The first time I met Murray Sinclair, I was working at the Neeginan Centre as a communications officer. I was two years out from working as a form filler for the Independent Assessment Process, the claims process for survivors of physical and sexual abuse in the Indian Residential School system.I stopped him in the rotunda, sharing that his speaking at a Truth and Reconciliation Commission hearing resonated with me. He acknowledged how difficult my job must’ve been, knowing well the heavy burden of carrying the stories of survivors.Working with survivors, I met many who asked if I was a lawyer. “No, I’m just a form filler,” was my sheepish response.
“I wish you were my lawyer, we need our people in the field,” some of them pleaded.I didn’t think I had what it takes to be a lawyer and my first child was just a year old. But those voices of survivors rang in my head for years later and I eventually mustered up the courage to apply to law school, after some encouragement from some dear friends, a doctor and a well-known political leader who is now the premier of this province.Five gruelling years later, I graduated from Robson Hall Faculty of Law and was hired as an associate at what is now known as Cochrane Sinclair LLP.
Murray and I were in a client meeting with the family of Eishia Hudson, a 16-year-old Indigenous youth who was shot and killed by the Winnipeg Police Service. I was only a few months into practice as a new lawyer when I received the call from William Hudson to represent his family for the inquest into Eishia’s death.It felt surreal sitting next to Murray Sinclair, a legal giant and hero, and I was awestruck by his guiding presence so early in my career.Truth be told, I did not feel I was ready or experienced enough to take on the magnitude of a matter such as Eishia’s, one that holds such significance to Indigenous people who have experienced decades of unprecedented police brutality.My mind strayed into the territory of impostor syndrome that Indigenous lawyers especially find themselves in — “I don’t belong here.”
The family asked Murray what brought him to the firm. He answered, “They told me they were hiring her,” glancing toward me with discerning eyes. My train of self-doubt fell off its rails.He recalled meeting me as a child through my late father, Joseph Morrison, who retired as a justice of the peace in Kenora.It was the first time I heard of their connection, or that we had met before I was old enough to remember. I felt a pang of grief over the absence of my father’s guidance, but it softened as Murray went on to describe his own passion for mentorship.
It wasn’t just me he was referring to. Murray was answering the call to be a mentor and beacon of inspiration to the growing wave of young Indigenous lawyers entering the field.I tried to quit the profession of law during that first year of practice. I felt myself crumbling under the pressure. My phone rang that day with Murray’s name appearing on the screen.He immediately started teasing me in the fashion he did, but my emotions were so high and nothing was getting through. His voice changed and he said sternly, “You are going to be a great lawyer one day. You aren’t there right now, but you will be. So you need to stick with it.”
I wasn’t entirely convinced, but how does anyone say no to Murray Sinclair?Before we ended our call he said, “I know you don’t have a father anymore. And no one will ever take the place of your dad. But I want you to call me whenever you need and say all the things that you want to say to your dad, OK? I love you.” I sobbed and sobbed.I did call him many times — to cry, to tease and be teased, to joke and laugh, to share with him all the milestones and challenges I faced in my career and personal life.Murray’s wit and humour was unmatched. When I shared the news of my now-husband Blake’s proposal, he said, “You tell that guy that I know people.”
He loved children. He always asked how my oldest, Evie, was doing. He reminded me to be a strong mother for her by saying “She’s always watching you, and she knows when you are hurting,” urging me to heal my own personal wounds.I became pregnant with my second child, and he said to me several times, “you know, Murray is a good name.”We would always chuckle, his way of making me laugh when I was feeling the pregnancy blues. Not to Murray’s surprise, I named Joseph after my late father — a fitting name, he proclaimed.
Our youngest baby boy arrived like a boom of thunder during a lightning storm, no less, and we named him just that — Animkii Murray.We delivered the news to Murray and he was overjoyed. We didn’t know that his beloved wife Katherine shared the same name, Animkii-quay.He wrote to us, “I am pleased his arrival was as it was. What an auspicious beginning. He heard his relatives calling him. As I was standing outside putting down tobacco for Animkii-quay, I was getting soaked and I said, this better be more than just a few drops.”
Murray had an intuition that seemed almost surreal. He would reach out when we didn’t expect it.Last December, Blake’s mother Sheila was in her final days after a hard-fought battle with cancer. Not long after her passing, he called.“I dreamt you had a baby girl,” asking if I had good news to share. I broke the devastating news and in that sombre quiet moment he said, “I know now this baby was Sheila making her journey.”He assured me she was journeying peacefully.
We visited in person, not often enough, but when we did, we would drink tea, and he would tell one of his great stories. His health began to deteriorate, so when he was tired we would just sit and embrace the quiet. He assured me the company was welcome.During one visit, we were working on a crossword. I was using one of his gold Jinhao pens, the clip shaped like a dragon with red gem eyes. I read out the clue, “Wise men bearing gifts.”His answer was a full singing rendition. “Westward leading still proceeding,” his voice carried like deep waters, powerful as ever and I hung onto every note. “Guide us to thy perfect light,” his chant ended.Hoowah! I clapped and we smiled.
I penned in the answer, We Three Kings and as it was my time to head home again, I went to hand the pen back to him. “You take that with you,” he said.Truly, it’s the gift that keeps giving, as I think of him every time I put ink to paper.In speaking with others who loved Murray and sharing our stories, we have moments of realization that he was the person everyone called when they needed to cry, had questions to ask, all of us lost in trying to navigate difficult terrain.
In answering the call, he was so generous with his time and love, reminding us of our own gifts and our own strength, lifting our spirits when our loads became too heavy to carry on our own.How do you give back to someone who gave so much? It’s the question that rolls over and over in my mind, reflecting on how much he helped me stay the path.That’s just it — stay the path. Stay the trail he blazed, climb the mountain he described. All of the wisdom he imparted, the gift of his time, it’s up to us individually and as a collective to continue the work.
A memory that burns at the forefront. Sitting across from him in his apartment, time has slowed down following the loss of his beloved wife Katherine. He starts singing a song he heard in ceremony. I can’t recall the words, but his face is clear, his eyes closed as melody fills the room.I too closed my eyes and was brought back to sitting in ceremony with my own family on Lake of the Woods, with our grandfather drum, Waakepinaas. For an entire song, in the middle of his Bergen Gardens apartment, it felt like home.I can hear it now as his loved ones and ancestors sing him home. Baamaapii Mazina Giizhik. Journey well and until we meet again.
