Profile: Chris Curtis

Chris Curtis. Photo by the Montreal Gazette

Chris Curtis’ tough calloused hands gripped his steering wheel, he had just seen a ghost. Curtis had driven down the small road of his small town in his big car a thousand times. He drove to and from his job on his mother’s construction site, despite his broad shoulders and thick sinewy arms, he hunched forward, diminutively, Curtis was a big guy, only, his co-workers were bigger, and despite being nearly six foot with biceps thicker than some people’s legs, he gave off the impression of a small man. His constant self-deprecation and hunched posture didn’t help.

Curtis hadn’t gotten along with his co-workers to start. They were suspicious of him and his brother, and because their mum worked in management, they were destined for some grief. Curtis steered into it, his brother couldn’t. Frank was one of those guys that made Curtis feel tiny. He was 6’4’ and weighed nearly 300 pounds, and spoke no English, according to Curtis.

Despite the vast francophones fearsome appearance Curtis and he became fast friends. Curtis would drive him around town, conversing in French, joking and laughing with his buddy. And as Frank started to sell weed, Curtis turned a blind eye, as he started to drink heavily, Curtis thought ‘so does’ everybody, and when Frank started to use and deal speed, Curtis said nothing.

“You start to rationalise it… Everybody loved Frank, and he was stealing from work, then he started selling heavier drugs.”

Curtis sped down the road, lights flicking past. He tried to keep the image of the skinny 6’4’ drug addict in his mind, running through every detail he had just seen. ‘That can’t be Frank’ he thought to himself. The 180-pound man he had just past, had Franks face, and Franks clothes, and Franks mannerisms, but Curtis could not believe that was his friend. Frank had taken to ground a while back, his drug abuse got worse, he turned from a giant to a caricature of a drug addict. Curtis would never see his old friend alive again.

As Curtis relates this story2 he nervously rubs the back of his neck, placing his head in his hands, and gripping the desk at various times, his dark brown eyes flick back and forth around the room, no one could accuse Curtis of hiding his emotions. Curtis is a young Montreal based journalist, and a self-described fuck-up, who comes to life telling stories. As he talks his arms alternate between broadcasting his every emotion and being held tightly under his arms. As he talks about Frank he tightens his arms and seems to shrink into himself.

Much of what makes Curtis who he is comes across in the story of Frank. Curtis is loud and expressive, his brown hair points in every direction from his constant fussing. But when he talks about Frank, it’s almost as though he is telling himself the story for the hundredth time.

“To me that’s where my life was, I was hanging around with people… for who there is no hope no opportunity.”

Curtis had just been accepted in Concordia Universities school of Journalism when he saw Frank for the last time. Curtis’ journalistic career didn’t start smoothly. Having been rejected from Concordia journalism school, he phoned to demand some answers. Though he didn’t have the grades he talked admissions into putting him on the wait list.

His first paid piece was for The Easter Door, the local newspaper for the Kahnawake reserve they paid him $50.

“I spent a lot more than an hour on that” Curtis laughs recalling the struggles of his early career.

Curtis’ has spent much of his time amongst indigenous communities reporting on their lives and problems. His philosophy for reporting on indigenous and underprivileged groups is simple.

“You want to be there for the hard stuff, you gotta be there for the good stuff” Says Curtis.

Curtis is dismissive of the idea of reporting without engagement, and he tries to report positive stories, while weaving in the unique struggles of isolated communities into his reports. He is conscious of his role as an outsider, but doesn’t see his work as taking others stories, but rather providing an audience which otherwise wouldn’t be available to them.

As Curtis talks his stories are a little disjointed, and he resembles a small child or an excitable puppy as he buries his face into his arm for the hundredth time. But his passion comes through, and, as he gets into the flow of a story, you hear the wind in the air, and feel the chill and distance of a far northern winter.

By merit of his experience Curtis is now an authority on reporting, but Curtis doesn’t wear the robes of authority well. As a story teller, Curtis moves, talks passionately, engages with his audience. As an authority figure, once the stories come to an end, Curtis rubs his neck with renewed vigor, peeking out from between his fingers and dropping his face into his arms.

But as he grabs the attention of the room with his storytelling he becomes easier. Curtis talks little about his ‘straight a’s’ brother. And he often refers to himself as being little or rail thin, while describing his friends and coworkers as giants. Curtis doesn’t talk about himself. His self-deprecation, diminutive posture and preference for telling stories of others speaks to deep seated feelings of inadequacy or embarrassment. Despite his broad stature and fascinating adventures, one only gains an appreciation of his fascinating life by reading between the lines.

“The power of an idea, that too me is the biggest thing I’ve learned and tried to evolve on is to try and build that empathy muscle” Curtis said

Curtis is a rare sight in the modern world, an adventurer and a journalist who seemingly refuses to self-promote. Though he’s active on social media, the internet is conspicuously absent of details on his fascinating life. Rather one must remind themselves, that in the story of the hunters, and walkers, the fierce winters, and close calls, the good times and the tragic, he was there alongside the protagonists of his stories.

Curtis loves his job, and though he, and journalism in general, face many challenges in the modern world, Curtis sees this as his calling, and after years in the field still becomes giddy talking about it.

“You’re standing on the edge of the arctic sea and you feel that at any moment the ice could give way and no more Chris Curtis. Amazing! Who gets to experience that? Who gets to nearly die for their job?” Curtis said with excitement.

Curtis isn’t what you’d expect in a journalist, and that is possibly his greatest strength.