Exploration of a White Teacher's and an Inuit Student's Journeys to Graduation Kimberley Sanchez-S

Ukiurtatuq: A ‘novel’ exploration of a white teacher’s and an Inuit student’s journeys to graduation

Kimberley Sanchez-Soares Department of Integrated Studies in Education McGill University December 2012

A thesis submitted to McGill University in partial fulfillment of the requirements of the degree of Master of Art

Kimberley Sanchez-Soares 2012 ©

Table of Contents

Abstract……………………………………………………………………………1

Résumé…………………………………………………………………………….2

Acknowledgments…………………………………………………………………3

Introduction………………………………………………………………………..4

August/Aujalirut…………………………………………………………………17

September/Amiraijaut……………………………………………………………32

October/Arnalingnguutivik………………………………………………………55

November/Natjuijarvik…………………………………………………………..70

December/Aarjuliut………………………………………………………………83

January/Nalirqaituq…………………………………………………………….100

February/Avunnitik……………………………………………………………..115

March/Natsialiut………………………………………………………………..126

April/Tirilluliut…………………………………………………………………141

May/Nurraliut…………………………………………………………………..155

June/Manniliut………………………………………………………………….168

Afterword……………………………………………………………………….182

Glossary of Inuktitut Words…………………………………………………….201

References………………………………………………………………………203

Abstract

Written through a cultural lens, my thesis is a fictionalized account in the form of a novel of a white teacher’s journey and lessons learned in teaching in the fictionalized Inuit village of Ukiurtatuq, which means North. The account is based in part on my experiences of living and teaching in an Inuit community. My intended audience are white teachers planning to work in Inuit communities, as well as Native and non-Native readers and researchers. I aim to help bridge the gap between Natives and non-Natives, to dispel current negative stereotypes of Inuit peoples in Canada and to foreground positive aspects of Inuit culture. In order to explore the various social and cultural issues present in the contemporary Nunavik education system, including women’s rights, my novel is written partly through the eyes of a female white teacher and partly from the perspective of a female Inuk teenager. My goal is for the reader of the novel to experience aspects of what it might mean to be a contemporary young Inuit woman growing up in her Northern community, and to juxtapose this narrative with what it might mean for a white female teacher to teach Inuit children, and in the process, address her own prejudices and shortcomings so as to become open to other cultures and other’s lives. The novel attempts to explore, through the intertwining of the two women’s narratives, the different realities, experiences and relationships of non- Inuit and Inuit in a Northern community, as well as how relationships can become beautiful and inspiring for both teachers and students alike. I hope that my novel can open the door, however slightly, to dialogue and improved relations.

Résumé

Écrit à travers un prisme culturel, ma thèse est un récit fictif sous la forme d'un roman. Racontant le voyage d'une enseignante blanche et les leçons apprises en enseignant dans le village Inuit fictif Ukiurtatuq, qui signifie «Nord», le récit est basé en partie sur mes expériences de vie et d'enseignement dans une communauté Inuite. Mon public cible se compose dènseignants blancs qui comptent travailler dans les communautés Inuites, ainsi que des lecteurs et chercheurs autochtones et non autochtones. Mon intention première est de rapprocher les cultures autochtones et non-autochtones, de dissiper les stéréotypes négatifs actuels du peuple Inuit au Canada et de mettre au premier plan les aspects positifs de la culture Inuite. Afin d'explorer les diverses questions sociales et culturelles présentes dans le système d'éducation du Nunavik contemporain, y compris les droits des femmes, mon roman est écrit partiellement dans la perspective dùne enseignante blanche et partiellement dans la perspective dùne adolescente Inuite. Mon objectif est de faire découvrir au lecteur de ce roman des aspects sur la signification d'être une jeune femme Inuite contemporaine qui grandit dans sa communauté du grand Nord et de mettre cela en parallèle avec l’expérience d’une enseignante blanche qui enseigne aux enfants Inuits, et qui par le même fait doit faire face à ses propres préjugés et défauts. Tout cela étant dans le but de s'ouvrir aux autres cultures et expériences de vies des gens côtoyés. Le roman tente de faire découvrir, avec l'entrelacement des récits des deux femmes ; des réalités différentes, des expériences et des relations des non-Inuits et des Inuits dans une communauté du grand Nord, ainsi que la façon dont les relations peuvent devenir belles et inspirantes pour les enseignants et les étudiants. J'espère que mon roman pourra ouvrir la porte, ne serait-ce qu’un peu, au dialogue et à l'amélioration des relations.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank my dear and loving mother and father, Maria Manuela Sanchez and Antonio Soares for giving me so much love, support and advice: you have always believed in me. It is thanks to you that I have made it this far. I love you. To my grandmother, Victorina Llovio, for all of her prayers and encouragement, gracias. Te quiero abuelita. To my brother, Christian Soares, for being my biggest fan, thank you. To my love, Andrew Schumann, for supporting me emotionally. You are my rock, my strength, my heart. You keep me sane when I think the world is crazy. Thank you. To two of my graduates, M. A. and V.S., my “soul sisters”, for reading my novel and helping me represent the Inuit people, language and culture in a respectful and honest way. Nalligivaritsi. To my supervisor, Dr. Teresa Strong-Wilson, who has guided me in making this work scholarly and ethical, and without whom I could not turn a childhood dream into a fait accompli. Thank you for your guidance. I could not have done it without you. To Dr. Claudia Mitchell, Dr. David Dillon, Dr. Aziz Choudry, professors at McGill University’s Department of Integrated Studies in Education, for their countless suggestions and positive feedback. To the McGill University Education Library staff, for going above and beyond in helping me locate articles and books that were hard to find. To my Northern friends and colleagues, thank you for keeping me motivated, thank you for making me laugh, and thank you for being a part of the most wonderful moments of my life. And last but not least, to all of my former students and all the children of the little Northern town: thank you. You have inspired me to want to become a better writer, a better teacher, and a better person. Nakurmimarialuk.

Introduction

“Research is probably one of the dirtiest words in the indigenous world’s vocabulary” (Smith, 1999, p.1)

I spent four years in a tiny Inuit community with a population of less than three hundred. No restaurants, no movie theatres, just the school, the church, the Co-op (general store) and the arena. The only way in and out of the community is by plane. I taught Secondary English and Social Studies, and my classes were composed of multi-levels: juniors in one class (secondary 1-2) and seniors in the other (secondary 3-4-5), with a total of about twelve students each year. I was an active member of the community, always participating in traditional and contemporary events and customs. I learned Inuktitut from my students and wore parkas and seal-skin boots made especially for me. I immersed myself in the Inuit culture and developed a great love and respect for the town and people. The aim of this thesis is to paint an authentic picture of Inuit life but in the form of a novel. Although the work is a fiction and all characters are fictional, I have relied on my time in Nunavik as inspiration for this story set in the fictional town Ukiurtatuq, which means “north” in Inuktitut. I have also been especially careful to select the names of characters so that they do not resemble any actual person, encountered in my time in Nunavik. The only real names and places that appear are those of the city of Montreal and the region of Nunavik, in order for the reader to be able to situate him/herself in existing locations and have a firm grasp of the reality and culture associated with those places. The goal of this novel is to dispel negative stereotypes associated with being Inuit in the Qallunaat (Inuktitut word meaning “white” or non-Inuit) world, and to improve Native and non-Native relations in Quebec and Canada. The novel is written partly from the viewpoint of a female Inuk, and partly from the perspective of a white, female teacher. The two perspectives are included to add to the realism and evoke the feelings needed for non-Native readers to understand Inuit culture, and for Inuit readers to attempt to understand Qallunaat culture (Barone & Eisner, 2012; Bruner, 1986). I firmly believe this dialogue is of

monumental importance in improving relationships because, as history has shown us, miscommunication and misunderstandings are almost always at the centre of tensions in Native and non-Native relations, whether it be in political, economic, social, or even casual gatherings. To reinforce the realistic feel of the narrative, I have consulted two very good Inuit friends and former students – what Smith (1999) calls ‘bicultural’ or ‘partnership’ research – who have helped me represent their language, people and history in a respectful and ethical way. These two former graduates of mine, M.A. and V.S., have gratefully and proudly accepted the task of reading the narrative in order to confirm the correct spelling of Inuktitut words, and correct representation and explanation of traditional Inuit customs. I personally would not have felt comfortable writing a narrative about or from the perspective of an Inuk without the consent and approval of Inuit people. My novel has two sides to it: that of the white, female teacher and that of the Inuk, female student. My novel explores the difficulties two cultures experience when trying to communicate and understand each other – not just in a classroom, which can have huge consequences for the academic and professional success of both teacher and students in such a situation – but also the further implications that these misunderstandings of language and culture can have upon an entire population (Smith, 1999).

History of Colonization Stemming from colonialism, Canadian Inuit have long been the subjects of Western imperialism and oppression. Marginalized and objectified as the ‘Other’, Canadian Inuit were robbed of their lands and forced to participate in Western capitalism, a foreign economic system that exploited their human and natural resources for the financial, political, and territorial gains of the White Europeans by whom they were invaded. With the influx of the Qallunaat in the Canadian Arctic came a myriad of social issues for which the Inuit possessed no immunity, such as new diseases, alcoholism, and, as an unfortunate consequence of trade, heavy dependence on Southern goods (Altamirano-Jimenez, 2004; Chabot, 2003;

Gombay, 2010; Heininen & Southcott, 2010; Jackson, 2007; Nuttall, 2010; Razack, 2004; Searles, 2002; Smith 1999; Venne, 2004). For an Inuk, the legacy of colonization means the daily struggle sfor survival and independence, as Inuit are left on the margins of a globalized world (Meiksins Wood, 1998; Venne 2004). Their dependence on Southern goods is at the forefront of this struggle, as the dependence undermines their ability to live a traditional lifestyle based on subsistence hunting. As more and more industrial products take a greater role in their everyday lives, the Inuit are experiencing a loss of culture, language, values and identity that is directly linked to colonialism. These consequences can be demonstrated by the various Southern influences that dominate Northern communities such as mining, technology, media and goods. Before the arrival of the Qallunaat, Inuit were able to live off the land, as its resources provided them with food, shelter and clothing; however, Inuit are now struggling to make sense of their world (Altamirano-Jimenez, 2004; Chabot, 2003; Gombay, 2010; Heininen & Southcott, 2010; Jackson, 2007; Nuttall, 2010; Razack, 2004; Searles, 2002; Smith 1999; Venne, 2004). The aim of my study is therefore also to explore how the effects of colonialism are negatively affecting Inuit communities in Nunavik, the Arctic region of the province of Quebec, Canada. Focusing on culture, identity, language, education, socio-economic, physical and mental well-being, I probe through narrative the daily struggles encountered by contemporary Inuit and possible outcomes for future generations of Nunavik Inuit.

Decolonizing Methodologies As Smith (1999) explains in Decolonizing methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples, most research on Indigenous peoples is written through a Western, imperialist viewpoint that portrays Aboriginals as subhuman. Such research marginalizes Natives as the uncivilized “Other” (Jackson, 2007; Razack, 2004; Smith, 1999; Venne, 2004). The culture of colonization, has dehumanized Indigenous people and has characterized them as backwards (Jackson, 2007; Razack, 2004; Smith, 1999; Venne, 2004).

The attempt to assimilate the Native peoples, first through colonization, then through globalization, continues to negatively affect Indigenous populations across Canada. Robbed of their lands, forced to live in reserves, relocated to remote locations in the high Arctic, subjected to dog slaughters, made dependent on Southern goods, exposed to new diseases, alcohol and drug abuse, and subjected to the horrors of the residential school era are just some of the attempts at assimilation that continue to play a very painful and devastating role in contemporary Inuit life (Altamirano-Jimenez, 2004; Chabot, 2003; Gombay, 2010; Heininen & Southcott, 2010; Nuttall, 2010; Searles, 2002;Venne, 2004). Indigenous populations are experiencing a culture loss and identity crisis as they struggle to preserve their traditions, language and heritage (Jackson, 2007; Smith 1999; Razack, 2004). Smith (1999) therefore advises non-Natives conducting research on Native people to use decolonizing methodologies to ensure that “research reaches the people who have helped make it” and that the final results of the study be “disseminated back to the people in culturally appropriate ways” (p. 15).

The Problem of Representation Taking on an Inuit identity in this narrative, however, is problematic in several ways. I want to be taken seriously as a non-Native in writing circles, and do not want to offend Inuit or other Indigenous populations. The greatest concern is ethical; I cannot ignore the fact that I am a Qallunaak trying to speak for an Inuk. I cannot, as Linda Alcoff (1992) argues in “The Problem of Speaking for Others”, ignore my “location”. As an educated, white woman of European descent, I stand in the place of the privileged writing about the marginalized; of the white person writing about the ‘Other’ (Alcoff, 1992). In taking on an Indigenous voice, I could be silencing and “increasing or reinforcing the oppression of the group spoken for” in a coercive and violent way, subjecting the group to my authority and under my voice (p. 6). My intentions are of course the opposite: to listen to those voices, which too often go unheard or are misunderstood. In aligning myself with the Inuit, by

immersing and isolating myself in their culture and land for four years, I feel that I came to know the Inuit quite well, well enough to “speak to and with them” rather than for them, a point that Alcoff (1992) emphasizes is of utmost importance. Speaking “to and with” the Inuit is another reason why I believe it was absolutely essential to have Inuit individuals read my narrative, giving them the opportunity to provide corrective feedback (Alcoff, 1992). Thus, while I am aware of the dangers of speaking for others, I must also state that I am not pretending to be someone I am not for any gain or means other than to open up a ground for dialogue and understanding. I must also apologize deeply and sincerely to any reader who feels offended by my narrating in a Native voice; I do not wish to harm or further contribute to the stereotyping but rather attempt to portray reality in an honest fashion so as to deconstruct stereotypes and explore the truth – that, yes, there are harsh realities in the North, but that there are also many stories of success and survival, “good stories” that are often never told, or rather, rarely heard. I must also state that although this novel represents a fictional account of Northern reality, I speak also of and for myself: as a student, as a teacher, but mostly as a woman. I feel solidarity with Indigenous peoples socially and politically, but also a strong solidarity with Indigenous women, not only for their rights to be heard, but for their rights to be women. My personal experiences with abuse allow me to be comfortable – as comfortable as one can be – in speaking of such struggles as a victim but also as a survivor. I know the story well, as a victim, as a witness, but also as a survivor, I feel it is my duty to raise awareness and be one of the messengers that can empower women to take back their lives and live freely, un-subjected to the hands of their oppressors, past, present and future. Considering Alcoff’s four points of advice when speaking for others, this novel: 1) attempts to listen rather than teach, 2) strives to become aware of the author’s “location” and embeds it into the context of what is being said, 3) makes the “serious and sincere commitment to remain open to criticism and attempts

actively, attentively, and sensitively to ‘hear’ the criticism,” and finally, 4) looks at “where the speech goes and what it does there” (p. 23-24).

Native Canadian Literature Literature written by Canadian Native authors speaks to and of the effects of having been through colonization which has assimilated, suppressed and objectified them, how it has demoralized and used them, how it humiliated and hurt them (Acoose, 1993; Damm, 1993; Dumont, 1993; Smith, 1999; Young-Ing, 1993). However, contemporary Canadian Native literature, such as that written by Beatrice Cullen Mosionier, Richard Van Camp, Richard Wagamese and Tomson Highway, is not a desperate cry; it is an honest account of a past that continues, of a pain that never entirely heals. It is a testimony of truth, of the power of humanity, of the strength and pride of a brave and courageous people. It is a proof of survival; the fight for life, for voice. The fight to be heard. It is a statement of perseverance, of the refusal to conform, and the embodiment of family, and of love. Damm (1993) states that Native Canadian literature is a protest against colonialism:

In Canada, as elsewhere, much of Native writing, whether blunt or subtle, is a protest literature in that it speaks to the process of our colonization: dispossession, objectification, marginalization, and that constant struggle for cultural survival expressed in the movement for structural and psychological self- determination. (LaRoque in Damm, p. 23)

Thus, Canadian Native writers attempt to demonstrate to non-Natives, through art, what it feels like to be treated as the uncivilized “Other” and how the effects of colonialism have had severe consequences for their people and land. Native artists like Damm (1993) feel compelled to assert their own definitions of who they are and to

reject the imposed definitions of a colonizing system which would reduce us to nothingness with misrepresentative, overly-broad or trivializing labels of identification. When we express ourselves […] we must do so from an informed position so that we do not contribute to the confusion and oppression but instead, bring into sharper focus who we are. By freeing ourselves of the constricting bounds of stereotypes and imposed labels of identity, we empower ourselves and our communities and break free of the yoke of colonial power that has not only controlled what we do and where we live but who we are. In this way, indigenous literatures shape themselves on their own terms. (p. 24)

The problem is that Native writers are often expected by non-Native writers to fit a certain image, one that continues to stereotype and label Natives according to a romanticized idea of “Nativeness.” If the voice is not traditional story-teller, if one cannot imagine the Native writing in his headdress, if the story does not include legends and myths and if one cannot smell the smoked leather or hear the beat of the drum in the cadence, then the voice is not considered Native (Damm, 1993). But why do Non-Natives have such expectations? “Perhaps,” says Damm (1993) “it is [because] so many of the non-Native writers who write about us, write this way. Or perhaps it is because of them that these expectations have been placed on us.” (p. 15). Contemporary Native Canadian authors write to fight against this Westernization or imperialist interpretation of Native life. The characters in Native literature not only survive, but demonstrate the positive aspects of being Native:

Rather than create characters who are inferior and dying, Native writers have consciously created Native characters who are resourceful, vibrant, and tenacious. Like traditional trickster figures, contemporary Native characters are frequently tricked, beaten up, robbed, deserted, wounded and ridiculed, but, unlike the historical and contemporary Native characters in white fiction, these characters survive and persevere, and, in many cases, prosper. Contemporary Native literature abounds with characters who are crushed and broken by circumstances and disasters, but very few perish. Whatever the damage,

contemporary characters, like their traditional trickster relations, rise from their own wreckage to begin again. (Acoose, 1993, p. 37)

An important aspect of contemporary Indigenous people’s writing is the character of the Trickster (Acoose, 1993, p. 39). The trickster, at times comical, is usually a teacher, and can take on any form, one who tries to trick the main character into having fun, but ends up teaching him/her important life lessons (Acoose, 1993). The trickster aids in telling the story of survival (Acoose, 1993). However, Maracle (1992) argues that “conjuring a character” based on stereotypes is “racist literature” and attempting to “deconstruct attitudes” with a character from the Native world is “stealing” and that I am leaving myself “open to criticism” unless I do it well:

If you conjure a character based on your in-fort stereotypes and trash my world, that’s bad writing – racist literature and I will take you on for it. If I tell you a story and you write it down and collect the royal coinage from this story, that’s stealing – appropriation of culture. But if you imagine a character who is from my world, attempting to deconstruct the attitudes of yours, while you may not be stealing, you still leave yourself open to criticism unless you do it well. (p. 15)

The Native characters in my novel are not based on such stereotypes but are based on reality – albeit a reality that I (as a white person) have lived and witnessed whilst immersed in an isolated Inuit community for four years. I wish to counter negative stereotypes by offering a story of success and survival. I am aware and open to the criticism this work may receive. I believe that I have portrayed these characters in accordance with Inuit views, thoughts and feelings. Literature written from a dichotomous viewpoint, however, offers the ability to write from two perspectives simultaneously. In “Coyote’s Story About Orality and Literacy” Archibald (1990) discusses the story of Coyote and his two different eyes (one of a mouse and one of a buffalo), a metaphor for Native writers who have two sets of eyes: one Native and one White, when they, by writing, transform their oral story-telling traditions into Western literacy. For

Coyote, having two different eyes means “learn[ing] the function or worldview of each eye [so] he can focus the appropriate one for whatever situation he finds himself in” (p. 78). Like Coyote, I attempt in my novel to see the world from two perspectives, Inuit and Qallunaak:

The dichotomy is never erased because there are characteristics which cannot be removed from each world. In fact, this analogy depicts the situation between First Nations and mainstream society. This pathway most importantly does not imply that one world is ultimately better than the other; it merely depicts reality. (p. 78)

Thus, having two sets of eyes and ears, as I attempt to portray in my novel, allows authors to understand and speak from both sides of a story, offering insights into the two cultures, breaking down the language and cultural barriers, allowing for communication and a coming together of the two. Although I am not Inuit, nor do I have mixed blood, I feel I have developed two sets of eyes and ears, in living among, and being taught by, the Inuit long enough to understand their perspective. Going back to the problem of representation and speaking for others, however, Lincoln and Denzin (2000) ask: “can we ever hope to speak authentically of the experience of the Other, or an Other?” (p.1050). Lincoln and Denzin (2000) similar to Smith (1999) make it clear that the inquirer or researcher must have a connection with the group researched, “joining the research text and the community in making certain that such voices are heard” (p. 1051). One answer to his question, then, is to include the “Other” in the research process (p. 1050). Although my former students have not participated or collaborated to the research or in the writing of the narrative per se, they have read and supported the narrative and the Inuit characters in it, allowing me to represent their people according to their standards, wishes and needs. Lincoln and Denzin’s (2000) discussion of qualitative research, particularly with regards to ethnography, emphasizes that one’s writing, fictional or not, is a statement of politics and that one must merge politics with collaborative and participatory scholarship (p. 1051). At this point I must make it

clear that every Native text, song, artistic performance and film that I have come across in this research and writing process has served as influence but also as a guideline for the Native voice in my novel. I would also like to point out that it is indeed difficult to find scholarship written by Inuit on Inuit culture and traditions. I am therefore widely indebted and must specifically acknowledge, along with all the other Native authors who have influenced me, Minnie Aodla Freedman and her book Life Among the Qallunaat for providing the only account that I have come across of a female Inuk actually written by a female Inuk. Her work has inspired me so greatly that I felt the need to name a character after her as a sort of “nod” or allusion to her text’s academic value, as well as to the personal connection and motivation it has given me. Lincoln and Denzin (2000) go on to state that that there can be no ethnography that is an “objective, dispassionate, value-neutral account of a culture and its ways” and that like an art, it “speaks to and for its historical moment as a political reflection” (p. 1054). Reminiscent of Alcoff’s (1992) fourth point of advice for speaking for others, looking at “where the speech goes and what it does there”, then, the narrative I have written, is subjective according to my interpretations of the Inuit world but also my interpretations of the Qallunaat world (p.23-24). Again, I encounter the problem of representation. Lincoln and Denzin’s (2000) solution to this problem, however, is that I have “lived close enough to [the Inuit] to begin to understand how they constructed their worlds” and that my experimentation with style (writing partly from a Qallunaat and partly from an Inuit perspective) and also the storytelling tradition which I choose to highlight, “leaves traditions of Western ethnography unsettled” (p. 1058). And although my novel is not primarily a political piece, because it speaks for and about, but also with and to Inuit and Qallunaat people alike, I believe that “it speaks to and for its historical moment as a political reflection” (Lincoln & Denzin, 2002, p. 1054). My narrative explores, discusses and reflects on Inuit and Qallunaat relations in such a way that, although fictional, it was influenced by autobiography. The narrative tells the story of human experience and community in that it “moves from the researcher’s biography to the biographies of others, to

those rare moments when our lives connect” (Lincoln & Denzin, 2000, p. 1054). As stated earlier, my connection with the Native people, more specifically with Inuit women and their fight for voice and freedom, is one which includes, but is not limited to, women across Canada and across the world. The crucial question now becomes can the narrative “enable the power of the oppressed peoples?” (Alcoff, 1992, p. 29.) It is my sincere hope that it can contribute to this discussion.

