Head Tax Racism

When my father bought the Springside General Store in or around 1963, our family moved into the two-story living space at the back of the store.

The area upstairs, which was essentially a part of the attic walled off, contained a sitting space and two bedrooms. The bedrooms, with curtains for doors, had trouble containing a bed and a dresser, and the "anteroom" just managed a desk and some book cases.

My little sister and I soon found the rest of the attic. We pried loose a square of painted plywood beside the railing-less stairwell and getting down on hands and knees we squeezed into a crawl space that lead to the larger part of the attic on the other side of the wall.

Among the clutter, under a cover of dust and old newspapers were several cardboard boxes. Most were filled with "store stuff," record sheets in rubber bands, receipt books and rolled up soft cover ledgers. But one small box was full of letters. I anticipated reading the deep troubling, perhaps even frightening secrets of strangers to my pre-school sister. But lifting out the envelopes and pulling out the letters I discovered they were all in Chinese.

The consolation was imagining all the characters or symbols as coded messages in plots of espionage. It was around this time when I told my mother I was going to be a detective. I kept a few of the letters in my room for awhile until the game got old.

The store was one of the oldest in town. At the time I had no idea how much of a struggle it would have been for a Chinese immigrant to become its proprietor during this early history. Perhaps all those letters told the story. I would never know.

"Head Tax" receipt
HeadTaxRecipt

But we all know now that the early history of the Chinese people in Canada was tragic. After the CPR was built by exploited Chinese labour a head tax was imposed by the Canadian government to discourage any further immigration. The tax was subsequently raised in hopes that–not being able to bring family members over–the Chinese would emigrate back to China. The racist attitude was singularly evident in the fact that the Chinese were the only ethnic group that had to pay a Head Tax to enter Canada.

Still later, the Chinese Immigration Act of 1923, referred to now as the Chinese "Exclusion" Act, barred Chinese immigration out right.

Too little, too late; in June of 2006, Prime Minister Harper offered an apology and compensation only for the head tax once paid by Chinese immigrants. Survivors or their spouses will be paid approximately $20,000 in compensation. There was an estimated 20 Chinese Canadians who paid the tax still alive in 2006. The Canadian government collected over 1.2 billion dollars (calculated in 1980’s dollars, when the redress effort began in earnest) in "head tax."

Beneath the streets of Moose Jaw (file pic)
tunnel7

It’s a credit to the Moose Jaw "tunnel tour" that it doesn’t shrink from telling this story and exposing the racist attitudes of our recent ancestors.

Prior to Prohibition, the vast basements under the hotels and a few early tunnels were the "sunless domain of Chinese immigrants who lived and toiled in steam laundries and gunny-sack factories." Here and places like this is where many travailed for meager wage, but still saved money for the "head tax" required for Canadian citizenship.

The story is told here in the "Passage to Fortune" tour. As the flyer says, "It’s an honest and moving presentation that pulls few punches in dealing with the racist attitudes in North America 100 years ago, and how Chinese Canadians rose above them to find happiness and prosperity."

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Moose Jaw and Capone

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The Coffee Encounter in Moose Jaw isn’t Starbucks, but the coffee is more than adequate and the atmosphere is pleasing with a bit of an old-world touch. More importantly, it has wireless.

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Moose Jaw may not be everyone’s first choice for a week long vacation and it wasn’t mine either. I’m here on a bit of a "working break" keeping my wife company in the evenings while she’s down the road at Briercrest, taking an "addictions course" as part of her Counseling association’s annual requirements.

But here’s the thing about this town, (pop., 34,000 or so): Until a couple decades ago, Moose Jaw, quiet, upstanding, largely church-going, is now doing everything it can to market it’s half-mythical, half-true, seedy history.

The "history" goes that during the U.S.A.’s Prohibition era, from 1917 to 1933, the local police force "fell into the greased palms of organized crime — reputedly controlled by Capone," who was said to run gambling dens and houses of prostitution up and down River Street, the Jaw’s main drag.
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Now it’s probably a stretch that Alphonse Capone ever walked the streets of Moose Jaw but it’s not entirely out of the question. There is the old dentist’s appointment book that has the entry "Al Brown," a known Capone alias. And there’s the local paper that, according to one resource I found, quoted a retired doctor who no longer lives in Moose Jaw as saying that he treated Capone for tonsillitis.

But regarding Moose Jaw being a major trafficking hub for bootleg liquour, the opportunity and logistics work. Prohibition after all was not a Canadian law and since a major railroad connected western Canada to Chicago, the little city was in a good position to be the centre that funneled bootleg spirits into prohibition parched America. For this there’s ample evidence.

And of course centrepiece of the evidence is what was discovered in 1985 when a truck fell through the street into a tunnel that lead to a network of tunnels connecting all the downtown hotels of Moose Jaw.

As Art Linkletter–who by the way was born in Moose Jaw–might have said, Little towns tell the darndest stories.

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Loose-leaf Life

I want a loose-leaf life.

I want to be able to crack the binder and insert a picture, a place, a poem, a story, a vocation, a vacation, in exactly the right spot.

I want to be able to remove an event, set it back, or forward, or crumple it up and toss it, close the silver rings and go on fresh.

I want a loose-leaf life.

cabin

I want to insert this place whenever I need it.

I desire to be surrounded by beauty.

I desire to love before I think or reason. I desire a superabundant poverty. I desire to put flesh on my desires. I desire to be reacquainted with symbolism, with the power of metaphor and the tension of paradox.

I desire great beauty.

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