Mr. Speaker, this is quite an occasion for me, personally, and for my family. What a rare privilege this is, to stand, at any point, in the House of Commons, a place I consider sacred in our democracy. It is a privilege, as well, to be able to talk about life in politics.

This is called a farewell speech. I looked around, and I quite like this quote from Steinbeck:

Farewell has a sweet sound of reluctance. Good-by is short and final, a word with teeth sharp to bite through the string that ties past to the future.

I like the idea of farewell. The last number of weeks and months have been quite a strange experience for me. It has been a bit like being at my own funeral, actually. People come up to me and talk about how they feel about me, good and bad, and I get to hear comments that I think we do not share with each other nearly often enough.

I had some reluctance about giving this speech. I did not want to do it at all. My wife, Diana, said, “Don't be stupid”, which is often the advice she has for me. How do I sum up 15 years in politics in a 10-minute speech? How do I, in a 10-minute speech, properly sum up all of the proper thanks that I have for the many volunteers, the staff, the people who support us and make what we do possible? How can I properly express, in a 10-minute speech, the gratitude I feel for the privilege and the opportunity to be a member of Parliament?

I can recall my first speech, which, to no surprise of my parents, Margarite and John, I was late to. I was rushing to the House. I was a new MP and was told that my staff would write my speech, and then I would read it. I bolted into the House, and as soon as my backside touched the seat, the Speaker said, “The member for Skeena—Bulkley Valley”. I popped up and started to read the text that had been prepared over many diligent hours by my staff, Jerry. Within the first paragraph, I was bored out of my mind. I thought that if I was bored, it was very unlikely that anybody else would be interested in what I was saying, so I turned the page over, and I just spoke as best as I could.

It was a bit intimidating, because in the front row, at the time, was Ed Broadbent, who had come back to politics. He turned around in his seat to watch. I thought that if I could get through this trial by fire, with the steely eyes of Ed Broadbent looking at me, then I would do okay.

I know I have been here quite a while now. I knew this as I was walking through the city just last year and saw construction projects that had been started and completed during my tenure as a member of Parliament, government projects. It was shocking. I do not want anyone to look back, but it has been so long I actually had a full head of hair when I got here. I will ask that no one google that.

I thought of how to try to put this all together in my mind. A favourite quote of mine is from the great writer Thomas King, who said, “The truth about stories is, that's all we are.” I firmly believe this. I think we are all stories. We all have our past. We all have our memories, our family, our connection to this place.

My story of getting into politics was a most improbable one. I was a working-class kid growing up with a single mom in Toronto, a cashier at a Dominion food store, with no political inclinations in our family whatsoever, and I ended up in the northwest of British Columbia through a very strange series of fortunate events.

I was asked by a good friend, Bill Goodacre, to consider running. I think many of us have this story, of a friend saying, “You should run.” I said the appropriate thing to Bill: “You're crazy. That is a terrible idea.” He was quite skilled at convincing me that this might be a good idea.

I believe politics, at its best, is a vocation. It should be a calling, not a job. It is not something people show up to. It is something that people are called to do, to serve that calling as best they can.

My goals in coming to Parliament 15 years ago were quite modest. I wanted to leave with my health; I wanted to leave with my family; and I wanted to leave with the integrity I came with intact.

Now, those might seem like modest goals, but they are actually not that modest, as I learned, because this can be a brutal place. It can be hard on families. It can be hard on relationships. It can be hard on us as individuals, and we do not often talk about the strains of being away, the mental health struggles many of us have and do not talk about, maybe increasingly so now.

However, I am proud to represent a place like Skeena—Bulkley Valley. Those who have not been there should go, because it is a magnificent part of the world. It is vast. It is beautiful. It is breathtaking. It is the very best of our country, and even better still are the people who live there. We have an expression up north: “The people don't make the land. The land makes the people.” We are informed by that place, and I am proud of the work we have done.

In this strange life, I have had opportunities to meet great, powerful men and women, such as presidents, kings and queens. They are all impressive in their own way, but the most impressive people to me have been the leaders I have been fortunate enough to encounter in the northwest of British Columbia: local mayors, local community activists and indigenous leaders, who have let me into their hearts and their worlds to express what their vocation is.

A number of years ago, I was attending a Nisga’a celebration called Hobiyee. It is a beautiful, ancient celebration. It is the coming back of the salmon and the eulachon to the northwest. The ceremony goes on all night, and the chiefs at one point come into the hall. Members have to imagine a community hall in northwestern B.C. on a beautiful night, and the chiefs are all milling about outside in their beautiful regalia with amazing masks. One of the chiefs came to me and said, “Walk in with us”, and I said, “This is not my place. This is your hall. This is your place. I am just an observer.” He said, “We've talked about it, and you're walking with us.”

As I came into the hall for Hobiyee, the first three rows on either side were filled with women singing, and they sing into the middle, where the chiefs walk in. Outside of them are the drummers. The Nisga’a have a tradition of turning a bent wood box drum on its corner, and big Nisga’a dudes pound away in a heartbeat rhythm. I walked in with the chiefs. It is a very slow procession, and they sing to their leadership. They call their leadership forward and hold them up to represent them. I thought about what we needed to learn from that as parliamentarians, as people who purport to lead and speak on behalf of others.

I have been so blessed. We are a family, and there are many families that inform our politics. My political family is here, and in my riding in Skeena, executive and volunteers, far too many to name: Jennifer Davies, Rob Goffinet, Len and Irene, and Pat Moss. We all have dedicated Canadians who care and inform us. My political family was also Jack, whom I miss to this day.

We also have our parliamentary family, and that is not often spoken of. We, as colleagues, struggle with one another and disagree, but we also meet in this sacred place, and sometimes, not often enough maybe, we find common ground as we seek to make this country a better place.

Then I have my actual family, who are here: Diana and my beautiful boys, Isaac and Elliot. We have some plans. We have some time together, which I so look forward to.

We join together in the northwest to defend what we believe we must defend. We try to reach out across traditional political lines of interest and groups of interest to support one another and defend what is sacred to us, which is the land and the rivers that feed us, the very world that enriches us. For 15 years, the folks in the northwest have decided to put me forward as their voice, and no more of a humbling experience have I ever had.

I believe we are actors passing across the stage. We all have our moment here, and we can lose perspective as we pass across this stage, yet others will pass behind us. May we, in all of our efforts, seek to not only leave Parliament a better place, but leave this country a better place. For sure, I have been left better by this experience.

Nathan Cullen