Arts-Based Research As I stated earlier, I have chosen to write partly from the perspective of a White teacher going North and partly from a female Inuk’s perspective out of respect for the Inuit people (see also Afterword). I do not see myself as an authority on the North, but I feel my time in Nunavik has accorded me an abundance of experiential knowledge that I would like to share with my Qallunaat counterparts. In an effort to de-colonize and de-label, my novel will portray to Qallunaat audiences what it feels like to be an Inuk, and for Inuit audiences, what it feels like to be a Qallunaat living in an Inuit community. I intend this thesis to be read by a wide audience of Natives and non-Natives alike. This thesis can also be used as a curriculum and professional development resource, as it provides insights for Qallunaat teachers teaching or thinking of teaching in Inuit communities. Furthermore, this novel is meant to make readers feel as Barone and Eisner (2012) write, because “such empathy is a necessary condition for deep forms of meaning in human life. The arts make such empathic participation possible because they create forms that are evocative and compelling” (p. 3). It is for these reasons I chose to write a novel rather than a more conventional research study. My novel examines such issues as education, culture and language loss, identity crisis, drug, alcohol and sexual abuse, suicide, teen pregnancy and dropout rates in a realistic and honest matter. I aim to explore such difficult issues to help bridge the gap between Native and non-Native relations, to dispel current negative stereotypes of Nunavik Inuit, to demonstrate positive aspects of Inuit

culture, and to discover possible outcomes for the success of present and future Inuit generations in Canada. Conducting a research study may not enable the readers to engage, sympathise and understand the “whole story” (Bruner, 1986). As Barone and Eisner (2012) write, “arts based research is an effort to extend beyond the limiting constraints of discursive communication in order to express meaning that otherwise would be ineffable” (p.1). Bruner’s (1986) discussion of the two-modes of thought, scientific and storied, emphasizes that while a well-formed argument provides empirical truth, a well-formulated story provides a lifelikeness, a realism, that is imperative to gaining a deep understanding of the issues. “In a sense, arts based research is a heuristic through which we deepen and make more complex our understanding of some aspect of the world” (Barone & Eisner, 2012, p. 3). Thus, writing from the perspective of a female Inuk, or as Bruner (1986) would call it, as “protagonist-beholder” makes my novel not a “literal description of the state of affairs; it is an evocative and emotionally drenched expression that makes it possible to know how others feel” (Barone & Eisner, 2012). Contrary to more conventional academic research and, given the seriousness of the issues explored in my novel, arts-based methodologies allow for the representation of a people that is not “wrung dry of life – of emotion, of sensuality, of physicality” (Cole & Knowles, 2008, p. 57). Cole and Knowles (2008) explain that in conventional academic research, the lives of individuals can flatten

into a form mostly unrecognizable to those directly and indirectly involved or represented. The result, with just the right academy, but with the extraction of life juices, [is that] words bec[o]me too light to take hold in the lives of the people and communities […] researched (p. 57).

Reminiscent of Smith’s (1999) notions of respectful and ethical research with Indigenous communities, an arts-based methodology allows me to express my findings in a way that is more in keeping with the Inuit story-telling tradition:

a tradition that allows for feeling in order to gain understanding, and understanding to gain knowledge. Furthermore, Cole and Knowles’ (2008) view that arts-based methodologies render scholarship more accessible is in line with Smith’s (1999) position that research with Indigenous populations must reach the people that have helped create it. According to Cole and Knowles (2008), the dominant paradigm of positivism has governed the way research is defined, which according to Smith (1999) and contemporary Native authors, is a research design that pushes the dominant Imperialist culture’s agenda. It is for this reason that “one of the overarching purposes of arts-informed research, [is that] there must be an explicit intention for the research to reach communities and audiences including but beyond the academy. The choice and articulation of form will reflect this intention” (Cole & Knowles, 2008, p. 61). Thus, my novel, in common with arts-informed research,

with its main goals of accessibility (and breadth of audience), is an attempt to acknowledge individuals in societies as knowledge makers engaged in the act of knowledge advancement. Tied to moral purpose, it is also an explicit attempt to make a difference through research, not only in the lives of ordinary citizens, but also in the thinking and decisions of policymakers, politicians, legislators, and other key decision makers. (Cole & Knowles, p. 60)

This novel is my call for unity and solidarity with the Indigenous peoples of Canada, a people who, as their ancestors, continue to struggle, but who also continue to survive.

Nakurmik! Nia:wen! Thank you! Merci!

August

“Karen?” I was still trying to recover from the rough landing, the rocky airstrip not having been paved. “Karen White?” An older man wearing a school board vest and flannel shirt extended his hand to me. “Yes!” I answered shaking his hand, relieved that someone was there to pick me up. “Welcome to Ukiurtatuq,” he smiled. “How was your flight?” he asked as he took my bag and led me to the front door. “Umm, thank you, um, yeah, it was ok,” I said, trying to seem at ease. I was twenty-three, fresh out of University, new to teaching, and new to the North. I was embarking on a challenging, frightening adventure, and I was all alone. I was the only new teacher coming to the tiny village of Ukiurtatuq this year. The other passengers on the plane, the other new teachers that I had met at orientation, were going to other Inuit villages in Northern Quebec. Most of them were assigned to teach in the same villages so they bonded quickly. I felt a little sad and maybe even a little jealous. I had so many questions and nobody to share all my nerves with! They had tried to reassure me, however, by saying that it must be a good sign that I was the only new teacher assigned to Ukiurtatuq because it must mean that the other teachers had liked it enough to stay on another year. That reasoning seemed to make enough sense and it did help me feel a little more optimistic. “Oh by the way, my name is Robert and I am your principal,” the man said with a French accent. “I hope you like the cold!” His laugh comforted me a little as I began to take in my surroundings. Ukiurtatuq Airport was no bigger than my parent’s living room. The airport agent looked at me with smiling eyes, bowed his head quickly and said “Ai!” From my orientation I knew to respond “Aa.” Robert seemed pleased.

“Oh that’s good, you know how to speak Inuktitut! Maybe you can teach me eh?” His boisterous laugh filled the tiny lounge and the agent laughed as well. I wasn’t sure how to take this – was he laughing at me or trying to break the ice? I mustered up a polite laugh. “Ok let’s get your luggage. See you Billie!” he waved at the agent and we walked out the front and around the side of the building where another agent was backing up a pick-up from the plane to where we stood. He jumped out of the truck and asked, “This your luggage?” “Yes, thank you,” I replied. “Nakurmik,” said Robert who took my suitcase from the pick-up and put it in his. “Ok, let’s go. Will you like a little tour of the village before I drop you at your home?” he asked in his French-like English, a peculiarity that I am accustomed to, having grown up in Montreal. “Oh yes, please!” I answered, excited to see what my home for the next year would look like. I sat in the passenger seat as Robert started the engine. I began to pull my seat belt on when he chuckled, “Oh no, you don’t need that here!” I left it off but then I couldn’t help but wonder: why is this man always laughing? It was beginning to irritate me! I tried to convince myself that it was a good thing because at least he seemed happy. He shouldn’t be too hard to work with if he’s always laughing, right? As we travelled the dirt road from the airport down to the village, the view to my right was a beautiful blue bay surrounded by large grey rocks and to the left stood large mountains covered in lush green tundra. My eyes opened with wonder and I had to stifle my gasp. “Nice, eh?” Robert had noticed my reaction. His smile widened. He began to tell me a little bit about the town and the school. He seemed very proud to be the principal of Ukiurtatuq School. As we drove through town he pointed out where the other teachers lived and what they taught and which of them it would be useful for me to talk to.

Every person that we passed on the street waved and children riding bikes got real close to the truck, trying to get a good look at me. This made us both laugh. After giving me the grand tour (which only took about eight minutes), including showing me where the arena, church, clinic and post office were, he then showed me where the coop was, the only store in town, in case I needed to get food or supplies before it closed at six. All that was left now was to show me where I lived. He drove me to a tiny house directly across the school. It looked very old, very brown, and in urgent need of repairs. “Okay, we’re here!” He said, as he turned the engine off and put the truck in park. “This is your house,” he said, giving me a key. I thought he must be joking so I waited for his laugh but it never came. “It’s maybe the oldest one, but for sure it has the best view.” I laughed thinking that he meant the school. “Non, non, in the back!” He pointed to the back and this time I didn’t stifle my gasp. “Woooow…. the bay is my backyard?” “Yeah, it’s amazing this view,” he said as he looked out, nodding his head and placing his hands on his hips. “Well,” he said after a moment, “I guess I will leave you unpack.” He went back to the truck and handed me my bags. “If you need anything, I will be at the school.” He waved as he started the engine, and parked across the street.

…

I turned the key and held my breath, hoping the inside wasn’t as bad as the outside. The corridor had a room on the right and another on the left which opened up to a kitchen-slash-living room. Beyond the room on the left was the washroom. The house was furnished with two beds, a couch, a washer and drier, a fridge and a small wooden table with four wooden chairs. It was small but it was

clean, and I was relieved that I didn’t have to share with another teacher. I had been told that this might be a possibility, especially in the smaller communities. Nonetheless, I was happy to finally be living on my own. This was a big step for me, moving out by myself for the first time, moving away from my family, but it was something that I needed to do. My parents were sad that it had to be this far, but they were happy to see me realizing my dreams: my dream to teach and my dream to travel. I was so busy trying to get settled and used to my new surroundings and feeling quite a bit of culture shock, that it still had not sunk in how far away I had moved. I was just too excited to begin my career and grown-up life. Adding to the shock were the ten big boxes piled in the middle of the tiny kitchen-slash-living room. Ten boxes of personal belongings that I had packed and the school board had shipped. Ten boxes containing clothes, books, dishes, movies, chocolate, hand cream, a microwave, all of the things that I thought I could not live without or that I would not be able to purchase in the North. My life for the next year in ten boxes. I felt so overwhelmed that even though I felt like crying all I could do was laugh. After having unpacked a few boxes and trying to make the chaos somewhat organized, I was startled when Robert came barrelling through my door. “Karen?” I almost jumped out of my skin. “Robert! Oh my God, you scared me!” I held my heart that was beating wildly in an effort to calm it down when between his laughter Robert said, “Lesson number one! If you don’t want visitors you have to lock your door, if not people will just walk in!” I remembered reading in my research before moving up North that it is an Inuit custom not to lock doors. Since their society is based on the principle of sharing, a custom that goes back to ancient tradition, and because they are all somehow related to each other in the town, the Inuit do not lock doors in their communities, nor do they find it necessary to knock before entering each other’s homes. They also prefer to make their homes welcome and accessible to all in

case someone should ever be in need of anything, whether it be shelter, food, or company. But in all of my excitement I didn’t even think to lock my door, much less expect anyone to walk into my home! “Yeah, I know, I, I guess I forgot…” “It can be dangerous for a young single woman like you, you know.” “Yeah, you’re right…” I wouldn’t forget to lock my door at night. “So did you go to the Co-op?” “No, I’ve just been trying to unpack…” “But it’s almost six! What will you eat?” He seemed very concerned and that made me worry. My heart beat a little faster again. “Well I have some canned food and pots in my boxes, I just have to find them...” “Non non non non, you have to come to have supper at my house. It is a tradition, I always invite the new teachers for supper at my house their first year.” “Ok, well, sure, I guess.” His face lit up with joy and before I could finish talking, “Good, so I will be back to get you a little later, unless you remember which house is mine…” and his boisterous laughter filled the tiny house. “No, not really,” I smiled, as not only did all the houses look alike, but I was too shy to go out in the town by myself, knowing that I was the new attraction and was being heavily watched. “Ok,” he looked at his watch, “so I will be back at six and a half!” I’m the kind of person that likes to eat when I’m finished working, that way I can actually relax and enjoy it, but I had a feeling that Robert wouldn’t take no for an answer. I guess a home-cooked meal wouldn’t be such a bad idea either, especially after this long, exhausting day.

…

Robert’s house was nothing like mine. Like the other teachers (they all lived in this string of modern looking duplexes) his house had two floors, three

rooms, two baths, plenty of room for storage, nice furniture, and was very well maintained. You could tell these homes had been built recently. I didn’t like that I was not in the same area as the other teachers. Again, I felt left out. During the tour of the town Robert had jokingly told me that the part of town I lived in, was nicknamed “downtown” by the townspeople and that the part he lived in, was “uptown”, the school separating the two. I had found it funny and charming then. Not so much now. During supper Robert told me about my students and my teaching task. I would teach high school English and Social studies and had two multi-level classes: secondary one and two in Cycle 1 and secondary three, four and five in Cycle 2. He also told me that there would be a lot of weight on my shoulders this year as it was Charlotte’s, one of my students, graduating year. “It is a huge deal in such a small town, you know. Inuit dropout rates are very high, so a high school graduation is a big thing for our school and our community." I immediately felt the pressure. He then spoke a little bit about the politics of the town. Like many small Inuit communities, Ukiurtatuq was based on a hierarchy. He began to list family names by order of importance beginning with the Mayor’s family, as his had the most economic and social power. Then came the Minister’s family, as his had the most religious power. After them came all the rest and those that were the lowest on the list, and therefore the poorest, seemed to be those associated with the most socio-economic problems. He seemed to suggest that students with these kinds of last names would probably display the most behavioural problems in class due to their difficult family situations. I didn’t want to listen to this kind of labeling, but as he was my boss and had been here longer than I (three years), I really had no choice. As we finished supper and sipped on coffee the conversation began to come to a close. He offered to drive me home but it was only a three or four minute walk so I declined. I was beginning to feel sleepy but I still had unpacking to do and I figured the fresh air would do some good.

As I walked home I took deep breaths of the wonderfully crisp, unpolluted air and was accompanied by the most fantastic show of bright green dancing lights. My first Northern lights! If only I had someone to share them with; I was too afraid to stop and look by myself. I was still a stranger in this town. I began to walk more quickly. I reached home and went inside. My cheeks felt cold in the warmth of the house. I tried to turn on the lights but they didn’t work. I tried another set of lights and they didn’t work either. I tried turning on the stove. Nothing. I panicked. No electricity! I ran back to Robert’s house and knocked furiously on his door until he answered. “Karen? Are you ok?” His face serious. “I have no electricity!” I cried, my heart pounding and my legs shaking, my arms flailing and my brain racing. I panicked and could only imagine the worst scenario. “Is this how I have to live? Is this a permanent thing? Did they forget to fix it for me? Is the house so old that it doesn’t have any? Who do I call? When will it get fixed? Can it be fixed?” Robert laughed. “Karen, Karen, calm down, it’s ok!” He stopped to hold my shoulders. “Look, I don’t have any either!” I looked in his house and noticed it was dark. “Lesson number two! Sometimes the power goes out! Sometimes for a few minutes, sometimes a few hours, but don’t worry, it always comes back!” “Oh,” I said, beginning to breathe again. “So what do I do?” “Ben nothing, there’s nothing to do! You just wait! Maybe you need a candle or a flashlight?” “Yeah, please, just until I find mine in my boxes…” He went inside and returned with a flashlight. “Here, but bring it back to me tomorrow, please. I can never have enough. Oh and by the way, don’t forget, we start to work at nine tomorrow, eh?” My heart sank. “Yes, yes, ok, no problem,” I said, and started to turn. “Oh and Karen…” “Yes?”

“Welcome to the North!” He smiled as he closed the door.

…

I ran back home and went inside. I flicked the switch by habit and was surprised to see the lights go on. Great, all of that for nothing. I took a deep breath and continued to unpack, placing most of the stuff on the floor in the living room or on the couch. I would sort it out tomorrow, for now just focus on taking things out. After some time my eyes became heavy with sleep. I went into my room and having already put sheets on the bed all that was left to do was put on my pyjamas. Pyjamas! I would have to find them first. I went back to the kitchen and looked around for the first pair of pyjamas I could find. I grabbed a pair I spotted on the couch but when I did something flew out of them. An envelope. I went into the bedroom and turned the light on. I sat on the bed as I began to read. It was from my mom.

My dearest Karen,

My sweet little girl. You have no idea how much I admire you for being so courageous and so brave. I could not do half the things that you’ve accomplished: finishing university, moving out on your own, starting a new career and starting a new life. I’m so proud of you. I wish you all the best of luck but I know that you don’t need it, because you are a shining star, and you always shine at whatever you do, wherever you are.

Mommy loves you very much, and I have already cried a lot for you, watching you asleep at home, just thinking of us being apart. I know you will succeed, but if you ever want or need to come back, Mommy’s here and waiting, always with open arms.

I love you. Be strong. Love always, Mommy.

It finally struck me, how far I had gone. I flung myself on the bed and sobbed, wetting the letter and making the ink run until it was nothing more than a crumpled, wrinkled, illegible wad of different shades of blue and white gob. I had never felt so alone, so scared, so small, and so homesick as I did at that moment. It was only August and I would have to wait until Christmas to see her again. That made it hurt so much more. I set what was left of the letter-turned-goop on the nightstand and laid down. I closed my eyes and waited for sleep to come. My heart beat loudly at any little sound. It was my first night all alone in a place so far away and so different from my home. I heard howling coming from outside and prayed to God that they weren’t wolves, please God let them just be dogs. I held the blankets tighter, and prayed to fall asleep.

