A tough personal battle that's far from over for Trevor MillerBy Marissa NelsonThe Hamilton Spectator (Feb 27, 2007)
He dips his brush-cut head and extends his warm hand by way of greeting, as he enters the tiny police interrogation room at the Barton Street jail.
This has been home for six months.
Trevor Miller is here, accused of robbery and assault.
But he believes he's accused of standing up for native rights.
Jail has taken its toll.
His hand has a slight tremble.
He has a cold.
He has day-old stubble.
His eyes are watery.
He looks like he hasn't slept in days. His emotions are raw, his voice regularly hitting a wavery tone.
He wears a few extra pounds and has a scar on his right temple.
He looks more worn than warrior, more contemplative than convict, more scared then scrapper.
But to many, Trevor Miller is an icon in the struggle for native rights.
In the months since he was first jailed, Miller has become a cause celebre for supporters of the native occupation in Caledonia. They organized rallies in both Hamilton and Toronto, demanding his release.
They said that it was only because he was a native that he was languishing in jail. Miller believes that, too. But he also knows his past, his admittedly patchy history involving drugs and domestic assault, could leave a different impression.
His court appearances are a clash of cultures, as Miller appears in native headdress and challenges the jurisdiction of the court.
But the 31-year-old Six Nations man had never been in jail until he was arrested in August for three charges stemming from a scuffle with a television cameraman and another one with American law officials near Douglas Creek Estates.
And before last April, Miller hadn't been involved in the politics of his people.
He wasn't interested in land claims.
He didn't care much for the Great Law. He didn't know much about his history or tradition.
But he says he's a changed man.
He says he's not proud of the life he led. In early 2006 he pleaded guilty to assaulting a pregnant woman, his then-girlfriend who is now the mother of his 11-month-old son. He says he was trying to forcefully remove her from his house, but knows what he did was wrong. He enrolled himself in counselling immediately, even before the court could tell him to. He admits the old Trevor was involved in drugs and lived life recklessly.
Miller knows exactly when his life started to go wrong.
He adored his older brother, Lyle. But 11 years ago, Lyle was killed in a car crash on Six Nations. His brother was behind the wheel and he'd been drinking. Lyle was 25 when he died.
At the first mention of his brother, tears flood Miller's dark brown eyes.
"That's when my life started to go down," Miller says. "We were close. It's hard to lose someone like that."
Nothing really mattered anymore. And that's how he lived - not looking to the future, not thinking about responsibility.
His brother's death may have knocked him down, but the birth of Miller's son in March put his life back on the rails.
"I left a life I'm not proud of when my baby was born," he says.
He named his son Lyle.
Miller realized there was another role he would now have to play: father.
The birth of his son began a change that sprang to life in April.
He was awake at 5:30 a.m. April 20, getting ready to go to work -- installing security systems with his uncle -- when he got a call from the site of the native occupation.
The OPP were raiding the site, arresting people, and there was a call for help.
Miller had steered clear of the Douglas Creek Estates occupation but that morning he answered the call.
"I realized what was going on and I went right there," he remembered. "The cops were trying to throw down people -- elderly people."
From that point forward, he was engaged in the cause, in his history and in the Great Law.
Each day, Miller went to work during the day then to the site at night.
There, Miller began to learn his own history.
"We have drifted away from what we were. Being there -- it helped with my past," he says. "It gave me a sense of purpose."
There were many like him -- men who weren't immersed in tradition who were learning about themselves and who suddenly had a cause and a focus for their lives.
"It's us standing up for what little we have left," Miller says. "If we give up now, what are my great, great grandchildren going to have?"
Miller has absorbed the rhetoric of the reclamation site. But his tone is more serious when talking about his own circumstance.
"It's hard to be away from my family," he says, looking into the lap of his orange, prison-issued overalls. "But it's out of my hands. There's nothing I can do about it."
His detractors from his own community have new ammunition.
Miller, his sister and mother were all named in a bizarre lawsuit filed in Brantford court suing the Confederacy and several prominent people involved in the reclamation for $4.4 trillion.
Those from the non-native community may not be sure what to make of his role in the lawsuit; or of an allegedly violent man being made into a martyr.
"We've all made bad choices in our life," Miller says, when questioned about his past.
He admits he hasn't been an angel, but he's purposefully vague about it -- fearing police will use it against him.
Miller believes the authorities were trying to make him an example -- a way to convince other young First Nations men not to take the stand he believes he is making.
He hopes children, including his son, will learn about his struggle, and understand why he was standing tall in a Cayuga courtroom.
This has been home for six months.
Trevor Miller is here, accused of robbery and assault.
But he believes he's accused of standing up for native rights.
Jail has taken its toll.
His hand has a slight tremble.
He has a cold.
He has day-old stubble.
His eyes are watery.
He looks like he hasn't slept in days. His emotions are raw, his voice regularly hitting a wavery tone.
He wears a few extra pounds and has a scar on his right temple.
He looks more worn than warrior, more contemplative than convict, more scared then scrapper.
But to many, Trevor Miller is an icon in the struggle for native rights.
In the months since he was first jailed, Miller has become a cause celebre for supporters of the native occupation in Caledonia. They organized rallies in both Hamilton and Toronto, demanding his release.
They said that it was only because he was a native that he was languishing in jail. Miller believes that, too. But he also knows his past, his admittedly patchy history involving drugs and domestic assault, could leave a different impression.
His court appearances are a clash of cultures, as Miller appears in native headdress and challenges the jurisdiction of the court.
But the 31-year-old Six Nations man had never been in jail until he was arrested in August for three charges stemming from a scuffle with a television cameraman and another one with American law officials near Douglas Creek Estates.
And before last April, Miller hadn't been involved in the politics of his people.
