I was born and raised for eighteen years in La̱x Kxeen (Prince Rupert, BC) on my ancestral Ts’msyen lands. My identity is Nisg̱a’a, Ts’msyen, and Irish. I carry my Nisg̱a’a identity through my mother’s line, from the G̱anada (Frog/Raven) Clan and Wilps Ax̱dii Wil Luug̱ooda, “The House That Is Always Full,” in Ging̱olx. Through her, I carry my responsibilities and my connection to our chiefs, feasts, longhouses, and stories. I was raised on my paternal Ts’msyen lands, which also shape who I am. I also carry Irish ancestry through my grandfather’s Fitzgerald family, who came from County Cork and settled in Newfoundland before moving west to La̱x Kxeen. Newfoundland is part of my family history and humour, but my lived cultural responsibilities are grounded first in my Nisg̱a’a and Ts’msyen identities. I do not yet carry a Nisg̱a’a name, but I have always been called Asgaabax̱, meaning “chatterbox,” because I have loved talking and storytelling for as long as I can remember.
I grew up between fishing boats, grease camps, basketball tournaments, dance practices, and time on the land. From a young age, I danced with the Gitmaxmak’ay Nisg̱a’a Dancers and learned belonging through song, regalia, and watching how Elders carried themselves. Like many Indigenous students, I struggled in school and drifted from parts of my identity for a time, wanting to fit in and quietly carrying shame, but it was my Nation that supported me through scholarships and community encouragement. Returning home later as a teacher was healing and helped me see that many of my struggles were shaped by colonial systems and lowered expectations, not by lack of ability. That realization changed how I approach both teaching and writing. Long before university, I was learning through land and water, growing up around fisheries work, hunting, harvesting, and grease camps, where I learned patience, prayer, sharing, and care. Those experiences shaped how I understand knowledge today. It is relational, accountable, and belongs to community.
I am now a visitor on the unceded territories of the lək̓ʷəŋən and W̱SÁNEĆ Peoples. Being a visitor means listening, building relationships, accepting correction, and giving back in meaningful ways. As a mother and writer, I do not see my work as mine alone. My stories are shaped by Elders, children, mentors, family, and community. I believe stories are relational. They are not owned by one person. They are carried. I am still learning, still being corrected, and still growing into the responsibilities I carry.
I grew up between fishing boats, grease camps, basketball tournaments, dance practices, and time on the land. From a young age, I danced with the Gitmaxmak’ay Nisg̱a’a Dancers and learned belonging through song, regalia, and watching how Elders carried themselves. Like many Indigenous students, I struggled in school and drifted from parts of my identity for a time, wanting to fit in and quietly carrying shame, but it was my Nation that supported me through scholarships and community encouragement. Returning home later as a teacher was healing and helped me see that many of my struggles were shaped by colonial systems and lowered expectations, not by lack of ability. That realization changed how I approach both teaching and writing. Long before university, I was learning through land and water, growing up around fisheries work, hunting, harvesting, and grease camps, where I learned patience, prayer, sharing, and care. Those experiences shaped how I understand knowledge today. It is relational, accountable, and belongs to community.
I am now a visitor on the unceded territories of the lək̓ʷəŋən and W̱SÁNEĆ Peoples. Being a visitor means listening, building relationships, accepting correction, and giving back in meaningful ways. As a mother and writer, I do not see my work as mine alone. My stories are shaped by Elders, children, mentors, family, and community. I believe stories are relational. They are not owned by one person. They are carried. I am still learning, still being corrected, and still growing into the responsibilities I carry.