Aujalirut

My name is Saalati Mae Anannack. I was named after my ataatatsiak, my grandfather Saala. He is my sauniq. In English that means ‘bone’ but for Inuit it means that his spirit lives in me. That is a tradition for us. Inuit believe that for the dead to rest, a new baby must carry their name. They can only rest when their spirit is alive. That is why my anaanatsiak, my grandmother, sometimes calls me her husband and why my mother sometimes calls me her father. I know this is hard for Qallunaat, white people, to understand. There are many things they do not understand about Inuit and about the land. My sauniq used to be the greatest hunter. He used to do things the old way, to keep our way alive. He died when I was three. He was sick for a long

time. But I can still remember him and he still teaches me many things about my culture mostly through my grandmother. She misses him a lot and even though she has many grandchildren, she often tells me I am her favourite. I was adopted by my parents Elisapie and Bobby. My real mother, Rita, got pregnant by a Oui-oui, a French guy, when she was fifteen. He was a construction worker. He left before I was born. Her older sister, my anaana, Elisapie, had just married Bobby and wanted to have children, so my ajak, my Aunt Rita, gave me to them. I don’t know anything about that Oui-oui. My family doesn’t like to talk about those times. Summer was almost over now. At night you could feel the wind getting colder and it even smelled like snow. I missed the snow and I missed driving the sikituuq. Summer was too hot now. It didn’t used to be this hot when I was a little girl. I couldn’t wait for school to start but I was kind of scared too. I was going to graduate this year. I wondered what the new teacher would be like. If she or he was too luukuapik, maybe I would just drop out like many of my classmates. My parents wanted me to graduate so I could get a good job. I don’t know what though. There’s not much to do in my small town. It’s hard to study but I like to learn new things. I could even feel my sauniq wass proud of me when I did good in school. But I like to learn most from my grandmother. She is my favourite book. Soon we will start sewing parkas, mitts and kaamiks for the winter. That’s when I learn the most because that’s when she tells me stories about my grandfather. Even though she sometimes tells the same stories I always learn something different. I can’t wait to tell my children and grandchildren these stories one day. They have to know about their culture, about our ancestors and the way they used to live. It’s not going the same way anymore. Nowadays kids just watch TV and get junks from the coop. I don’t want my children to grow up not knowing who they are. I am proud to be an Inuk and I want them to know and respect the land. The land is a very special part of who we are. That’s why it makes me angry what the Qallunaat are doing. They don’t even live here but they come here to destroy

our land. They don’t even know us but they tell us how to live. Riiiis that makes me so angry! Anaanatsiak tells me anger is not the way. She laughs and says I must get that from my biological father. That just makes me even angrier. I don’t know how to change it back to the way it used to be before the Qallunaat came. I just know things can’t keep going the way they are or we won’t be Inuit anymore. We will just be another kind of Qallunaat living in a cold and spoiled place. No more family no more hunting, just internet and shopping. Eeeee, what a scary place that would be. But for now I had to think about school and passing. I really hoped the teacher would be good. New teachers were always funny. Even though they were teachers they didn’t really know about Inuit. Sometimes they didn’t even know how to teach. We always laughed at what they did. Some of them were very stiff and serious. It was so boring when they were like that. Sometimes they got angry and yelled but we weren’t scared of them. It just made us laugh even more. It was funny because they didn’t understand. They just gave rules. But they weren’t all like that, some of them could be fun too. We never knew what kind of teacher we were gonna get because Qallunaat teachers never stay. They only come for one year or two. Sometimes even the principal changed every year so it was like we always had a different school every year. The building was the same old one but the rules and people always changed. That made it hard. That’s why we were always nervous and shy the first few weeks. It’s hard to get to know people when you know they’re going to leave. There was only a few days left before school started. I would miss going aqpik picking with my brothers and sisters. It’s fun to lie on the land and eat berries all day long. But I also love going fishing. We have a cabin that we stay at in the winter for ice-fishing but in the summer we stay in the tent. My ataata likes to go caribou hunting with my brothers and anaana, me and my sisters like to fish. The best is eating the char when it’s fresh, not cooked. It’s mamaktuuk! And it gives our bodies energy.

We like to stay in the tent all summer. We only go back to town if we need something from the Co-op or gas for the honda. When school started we still went camping on the weekend or at least went for picnics on the land. That’s one of my favourite things to do. My least favourite was when I had to do homework. I hoped the new teacher wouldn’t give homework, I much rather be out on the land. Sometimes I tried to go fishing right after school when it was still warm. “Saalati! Saalati hey! Qangattajuu tikittuq!” My little brother Yimmi said very excited. “The plane is here!” I could see the airport from our kitchen window. The runway lights were flashing and an Air Nunavik twin otter lands. The teachers were here. I wondered how many new teachers were coming to my town. Some of the teachers from last year came on a charter this morning. All the kids in town were very excited. They love running up to the teachers to shake their hands and welcome them back. I guess it’s fun when teachers come back. It gives the kids something to do for a while and it gives the teenagers and adults something new to talk about too. In Ukiurtatuq, the town is so small – less than 400 people – so it’s very interesting when the teachers arrive after the summer. It gives us lots to gossip about! I was in the kitchen cooking supper for my brothers and sisters when the plane arrived. I came back from the camp with my brothers and sisters to get them used to waking up early, that way when school started they would be used to it. My mother teaches Inuktitut at the school. She knew it was hard for us to get up early sometimes, that’s why she made us practice. For supper I made macaroni. It’s better with caribou meat but I didn’t have time to grind it so I’m just used hamburger meat that we bought at the Co-op. It’s still good but not as healthy. At least the kids like it. In the evenings they usually play outside with their bikes. I left the macaroni on the stove, that way they could just take some whenever they were hungry. Inuit children don’t really have a time for supper or sleep because we believe that they are the ones that know when they are hungry and sleepy. They decide for themselves when they want to eat or sleep. It teaches them to make their own decisions when they are young, but Qallunaat don’t

understand that. They just think that Inuit parents don’t take care of their kids and let them be spoiled. I like to eat supper the Inuit way. Not like Qallunaat do sitting in chairs around a table. We have a table and chairs too but we don’t really use them for eating. We like it better when all the family sits in a big circle on the floor sharing the food in the middle. That’s how our ancestors used to eat. Some Inuit eat like Qallunaat do now too, but it’s more fun to eat the Inuit way, especially when we’re camping and on holidays and feasts. We like eating that way because it reminds us of the old times, sharing and eating that way. My parents were coming back from the camp soon. They would be hungry from the drive so they would have some macaroni too. My brothers and sisters would be happy to see them. I have two sisters and three brothers. Lidiaan is the oldest, she’s twenty-one and she’s my mother’s daughter from before she married my father. Lidiaan’s not usually home unless she’s sleeping. She likes to go out drinking with her friends. She had a daughter, Mary, but my parents adopted her because Lidiaan can’t take care of her. Mary’s only three, she’s the youngest. Then there’s my brothers. Alec is fifteen, Yimmi is seven, and Tuniq is five. I’m seventeen. Even though our house is one of the biggest Inuit houses in town (teachers houses are way bigger), the younger boys have to share a mattress and I share mine with Lidiaan whenever she’s around. Mary sleeps with my parents and Alec just sleeps on the couch. It’s not so bad, there are other families who have much smaller houses and much more children and even grandparents living with them, so sometimes the kids have to sleep on the floor. My parents said that it’s the government’s fault for making so few and small houses for us. They should make more of them and renovate these ones because they are very old and in winter time they get very cold. Sometimes we even have to shovel snow from the entrance and hallway. It comes in through the front door. There’s a crack at the bottom where the wind and snow gets in. Ataata says it’s because they made the houses too fast and with not enough insulation. I hope they can fix it one day.

I could see the northern lights dancing from my window. That meant it was gonna be a nice day tomorrow. I guessed I would just hang around with my friends in town. I could see a lady walking down the street. Must have been a new teacher, maybe mine! My mother had to work the next day, so she would probably find out. I would ask her tomorrow. I just hoped she was nice…

…

It was late now and I could hear the baby crying. Sometimes the only way Mary would fall asleep was when I sang to her. I always sang the same song, the one that my mother sang to me when I was a baby. The one that sauniq used to sing to my mother, and the one that his mother sang to him. I love that song, it always makes me feel calm when I sing it. “It’s ok bibi, go to sleep.” I told Mary. She was still crying so I took her in my arms and sang.

Sinigiit sinigiit sinigasualirit illimut nallagiit taqairsiniaravi iqillu kunillu sinigasualirit sinigiit sinigiit sinigasualirit nalligivagi qiturngapigaa sinisialiriit ta qairsiniaravit…1

1Go to sleep go to sleep go to sleep Climb to bed and lay down so you’ll take a rest Hug me, kiss me go to sleep Go to sleep go to sleep go to sleep I love you so much oh my child go to sleep so You’ll get some rest *Translated by V.S.

She was quiet now and sleeping deeply. I cuddled and wrapped her tight and went back to the room I share with my brothers. Today was a good day. Nakurmik Jisusi. I hoped for a new day tomorrow, God willing. I closed my eyes and just in case my brothers needed it,

Sinigiit sinigiit sinigasualirit…

I sang it softly for them.

September

I still don’t know how I got through that first night in August. With the culture shock, the unpacking, the jetlag, the excitement and all the nerves, and of course, the interesting Robert adding to the mix, I was definitely in need of a good, long sleep. The unexpected letter from my mother had stirred so many emotions in me that any little noise made me jump and the howling of the neighbour’s dogs even made me pray – and I’m really not all that religious! On the other hand, I knew that the first night would be the worst, that it would only get better from here. I would adapt to my new environment and grow accustomed to my new surroundings in no time, and any challenge that came my way, well I was just going to laugh at it wholeheartedly. I don’t know, maybe Robert was rubbing off on me, but I was determined to make this work. My second day in Ukiurtatuq began with the unwelcome ring of my alarm clock. I hadn’t slept well but as it was my first day of work, I got up early, showered (that was an adventure all on its own!) and put on my newest, most professional teaching outfit. I wanted to make a good impression. I boiled some water and found the instant coffee that I had placed on the kitchen counter the night before, predicting my ante meridiem need of caffeine. Shit! No milk. Maybe I should have gone to the Co-op... Oh well, black coffee would have to suffice. I wasn’t really hungry, I was too nervous to start my first teaching job, but I remembered the muffin I had stowed in my purse on the flight over (I had been too nervous to eat then too) and took it with me as I crossed the street to the school. I guessed I was early. It was 8:45 and no one was there. I started down the hallway, looking around, trying to find someone when all of the sudden, “Karen!” boomed Robert from right behind me, giving me a slight heart- attack in the process. “Robert!” there he was, laughing away as usual. “Oh you’re early! That’s good!” “But I thought you said to be here for nine…”

“Oh yes,” he said, motioning “never mind” with his hand, “but nobody shows up at nine! Come on, Karen, we’re on Inuit time here! You always have to tell people to come at least half an hour earlier than you mean if you want them here on time!” he laughed. “The meeting starts at nine thirty…” “Oh…” “But well, it’s a good thing you are here! I will show you the school, yes?” “Oh yes, please, I’d love to see it!” I felt so relieved to be shown the school instead of having to find the different areas (library, gym, office, etc.) on my own. “By the way that’s a very nice outfit you are wearing, Karen,” I felt pleased that he approved of my attire, “but we are not so fancy here in the North! You don’t have to wear that kind of thing here.” He smiled, looking at me up and down and I shrunk. I felt so embarrassed, I just wanted to make a good impression and now I felt awkward and out of place. The tour of the school distracted me for a while. The school was very small. The first floor housed the office and administration area, the staff room/teacher’s lounge, primary classrooms from kindergarten to grade two and the extension out to the gym. The second floor was home to the library, primary classrooms grades three to six, the science lab, and the four secondary classrooms (two for the ‘English sector’ and two for the French). Robert explained to me that the children were instructed in their first language, Inuktitut, until grade two, and then in grade three were instructed half the day in Inuktitut, and the other half in their second language of choice, either English or French. It was usually the parents who decided which language their child would learn, not really based on any academic aptitude or competency level, but rather on the popularity of the third grade Qallunaatitut (English) or Ouiouititut (French) teacher that year. From grade four until secondary five (high school completion), the students were taught all subjects solely in their second language, being excused for Inuktitut class only one period a day. It was no wonder that these students had

very low literacy skills, being expected to learn abstract concepts and mathematical formulas in a second language which they were only beginning to learn and had not yet mastered in high school. Added to the language barrier was the cultural dissonance experienced by both the Qallunaak teacher and his/her Inuit students, which was compounded by the fact that these were multi-level classrooms (students in two or three different grades placed in the same class because the small student population did not allow for different classes for each of the grades). I could only begin to understand what an extreme challenge it would be to teach and learn in the North. And I hadn’t even begun to face accommodating for and coping with students’ different learning and behavioural disabilities. Robert then showed me my classroom. Four white walls and a blackboard. “Where are the desks and chairs? Where is the material?” I asked, half expecting the room to be bare, but still concerned about the lack of basic needs. “You will get the desks and chairs soon, Sandy will bring them to you. He is our maintenance guy – he fixes everything in the school and also repairs things in the teachers’ houses. And the material, well, there must be some in the storage room. You will have time to check later.” That relieved me for the time being and I also made a mental note about Sandy – I had some questions about my shower. Robert then suggested that we go back downstairs and wait for the others. He told me to help myself to some coffee in the staff room. The staff room was equipped with two computers, two photocopiers, a phone, cubby-holes for the teachers, and the all-important coffee maker. What I really wanted to do was pick up the phone and call home (my phone line hadn’t been installed yet) or check my emails (I still hadn’t gotten a modem from the town hall), but I had to control my urges as I didn’t want to seem rude, so I helped myself to coffee instead. I sipped my coffee as I looked around the room and heard the front door open. There was a lot of chatter in Inuktitut and English. I immediately got a nervous rush; these would be my teaching colleagues. I tugged at my blouse and hoped they wouldn’t judge me.

As the teachers came in, smiling, chatting, laughing, they went straight to the coffee maker and poured themselves a cup before even noticing me. I was sitting shyly in a corner, noticing that they were all extremely casually dressed in jeans and t-shirts. I stuck out like a sore thumb. I felt like a loser for being so over-dressed. Of course I didn’t need jewelry, make-up and high heels in the North! This wasn’t a school in the city that demanded I dress formally! What was I thinking? I could have dressed for comfort like the others, but I didn’t know. Well I wouldn’t make the same mistake again. I later found out from my students that when a woman dresses up she is said to be fishing for a man. That was certainly not the impression I wanted to make! Anyhow, there were two white teachers, a man and a woman, and three Inuit teachers. When they turned around and saw me, the white teachers shook my hand, asked my name and introduced themselves as Gerry and Hélène. I then looked over at the Inuit teachers who looked very shy as well. We shook hands and they smiled warmly, introducing themselves as Elisapie, Sarah, and Minnie. After a few minutes, with more teachers coming in and out of the staff room, Robert asked for everyone to make their way to the culture room for the meeting to begin. The culture room is the biggest room in the school and it holds the kitchen (two fridges and two ovens) and a large table in the middle. The culture room is used for cooking activities but also for the students’ culture class where they learn traditional Inuit skills such as sewing and carving once a week. As I was the only new teacher in the room, I again started to feel left out, watching all the teachers talk amongst each other. They seemed to know each other and get along very well. There was a feeling of joy, especially in Robert, who seemed to love being the centre of attention. He introduced all of the teachers and staff (janitors, secretary, maintenance man) to me, telling me of their functions in the school and lastly introduced me. Everybody nodded and smiled and said “welcome”. I felt very nervous, but was also a little upset because I didn’t see anyone there my age. All the teachers seemed to be older and have families – who would I be friends with? Who would I hang out with on the

weekends? Maybe nobody. Maybe I was only here to work. I started tuning out of the meeting, worrying myself with these kinds of questions. Maybe they seem trivial now, but having no social life would make my time in the North extremely long and unbearably lonely… The meeting ended and I went home to have a quick bite. I was anxious to start setting up my classroom so I went back to school early. Gerry was there setting up his classroom which happened to be the one next to mine. We talked for a bit. I could tell we would get along well. He was a huge help to me that day, and continued to be so throughout the year, as he is the primary English teacher and had had my students in the past. He had also ordered some materials for me. He showed me what the reading comprehension level of my students was (somewhere along the lines of a Robert Munsch book) and gave me some notebooks and pencils. He also gave me some books and workbooks that could be of interest to me to use with my students. Hélène was also a great help. She was the secondary French teacher, so she helped me find the materials in the storage room that were set aside for the English secondary teacher. Although I wanted to start setting up my classroom and trying to make it somewhat colourful and welcoming for my students, the storage room was such a mess that we spent the whole afternoon organizing and cleaning it. At least there were still two days before the first day of classes, and although that wasn’t much time and I was still trying to figure out what materials I could use, I work very well under pressure; it’s almost like the stress and adrenaline propel me, so I knew I could be ready. When the workday ended I made my first trip to the Co-op. Gerry and Hélène joined me and I was very glad for the company. Gerry was a very pleasant man with the kindest heart and funniest one-liners. Although he loved to complain about the kids, you could tell he really loved them, as all the kids in town – whether his students or not – clung to him and demanded to be picked up and chased. Gerry dropped everything for the kids (he had no wife to go home to) and although he loved rolling his eyes and making cracks about them, you could tell

this man really loved his job, and the way he ran to you whenever you asked for something, you could tell this man was one of the nicest you’d ever meet. Hélène was also a very kind lady. She was French Canadian and lived here with her family. Her children attended the school and spoke Inuktitut fluently. She had been in Ukiurtatuq for ten years, only two more than Gerry. She too loved to laugh (it seemed to be a requisite to live in the North) and offered so much helpful advice not only about the curriculum but about life in the North, that I would be forever grateful for. Even though they were older than me by at least twenty years, it became clear to me quite quickly that Gerry and Hélène were very special people and that they, along with Robert and the other teachers, would not only become my friends but my family – my Northern family. I had only twenty dollars in my pocket when I made the trip up North. Having been a full-time student and having spent most of my summer job money on warm clothes and supplies for my year in Ukiurtatuq, I had only twenty dollars left until my first paycheck. I was hoping to be able to buy enough food to last until then, but hadn’t anticipated the extreme Northern prices. Everything was triple the price it is in Montreal and most of the food was processed, canned or frozen. There was a very small section of fresh food but the brown broccoli and bruised apples weren’t very appetizing, especially with the shock of their ridiculous prices. I had to settle for a carton of shelf stable milk (the refrigerated kind was way over my budget at eight dollars), a loaf of bread and a small package of processed cheese. I would be eating a lot of grilled cheese sandwiches. In fact I think I ate grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch every day that month of September. For dinner I would alternate between canned foods and Kraft Dinner. I will never forget the first supper I had in my first house that first night of work. I was exhausted, but hopeful; although there was a lot of work to be done, I felt contented that I had made some friends. After another adventure in the shower (I could not understand how the temperature kept changing from hot to cold mid-shower, nor why there were tiny rocks coming out of the shower wall), I made myself a hard-earned bowl of cheesy macaroni.

I couldn’t wait to stuff my face with it – I was starving and this would bring me some much needed comfort – so I set it on the kitchen table and bang! All the macaroni all over the floor. I couldn’t help but cry. I felt so defeated. Unbeknownst to me, the little round, wooden table had sides that folded down, and the particular side that I set my dinner on was quite unstable. It folded as soon as I put my bowl of macaroni on it. I picked up the mess and ate what was salvageable and then I went to bed.

…

The next few days went as the first. Still trying to get used to my new surroundings, still trying to find and make materials to plan lessons with (most of the stuff was so outdated that it couldn’t be used), but I started to walk a little lighter. I started to learn how to deal with unexpected surprises and began to develop much more patience. I was getting used to slowing down and not taking things so seriously. I started laughing a lot more too. I wasn’t fully prepared for the first day of school but I wasn’t nervous either. I thought I had this one in the bag; all I had to do was use my charm and wit to win them over for the morning, and then it would be easy as the afternoon was a welcome back activity. The whole school would be going berry-picking together. As all the students and some parents assembled in the gym, I awaited my turn to call the names on my student list and have them follow me up to class, as all the teachers were instructed to do. My homeroom class consisted of twelve Cycle 1 students and as I called their names a lot of them giggled. I guessed my pronunciation was off. We made it up to class and the kids sat on their desks (Sandy still hadn’t brought the chairs up) and I introduced myself. “Hello, my name is Miss White and I will be your English and Social Studies teacher this year. Here are your schedules. You will see that we also have art class together.”

The students laughed uncontrollably. “This year we’re going to learn a lot of new things but I also want us to have lots of fun together. Here are the class rules.” The students laughed even more. By now it was apparent that they weren’t laughing at my pronunciation, but were reacting to their new Qallunaak teacher. It was a mix of shyness, vulnerability and testing that was going on here. I gave them each a copy of the rules and went over them. I remembered being told in professional courses at the University that one had to set the stage immediately or all hell would break lose. The students have to know that the teacher’s the boss, so before even getting to know my students, I gave them a list of rules. It repelled them instantly. Some of them rolled their eyes, some of them muttered complaints in Inuktitut and lots of them bunched them up and threw them out. I decided to let it go. I didn’t want to start yelling in the first five minutes. After unsuccessfully implementing the class rules, I went over the class list again, this time making sure the pronunciation was right. They corrected me and giggled and of course switched names making it impossible for me to know who was who. And then they did something. They asked me what my name was. I wanted to be authoritative but I also began to think that maybe the way to these kids was not through formalities and seriousness; maybe it was through playing and laughing. So I fought the urge to remain professional, and I kid you not, in the first five minutes of my teaching career I chucked everything I had learned at the University out the window. To hell with theory! Something told me that the best thing to do was to go with my gut, so I told them my name was Karen. They asked where I was from, who my parents were, if I had brothers and sisters, was I married, did I have kids, you name it they asked, and I answered. I could feel the ice breaking bit by bit. And as I stood there, watching these dark almond eyes, getting swept away by the curious tone of their laugher, there was a knock on the door. “Karen, what’s going on here?” Robert asked, walking in to the classroom. “What’s all this laughing about?