He wasn't interested in land claims.
He didn't care much for the Great Law. He didn't know much about his history or tradition.
But he says he's a changed man.
He says he's not proud of the life he led. In early 2006 he pleaded guilty to assaulting a pregnant woman, his then-girlfriend who is now the mother of his 11-month-old son. He says he was trying to forcefully remove her from his house, but knows what he did was wrong. He enrolled himself in counselling immediately, even before the court could tell him to. He admits the old Trevor was involved in drugs and lived life recklessly.
Miller knows exactly when his life started to go wrong.
He adored his older brother, Lyle. But 11 years ago, Lyle was killed in a car crash on Six Nations. His brother was behind the wheel and he'd been drinking. Lyle was 25 when he died.
At the first mention of his brother, tears flood Miller's dark brown eyes.
"That's when my life started to go down," Miller says. "We were close. It's hard to lose someone like that."
Nothing really mattered anymore. And that's how he lived - not looking to the future, not thinking about responsibility.
His brother's death may have knocked him down, but the birth of Miller's son in March put his life back on the rails.
"I left a life I'm not proud of when my baby was born," he says.
He named his son Lyle.
Miller realized there was another role he would now have to play: father.
The birth of his son began a change that sprang to life in April.
He was awake at 5:30 a.m. April 20, getting ready to go to work -- installing security systems with his uncle -- when he got a call from the site of the native occupation.
The OPP were raiding the site, arresting people, and there was a call for help.
Miller had steered clear of the Douglas Creek Estates occupation but that morning he answered the call.
"I realized what was going on and I went right there," he remembered. "The cops were trying to throw down people -- elderly people."
From that point forward, he was engaged in the cause, in his history and in the Great Law.
Each day, Miller went to work during the day then to the site at night.
There, Miller began to learn his own history.
"We have drifted away from what we were. Being there -- it helped with my past," he says. "It gave me a sense of purpose."
There were many like him -- men who weren't immersed in tradition who were learning about themselves and who suddenly had a cause and a focus for their lives.
"It's us standing up for what little we have left," Miller says. "If we give up now, what are my great, great grandchildren going to have?"
Miller has absorbed the rhetoric of the reclamation site. But his tone is more serious when talking about his own circumstance.
"It's hard to be away from my family," he says, looking into the lap of his orange, prison-issued overalls. "But it's out of my hands. There's nothing I can do about it."
His detractors from his own community have new ammunition.
Miller, his sister and mother were all named in a bizarre lawsuit filed in Brantford court suing the Confederacy and several prominent people involved in the reclamation for $4.4 trillion.
Those from the non-native community may not be sure what to make of his role in the lawsuit; or of an allegedly violent man being made into a martyr.
"We've all made bad choices in our life," Miller says, when questioned about his past.
He admits he hasn't been an angel, but he's purposefully vague about it -- fearing police will use it against him.
Miller believes the authorities were trying to make him an example -- a way to convince other young First Nations men not to take the stand he believes he is making.
He hopes children, including his son, will learn about his struggle, and understand why he was standing tall in a Cayuga courtroom.
* * *
On Feb. 9, Miller was released on $20,000 bail. He sprinted to the courtroom bar, tears rolling down his face, and clutched his mother, Trudy, in an embrace he'd been waiting 186 days to give. His mother held him tight, as the courtroom filled with supporters watched on.
He went home, with an arm firmly planted around his girlfriend, to a bowl of corn soup and a traditional honouring ceremony his uncle performed - a welcome home gift Miller says that helped rejuvenate him.
"I have a long road ahead," he said, sitting in his uncle's diner on the old Highway 6.
Sitting across from him, his mother says he still doesn't seem entirely the same. For the first few days, he kept wandering outside. Just to be outside.
He seems calmer to her. Trudy Miller says the old Trevor would be ranting and raving about the injustice he's suffered. The new Trevor has a new inner strength.
Trevor still can't sleep at night -- he's not sure why. But he's still sure -- he says he was offered the chance to plead guilty as a way to get out quickly -- that what he did was right.
Being behind bars wasn't all bad, he says, taking a mouthful of a burger.
"Maybe that's what I needed to realize what I had to do."
He can't rule out that he'll never cross the law again.
"If standing up for your people is against the law, so be it," he says. "There's a lot more that needs to be corrected out there."
He's sure of one thing -- his brother would be proud of him.
His mother already is.
And Trevor Miller, for the first time, is proud of himself.
"I've given up on myself in the past, but if I can deal with this, I can handle anything," he said. "It's been a strange year."
He went home, with an arm firmly planted around his girlfriend, to a bowl of corn soup and a traditional honouring ceremony his uncle performed - a welcome home gift Miller says that helped rejuvenate him.
"I have a long road ahead," he said, sitting in his uncle's diner on the old Highway 6.
Sitting across from him, his mother says he still doesn't seem entirely the same. For the first few days, he kept wandering outside. Just to be outside.
He seems calmer to her. Trudy Miller says the old Trevor would be ranting and raving about the injustice he's suffered. The new Trevor has a new inner strength.
Trevor still can't sleep at night -- he's not sure why. But he's still sure -- he says he was offered the chance to plead guilty as a way to get out quickly -- that what he did was right.
Being behind bars wasn't all bad, he says, taking a mouthful of a burger.
"Maybe that's what I needed to realize what I had to do."
He can't rule out that he'll never cross the law again.
"If standing up for your people is against the law, so be it," he says. "There's a lot more that needs to be corrected out there."
He's sure of one thing -- his brother would be proud of him.
His mother already is.
And Trevor Miller, for the first time, is proud of himself.
"I've given up on myself in the past, but if I can deal with this, I can handle anything," he said. "It's been a strange year."
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