My co-workers describe their careers at the Yukon Human Rights Commission as divided into “seasons”, as if they were characters of a TV show. The seasons are separated by major office events: arrivals, departures, and other “cliffhanger” events that cause a stir in the small office. “You’re a guest star,” I was told. McGill summer interns stay for a mere three months before returning to their studies at Chancellor Day Hall – long enough to have a short storyline of their own, but not so long as to become a truly memorable character for the (imaginary) viewers. As I anticipate trading trekking up mountains for the walk up Peel, I find myself wondering about my contributions this summer. Up until this point, my reflections on the summer have centered on the overwhelming sense of gratitude I feel for what I have gained: not only have I been able to explore human rights work conducted within Canada, I have also improved my legal research and writing – and on top of it all, I have been able to experience the indescribable beauty of the Yukon in the summer. But what have I actually contributed? More broadly, what role does a short-term character such as myself play?
I think it’s important to start with settling on an understanding of what “the show” even is. My co-workers start counting seasons in terms of the person who was there the longest, the one who holds the longest institutional memory. But the Yukon Human Rights Commission was established in 1987. When going through archived files to complete various tasks, I began to recognize certain names being repeated again and again; some individuals with active files have submitted complaints before – complaints which preceded the earliest seasons of my co-workers. Individual staff members may come and go, however, complainants continue to interact with the organization. Legal personhood can be a tricky concept, and I learned that it is further complicated by the addition of personal details. My co-workers investigate human rights complaints, in part by conducting thorough interviews with witnesses, including the complainant and respondent. This necessarily creates relationships between Commission staff members and the parties, despite the Commission’s commitment to remaining independent throughout the complaint process. Depending on which timeline we’re considering – my longest-working co-worker or the entirety of the Commission itself – my contributions go from looking small to miniscule. What is one summer compared to a 37-year history?
However, one lesson I am taking away from my time in the Yukon is that there is beauty and significance in merely existing as part of something larger than yourself. The Yukon border is peppered with signs which proudly state, “Larger than Life.” I didn’t truly understand it until I went on my first Yukon hike and observed the seemingly untouched land stretching out before me, farther than I could see. In that moment, I felt incredibly tiny. But this wasn’t a demoralizing sensation. On the contrary, it was a reminder that the loudest thoughts in my head exist in a much broader universe.
My individuality can simultaneously exist and be obscured by the world around me. Similarly, my work will soon be overshadowed by the Commission’s immediate needs. The complainants I spoke with have likely already forgotten that I was the one who answered their initial, anxious questions about the Commission’s process. However, returning to my co-workers’ analogy, although my contributions were not major plot lines, they nonetheless occurred in several episodes this season, contributing to the show as a whole. I’m not sure what impact I might have had on others, but I am grateful for the opportunity to have experienced it all. I am equally grateful for the lesson that human rights work is bigger than any of us. It prompts me to reflect on the ways in which, for every human rights activist who is celebrated, there are countless other figures contributing to those same efforts – names which might be forgotten, but which, at one point, constituted the main character of their own storyline.
There is another way in which I have been surrounded by something larger than myself: the tradition of McGill interns at the Yukon Human Rights Commission. I am merely this year’s iteration. There were numerous summer interns before me – some of whom appeared on the show before my co-workers’ seasons began. On the one hand, I find it passing strange to consider myself as simply this year’s flavour; the introduction of an intern marks the beginning of another summer, in the same way the lengthening days and blooming fireweed indicate the change in season. It is difficult for me to disentangle my knowledge of myself as an individual from my experiences this summer; my work felt incredibly unique and personal, despite the knowledge that the summer internship occurs annually and interns are often assigned similar tasks each year. On the other hand, appreciating that the work was “larger than life” means that it is not necessary to insist on my individuality. I can appreciate the sense of being part of something larger than myself. The existence of those before and after me does not eliminate the work I did this summer, even if it is not remembered. Indeed, I am beginning to think that there is a beauty in being forgotten. It means that the Commission is moving forward on issues. To truly effect change, we must look past the individuals who brought forward the complaints, beyond the particular respondents, and overlook staff such as myself and my co-workers. It seems fitting for the common law tradition, in which law students such as myself struggle to decipher ratios from case law, all the while ignoring the humanity contained in the dense readings assigned to them.
As I return to my studies this fall, I find that I am more sensitive to the fact that individual people stand behind every legal story. The Yukon Human Rights Commission requires complaints to be submitted by individuals on their own behalf (with some very rare exceptions), although solutions sought can be systemic or impact more than just the direct parties. Human rights staff, such as those at the Commission, balance the line between being their own main character and contributing to the work done on behalf of the Commission. The latter requires some renunciation of one’s individuality, even if only briefly. Although one could approach this melancholically, I now understand that this is nature of human rights work, which is only accomplished through the efforts of a cast of characters.