“Oh, we’re just trying to get to know each other,” And I took him aside, “is it ok that I told the kids my name? I know students normally call teachers by their last name but…” “Oh, no no no, that’s fine,” he interrupted, “in the North teachers aren’t Mr. This or Mrs. That, we all go by first names here, even me!” “Oh, ok good.” “Well, it’s nice to see that you’re getting along, but maybe you can do something more productive, eh?” “Oh, yes, of course, we’re getting right to it.” Productive? Really? In the first few minutes of class? In the first few minutes of my very first encounter with my very first group of students? Not only was this whole situation a little crazy, but I felt embarrassed that the principal had actually instructed me in front of my students. How was this supposed to tell them that I had authority? We just stood there watching each other in silence. I was supposed to lead them but I felt like they knew so much more than I did about the school about the town, about everything… I was feeling like such a failure, but nevertheless I acted quickly on my toes and again followed my instincts. I closed the classroom door. “Ok, who wants to play a game?” I asked, with the biggest smile. “YEAH!!!!” They cried, instantly filling with joy. We kept playing games and getting to know each other until lunch time. After all, we had all year to be more productive, and I think that getting to know your students and establishing a good relationship with them is not only productive, but quite rewarding in the long run. The bell rang and I told them we would meet back here after lunch to go on the berry-picking activity. The school bus would drive us to the site. Phew! I sighed relief as they all ran out into the corridor. I made it! That wasn’t so bad! As I was getting ready to go, an Inuit lady poked her head into the room. “Karen?” “Yes?”

“Um, I’m Elisapie,” I remembered from the meeting that she was the Inuktitut teacher. “Oh right, hi Elisapie!” “Ayy, hi! Um, I just wanted to say welcome and um, I have a daughter in your class, in secondary five.” “Oh I haven’t met her yet. I had the younger group this morning.” “Ayy, my son Alec is in that class.” “Yes, I just met him.” He had thrown away his copy of the rules. At this moment I heard a voice from down the corridor. “Anaana, key-mit?” “Aa, panik,” Elisapie took a key from her pocket and handed it to the girl. “Una.” The girl took the key from her mother and Elisapie continued, “This is my panik, my daughter,” the girl with the long raven hair looked at me. “Oh, hi Charlotte,” I said, remembering that Robert had spoken about her that night at his house. “Hi,” She said with the biggest, blackest eyes I have ever seen and then quickly turned to her mother, said a few words in Inuktitut, and left. “She’s shy,” Elisapie chuckled. “Well I just wanted to say hi. Have a good lunch. See you!” “Oh, thank you, you too! See you!” That was a little weird. Although Elisapie was nice enough, something struck me about Charlotte. I hoped it was just a first impression, but she didn’t seem very excited to meet me. The day went on and the berry-picking activity went off without a hitch. The view was breath-taking and the air so fresh and pure. Everybody had a great time, mostly the kids, hopping from rock to rock avoiding the wet, muddy marsh and picking the plumpest of berries. I of course had managed to get my feet wet and ice cold and didn’t want to risk getting dirty so I didn’t pick any berries. Gerry offered me some of his on the ride home, and we ate them in a serene silence despite the chaos of berry-juice and mash being splattered all over the school bus, with kids jumping up and down, their faces and fingers a sticky mess

of purple-blue, hair tangled and clothes in wet shambles, and the sweet smell of sweat all around, but nothing was more beautiful. And Gerry and I smiled.

…

Water conservation is extremely important in the North. As there is no aqueduct system in place, all homes are equipped with a water and sewage tank. The water truck delivers water, and the sewage trunk empties the sewage tanks and these are usually done on a daily basis. But it was no rarity – and actually quite funny – to see teachers and townspeople running after the trucks because the drivers had forgotten to come to their house. (For some reason the drivers did not have a linear or organized plan of delivery and removal; they just seemed to go wherever it pleased them.) And some days there was no delivery or emptying at all, because the truck drivers were sick or hung over and there was no else to do the job. I was also warned by the other teachers that if either of the trucks broke and the mechanic was out of town, or the parts had to be flown in from the South, we could go days without water. Letting the water run while doing dishes or brushing your teeth was therefore a huge no-no. You also had to get used to taking super-fast showers and limit the amount of times you used the washing machine, if you didn’t want to get caught mid-shampoo or mid-rinse cycle. And do not drink the water from the tap! Unless you’ve built immunity to it, you may find yourself at the clinic with severe gastro-intestinal pains and all of the not so pleasant side effects that come with them. Another important piece of advice about water that my colleagues gave me was boil, boil, boil! Some teachers took it to the extreme and even washed their produce or made ice cubes with boiled water, fearing the microbes that had gathered in the tank. Robert told me that was nonsense, and that the only time to be careful with it was in the Spring, when the melting of the snow and migrating of the animals made it a little more questionable. The water station filtered the water, and if you took the care to wash the tank every now and then, according to Robert, boiling the water was not

necessary. But I didn’t want to take any chances! I have a very sensitive system, and seeing as our tiny clinic was run by only two nurses and that the only way to see a doctor was by medevac (medical evacuation by plane) to the closest town with a hospital, or to have the “good-fortune” of falling sick when a doctor made the bi-monthly visit to the community, I made sure to boil my water. September in Ukiurtatuq was quite the learning experience. Most people asked me why I made the decision to come to such a small, cold, far and isolated place and I usually gave the generic answers like “for the experience” or “for the adventure” or even “for the challenge”, but the truth was that I came here for my independence. Having been raised by strict parents, I lived a sheltered childhood and even more sheltered adolescence. I was always a good girl, good at following the rules, good at school, and even though I rebelled or got in trouble sometimes, it was never anything crazy. I had never done anything really wild. I always kept to myself and did things the proper way; I was quiet; always organized and had well-thought out plans; I had a lot of stress, anxiety and worry because I wanted to fit into that mold; I wanted to please my parents so badly, to fit into that white picket-fenced life and to have my own part of it. And even though I wanted it and liked the cookie-cutter path that I was on, I felt bound by it; fenced-in so to speak. What I really needed was to break out of that and experience something wild and crazy! Even if for just a moment, I needed to do something that was completely out of character. I could feel something pulling at me, calling me, urging me to go and find out who I was. And moving to a tiny, isolated Inuit village above the sixtieth parallel that is fly-in only alone seemed to be the answer. Even though I’m not much of an outdoorsy person and I don’t really like the cold, I knew that it would be a great experience for me, professionally and personally, and I needed to give it a try; even if I didn’t succeed, I also needed to know that that was okay too. But that was kind of long to tell people. I think most of my colleagues were glad to have me here, glad to have someone fresh out of university with new albeit naïve ideas about pedagogy and curriculum and about changing the world. They often told me stories about

teachers that came up for the money and had a miserable time. And there were also those that left after a month, lacking the comforts of city life, or those that didn’t come back after Christmas break, being unable to cope with the harsh realities of the North. And then there were those that took one look at the town and were on the next flight out of there. Different strokes for different folks. But deep down, although I did come here for somewhat selfish reasons, there was also a part of me that wanted to go some good. I’d heard the stories about social problems in the North and I want to do everything I could in order to help. Even if it was just a little bit, even if I only reached one person. That was my goal for the year. I had taken the custom of going for walks every day after supper. I was amazed at the beauty of the land, at how it made you take a step back and breathe it all in. It was a funny feeling being constrained in the limits of this tiny town (there were no roads to take you anywhere) and yet be confronted with the endless boundaries of sky and ocean, of mountains and tundra as far as the eye could see. Sometimes the walks were peaceful and kind; they brought healing to the soul. Other times they were interrupted by kids that followed me on foot or on bikes, on four-wheelers or in trucks and asked me where I was going, what I was doing, and sometimes if I was drunk. There were times that I was glad for the company, but other times I wished to be alone, given that I saw them all day at school. It was hard to make that break when my neighbours were my students and when they knew where I lived; even in my personal time I was still a teacher and had to remain the model that they looked up to. Sometimes during my walks down to the beach or up to the airport I was accompanied by playful dogs. They accompanied me as I stopped to smell the purple Saxifrage, surprised that flowers grew so far North, or to pick a wild mushroom. Other followers were the incessant mosquitoes and relentless black flies, piercing in their bite. As I walked around my new town, passing houses as I went, I heard the sounds of music and the cheers and clinks of drinking. I saw adults and teenagers

stooped on porches cigarette in hand. Loud music blasted from car radios as they came and went for joy rides. I heard the painful sounds of dogs yelping. And in the wee hours of the morning, when I was safely in my bed, the frightening sounds of people yelling and of fighting. And again I started to pray.

Amiraijaut

It was the first day of school today. I went to the gym this morning, as usual. We always had a prayer every morning before school, and on the first day of school all the students and some parents got together to listen to the school rules and to meet the teachers. The little kids were so cute and their parents were very proud of them, taking pictures of their first day in school. It was different for me this year because it was my last first day of school ever! It was kind of weird to think that but it was fun to watch everyone else get all excited. I think the principal was the most excited. He always made jokes and tried to speak Inuktitut. My mom told me that my new teacher was Karen, but I wasn’t going to meet her today because my homeroom teacher was Bruce. He taught math and science to the English secondaries. He was a nice guy but sometimes too serious. He liked to tell us about his science stuff like global warming and that we come from monkeys. I’m not sure about that. In my religion, we believe that Jisusi, or Jesus like they call him in English, put everything on the Earth for us to use. He put all the animals and everything in nature for humans to use when we need it and he will always give us more so that we will never run out, so a lot of Inuit don’t believe in global warming like a lot of Qallunaak people do. They’re worried about pollution and climate getting hotter and destroying the planet. They’re kind of right too, but Qallunaat are the ones destroying the land, not us, so I don’t really know what to believe.

I just try to be a good person and use the things in nature like my ancestors did, using every part of the animal and not wasting anything. There’s always a use for everything in our culture, even leftover parts. We don’t like to throw anything away because that’s a sin. We are thankful for everything and find a way to use it. That’s what I always tried to tell Bruce. But he didn’t believe in religion, he only believed in his science. Maybe he should have come to Church with us on Sundays, and then he would understand that we didn’t come from monkeys. When I said that he just laughed. My grandma tells me that a long time ago, even before she was born, Inuit didn’t believe in Jesus. Our ancestors believed in spirits and they had Shamans, special people who could talk to them. There were good spirits and bad spirits. It scares me to think about a world without Jesus. Who saved their souls when they died if they didn’t believe? Maybe they’re all in hell now. Atsuk. All I know is that if you don’t believe, then you will burn in hell. Sometimes when people do bad things, like drinking or drugs or other bad things, we know it’s not really their fault. It’s because a bad spirit took over their mind, so we always forgive them, because Jisusi always forgives, ilai. And He will forgive them too, so we have to also. My grandfather believed in Jesus a lot, so I know he’s in heaven and I will see him again one day. Everybody who dies and believes in Jesus will go to heaven, unless they suicide, then they will go to hell. We’re living in the last days right now so we have to get ready. We have to be good and wait for Jesus to take us to the better place. I can’t wait to see my sauniq again! Sometimes I talk to him when I don’t know who else to talk to. I know that he can hear me in my mind. And sometimes he helps me too, by showing me a sign. Sometimes people in town say that they see angels. My grandfather is an angel but I never see him, I just feel him around. My grandmother feels him too. She came to the gym this morning. Lots of elders like to go to the first day of school for the free coffee, but they also want to know what the youth will be learning and who their teachers will be. They like to see the community gather together, it must remind them of the old days.

Anaanatsiak kept looking at Karen, the new teacher, like most people did. My mother said she was a nice person, even though she dressed fancy. She wasn’t really dressed fancy today, but she wore lipstick. That was kind of funny. Maybe she was looking for a boyfriend? Aatsiaramai. I was kind of staring at her too. She looked young. I hoped she would know how to teach. I had to pass my final exams to graduate, and English was always the hardest. She looked like she was lost, but she smiled a lot, so I guessed she was nice. Lots of teenagers were absent. They usually didn’t go the first day of school. They are too busy hunting or some just don’t want to listen to the rules and go on the berry-picking activity. They would rather sit at home and play video games or play golf. Lots of people like to play golf in the tundra. I wouldn’t go on the activity either. I had to watch Mary because one of the workers at the daycare called in sick. I didn’t really mind, I’d just share the berries with my brothers if they didn’t eat them all. I hoped they didn’t, that way I could make us some suvalik. That’s one of our favourite things to eat! It’s berries mixed with fish eggs and oil. We Inuit go crazy for it, but most Qallunaat don’t like it. They always think it’s cool whip not misirak and it’s so funny to watch their faces when they try to swallow it! When my mother got home from work I would ride my scooter. There isn’t much to do in this town, but I liked to ride my scooter with my friends all night long. Sometimes we would go to their house, or stop at my house to eat or watch a movie. We loved going to the Co-op and buying lots of pop and chips to last the whole night. Most kids and teenagers do. Gum was also very important! We liked to have lots of gum and blow big bubbles. There is supposed to be a curfew when school starts. There was a night guard that went around checking for kids but he wasn’t very smart and we always tricked him. We hid from him and just stayed out anyways. Or we pretended to go home and just went out again later. It was lots of fun confusing him like that. It was funny when he yelled and tried to chase us. I guess it was good when he brought the young kids home, but sometimes they had nowhere to go because

their parents were drinking. Sometimes it was better for them to stay on the streets with their friends. Sometimes they had to stay out until the morning, and they didn’t even have any breakfast and then they got in trouble at school for falling asleep, but they were too shy to tell their teachers why. Sometimes the parties are scary. When they drink too much, some people could be very dangerous. It is not good for kids to be around them because sometimes some really bad things could happen to them. We don’t really talk about those things in our culture. But it happened to many of my friends when we were younger and even now. Some of them have gotten pregnant from it. Some of them couldn’t take the pain and got into drugs. Some of them have even died. It happened to me a few times too but I never told anybody. I didn’t want anybody to know, it was too embarrassing. Also the guy that did it to me was the police chief’s son, so nobody would believe me anyway. He always got away with everything. Just like the mayor’s family. They could do whatever they wanted and they would never go to jail or anything. No one would press charges against them. They would get threatening calls and visits until they were dropped so there was no point. I remember one time, when it was a party at my cousin’s and he was there. He took me outside and pulled down my pants. I tried to yell but he covered my face. I tried hitting him but he put my arms behind my back and threw me on the ground under the porch. He forced himself inside me and said that if I told anyone he would kill me and showed me his carving knife. He was very drunk but very strong. I was too scared to do anything to make him angry. So I laid there in the dirt and waited until he was finished. When he got up I ran home, took a shower and went to bed. I didn’t even cry. I was just shaking and shaking because I was cold and afraid. Whenever I see him I feel like throwing up. I can feel his stinky breath sweating all over me. He just looks at me and laughs. I wish he would die, but then I won’t go to heaven, so I just try to forget. I could hear the hondas leaving town. It was Friday afternoon so lots of people were leaving town to go camping. I wished I could go camping too but I

had to wait until my mother came home and then maybe help her at school. Sometimes she asked me to help her in her classroom. I didn’t mind it because it was fun to cut out numbers and shapes and colour them. She had to make her own materials because the school board didn’t really have any in Inuktitut. After that I would go over to my best-friend’s house, Kitty. She was free- housing tonight. Her parents were in the next town vising relatives so she had the house to herself. She invited me and our friends over to watch scary movies. That’s why I got the key from my mom at lunch time, so I could pick up Mary at the daycare and go to the coop to buy my pop and junks! “Saalati, Saalati!!!” I heard Yimmi and Tuniq screaming on their way in the house, the door slammed behind them. Anaana always told them not to let the door slam. “Suyu?! Hey, be careful, don’t let the door slam like that!” I told them, kind of angry and annoyed. But then I saw the buckets full of berries and they were soon forgiven. “Naoruuk! Raa, you got so many of them! Pisitik!” I was so proud of them for thinking about sharing with our family and bringing them home, instead of eating them all on the bus. The boys looked very happy too, and they watched me excitedly as I started to make the suvalik. Mary grabbed some berries with her hand and tried to put them in her mouth but she got it all over her face instead. We are all laughing to see her enjoying the berries too. We were still laughing and playing with Mary when anaana walked in. “Mmm, mamaktuuk! Nakurmik, Saalati for making suvalik! You make the best one!” “Ilali,” I said, and handed her a bowl. My father came home too, and before we knew it we finished all the suvalik and I made more. It was so fresh and tasty that we couldn’t get enough. We ate and ate until we were full. We could always pick more berries on the week-end. I gave Mary a bath and changed her clothes. Anaana said she was not going to school that evening, she would do some work tomorrow morning and then we’d have a picnic.

As I made my way out to the porch and down the stairs to my scooter, my mother knocked on the front window for me to look up at her. “Be careful,” she mouthed. I nodded my head yes and drove downtown to Kitty’s. Passing by Karen’s house, I could see that all the blinds were closed and she had put garbage bags on the window. Boy, Qallunaat are funny! Some of them can’t stand that it’s day light until eleven or twelve at night so they cover their windows so they can sleep. It must be boring to live in a place that’s so dark. I could see that some kids were hanging around her house so I yelled at them to go somewhere else. At least it wasn’t teenagers riding around in their hondas trying to bug her. Sometimes they do that to new teachers. It must be annoying. I saw her this afternoon and she called me Charlotte. I didn’t like that. Names in English don’t sound as nice. In Inuktitut they sound like a song, they have a more beautiful sound to them than in English. Even the name for English people is nicer in Inuktitut! It means something like people who polish their eyebrows. Most people think it just means eyebrows (qallu) and stomach (naak) because the whalers that came here a long time ago had bushy eyebrows and big stomachs. But my grandmother told me that sauniq told her that his father told him that where he was born, a place in Nunavut, it meant people who care for or polish their eyebrows. That was before some Inuit were relocated here. Nunavut Inuit speak a different Inuktitut than Nunavik Inuit, so sometimes it’s confusing trying to understand the meanings of things because they got mixed up in the move. Kitty’s place was small but warm. Her little brothers and sisters were outside playing with their bikes. Some of my classmates were already there. Some were watching TV and others were on the Internet. Kitty greeted me and was happy to see me. “Hi! Ready to have a fun night?” she asked, putting her arm in mine. “Yeah!” I said, and placed my bag of junk from the Co-op on the table. Her kitchen was always messy. Her parents were old and tired so there was

always dirty dishes and cups everywhere. I liked helping Kitty clean up. It made me feel good to be in a clean place, so I started washing the cups and dishes. Kitty helped dry them and put them away. “Where did you get the movies from?” I asked. “My ajak got them when she was in Montreal for the hospital. She let me borrow them.” “Asuu. I can’t wait to see some new movies!” “Ilai, not always the same old ones.” In Ukiurtatuq, we don’t get new movies very often. The ones they sell at the coop are boring and they’re like $50.00, so we’re always stuck watching whatever movies are on TV. They always show the same ones, so whenever someone goes South, they buy some new funny or scary movies. Those are our favourite. Sometimes they show one in the gym for $2.00 but it’s hard to hear anything because the kids start playing and running around. It’s also fun when people buy new video games from the South because they’re also too expensive to buy at the Co-op. Mostly boys like the shooting games but a lot of girls like the dancing or the music ones where you can play guitar. There’s really not much to do here because we have no place to go out, so we just hang around our friends or cousin’s houses and watch their movies or play their games. When it’s just the teenagers, we like to have pizza that we buy at the Co-op and lots of buttery popcorn. We always melt more butter to put on the popcorn and make sure there’s lots of salt. It tastes better that way! If we got bored of being in the house then we usually rode around up and down town, checking what other people were doing. Lots of things happen at night time, like people partying. We always liked to know who was hanging out with who. Lots of times couples cheated on each other and they had big fights. It’s not fun to watch those things, but we still talk about it. I just hoped nothing bad happened here tonight. Kitty and I finished cleaning up and I put some pizza in the oven. I always took the mushroom off first though. I don’t like mushrooms, they’re caribou food.

