Reflections on the first anniversary of Gord Downie’s passing
When I found out Gord Downie had passed away last October, I put on his first solo album, Coke Machine Glow, and was surprised that an album I hadn’t heard in at least five years was still entirely recognizable. I was four when the album came out and my parents, though worried what Downie’s solo album might mean for The Tragically Hip, listened to it on repeat for two years straight. It made a lot of sense to me that, 16 years later, every song was still a little familiar.
Like a lot of Canadians, I grew up with The Tragically Hip. My parents taught me the words to “Grace, Too” long before I could fathom that the song was wildly inappropriate for a three-year-old to be hearing (it is very dark, very much about prostitution, and very much still my favourite Hip song). My mom and dad were superfans for a while, seeing the band live countless times, even meeting Downie once or twice. On one (not actually memorable) occasion, I was there as a baby.
But also, like a lot of Canadians, I forgot about The Hip for a while. I got older and developed tastes separate from those of my parents. The post–Phantom Power years were not played on repeat nearly as much. No one in my house felt that these albums had the same magic, and so we instead stuck to old hits. Once, The Tragically Hip were in town and I didn’t even think to go; now I only wish I had had the opportunity to see them live.
It was only once I learned that their new music would be limited that I moved into their later work and discovered new favourites. Soon, even Downie’s last albums, Secret Path and Introduce Yerself, gained a different, but equally impactful meaning. Even they bring me to tears with each listen.
However, my story isn’t unique. Most Canadians I know, regardless of age or hometown, have a similar story. In a country that might lack a shared artistic culture, Gord Downie is one of the few unifying forces. It is not often that a celebrity death sparks a statement from the Prime Minister, but with Downie it didn’t feel like a question. On October 17, 2017, his death was felt across the country. I still remember calling my parents. It was barely seven in the morning back in BC, and you could hear the devastation in both of their voices.
Even more impressive is that nearly a year later his presence is still undeniably felt. On the micro scale, it’s in my mom’s weekly updates on what’s happening on her “Tragically Hip Facebook Fan Page,” a Facebook group that boasts over 13,000 members and still has nearly two dozen new posts every day. It’s here that my mom and many others have found a community of those equally devastated by Downie’s passing, and those who are trying to create a positive legacy for him.
On the macro level, his presence is a positive legacy. Following his cancer diagnosis, Downie committed his career to reconciliation. The Tragically Hip’s music had always had allusions to this, as early as Fully Completely’s “Looking for a Place to Happen,” which takes up the violence and racism of colonial settlers in Canada.
In 2016, Downie released the album Secret Path, which told the story of Chanie Wenjack, an Ojibwe boy who tried to walk the 400 miles from the Cecelia Jeffrey Indian Residential School to his home. Wearing only a light windbreaker in the Canadian winter, Chanie froze to death. Chanie’s story is not the only one of this nature and, as Downie puts it, “his story is Canada’s story.”
Downie committed his final year of life to the Downie Wenjack Fund, an organization that is still dedicated to reconciliation in Canada. I was born the year the last residential school closed, yet it was not until I was 11 that our Prime Minister issued an apology. I have met people in their 40s who did not know about residential schools until recently. Canada has a long way to go to make up for the travesties we have committed. By using his last months to create a key educational resource for millions of Canadians, Downie left a legacy I am proud to support.
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