Star Phoenix that was published along with mine. He criticized the government’s new internship program ("From welfare and make-work programs to three-piece-suit jobs? Come on, we can't even get the pick and shovel jobs now!"). He said natives aspire to more than just jobs as chauffeurs working for the provincially owned bus line. Dave's intensity could be incredible sometimes. (At Christmas while I was resigned from leadership, Dave made the front page of the Prince Albert Daily Herald protesting against Sask Energy rate hikes.)
When former party president Shawn Kayseas wrote a response to my rebuttal ("Cross takes great offence at anyone who dares to step on his withering cape…" His letters were almost as clever as mine), Dave quickly followed it with a letter of his own: "My family will support the FNP, no matter what Kayseas or other parties write… In Regina, where it counts, the FNP will give us the chance to change the order on hiring our people… After we've licked our wounds, we'll again carry our fledgling white buffalo to the true debate house in the Queen's court where laws are passed.”
Dave didn't only write letters to newspapers. Many mornings I awoke and checked the mail to find a thick envelope with his wonderful words inside. (We still phone each other and keep one another informed through regular mail.) Dave's letters always contained impassioned pleas to keep on pressing ahead no matter what the obstacles were. He said even though it might take a generation, our best days were yet to come. I would soon believe that they were.