That’s what the caribous eat, wild mushrooms from the land. I don’t understand how Qallunaat can eat those. It’s like eating dog food! Kitty put a movie in and everyone came around the couch. She only had one very small, old couch, so most of us were sitting on the floor. The phone rang a lot with different people wanting to know if we had any alcohol. Everybody knew that Kitty’s house was free, so they probably thought we were having a party. We didn’t have any alcohol but one of the boys had weed so some of them went out to smoke once in a while. I don’t do any of those things. I don’t like what it does to people when they are drunk or high. I never want to be like that, like my sister Lidiaan. She just thinks that everything is funny. She’s not serious about anything at all. I guess I’m really the opposite of her. Me and Kitty are the same way. We don’t like those things. Kitty has tried them a few times, but she doesn’t like the feeling she gets the next day, and I always tell her that it’s very bad to do that. One time I recorded her with my camera when she was drunk. She was acting so stupid. I showed it to her the next day and she was very embarrassed to see herself falling everywhere and saying dumb things and not even looking like herself. She’s scared that an evil spirit will take over her, so she doesn’t do it anymore. But I’m afraid for her, because she has a hard time saying no. If someone offers her a can of beer or a sip from a ten-ounce of Vodka, or a puff of weed, she will do it because she doesn’t want to get laughed at. Most teenagers are like that, but I don’t care if I get laughed at. I never want to look stupid like that and let bad things happen to me, because if they do then it will be my fault. The movie wasn’t even over and there were way too many people here now. Some people got their cargo on the last plane so they were drinking and they brought their cans and ten ounces here. The movie was still on but they were blasting music on the little radio. People were just being funny and dancing, but I know the fun part doesn’t last very long. Soon they will want to go for drives and lots of times they get into accidents because they are drunk. I told Kitty that I was just going home and told her to call me if something happened. I told her to be careful but she said she would be fine. She liked

hanging out with the older people and with the boys. She liked to laugh at all the stupid things they did. At least she was not alone, there were other girls there with her, but I wanted to leave just in case that creepy guy showed up. I was riding home when I saw Zachariah walking on the street. Zachariah was my other best friend even though he was a boy. We had always been in the same class together since kindergarten, and he was my cousin too, so we hung out a lot. I wondered why he wasn’t at Kitty’s. “Zachariah, suvit?” I said, slowing down beside him. “Sungngi. Just walking.” “Asu. How come you weren’t at Kitty’s?” “Too many drunks.” “Asu. Need a ride? I’m going home.” “Yeah I guess. My parents are hot-knifing so I don’t really wanna go home.” “Asu, come with me. You can visit with us.” “Okay.” Zachariah’s parents liked to do drugs too. He used to get really mad at them sometimes because instead of buying food for their family, they would spend it all on weed. He had to work as stock boy at the Co-op so he could buy food for his brothers and sisters. He got into lots of fights with his parents because he was the oldest and he wanted them to be more responsible. My family tried to help him but he was too shy. At least we fed him when he came over. Zachariah and I got home and my parents were watching TV. We sat with them and my mother brought him some food. He ate very fast and I wondered if he had eaten at all today. I wanted to cry for him. But we don’t really talk about those things so that we don’t get sad and get weaker. That’s what my grandma says, that if we just let ourselves cry and be sad then our minds and bodies will get too weak and maybe even crazy and we won’t be able to survive. We just have to be strong, like our ancestors were. They had hard times but they survived because they were strong and they didn’t let the hard stuff get to them. They just tried to have a good time with the little that they had so that they could keep

surviving. That’s what Zachariah did. That’s what a lot of us Inuit do. We just need to keep going and thank Jisusi for every new day, and with him in our hearts, we can get through anything. Even graduating!

October

The first few weeks of school were filled with tests. Not tests that I gave to my students; no, I mean tests that they gave to me. They hid my coat, they sat at my desk, they refused to work and spoke to me mainly in Inuktitut. I knew that they would do these kinds of things just to see how much they could get away with. It was important for me to put my foot down. I made them read and I made them write. They hated it. Who could blame them? It was very difficult for them to make any sense of such outdated material (most of it was from the eighties), on top of not understanding most of the vocabulary. I hadn’t expected them to be so behind until I realized that they would stare at me with blank expressions every time I asked them a question. I chucked everything out. I stayed up late making brand new lesson plans and materials. I stopped to explain words that I thought were simple but knew they hadn’t understood. I joked. I laughed. I sang and I danced. It got better, but they still teased, and if I had to raise my voice a little, I was met with a resounding “Go back to Montreal! You’re a no good teacher.” But I didn’t let that stop me. I understood that it would take them a while for them to feel comfortable with me, plus I love a challenge. The other teachers had told me that it would be better after Christmas; to the kids if a teacher came back after Christmas break, it meant that he or she really cared and wouldn’t just leave after a month or two, like many teachers coming to the North for the first time did, as they were unable to handle it – not just the tests of the students, but being away from family and from “civilization”, as some of them put it. The worse test, however, was when I tried to speak to Charlotte. “Saalati,” she said, not bothering to look up at me from her desk. “My name is Saalati. I don’t like my name in English,” and those are the only words she said to me the first week. I began to realize that a lot of my students’ names were Inuit versions of English names: Jamesie, Danieli, Lucassie, Maatha, Aanii, Iiva. I felt as though I had insulted her and was afraid to approach her again. I could tell she didn’t like me, so I didn’t want to push her. I could tell the cultural

difference would be the hardest test of all. Sometimes I offended them and sometimes they offended me without either of us ever having a clue. Whether it was bluntness or facial expressions or sometimes even naturally occurring bodily functions, there was much confusion and little understanding. I was beginning to wonder if all the troubles between the whites and first peoples, even way back when, weren’t caused by miscommunication and misinterpretation. One thing was certain; my year in Ukiurtatuq was going to be a learning process for both myself and my students. Settling into my home and getting used to living alone was another learning process. Although I was comfortable and had basically everything I needed, I couldn’t understand why I had found seal-skin boots in my freezer the first time I opened it! What the heck were those doing there?! I put them aside thinking the owner might come looking for them some day. I also could not get used to kids knocking on my door and ringing my door bell all evening long. I was advised by the other teachers not to let them in, or they would keep coming back. But the one thing that really bugged me was the teenagers that would ride around my house on their four-wheelers all night long. Around and around they went, throwing the odd rock at my window, not menacingly but teasingly. Eventually these things would die down. They were just curious. The funniest thing was when I caught a bunch of little kids lined up on the steps to my back porch, looking into my bedroom window, waiting to get a glimpse of me. I moved the blinds quickly to the side and they all ran away screaming. In this fashion September rolled along with each day presenting a new challenge and a new twist. I had become more familiar with my closest colleagues, the secondary teachers, as we had many meetings together and shared the same students: Bruce, the English math and science teacher, the perennial bachelor with greying hair who was rumoured to have nightly visits with a certain Inuit lady friend – a stark contrast from the ever-serious scholarly picture he portrayed during school hours, and Claude, the French math and science teacher, a family man from Quebec’s country side, and of course the all-knowing Hélène,

who had taken me under her wing and into her house for the occasional cup of tea. Making friends with teachers was an interesting process. We based our relationship on all things school; from students to curriculum to planning special activity days to thinking up ways to improve the system. Even casual get- togethers were filled with school talk. But in Ukiurtatuq, our bond went beyond the walls of the school, as we shared the special bond of living in the North. During week-end get-togethers, Bruce, Claude, Hélène, Gerry, and I enjoyed hosting potlucks on a rotating schedule. Jacques and Sylvie also attended. They were a married couple who had come out of their retirement to teach here. Jacques was the gym teacher and Sylvie was the primary French teacher. It had been their life-long dream to come teach up North. Although school talk dominated most of our social activities, we also enjoyed discussing the latest town gossip and the magnificence of the land. The other teachers also loved informing me about which students and townspeople belonged to what family, since Inuit families are so big, it got very confusing and hard to keep track of. They also loved laughing at my questions, as being the new- comer, I was filled with what seemed to be very silly, Southern questions about Northern life. I was glad and thankful for the friendship of my colleagues but I must admit that I was starting to feel the pangs of loneliness. While everything was fun on the surface, I wished there was somebody that I could connect to – that I could reach out and hug and tell my worries to. It had only been two months but the longing for human touch was sometimes unbearable, and after long conversations with my mother on the phone, it almost made me want to pack up and leave. That would have made my students happy! Since there were no substitute teachers up here, classes would be cancelled until the board was able to hire somebody new, which could take anywhere from one to three months… sometimes even more. But besides the loneliness and potlucks, there was always a lot of work to keep me busy. My television got damaged during transportation and the prices were so crazy at the Co-op that I would have to wait a little while until I could

afford one. My evenings were therefore spent creating materials and plans that would interest the students and get them excited about learning. This was not an easy task, because more often than not, I spent the whole class explaining how to do the activity rather than actually doing it. Baby steps, Karen, baby steps. I hoped that after Christmas they would be more used to the mini-lessons and working in groups and we’d be able to start doing individual projects and learning and evaluation situations in order for them to gain a lot of practice so they could write the June exams more comfortably. Hopefully. But I was really worried about their progress. They seemed to have forgotten everything they’d learned over the summer. Some of them didn’t even know what or where the provinces were! In high school! That blew my mind, but at the same time, I had to agree that it must be difficult to retain such things in a second language, things that were so removed from their daily lives and whole existence. Most people in Nunavik have never set foot out of their own village; their tiny town is their world. They don’t interact with other cultures like we do in cities such as Montreal and do not have the means to travel to other countries. They only have a very limited idea of what it’s like to live in the South or in other parts of the world, as they gather bits and pieces of information, most of which is faulty, through movies, television and the Internet. A lot of times I was met with the challenge of trying to explain things to my students that I simply took as a given, like traffic, or restaurants, or movie- theatre etiquette, because we read about these things in class. A character went to a restaurant or to a movie with friends, and most of the questions they asked me had nothing to do with the language or the plot of the story, but about living in the South. They were so curious and loved to listen to my stories about shopping or metro rides or family outings and the big dreamy smiles on their faces simply could not shield their wonderment. That was why I had also learned that the kinds of stories and books I chose for them to read were extremely important. Sometimes they got so wrapped up in the tiny details that they missed the bigger picture. It was more appropriate to read about things they were more familiar with, like nature and animals, or even hockey, when teaching literary terms, for

example, that way they could focus more on identifying the different elements rather than trying to understand a completely different culture. It was mid-October now, and the kids were getting rowdier each day. My colleagues said it was because they could feel the snow coming and that made them very anxious. I remembered one time back in the middle of September, we were reading a story in Cycle 1 about two kids that got lost in a blizzard. Just the word blizzard hurled them into such excitement. They started talking about snow and skidoos and ice-fishing and all the wonderful things that they could do when the tundra freezes over. It was impossible to teach that day. They started talking in Inuktitut and that’s when I knew I had lost them. Most teachers didn’t let their students speak Inuktitut in class but I just put the book down and watched them. I figured, hey, if they’re happy then so am I. They were gone somewhere far off in their winter wonderlands, and I knew there was no way I could save this lesson. I decided to use this to my advantage. I asked them about winter in Ukiurtatuq and they started chatting up a storm, delighted to inform me about winter in the North. I was happy too, for I had tricked them into working on their English oral competency without them knowing it! Every other time I tried to do it more formally, they would just sit there with their mouths shut tight. You really have to be able to adapt to the North, and not just the weather, but in your teaching methods as well. It so happens that this was one of my best classes so far, as they were able to discuss and express themselves on a subject they were really interested in. It worked well for me too, because although it was casual and spontaneous, I was able to observe the students who were strong and those who had weaknesses. We were also able to get a little closer in our student-teacher relationship because for once I was allowing them to be the leaders and I was asking them the questions. All of a sudden one of the boys who always sat in the back got up and pointed out the window. “Look Karen, snow!” “Oh yeah, sure Marcussie, lots of snow,” I answered sarcastically, rolling my eyes.

“No, it’s true, look!” He insisted, and the rest of the class jumped out of their seats and ran to the window. “Okay, okay, sit down everybody!” I said, motioning for everyone to sit down, but all the students were glued to the window, pointing and laughing and making little sounds of joy. I went to the window and looked. I didn’t see anything except for the street and my little old house and the bay that swam behind it. “There’s no snow!” I said, looking at Marcussie. “No, there is, there,” he said, pointing off into the distance. “It’s far away but it’s coming.” I looked in the direction he was pointing and true enough, high above the mountains there was no sky but only white. “That’s just fog,” I said. Marcussie laughed and so did the others. “Not even, that’s snow! You’ll see, it will be here in an hour or two.” “Really? Oh…” The Inuit have impeccable vision and can spot anything a million miles away. Who was I to say the contrary? But really I didn’t believe him. I still thought it was just fog and that they were trying to pull my leg, hoping to end class that way instead of going back to the book. I eventually managed to get everyone back in their seats. “So where is Matthew?” I asked, holding up the book. “Oh he went hunting,” answered Noah, another boy from the back of the class. And this time I couldn’t help but laugh. “No, not Matthew from class, Matthew in the book!” We all burst out into hysterical laughs. The more I tried to stop, the funnier I found it, and the more I laughed, the more my students laughed too. All we could do was laugh and laugh, tears streaking down our faces, and the laughter being so contagious and such a beautiful sound to hear and watch that we just couldn’t stop. Maybe the excitement of the snow had gotten to me too, or maybe it was cabin fever setting in, I don’t know, but I just let us laugh and laugh, watching the kids roll around on the floor between desks and chairs, feeling so lucky and so blessed to be a part of

their lives. And much to my amazement it did snow later that afternoon. Snow in September. They really were wonderful kids. Even Saalati had been opening up to me lately. She was quite brilliant and had a natural ability for writing. Like all of my students her grammar and sentence structure needed work, but she had a great descriptive ability and a very strong voice. Even in class when I thought nobody was listening, she always had her arm up, ready to give an answer or ask a really good question. She seemed to like school and was very interested in any topic we discussed, whether in English or Social Studies. Bruce said she was very good at Math and Science too. She was responsible and hard-working and she would definitely graduate if she kept up the good work. Maybe she could even go to college, but I didn’t know if she’d want to leave her family. A lot of Inuit that have tried to go to college rarely make it through the first semester, not because of their academic abilities, but because the culture shock, the loneliness and homesickness is too hard for them to cope with. Saalati was really a bright, lovely girl. I’d taken to lending her some of my own books to read because she always finished the class work so quickly. She loved reading and devoured every book I gave her with such eagerness, even looking in the dictionary when she didn’t understand a word. She even came over sometimes for hot chocolate, or to borrow movies, preferring to stay home instead of going out. Sometimes when a lot of students were absent and we were the only two in class, we talked about a lot of things, like movies and school, and sometimes more serious subjects like some of the social problems in town – usually the reason why so many students were absent. I didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable, so I never initiated that kind of talk, but I did my best to listen and offer her advice. I worried for her greatly, a bright, beautiful girl like her, I worried that something might happen to her and she had so much potential… As the days grew shorter and the wind blew colder, the scope of the challenge of teaching in the North only seemed to be getting bigger and heavier. And in the darkest evenings of the year, the days were lonely, dark and deep. And I had promises to keep.

Arnalingnguutivik

October was like a long wait. The tundra was brown and the waters were cold and angry. The kids were hyper and the teachers looked tired. The berries were gone and no birds sang. Everybody was waiting for the fun and happiness the snow would bring. We could feel it coming, just like we could hear the caribou’s feet thundering, making their way across the land, moving to their winter place. We waited for the snow and we waited for the caribou. They were what helped us survive the long winter months. Without the snow, we couldn’t do anything; no ice-fishing, no ski-dooing. We couldn’t even fish until the water froze so we had to wait. We needed snow for our skidoos to take us to the frozen lakes. And we needed the caribou to come, so we could have meat for the winter months when hunting is very difficult. Nowadays hunters have to go out farther and farther on the land to get our food. Anaanatsiaq says that’s the Qallunaat’s fault. Their mines and their money are destroying our land and the way the animals live. They have to go farther and so do we. It’s destroying the way we live. At least there’s a community freezer. That’s where the hunters put all the animals they catch so the elders and other people that need it, like poor families or single moms can go and take country food when they need to. After taking just what they need for their families, the hunters put the extra meat like caribou, seal, walrus, ptarmigan and fish in the freezer for the others. It’s nice that we can still share and take care of each other that way. Qallunaat people living in town don’t usually go there, but I guess they could have it too, since they live here too. Most of the teachers really love caribou and char. That’s their favourite, but mine is beluga.

Every year around this time the beluga hunters came back. We were waiting for them too. Some men take their sons with them, to teach them how to hunt the beluga properly. They live in a boat for a month, sometimes more. They always come back very skinny and very tan. They make a big sacrifice so that the rest of the community can enjoy beluga meat. We like to eat it raw, like most of our country food. It’s not gross. It’s a tradition. Our ancestors ate it frozen because they needed to preserve it and because they couldn’t really make a cooking fire with all the ice and snow! Only little fires in the tents and igloos for some light and warmth. I guess it’s a custom that we’ve gotten used to and we’ve kept it that way, because that’s the real way to eat, the way our ancestors did, not with ovens and spices and complicated things. I always tried to tell Karen that, when I visited her and she wanted us to have supper. She always made fancy things, but I didn’t really like them. She looked upset when I told her, but I it’s just because I was used to more simple things. And with no vegetables! I always picked them out. She made a shocked face and told me they were important to eat because they were full of vitamins but I told her that I got those from my country food. Maybe she was angry because they were expensive here and I was just wasting them, atsuk, but I really just didn’t like them! Karen was a good teacher. She always made us read and write. She told us lots of interesting things about her life and what she has seen and done. She always made things funny and interesting even if we thought they were gonna be boring. She made funny voices for the different characters in stories and gave them different accents. We always asked her to do British or French, or sometimes Indian or Chinese. She didn’t mind because she said at least we paid attention that way. And she made up songs for us to remember provinces and things that we always forgot. I loved going to Karen’s class. She always put our artwork up and it was nice to look at. She let us listen to music because sometimes it helped us write. She let us help each other too, not like Bruce who would say that was cheating.

And she always loved to talk about how important school was and all the different things it could do for us. Sometimes on Mondays there weren’t too many students in class because something bad happened on the weekend. When we talked about what happened, she just let us. I guess she knew that we couldn’t talk about it at home. She sat beside us and very quiet she tried to tell us why it was bad to drink and do drugs and teach us about condoms and those things, but it was too funny because she would get very red. I really liked Karen. I liked hanging around with her and borrowing her movies and her books. I liked the decorations and all the things she had in her house. She had so many things like little fancy cups and candles that smelled like candy or maybe like what flowers smell like. She was very open and she liked to learn about Inuit things too, so it was fun to teach her about that. It was fun to teach a teacher! And sometimes I took her on scooter rides and she would scream and laugh because she was scared. I didn’t even go that fast. Funny Karen. I would miss her when she left. I hoped she wouldn’t leave. It was almost time for Halloween and still it hadn’t snowed. It was taking longer and longer every year. “Saalati! You’re gonna be late!” My mom called. It was time to go to school. We just had lunch and I always got very lazy after lunch. It was so hard to go back to school when I was full sitting on the couch watching TV. We always liked to watch the news after eating lunch. In Ukiurtatuq everybody goes home for lunch at noon no matter where they work. Noon to one is lunch hour for everyone in town, so families usually eat together. School’s lunch hour was a little longer, an hour and fifteen minutes. Maybe it was too long because that was when I would get sleepy and lazy on the couch! All the students were making their way back to school. Some teachers were supervising outside and others were walking back too. Karen was usually in class writing stuff on the board if she didn’t have duty. We had English this afternoon. I was always the first person in class and she always had a big smile when I got there. She was trying to teach us about Shakespeare and Romeo and

Juliet. The old English was too hard for us, so she explained it to us in regular English, making the Montague gang sound like rappers and Juliet like a very silly in love girl. We watched her like a movie. She always made funny faces and got very excited about any story that we read. But in the middle of the class the fire bell started ringing. We had to practice evacuating the school but as usual all the kids just ran and screamed instead of staying in the line. We had to line up across the street and wait until the firefighters arrived. Some of them didn’t know about the practice so they came in their own hondas or their cars when they heard the alarm (you could hear it all over town) instead of on the fire truck, pulling on their fireman shirt and helmet as they went inside the school. Karen was laughing so hard, and so was everybody else. “Oh my Lord! Is this for real?! This is just like in a movie!” She was right! It was very funny to see them all nervous and coming from different directions and not even ready. They came back outside not too long after, a good thing because we were starting to get very cold. Some kids didn’t even have any shoes on. We went back in the school and we had social studies next, but we begged Karen to keep doing English. “Okaaaay,” she said, rolling her eyes up, “Who would have thought that Shakespeare would be popular with Inuit teenagers?” and she made one of her funny faces so that we laughed again. After a while, when we were writing in our Story Journal, we heard a lot of noise coming from other classes. “Oh brother, now what?” said Karen. I tried to listen to what the kids in the other classes were saying. “Tuk tuk! Caribou! The caribou are here!” I said, surprised that I was so excited. We ran to the window and looked. We could see them crossing the bay. Lots of kids were running out of school and into the street. “Woah, woah, woah, what’s going on? Where are they going?” said Karen, but before she could stop them, my classmates ran out too.

“It’s okay, Karen, this happens every year. We’re allowed to go out and watch them.” “Oh, really? Robert will let us? We won’t get in trouble?” “No! Robert is always the first one there!” I said. “Let’s go!” And we ran out of the school. Karen looked amazed but also worried. “What’s wrong?” “I’m worried about the kids! What if something happens to them out in the middle of the street like this?” “Don’t worry, they’re fine. Lots of adults are coming too, see?” there were lots of people coming to watch the caribou. It’s a very important thing for us. Some of the men already had their guns. Karen looked scared about that too. “Don’t worry,” I laughed, “they know what to do! They won’t shoot here!” She looked very afraid so I held her arm. She seemed surprised by it but after a few seconds it made her calmer. “Wowww…” she whispered, as she watched the caribou swim and run into the street, thumping and thundering their way down towards the mountains. They were all around us. So close that you could smell their breath and feel the heat from their bodies. So full of beauty and of grace. “How many do you think there are?” Karen asked me. “I don’t know… hundreds…” and the two of us watched them as in a dream, as if we were the only two people in the world and all the rest was caribou. Legs, hooves, limbs, eyes, breath and sweat. And we were all connected. And we were all one. With them, with us, with each other and the land. I held Karen closer and I thought I saw her cry.

…

Bang!

The front door slammed shut. Alec and my father walked in with very big smiles. The whole community was happy because everyone had food. Everyone was happy because no one would go hungry. At least not for a while. My father called everyone to come look at Alec. “Look at my boy. My first son. Look at his hands and look at his eyes. He got his first caribou today.” My mother and my brothers and little Mary and I clapped and hugged him and danced with joy. I didn’t know where Lidiaan was, but she would be proud of him too. “Your brother is now a man. A hunter and a provider. We will celebrate with a feast!” More screams of love and happiness. I quickly started getting pots and pans and dishes ready for cooking. Anaana and I had a lot of work to do to prepare a feast. I told Yimmi and Tuniq to clean the house. Anaana called our relatives to invite them to our house. She was very happy and very proud. Ataata and her shared a very long hug and kiss. I started making lots of bannock and rice, peeled potatoes for shepherd’s pie, cut onions to roast with the caribou, and boiled water for the dumplings. When everyone had arrived, and we are all sitting in a circle on the floor, the priest blessed the food and thanked Jisusi and Alec for the meal. Alec then gave the best parts of the caribou to his arnaqutik, the lady who cut his umbilical cord when he was born. That is the Inuit tradition when a boy gets his first kill. His arnaqutik, Rhoda, one of my mother’s friends and cousins, accepted the fresh meat and said she would take it home. Then we all stared to eat and everybody ate as much as they wanted until they were full. Even Lidiaan was here. Anaanatsiaq told the story of grandfather’s first kill, and how in the old days they used to have to follow the animal on foot for hours before being able to get it. I guess hunting is easier now. Our problem is that there aren’t many animals, or they’re usually very far away. We finished eating and my father put the stereo on. He liked the old accordion music. People started clapping and jigging to it. It was Friday, so

people were happy about the weekend too. Before long many other people started showing up, hearing the music and the laughter. Some of them brought beer. I knew I should go before it got crazy, but I didn’t know where to. At least Zachariah and Kitty were here. We were sitting on the stairs of the porch when he showed up with his friends. The police chief’s son. I didn’t want him in my house but he was my father’s brother’s son. He had trouble getting past us on the stairs. He was already wobbling this way and that, talking very loud and waving a can around in his hand. I closed my eyes and prayed that he wouldn’t stay.

…

It was four thirty in the morning and it was cold outside. Most people had left but some were passed out inside. I couldn’t leave because I had to watch Mary while my parents were partying. My brothers weren’t home. Lidiaan left with the creep and his friends. It was finally quiet so I was gonna go to bed. Mary was sleeping so I snuck out to have a cigarette. I didn’t wanna be on the porch just in case drunk people passed by looking for more to drink, so I sat in my father’s old truck behind my house. It didn’t work anymore, but at least I could sit in it and have some time alone. I sat in the driver’s seat and lit my cigarette. I was taking a puff when I saw him in the back seat, passed out. Shit! Fuck! What’s he doing here?!?!?!? I ran out, panicked, hoping to make it home without waking him but it was too late. I made too much noise and he heard me. “Mmm, Saalati… so you want some more, huh?” The creep licked his rotting lips. “No, leave me alone! Go away!” I yelled. He started laughing. “Come on Saalati, don’t you wanna have fun?” and he touched his belt. I almost throw up. “No, leave me alone! I don’t want anything with you!”

I felt the sharp pains in my stomach that I’d been getting a lot lately. They hurt even more now. I tried to run but he caught me by the shirt. “Nooo!!!!” I screamed, but he dragged me by ponytail. “Yeah, come on, let’s have some fun,” and he threw me into the passenger seat of the truck. I banged my head very hard on the window and he laughed, “I know you like it rough.” and he pulled my hair again. I screamed, but he took off my shirt and tied it around my mouth. It was so tight that I could hardly breathe. I tried to kick him and the door swung open. It made me fall out on the ground. He ripped the buttons on my pants and lifted my bra. I was shaking in the cold and could feel the blood trickling from the places where the rocks had torn my skin. I started crying so he put his body on top of me, spread my legs open with his knee, held my head with his left arm, and took out his disgusting ugly stinky thing with his right. He put it inside me over and over. He made me turn over and put it in there too. Then he stopped and I felt a hot, smelly liquid on my back. He was peeing on me. When he finished he turned me over and started forcing in again. He finally fell asleep, passed out on top of me. I pushed him off and walked home slowly. I was so sore and everything hurt all over. I wanted to scream and scream and cry but I didn’t want anyone to hear me. I made my way to the bathroom and showered and showered and showered, the water mixing with my tears. I didn’t care if I used all the water. My head was breaking, pounding, loud. I didn’t care if it was burning my skin. I had to wash it off of me. I needed to wash it off. The pee, the sperm, the beer, the dirt, the sweat, the breath, the blood. It was so disgusting I threw up. And threw and threw and threw, and washed and washed and washed. I needed to wash it all off. I needed to wash him off.

…

In the clinic the nurse came back. I didn’t tell anyone what happened, but my stomach was hurting too much. I waited until all the bruises were gone. “Positive,” she said. And I thought I died.

November

Gone were the days of green and orange-yellow reds. The beautiful colours of fall that had converted the tundra into a living breathing painting, reflecting off the blue, blue bay were nothing now but brown, brown, brown. Everywhere you looked, only grey and brown. The icy grip of winter was coming, killing everything in its path, making the dirt roads dirtier and the lovely landscape ghastly. How dreadful old November was, the skies a perilous grey, an awful and a dreadful feeling day after grisly day. I felt like a drone, into school and out, every day was the same. I remember in September – it felt so long ago – when I used to walk and walk, excited yet in shock, to see so many different things. And now it felt that all I did was sit here and rot. Like the colours in the mountains, fading until forgotten. I had to find amusement now. Without a thing to keep me busy my thoughts were getting rather dizzy. The loneliness and tediousness were making me quite crazy. I could not take another day of awful, horrid grey.

…

November in the North was a defining step. If I could make it until then, I could make it. The excitement and newness had rubbed off. Routine had set in and so had boredom. There was nothing to do at night, nothing to do ever. If it weren’t for the potlucks on Saturdays, I don’t know how I would have survived. I couldn’t go shopping, I couldn’t go to the movies, I couldn’t go to the restaurant, I couldn’t do anything. I was stuck. All I did was teach, and think about teaching, and talk about teaching. I had been warned about the November rut, but I hadn’t really believed it until looking out the window became one of the most exciting things to do. That and lying on the couch waiting for the power to turn back on. Or talking to the walls. Sometimes I even played a game in my head, eyes shut, thinking of as many words that began with the letter A until I couldn’t think of any more, and then I moved on to B, and so on.

Even school wasn’t exciting anymore. The kids had gotten used to my routine and didn’t bother testing me anymore. We were cruising on auto-pilot. There was only one thing that had changed, and that was Saalati. She used to give me such company, coming to visit me in the evenings, watching movies together, talking about everything and anything. She didn’t come anymore. And she didn’t come to school so much anymore either. I wondered what was going on with her. When she did come to class she hardly looked at me and didn’t want any of my help. She just sat there, straight faced, didn’t talk or look at anyone and did her work alone. As soon as the bell rang, she ran out. I wished I could speak to her and find out what was going on. This wasn’t like her and I was really worried. I also really missed her friendship. But these weren’t the only reasons I was depressed; there was also the weather. Bone-chilling winds and teeth-chattering cold, but still no snow. It was so cold that I had to start wearing my winter coat but the wind went right through the zipper. I was going to have to get a parka like the other teachers if I wanted to be warm. Like Claude said, it was only November and I was freezing – what was I going to do in February when it was minus sixty? And all the beautiful fall colours have disappeared and now there was only the dull brown tundra and the grim grey sky, which made the mountains and the road and the bay all the same horrible heavy hue. We hadn’t seen the sun since September. But even more than the weather, it was the darkness. There were only a few hours of light during the day and it was completely dark by two-thirty, which meant that we spent afternoon recess outside in the gloomy, black, concrete school yard. Teaching last period felt like I was teaching at midnight. The kids were tired, I was tired, and we both just wanted to go home and sleep even though it was only three fourty-five. You have to have a lot of strength – inner and outer – to make it through November in the North. It was a good thing I had become friendly with my neighbour, Minnie, the culture teacher. She was a much older lady, the wrinkles in her face as deep as the wisdom that had been etched into them, a testament of time and exposure to harsh weather.

She always used to wave at me when I went on my walks, and one day invited me in for tea and bannock. She marveled at how my cheeks went red upon entering the warmth of her house and how they only got redder as I sipped my tea. “I have never had a Qallunaak in my home,” she said, “it’s nice to see you warming up like that,” she laughed. Minnie always wanted to feed me. Whether it was tea and bannock, or coffee and home-made donuts, she always liked to see my skin change colour. “Our skin is so thick and used to the cold, it doesn’t change colours like yours does,” she continued. “It’s warming me up inside to see you warming up on the outside,” she said, smiling big and wide, a beautiful smile even though most teeth were missing. “Minnie, it’s warming me up inside too,” I said touching my heart, and we looked at each other, our eyes twinkling, and sipped in silence. Minnie could read me as if my feelings were written on my forehead. “You miss your anaana,” she said, during another visit. I looked down at the floor, feeling my cheeks turn pink with shyness and trying to swallow my tears. She grabbed my hand. “Your anaana misses you too.” And I couldn’t help but sob. She let me cry as long as I needed, seeing my deep grief, and when I was done she looked right into my swollen eyes and said “Taima. No more. Not one more tear. If you let yourself get weak, you will not survive.” I nodded yes and thanked her. She gave me a fish. “What’s this for?” I asked. “Inuit tradition. We give fish to the sick.” “But I’m not sick,” I said, trying to understand. “Maybe not, but your heart is. Eat this fish when you go home and you will feel better.” I ate the fish for supper that night and maybe it was just a feeling, but it did seem to ease my pain. Hélène and Gerry said I’ll feel much better once it snows. The snow brings life to the North. So much more activity and beauty. Just imagine a pristine

white snow, hugging the land like a sparkling blanket. Skidoos, fishing, snow suits, games, sliding... “The snow will bring the town back from the dead, just you wait and see,” said Gerry, eyes bright and shining as if hiding a secret. Ever since Halloween and the costume parade in the gym (the school gym was also used as a community hall), children had lost all their joy. With nothing else to do, many teenagers and adults turned to drinking and drugs out of sheer boredom. I probably would too, if I was stuck here in this little town all my life with absolutely nothing else to do. Even some of my older students were showing signs of distress, coming to class with the odd black eye and beer still on their breath. A couple of them hardly even bothered to come anymore, showing up maybe only once or twice a week, preferring to work than come to school. I probably wouldn’t come to school either, since a high school graduate was given the same salary as a drop out. People were needed to fill positions, so diploma or not, it didn’t really matter. Not exactly motivating. That’s why I started serving tea in class. I bought a box of tea bags at the Co-op and brought my kettle from home. I’d asked the kids to bring their cups from home too. Sometimes I baked muffins, or brought fruit, or borrowed the toaster from the culture room and brought a loaf of bread. This was the way I tried to get my students into class every day. Knowing that they would at least be able to drink hot tea and eat something nourishing was what attracted them into the building. And then they stuck around. It seemed to be working, although Robert didn’t really approve. Since there was caffeine in the tea, he didn’t think it was right that I was giving drugs to my students. And other teachers had complained as well, because now their students wanted it too. I tried to fight for that right every day, hiding the food and the tea, telling my students not to say anything or we wouldn’t be able to do it anymore. The north really changes you. Your whole way of thinking changes; your whole way of being changes. Everything that used to be so important isn’t anymore. I don’t care about fashion and television shows and how fast my car goes and how big my house is. I don’t care about getting the newest gadget or the

most expensive cream. Perfume has no purpose in my life and heels are just a nuisance. That’s not what life’s about. It’s not about sitting around with your “friends”, trying to outdo each other. It’s not about riding around in expensive cars and going out to clubs. Life is about appreciating all of the tiny little things in this world. Life is about taking in a deep breath of pure, precious air. It’s about feeling every moment, no matter how fleeting, as if it were your last. It’s about family. It’s about love. And it’s about that feeling, that connectedness to Nature that makes you feel so small – that’s when you realize that there’s truly something grand, much bigger than you or me, something that connects and knows us all. But if you’re too busy with other things to notice, if you’re too caught up to notice the grandeur and splendidness of Nature to stand at the edge of the bay, as I did every morning, watching the waves glimmer and flicker, then you will not feel it. You will not know it and you will not appreciate it. Not many people can understand what it’s like to live up here. But once you do, it changes you, and then you feel lost without it.

…

There was a knock at my door. “Saalati! Oh, I’m so happy to see you, come in!” I said, moving out of the way to let her in. “No I can’t stay,” she said, her raven eyes looking down at the dirt. “Minnie asked me to bring this to you,” she said extending her hand. I extended mine as well and in it she plopped a large, bloody, raw piece of meat. “What is it?” I asked, looking at it as if it were still alive, “It’s caribou meat. She thought you would need some.” Being offered any country food by an Inuk is a huge honour, and so even though I didn’t know what to do with it, I thanked her and walked inside. “You sure you don’t want to come it? You can show me how to cook it and we could eat together,” I said, trying to convince her, “No thanks, I gotta go. See you.”

“Ok, see you,” I said, my heart sinking. I turned to the meat resting on my kitchen counter. I cut into it, trying to make smaller pieces of it. I really didn’t know what I was doing, but the pungent smell of blood was getting to me so I had to do whatever I was doing fast. The closer to the middle I got, the warmer it was. This was an exceptionally fresh piece of meat. My hands were so bloody and there was such a mess all over the white counter it looked like there had been a murder-suicide in the kitchen and I started to feel faint. I had to stop or I would be sick. I decided to take a quick shower, hoping that the cold water would help me feel better. Showers were much better now, as Sandy had finally installed a new shower wall. No more little rocks. I started thinking of how shy Sandy looked when he entered the house, almost like he didn’t want to look at me. And it had taken all the courage in the world for him to ask me if I had found seal-skin boots in the house. “Oh yeah, I found a pair in the freezer,” I said, “of all places!” I laughed. “Umm, yeah, they are my wife’s. We lived here this summer with our kids since the house was free. We live with my parents and brother, see, so it gets really crowded, and since I work for the school board I just paid them the rent for the summer and we got a little break.” “Oh, that’s good,” I said, feeling instantly sorry. “And we keep kamiks in the freezer because it’s better for the seal skin and fur. It would get damaged if we just left it out in the summer heat.” “Oh,” I said, feeling instantly stupid. “Well, here they are,” I said, “they’re beautiful.” “Yeap, my wife made them herself, like most Inuit women do.” “Wow, that’s amazing.” “Yeah, we’re kind of amazing,” he said, laughing. And as I took my shower, I laughed too. I laughed at how ignorant I was then and I laughed at how silly I was being now. It was just caribou blood! It couldn’t hurt me! In fact, I should be thankful and appreciative of the generous gift.

I quickly dried off and went back to the kitchen. I looked in my fridge and found it empty. My order hadn’t come yet. I had learned how to order groceries from the South (from a city near Montreal that shipped food orders for Nunavik School Board teachers). All I had to do was fax my order. The best part about it was that I got to pay Southern prices for my groceries instead of paying those crazy amounts at the Co-op. The shipping, on the other hand, was quite pricey, but the school board gave us back a certain amount, so in the end it wasn’t so bad. Sometimes the orders didn’t make it onto the planes, or they ended up in another community, or they simply got “lost”. Sometimes they didn’t arrive the day they were supposed to because of bad weather. That was the case today. Extreme winds weren’t allowing any planes to fly. The bad news was that I wouldn’t get my food; the good news was that there would be no drinking… I looked in my freezer and saw that I had some meat but I hadn’t thought to take it out so that it could thaw, as I was expecting my boxes… I closed the freezer and opened the fridge again, and there it was staring at me. The caribou. That Minnie! She really could read me, even when I wasn’t in front of her. I think she knows me better than I even know myself! I smiled at the thought and decided to walk over and thank her for the timely gift. She told me how to cook it, in a pan with oil and onions, salt and a little pepper “I know you Qallunaat like your spices,” she joked, “I just eat it raw, like this!” and she took a piece and ate it right there in front of me, and we couldn’t help but laugh. There is nothing like the smell of caribou cooking in your home; the beautiful, rich aroma of it even makes your toes curl up with pleasure. I ate it that night, poking at it at first, trying to get the image of a live caribou out of my mind, and then enjoyed every last delicious morsel, letting it melt in my mouth as if it were a piece of chocolate. My stomach so full and my home so warm, I couldn’t but close my eyes and drift softly off to sleep. Maybe November wasn’t so bad after all...

Natjuijarvik

I went to the graveyard to visit sauniq. I was so lost and confused and I couldn’t speak to anyone. I felt like my whole life was over. He would know what to do. I brought some flowers that I bought at the Co-op – we only get fake flowers here, but that’s okay because this way they last a long time and make the grave pretty. I wouldn’t want rotting flowers on my grandfather’s grave. I went to where he lays resting. There is a lot of family that rests here. Some of them are very young. I touched the little white cross and there was no one around so I let myself cry a little. I felt so lost and alone. “Sauniq,” I said, “what do I do now?” There was no answer, just the cold wind that made the flowers move. “Sauniq, ikajurtau,” I whispered. “Help me, please.” Still nothing, just the wind. Why was he ignoring me? My body became so heavy with sadness that I fell to my knees. “Ataatatsiaaaak!!!” I screamed, tears flying from my eyes. “Why did you leave me?” I cried and cried and beat the floor. I sat there on the cold ground, crying and crying. I was so alone, not even my grandfather could help me. I stayed there for a few minutes, looking at the view of the bay and letting my tears dry. I guess he didn’t know either. I said a few prayers. That helped to calm me down, so I made my way back home. The nurse said I was almost two months pregnant when I took the test. I would have my baby around May. I would have to go to the next town to have my ultra-sound taken because they have a hospital there. I still hadn’t told my parents. I was too shy. They would probably be very happy because a baby is a gift from God, but I was not happy at all. I couldn’t think of being a mother to a child whose father was a dirty rapist. And I had to graduate school, that was the most important thing for me. I guessed I would just give the baby to someone in town who wanted it. There was always somebody that wanted a new baby. I would keep it if I had a boyfriend to help me, but I didn’t want to be a single mother, and I didn’t want a boyfriend right now. I was not ready for those things yet.

Some of my friends and cousins have had babies at my age even and younger. Most of them have kept them because it is a very happy thing for us Inuit. We don’t really believe in using protection because having a baby is a blessing, something very sacred, and we cannot stop God’s will. But in cases like rape or getting an infection, they should really think about using protection, instead of spreading around those diseases. It’s not healthy for us. I remember once even a very young little girl had to be taken away from our town because she had gonorrhea and she was only four. People aren’t careful when they have sex with lots of different people in town and then it can get to somebody who’s sick in the head and can end up hurting innocent children. I guess I’m happy that creep picked me and not a little kid. At least I could deal with it myself. Sometimes it was really hard though, to think that the life growing inside of me came from that creep. But it was an innocent baby and it was not his or her fault. I would have to tell my parents soon, before going to the hospital. I wouldn’t tell them that the father was the creep or that I was raped by him so many times. Instead I would just say that I was drunk and that I passed out so I didn’t know who the father was. It was better that way. I was having a hard time keeping the secret, especially when I was so tired and needed to sleep a lot. And sometimes I had very bad sickness and couldn’t make it to school in the mornings. The good thing was that nobody had noticed; I just told my mom that I stayed up late when she asked why I was so tired. And I was too embarrassed to talk to Karen. I didn’t want her to think that I was a bad person, so I tried to avoid her as much as possible. I was just trying to do my best with school and with this baby. I was starting to show a little so I had to wear big sweaters and not stay around people too long because I didn’t want them to notice. I didn’t think my first pregnancy would be this way. I thought it would be full of joy and happiness. I thought I would be excited to see the little face but I’m too scared that it will look just like him. I wanted my first baby to be mine, not to have to give it away. But I guess things happened for a reason. Only Jisusi knows. I just had to stay strong and it would be okay.

I was waiting for my mother to come home. I would have to tell her tonight because I had to go to the hospital tomorrow. I hoped she would escort me, because I didn’t want to have to go there by myself. As I was waiting for her I cooked supper. Arctic char and mashed potatoes. We had some fish left in the freezer from this fall. I missed fishing so much, I couldn’t wait till we could go ice-fishing. It would probably be harder for me to lie on my stomach on the hard ice, covering the hole with my head and arms, holding the stick with my hand and moving the line up and down in the hole, waiting for a fish to bite. All of the weight on my stomach wouldn’t be good for the baby, so I wouldn’t be able to fish as much. I usually got a lot of fish for my family, so that wasn’t a good thing. My mother will have to fish much more now. “Saalati, you’re getting fat!” Yimmi said, touching my stomach. I didn’t notice that he was watching me. “Stop! Tamaaniingngilaurit!” I pushed him away and he ran out of the kitchen laughing. Lidiaan was home and she took a piece of char that was cooking in the pan and ate it. She was looking at me very close. “Sunamut takuuna?” What was her problem, staring at me like that? “Yimmi’s kind of right. Maybe you’ve been having fun lately?” she asked, teasingly. “Shut up.” I said. She could see that she was bugging me so she continued. “When was your last period, nukaapik?” she said, laughing. “Mind your own business,” I said, even though we usually had it at the same time. I could hear Mary crying so I said “Go see what’s wrong with Mary and let me finish cooking.” Lidiaan was making me nervous and I didn’t want to hear any more of her questions. Maybe she could tell that I was pregnant. I did find it weird that I didn’t have my period in a while, but I just thought that happened sometimes. I was starting to feel sick so I ate some supper. Eating usually made me feel better. Anaana ate as soon as she came home. She was very hungry. She was telling me about her day, saying how the teenagers don’t care to learn about anything, not even about their own language or culture. She gets very sad about

that. I was too scared to tell her now, when she was worried about the future generations of Ukiurtatuq. “They don’t even know anything about our traditions,” she said, her mouth full of fish and potatoes. “What are they going to do when they have to go hunting? What will they do if they get caught in a blizzard? How are the girls going to know to sew kamiks and parkas for their families? These young people just want to watch TV and play video games. They’re losing their culture and they don’t even care.” My mother was angry now. She ate more and faster. “Ilai,” I said. It’s true. With all of these new things coming to our town like Ipods and Ipads and faster cars and more technology, teenagers are starting to loose themselves. If their parents don’t teach them, and most of them can’t because they’re too busy, who will? How will they survive? And when they are older and have their own children, who’s going to teach them? “At least they have you, anaana, to teach them our language and history. And they have Minnie to teach them culture…” “Yeah, at least… but many of them drop out, so there will be a lot of Inuit that don’t even know how to be Inuit…” “Ilai,” I said. “Anaana, there’s something I have to tell you,” I couldn’t keep it in any longer, and since she was being serious, it was a good time for another serious talk. “I’m pregnant,” I said, looking down at the floor. “Ouaaaay! You’re pregnant?” she exclaimed, very happily. Lidiaan was sitting nearby and she turned her head our way very fast, hearing my mom’s excitement. “Yeah, but I’m not going to keep it.” “Qanu? Why not?” she got very sad. “I’m not ready. I don’t want to be a single mom. And I want to graduate.” “Asu. Okay. Who’s the father?” “I don’t know.” “Asu.” My mother didn’t say anything for a long time. Lidiaan had turned back to the TV. We don’t like to talk about things like this. “I have to go to the hospital tomorrow. Will you come with me?”

“Of course, panik. I will go with you. I just have to tell Robert.” “Nakurmik, anaana.” “Aa,” she answers, “ilali.” …

At the hospital the nurses were very nice. They were always smiling and they were very gentle. Must be nice to be a nurse, helping people all the time. Maybe I would try to be a nurse after I graduated. But I didn’t want to move away from home. I would have liked to be a nurse at the clinic in Ukiurtatuq. That would be a good job. It would be good for the elders too, that way they wouldn’t need a translator, I could just talk to them in Inuktitut. The nurses at our clinic were Qallunaat, so they only spoke English or French to us. And some of them had a very bad English so we couldn’t really understand. They took me into a room and made me wear a hospital gown. It smelled clean. The hospital smelled like sick people and it was making me want to throw up. The nurse took me to another room and told me to wait on the bed. My mom sat in a chair next to me. I was feeling sick and very nervous. The doctor came in and asked me lots of questions. Then the nurse told me to pull up my gown so she could see my stomach. She pulled a sheet over me so I was covered except for my belly. She put some very cold gel on my stomach and started the ultrasound. The nurse smiled as she looked at the little television screen. The doctor looked too and then he listened to the baby’s heart. “Congratulations! You have a very healthy baby, Saalati,” he said, and the nurse smiled and squeezed my arm. “Thank you,” I said. “But I don’t want to see it.” The doctor and nurse pretended to be very busy all of a sudden. “Saalati,” my mother said, “you have to look. It’s your first baby.” I really didn’t want to look because I didn’t want to start loving it. It would make it too hard for me to give away after. I knew that if I looked at it I would love it right away. “Anaana, I can’t,” I said, very low. My mother understood right away.

“Saalati, you have to start getting used to having this baby, it’s a part of you, and it’s a part of me too. Don’t forget, it’s my grandchild.” She was right. I had to look. I needed to start accepting the truth. “Okay,” I said, and the nurse came back and turned the little television screen towards me. “Here it is,” she said, “your beautiful baby.” And smiling very big, she showed me its face and legs and arms. I couldn’t believe it, that this tiny little baby was inside me. I was so happy to see it and my mother was too. We were all smiling and watching the baby flip and turn and I got butterflies in my stomach. I couldn’t believe that little baby was mine. My mother was right, I couldn’t only think of me. In bed at night I was looking at the ultrasound pictures. I felt so proud and happy. I lay down and for the first time I touched my stomach. To know that my little baby was safe and growing inside of me made me feel so full of love, a love I never knew that I could have. I touched my stomach and smiled, happy for the first time in a very long time. I loved this baby, my first baby. I couldn’t give it away to anybody else. I would raise it and take care of it and love it forever and ever. And I would graduate too.

December

It had snowed off and on a little since that first time in September, but no real substantial quantities. It was usually just a very fine snow and it didn’t really stay. It tended to melt throughout the day or the wind ended up blowing it away. The mountains were topped with it and when we woke up in the morning the streets were very icy. The kids loved laughing at me because I was wearing my great big boots and I still slipped and fell on my way to and from the Co-op. I didn’t know how they did it; they wore running shoes and they could run and jump around without falling. They knew the ice so well. It reminded me of the berry-picking activity; they knew exactly what steps to take so as not to get soaked in the mud and I had no idea. It all looked the same to me, but it was like they had an innate knowledge of the land. I remember too, back in August, when I saw men and younger boys walking around town or driving their ATV’s with guns slung around their shoulders. They were hunting rifles, but I remember being so afraid that people were able to walk freely in the streets with their guns. I remember wondering if I had come to the end of the world. But now everybody, young and old, smiled and waved at me when I passed them on the street. They even stopped to offer me a lift. It was a wonderful feeling of community and harmony, knowing that the whole town helped each other out. It was funny but I was starting to feel so at home. Home! It was almost time to go home for Christmas! Just a few more days, twenty or so, and I would be back in Montreal at my parents’ house, eating yummy food and catching up with friends and family. I couldn’t wait to go shopping! And get a haircut! And go to the movies and out for coffee! It was going to be so much fun; I was so excited, I felt like a little kid! The kids at school were super excited too. They were really enjoying the fact that I was a little more lenient on academic things as we had to practice our song for the Christmas concert. And they absolutely loved art class, painting and creating all sorts of banners and Christmas decorations that would be hung in the gym for the concert.

I’d started playing Christmas music in class and they loved to sing along. The whole school was under a magical spell, teachers and students alike, anxious and excited as we got closer and closer to the long awaited Holiday. Even Saalati had a jump in her step and a twinkle in her eye! And I was writing list after list of things I needed to buy: lists of gift ideas for my family, lists of items that I wanted to bring back to Ukiurtatuq, and lists of things that I wanted to buy for my classroom and my students. In the middle of one of my feverish list-writing moments, this evening as I sipped a hot cup of cocoa and watched icy snowflakes create beautiful patterns on my windows, there was a knock at the door. I opened it and was greeted by a tiny Inuit lady. “Hi Karen! Want to buy some carvings?” I recognized her from report card night. We had parent-teacher interviews a couple of weeks ago and this poorly dressed woman had introduced herself as Zachariah’s, one of my older students’, mother. Report card night did not go as I had planned; only about eight of my students’ parents came to inquire about their child’s progress in school. I remember finding it hilarious that we had to schedule report card night on an evening that was not a Thursday. In Ukiurtatuq, Thursday nights were bingo nights, so townspeople bought their cards at the F.M. station, turned on their radios and listened to the local bingo broadcast, calling in if they won. There were always cash prizes. It was quite an experience listening to the radio on Thursday evenings and hearing numbers being called out and people calling in because they missed the last few numbers so they had to start all over again. Or hearing people call in with messages like “George has to go to the clinic tomorrow morning at ten,” or “Jeannie has to go pay her bill at the Co-op,” or “If anyone sees Moses tell him to call 3356.” You see, the local FM station was also how the town communicated with all its members. Inuit always had their radios turned on to hear the latest news or messages, or sometimes gossip. But I couldn’t believe that they couldn’t skip bingo for one day. Were the parents that oblivious to the importance of school? Seeing as school was a fairly new institution in Ukiurtatuq – only about thirty years old – I guess it made perfect sense that most of the parents never went to school themselves and

therefore failed to see the importance of it for their children. Zachariah’s mother was no different. It seemed like she was more interested in the free coffee and cookies than anything I had to say. She looked so meagre there, standing on my porch, thin as bones and holding the hand of a little girl who looked just like her; just as skinny and her clothes just as outdated, but also quite outgrown, and really rather dirty. I took pity on them instantly. “Sure,” I said. “Show me what you got.” The little girl stared at me with such huge eyes and when I smiled at her she smiled a great big toothless smile back, her index finger stuck firmly in her nose. Her mother took something out of her coat pocket and rolled it out on the floor in front of me. It was a piece of felt that when unrolled revealed various different hand-made necklaces and earrings. “Wow, they’re beautiful,” I said, kneeling down to get a better look. Authentic Inuit jewelry made of ivory and soap stone. Most of it was white and black but some pieces were green. “Did you make them?” I asked. “No my husband did,” I could smell the stale scent of cigarettes on her breath. “How much?” I asked, holding up a necklace of an intricately carved polar bear head and earrings shaped into Inukshuks. “Thirty for the earrings. Fifty for the necklace.” That seemed reasonable. “Ok, come in, wait here and I’ll get the money,” I said, moving aside for them to come in out of the cold. I went to the bedroom and heard the mother and her daughter looking around inside. “Nice house you got,” she said. “Thanks. Here’s the money.” “Ouaaay, nakurmik!” she said, taking the money quickly, her little daughter jumping up with joy. “Have a good night. See you!” “Thanks, you too,” I said, “And tell Zachariah not to be so late in the mornings.” “Yeap, okay, I’ll tell him,” she said, and the mother and daughter made their way into the cold dark night. I was so happy with my new jewelry and happy

that my money would allow them to buy food or clothes or whatever they needed most.

…

The next morning I wore my new earrings to school. I was so proud to be wearing them and wanted everyone to notice. “Wow, Karen nice earrings.” Elisapie said. We were both in the staff room getting our morning coffees. “Oh, thank you, I bought them from Zachariah’s mom.” “Asu”, she said, but looked a little concerned. “Um, maybe you shouldn’t buy from her. She asks too much money and she just buys bad things with it.” My heart sank deep into the floor. “Oh no,” I said, feeling instant regret, “I thought that she could buy some food or clothes.” “She usually just buys drugs.” “Oh no,” I said, closing my eyes. “I didn’t know.” “It’s okay, just let me know if you want carvings. My brother makes some nice ones.” “Asu,” I said, having begun to pick up the custom. “Okay, thanks Elisapie.” “Yeap, no problem!” “How’s Saalati?” I asked, trying to change the subject after having felt so horrible. “She’s fine. She’s pregnant.” “What?!?!?” I said, in shock, hardly believing my ears. “She’s pregnant? Really?” “Yeah.” It all started to make sense now. The absences, the mood swings. “But she’s so good in school… she’s not going to drop out, is she?” I asked, feeling so hurt and shocked and disappointed.

“Never! I won’t let her. She wants to graduate. She wants to get a good job for her baby.” I couldn’t believe this was happening. My heart was beating so fast. She had such huge potential and I couldn’t believe that she was throwing it away like this. “She’s going to keep it?” “Of course, it’s a gift from God!” “Yeah, yes, it is,” I said, not wanting to be rude but really I was angry. I couldn’t believe Saalati had been so foolish. She knew better than that! I had told her so many times to use protection and to be careful, and to come to me if she ever needed anything. I could feel the tears welling up inside of me, so I excused myself and ran up to my classroom. I locked the door and sat at my desk, hot tears running down my face. I thought she was mature and responsible. I couldn’t believe this. My heart was pounding so fast and I felt so sad, so betrayed. Suddenly I thought, how selfish of me, to only think of me when she was going through all this. She probably didn’t tell me because she was afraid of disappointing me. And now I’d let her down. This was too much of a shock first thing in the morning. I was silly for feeling hurt and betrayed. Saalati was such a bright, wonderful girl; if anyone could get through this, it was her. Of course she could! I didn’t think I would have been able to at seventeen, but Saalati was different. And she had her family to help her out. It would be okay, just as long as the due date was far enough away that it wouldn’t interfere with June exams… and even if it did, I was sure we could find a way to have her write them earlier and still graduate in June. If anyone deserved it, it was her. I looked outside and the soft snow that had started last night was coming down heavier and heavier. “Sorry to interrupt,” Robert’s voiced boomed over the intercom, jolting me out of my thoughts and making me spill my coffee all over my desk. “Just to let teachers know, there is a blizzard warning for this afternoon. I will keep checking the weather in case we have to close the school.” A blizzard! How exciting! I walked into the corridor and found Hélène, Bruce, Gerry and Claude clapping and cheering.

“What’s going on?” I asked, smiling at their excitement, “No school this afternoon!” Gerry said, explaining that he too had checked the forecast and there was definitely a blizzard coming our way, set to start around noon. It was fun to see the teachers acting just like the students would. An afternoon off would surely be welcome by all. “Yeah, let the blizzard come now, instead of the twenty-second when we’re supposed to go home!” Bruce said, instantly making me worry. I hadn’t thought of that possibility. If a blizzard or bad weather hit the twenty-second, then we would be stuck here, maybe for days until it cleared up, missing Christmas in the process… …

It snowed for three days straight. There had been a blizzard that afternoon, but once the winds died down, the fluffy white stuff fell for three whole days. Never had I seen such an abundance of sparkling white. The town looked so different, so magical, so magnificently beautiful. Kids were playing and skidoos raced. The snow plows plowed and the ceremonial dressing and undressing of snow pants, coats, boots, scarves, hats and mitts, at least six times a day (morning, lunch and after school), not counting the two recesses, had begun. Everyone was joyous, you could taste the excitement in the air, catching the snowflakes on your tongue as they fell. Some wore their new parkas, made especially for the season. Others made forts and slid down the mountains. Skating was now possible, and the streets filled with ad hoc hockey games. Snowmen came to life on every corner and in every snow bank, dogs frolicked in the cold delight, and fish could be seen being carried home in qamutiks, the traditional Inuit sleds that used to be attached to dog teams but are now attached to skidoos. Gerry was right, the town truly did come to life. During the blizzard my tiny house had shook and shook, and I couldn’t see anything outside, not even the school just across the street! Everything was white! My students said that in a blizzard you couldn’t even see your hand if you waved it out in front of you, that’s why it was so dangerous and easy to get lost. I wasn’t

about to test their theory. Saalati had called to make sure I was okay and warn me not to go out. She also warned me not to use too much water because if we ran out during a blizzard, we were stuck and the trucks couldn’t deliver more until it stopped and the streets were clear. I hadn’t thought of that. I did, however, have fun calling home and telling my parents about this thrilling event: my first blizzard! My parents were very worried, but I scoffed it off like nothing. I felt I belonged here now. I felt like one of them; and when the town came alive with snow, so did I. In this fashion the twenty-second came sooner than expected, and everything went off without a hitch. I had my bags ready to go and Sandy came and picked all of the teachers up in the school bus to whisk us off to the airport. I wasn’t really worried about leaving my home because Sandy watched our houses for us while we were gone. I had heard that in bigger villages teachers had to lock up their windows with plywood and ensure that someone trustworthy was house- sitting so that their houses wouldn’t get raided for alcohol or anything valuable. But Ukiurtatuq was a very safe, small town, so we didn’t have to worry about anything like that. All the other teachers told me that nothing had ever happened to their homes so my worries were soon forgotten. In the bus we were all so excited, singing and laughing, chattering away at the top of our lungs, just like kids on Christmas morning, thinking and talking about all the things we were going to do back home. As the plane took off, I waved good-bye to my little town, so tiny and blanketed in white. It seemed like nothing; like the size of a quarter amidst the huge vastness of the wild North. I looked in amazement at the ice bergs in the bay and realized this was the first time in four months that I had been outside of Ukiurtatuq. And realized that I really was in the middle of nowhere. I had always been curious to see what lay on the other side of the mountains that surrounded us, and now I knew: the wild North, the Arctic, the ice and snow. Everything was so white and so barren it was breathtaking. It was blinding as the sun’s shimmering rays shone down on the sparkling, glistening dunes and the twinkling, glittering valleys. We were all silent as we watched the beauty; one of the Earth’s last untouched splendours. It was

such a profound, mystical and fortunate feeling to watch the bird’s eye view of such an abundant yet unforgiving land. I sat next to Claude who pointed out the tree line; I was fascinated. I was so captivated that I watched with my mouth open. I couldn’t believe it was an actual line of trees – I always thought that was just a figure of speech. How curious nature is, how astonishing and how amazing. How absolutely marvellous. The rest of the flight was quite enjoyable. Claude and I chattered away and we spoke and laughed with the others. There was such a feeling of party and camaraderie on the plane, that when lunch came, we couldn’t help but have two and three more glasses of wine. And we couldn’t turn down the special coffee either, a mix of espresso, Irish cream and orange liqueur. Needless to say, Claude and I were both rosy cheeked and rather tipsy, a mix of excitement, merriment and drink. The happiest moment came about three hours from take-off when we began to see the farmlands and the approaching red and yellow flashing lights. Montreal! Everybody gasped and let out squeals of elation, mine the loudest. I clapped and cheered and high-fived everyone around me. I couldn’t wait to be home! I saw my mother as soon as I came out of the terminal. I ran to her and jumped in her arms almost knocking her to the ground. She hugged and cried and hugged some more, and kissed my cheeks and all around my head and hair. “Oh, Karen,” she let out a little sob, “I missed you so much,” “I missed you too Mom, I missed you too.” And we hugged even harder. “You’re going to miss your bags!” she said, trying to compose herself. “It’s true, my bags!” I had completely forgotten about them, having been overcome with emotion. The other teachers had theirs and were greeting their loved ones as I made my way to the carousel. We said good-bye, wished each other a Merry Christmas, and looked forward to seeing each other again in the New Year. I grabbed my bags and made my way outside the airport with my mom, waiting for my father to drive by. “Wow, it’s so hot here!” I said, noticing that even though everyone was bundled up, I was actually sweating.

“Hot? What do you mean, it’s freezing! It’s minus fifteen!” “Minus fifteen?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s nothing where I’m coming from!” I was already used to harsh cold of the Arctic, minus thirty being the general average, and minus fifty and sixty with the windshield factor. I had to take my coat off. “Karen please, you’re going to get sick!” “No mom, don’t worry. It’s too hot here, I’m used to Northern weather now!” At this moment my father pulled up and got out of the car. Being a man of not too many words, he simply took my suitcase, put it in the trunk, and said hello, giving me a short hug. The drive home was out of this world. So many cars and lights and people and traffic! I wasn’t used to this anymore either! I kept wanting to break with my right foot even though I wasn’t the one driving, just because I was so afraid of the speed and all the other cars. I was holding on for dear life and saying “Woah!” and “Wooooah!” every time my father changed lanes or someone passed us. My parents found it really funny but I was really panicked! I had gone from such a tiny town to a huge metropolis in three hours and the culture shock was excruciating, even though I had only been away for four months. I began to understand a little bit what it might be like for Inuk who comes down to the city… it’s like another planet! A much faster and more dangerous one! We turned onto our street and everything still looked the same. We pulled into the driveway and I looked at all the Christmas lights and decorations like I was seeing them for the first time. Stepping into our home, the familiar scents wafted up my nose giving me instant gratification. I was finally home for Christmas and nothing could be better. I walked up to my room and plopped down on my big bed, looking around at all my trinkets, again as if for the first time. My mother cheerfully told me how she washed my sheets in anticipation of my arrival. She had slept in my bed many nights, having missed me so. She chattered away about this and that, and all I could do was lie in rapture in the soft folds of my plush pillows and silky sheets, smelling that heavenly scent of home.

Supper was quite the event. Never had I loved my mother’s cooking more. Having had four months of trial-and-error cooking in Ukiurtatuq, (my cooking skills were limited to very few, as I hadn’t learned to cook before moving out on my own) my mother’s culinary prowess really hit the spot. Filling up on one of my favourite meals and telling my parents all the funny and interesting stories about my last four months up North made me wonder about my students and all the people I had met. Even though I was finally home, an event I had been waiting for so long, they were with me in my heart and not easy to forget. The next day my mom and I went shopping at the mall. I was in dire need of new clothes and had only two days left for buying Christmas presents because we had left Ukiurtatuq only two days before Christmas Eve. Bruce had warned me about the mall, he told me to breathe deeply and take frequent breaks. I thought he was crazy. But once there with people whizzing, huffing and puffing about, running here, pushing there, signs here, sounds there, buy this, take that, spend here, taste this, try that, my head whipping and whirling about… information overload… it was too much! A brutal sensory attack! Bruce was right! I wasn’t used to the crowds, the heat, the zip and the buzz, I wasn’t used to people being impolite and impatient and with constant frowns on their faces, bags here and shoves there… I really did need to take breaks of fresh air every now and then. I didn’t ever think I would have an anxiety attack. It’s true that the North changes you, you develop a calm and a patience and the feeling that you have all the time in the world, the polar opposite of these mad Holiday shoppers. Why did they wait until the last minute? They had all year, or at least much longer than I had! It was their own fault if they were in a bad mood! …

Christmas Eve came and I was sick as a dog. I wasn’t even able to enjoy Christmas dinner, the dinner that’s looked forward to for a whole year – up North or not. We are a small family. I have no uncles or aunts so being an only child, my whole world was downstairs: my parents and my grandparents. And I was stuck in bed. Miserable. I had eaten a little but by dessert I was throwing

everything up in the bathroom. Every five minutes I had to make the dash to the bowl. I don’t know if was the nerves or excitement, or perhaps I had brought home a bug going around Ukiurtatuq, but I couldn’t even open my eyes, that’s how weak I was. My mother kept coming in to check on me, looking very concerned and very sad. My first Christmas home and I couldn’t enjoy it. I couldn’t even open presents. The tradition in our family is to open presents at midnight, but I was stuck in bed. I was so sick that even though I wanted to I didn’t even have the strength to cry. All I wanted to do was spend Christmas with my family and instead I was all alone in bed. The next morning I woke up feeling much better. My strength was back and so was my spirit. I guess I slept off whatever bug it was and was ready to start celebrating. We ate a lovely Christmas breakfast and opened the rest of the presents, those that were labeled either to or from me. It wasn’t so bad after all, in fact, the others found it quite nice to have a sort of second Christmas, and my mom and I were overjoyed that I wouldn’t spend the whole time in bed. I spent the rest of the Christmas break shopping for clothes and little gifts for my students, going to the movies and to restaurants with family and friends. It was fun to be able to afford such luxuries, but I had to be careful not to spend all the money that I had saved. And even though I was having a wonderful time, telling about my adventures, treating and pampering myself, I couldn’t stop thinking about my students. I hoped they were okay and wondered what they were up to. I couldn’t get them out of my mind even though I tried. I was on vacation, I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about work! The thing is, and I realized it then, they weren’t work. They were my students but they were so much more than that; they were almost like my children and being far away from them made me worry about them. More than that, it made me miss them. Often when I was out with friends or with my mom, I was so tempted to raise my hand and wave at anyone passing by, since I’d become so used to the custom in Ukiurtatuq. And I always thought I recognized somebody that I knew, but I had to keep reminding myself that I was in Montreal now and I didn’t know anybody. So alone in a city of so many. It was such a funny feeling this feeling, I

had never really felt it before, almost lost in my own hometown… I think what was happening was that I was becoming homesick for my other town; my little town, the one with my little home and my little life, and my big Northern family, all covered in white.

Aarjuliut

Christmas is my favourite time of year. Everybody’s always in a very good mood and it’s great to have a break from school! School was fun in December too, because although we still had to do some work, the teachers were very happy and they let us finish our work early so we could make Christmas decorations. Karen was very excited too. I think she was more excited than anyone. She was always singing Christmas songs and acting very hyper. Maybe she drank too much coffee. Or maybe she was just really happy to be going home, I know I would be. It must have been hard for her to be away from her family. She was different than she was in September. Back then she was more serious and only wanted to work, but now she liked to have fun with us too when we had special activities. And she always came to the gym whenever there was a community event. It was nice to see that she wanted to get to know us and our culture, not like some other teachers that just stayed home and disappeared on the weekends. But Karen was always around town, talking to everyone. It looked like she really liked it here, and that made us like her even more. The last day of class we were just watching Christmas movies and finishing our decorations. I loved seeing all the kids lying in the hallway, painting the large banners in our three different languages: English, French and Inuktitut. With Karen we made huge snowmen and Christmas trees. We also made a lot of different kinds of Nativity scenes from different cultures around the world. It was like a research project because she made us find information in books and on the internet and we had to make a little sketch before we were allowed to make the big ones.

We also had to practice for the Christmas concert that night. Every class had to go on stage and sing or play instruments or do something. We teenagers always complained because we hated doing it! We would get too shy! It was embarrassing to stand there with the whole town watching. Usually only a few of us made it up on stage because the others ended up hiding. The little kids were so cute to watch, though, singing in Inuktitut and wearing hats or costumes that they made themselves. Karen let us do one of our worship dances that we practiced Wednesdays and Fridays after school at church. We made movements and formations to Christian music and sometimes we even went to conferences in other towns and each group did their dances. But Karen also wanted us to sing a song too, so we sang and danced to Jingle Bell Rock. She paired us up and we did some swing dancing to the music. I think that’s what she called it. She let some students that didn’t want to dance follow the music with drums and tambourines, and at the end we yelled Merry Christmas very loud in Inuktitut. Our parents really liked it and it was fun for us too to do something different instead of just singing the same old boring song every year. Before the concert the students had to bring down all of the chairs from the classrooms into the gym so that people had a place to sit. Sandy was there setting up the stage and he always got annoyed by us because we liked to bug him and play around with the microphone. We also put our decorations all over the gym and stage. They would stay there even after the concert because there were games and dancing every night in the gym during Christmas break. It was nice to see everybody working together like old times. Even Robert was in a very happy mood, walking around wearing a Santa hat and giving us candy canes. And on the concert night he wore a Santa suit and took pictures with the smaller kids. I couldn’t wait to play games every night. I think that’s everybody’s favourite part. It’s so nice to see everybody together having a good time, kids, teenagers, adults, babies and elders. And there are lots of funny games too! One of them is when we have to sit in a circle and roll the dice. Whenever we get a certain number, we’re allowed to unwrap the present in the middle until another person gets the number and it’s their turn to unwrap it until someone else gets the

number and so on. The funny part about this game is that you have to wear oven mitts while you’re trying to unwrap the present that’s been wrapped and wrapped a hundred times and has many layers of tape going around it this way and that. It’s really funny to watch people trying to unwrap it very fast, trying to get the present before someone else does. Another fun game is when the men have to dress up as women and the women have to dress up as men. They parade around the gym and they have to act like a man or woman even though they’re not. It’s kind of like the Halloween parade, except at Halloween people wear really crazy costumes! But the Christmas one is really funny too, especially seeing the men wear wigs and really bad make-up and ugly dresses that show their hairy legs. And they have trouble wearing high heels so they always have to hold on to their purse! And sometimes the balloons they wear on their chest pop and that’s so funny! Another very funny game to watch is the baby race. That’s when couples sit on either end of the gym and their babies have to crawl from one end to the other. It’s fun to see parents calling them and the babies crawling very fast. But some babies get confused and go back! There’s always prizes for the winner of every game. Usually it’s something from the Co-op like a thermos or a blanket, or fishing, hunting and camping gear. Sometimes it’s coupons like fifty dollars for gas or a hundred dollars at the Co-op. Other times it’s stuff like iPods, but everybody hopes to win the bigger prizes like cash or a plane ticket. But I also really like to watch the dances. They are really cool to watch because an elder plays the accordion and someone else plays the keyboard and the people stomp and jig in partners and they dance around the gym very fast changing partners all the time. I don’t really know how to dance like that. I used to when I was younger, but when you’re older and you’re a girl the only way to be able to dance is to wear a dress. I don’t like showing my legs so I don’t like wearing a dress. It’s too fancy for me. And I don’t want to wear those high heel shoes either, but you need them to dance so that when you hit the floor it makes a loud sound. I love hearing that sound when everybody stomps at the same time.

Sometimes there are drunk people that come to the gym. Everybody’s always partying during Christmas break, but since everybody’s happy and having a good time, the drunk people are always in a good mood too. The police always come to make sure everything’s okay, so sometimes they’ll drive some people home if they think they’re too drunk, but they always end up coming back! Aatsiaramai! It’s okay, they don’t do anything bad in the gym. They just want to have a good time too. And if there’s someone acting stupid they usually end up passing out when they’re taken home, so there are never any problems at Christmas time. It’s just the most fun, happy time of the year for everyone. On Christmas Eve and day we always go to Church and then we have feasts. There are big feasts in the gym. They set long tables up and almost everybody from town brings a dish. There’s so much food and everything is so delicious. We always have a lot of country food like caribou soup, roasted caribou, cooked fish, frozen fish, frozen caribou, raw seal and ptarmigan. And there are also big pans of chicken wings and chicken legs and shepherd’s pie and macaroni salad. For desert there’s always so many homemade cakes and pies and jell-o, all decorated for Christmas. We always have a big prayer before the meal, thanking Jisusi for all the food and health and happiness. Everybody enjoys eating together like one big family, like they used to do in Sauniq’s time. It’s so nice to see everyone doing traditional things together instead of just watching TV or playing video games. We also have a Christmas light contest. Everybody decorates the outside of their homes with many different colours and shapes of stars and crosses and trees. We don’t have any real trees here, so we have to get the fake kind but they’re still nice. And there’s also the ice sculpture contest. Some people make such beautiful sculptures of igloos and polar bears in front of their homes. The best ones are always those that are made by elders. Younger people don’t really know how to make them anymore. During the day there’s also lots of games on the radio where the first person to bring funny or hard to find items to the station gets a prize. And of course there’s always bingo. But the nights are the most fun, walking around with

friends, looking at all the lights and sculptures. And it’s amazing when the Northern lights are out. Even they look like they’re dancing and celebrating all across the sky. And the stars shine so bright and the moon so big you can almost reach out and touch it. I don’t know what Christmas is like in the South, but it can’t be better than this. I love being an Inuk and living in Ukiurtatuq at Christmas time. It’s the most wonderful thing and I never want to be anywhere else but here. Anaanatsiaq is always at our home at Christmas time, and so are some other relatives that come to visit us from other towns. Our house gets very crowded but we love it. And Ananaatsiaq loves telling stories about the past and teaching us about our culture and our history. We always learn a lot from her and when she tells us about sauniq, it’s like we can feel him here too. We look at very old pictures from when they were young and from when my parents were young too. And my parents also tell stories about their adventures on the land too. It makes me wish I had been born during that time when things were more simple and we could live off the land. Even though it sounds hard, there are many other hard things about the way we live now. But we are Inuit, and we have to keep surviving, just like our ancestors did. New Year’s Eve is also lots of fun. They have dances in the gym and at midnight everybody gets in their cars or trucks or skidoos and we parade around the town beeping our horns as loud as we can. The police always escort us and they seem to love the action. They like blaring their sirens and flashing their lights too. I guess it’s the only time they get to do that up here. After the parade everybody goes to the gym and one by one we all shake hands and wish Happy New Year to each other. It takes a very long time! After that some people stay for more dancing in the gym, and others go home or to other people’s houses for a party. This year I had to be careful. I couldn’t really drink because I was pregnant. I don’t usually drink anyways, but maybe just a few beers would be okay. I didn’t want to think about that creep because I was too happy now. But everyone in town knew that I was pregnant and he must have been wondering if he was the father. If he ever asked me I would just say that I didn’t know. I didn’t

want him to know that he was the father because he didn’t deserve to be in my or my baby’s life. He wouldn’t be a good father because he was always drunk and getting into fights. He must have so many babies that he doesn’t know about. I didn’t want my baby to be in danger. I just can’t trust him around a baby. He doesn’t know or care about anything, not even about himself, so how could he take care of a baby? I don’t even think he would care if he knew that he was the father. I’m pretty sure he would just laugh. He’s not a very good or nice person. He can’t even keep a job because he’s always drunk and he just blows his father’s money on alcohol, weed and cigarettes. Even though his father is the Chief of police in Ukiurtatuq, even he can’t stop him. Or help him. That’s what happens to people that don’t have Jisusi in their hearts. They can’t be helped unless they accept Jesus. He can’t be saved until he sees the light and feels his love. I just have to keep going to church and keep praying and being a good person. I hope that he will change one day. If he would get sober and get a job, then I would let him meet the baby. But until then, he can’t know that it’s his. Nobody can know. Not even me. I just have to put it out of my head and try not to think about it too much. I rather raise the baby alone than with a dead-beat father. Besides my parents will help me and they are all I need. But I didn’t want to think about that. I just wanted to keep living my life and finish school. When the baby came it would be time for exams and I would miss a lot of school so I had to do a lot of studying now so that I would ready. I really couldn’t fail and I really didn’t want to repeat the year so I was going to ask Bruce and Karen if they could tutor me after school or give me extra homework starting in January. I hoped they would help me. I kind of missed Karen already. It would be so much fun to have her here for Christmas. I knew she would have liked all the things we do. I hoped she would come back in January! Sometimes new teachers didn’t come back after Christmas because they couldn’t be away from their family or they couldn’t handle being in the North until June. That was not Karen though. I was pretty sure she would come back, but just in case, I prayed for her too.

January

It didn’t take long for me to get caught up with the material, frivolous nature of city living; I needed a hot outfit for New Year’s Eve. I was going out to a very popular night club with friends and needed to look perfect. A few days in Montreal was enough to catch up with the newest fashion trends, as everyone seemed to be wearing the same thing. Isn’t it ironic? Everybody wants to stand out and be unique and wear the hippest and coolest clothes and accessories and yet they all look like they’re wearing the same uniform. And to fit in, I needed one too. I needed it to get that kiss at midnight. I hadn’t had the time to go on any dates and was counting on New Year’s to satisfy the lack of romance in my life. After eating supper with my family, I met my friend Jessica at the apartment she was renting with her boyfriend. A few others were already there, pre-drinking before going out to the club. I had a couple of drinks myself and chit-chatted with people about my experiences up North. I was blown away by the amount of ignorance people had about Inuit. Their stereotypical questions and their mockery of the Inuit way of life angered me and I found myself being extremely defensive. Questions like “Is it true that they’re all drunks?” or “What’s the Indian name they gave you?” and comments like “I don’t know how you can stand it,” or “Those people are just deadweight to society” made me realize that discrimination, ignorance, and racism was still a huge problem in our country. And to think that we call ourselves civilized. I didn’t want to get into heated arguments – this was not the time or the place – so I kept my answers short and to the point. I was so disappointed in my friends – so disappointed with society in general, that in this day and age people continued to label and judge and were not better informed. I didn’t like being the center of attention and I certainly didn’t want to ruin the party atmosphere, so I remained polite even though I really wanted to yell and scream in exasperation. We got to the club and although the line wrapped around the block, we were lucky to have had our names on the guest list. Jessica’s boyfriend was good friends with the D.J. so we didn’t have to wait in line. The music was thumping so

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loud that it vibrated in my body and the flashing, spinning lights added to the craziness on the dance floor. Tight shirts, short skirts, high heels, fake eyelashes, fake hair, fake nails, cell phones blinking, exaggerated make-up, cameras flashing, and a hodgepodge of designer perfumes all competing with each other. Was this all these people cared about? I was surprised to find myself hating the people and the environment that was once my own. Looking down at my short black miniskirt and revealing sequined tank top I wondered who I had become. This was not me, not my life. This was no life. This was simply a materialistic imitation of life. I no longer felt comfortable amidst these people, infatuated solely with themselves. This was New Year’s Eve, however, and I decided to make the most of it. Into the middle of the floor I danced the night away and took shot after shot with these plastic people, bumping and grinding to the repetitive rhythms they called music. Midnight came and went without a kiss. That was depressing enough, but it was even more depressing to see all of these fake people wrapped around each other in one massive make-out session. Repelling, even. I was so disturbed that I made my way to the washroom. It was packed with girls adjusting their breasts and teasing their hair, applying lipstick and chatting superficially. I had to get out of there. I made my way back to my friends who were all still dancing. I kept dancing too. One of Jessica’s boyfriend’s friends, John, seemed to have developed an interest in me. Maybe the other girls had turned him down, I don’t know. He was making one last desperate attempt with me. John wasn’t the most handsome of fellows but he wasn’t ugly either. A nice smile, maybe a little goofy, but harmless. I danced with John the rest of the night and when he offered me a ride home I agreed. As he pulled up to my house, I thanked him for the ride and was about to get out when he reached for my hand. “Wait,” he said, “Yeah?” I asked. “Would you maybe like to go for a coffee or something sometime?” he said, looking a little nervous. I was leaving in two days.

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“Oh, that would be nice but I have to go back up North and I won’t be back until Easter, so…” “Oh, ok,” he said, looking a little defeated. “But thanks again so much, I had a great time,” I said, trying to make him feel better. “Yeah, thanks, so did I,” he said, and leaned in. His lips touched mine and I let them. I hadn’t been kissed in forever. It felt good to know that I was attractive to somebody. It felt good to feel somebody’s warm, soft lips probing mine. I let go of the door and turned to face him better. He leaned in heavier, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. I let myself melt into his kisses, feeling the adrenaline rush all over me. It felt so good. “Let’s make this night something to remember,” he whispered, kissing me passionately. I didn’t say anything because I was too shy, but also because I didn’t know what he was getting at. He kissed me even harder, his hands squeezing my breasts. I opened my eyes at the shock and started to say something but he only kissed harder. “Come on Karen, I know you want to,” he said, pushing my hand away, the one that was trying to take his hands off of me. Instead he reached up my skirt. “Stop!” I said, pushing his arm away instantly. “Why?” he asked, looking confused. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this,” I said, reaching for the door and getting out of the car. “Thanks again for the ride,” and closed the door. He sped off. I ran inside and ran to my room. I took off my clothes and put on my warm pyjamas. As I took off my make-up I stared long and hard at myself. That was a close one. It was my fault. I had led him on. My eyes began to tear and I wrapped myself in my sheets. I cried. I had no idea who I was anymore or what I wanted. These weren’t my friends, they were people that only cared about themselves. This wasn’t the kind of life I wanted. This wasn’t who I wanted to be. Had I really been like that? Was I one of them before moving to the North? How would I find real friends now? How would I ever find a boyfriend who would care about the

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things I cared about, instead of a guy that just wanted to get into my pants? I felt so miserable, so hurt, so alone.

…

Nobody understood me. I was tired of being alone all the time. I was alone in Montreal and I was alone in Ukiurtatuq. I was alone and I didn’t know who I was. At least in Ukiurtatuq I had my work and my students to keep me busy. I couldn’t wait to get out of the city and back to my quiet little town. My mother was very sad to see me go. I would miss her. She was the only thing I would miss about this place.

… At the airport I was reunited with Robert, Gerry, Hélène, Bruce, Claude, Sylvie and Jacques. We had coffee together and waited for boarding time. We were overjoyed to see each other. Everybody looked good and happy with their haircuts and new clothes. Everybody hugged and smiled – a real hug and smile – and I couldn’t help but feel loved. These were my real friends. On the plane I chatted with Hélène, telling her how upset and disappointed with people and life in the South I was. I told her how hard it was to connect with people who used to be my best friends and how fake and stressed out everyone was. I told her how sad it was to see everyone so warped, so consumed with consuming. Hélène, quiet, nodded her head in understanding. She let me rant, she saw my sadness and held my hand. “You are starting to see the world with Inuit eyes,” she said.

…

Except for the blinding cold, teaching in January in Ukiurtatuq was a lot like teaching in September: the students began their usual start-of-school-antics, testing and trying my patience. Two weeks was long enough for them to forget

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the rules. And two weeks was also long enough for them to forget the provinces. The best thing to do was a short recap of the important points I covered before Christmas in order to get them back on track. Luckily, their memory came back quickly. But there was something different: the students. Yes, they did still love to tease me, but it was different. They were so glad to see that I had come back, that I hadn’t abandoned them, that their teasing was not done for testing, but rather for demonstrating their affection. They listened better and eagerly, they worked harder and more proudly. It was their way of thanking me. The bond with my students was a beautiful and rewarding thing to watch expand and grow. It was not just a teacher-student thing; it was a friend thing. A trust thing. ‘A grown-up they could talk to’ thing. Someone they knew was there for them, to care for them and help them. It wasn’t like in the South with the separations and the formalities; it was really like a little family, where teacher and students shared and grew and learned together, with and from each other. My students were so happy to see me, shaking my hand and welcoming me back. It’s an Inuit tradition to shake hands when someone returns after having gone out of town, so everyone was shaking my hand, welcoming me back and wishing me a Happy New Year. It felt so good to be back. I was happiest to see Saalati. Her growing tummy was beginning to show and she seemed happy. She told me about all the fun she had at Christmas time, filling me in on town news and gossip. All the students were excited to receive the little gifts I had bought them at the dollar store – trinkets and gadgets that they couldn’t get here. For Saalati I had picked out something special: a necklace with a cross and a tiny baby blanket. I gave it to her privately one day after school. She was very happy and put the necklace on right away. She also had a gift for me: feet warmers that she had sewn herself, embroidered with pink and purple flowers. “So that you can stay warm,” she said. It was the most beautiful, heartfelt gift I had ever received, and completely unexpected. “I wanted to make you mitts but we ran out of leather,” she explained.

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“Oh, thank you Saalati, these are so beautiful, I love them!” I thought of wearing them at home as slippers but she said they were to be worn inside my boots. “These are what we wear inside our kamiiks, to keep our feet warm. The seal skin is to keep them dry, but we would freeze without these. They’re called duffels.” “Asu, thank you so much!” I felt so honoured that she had made them for me. We continued chatting a little before studying. With her pregnancy she would be missing a lot of classes so she had asked if I could help her with English and Social Studies to be ready for the June exams. I was so happy and proud of her. She was so brave and courageous for staying in school and wanting to graduate even though she had a baby on the way. “So, how’s the baby doing?” “Good, I’m feeling better now. I was kind of sick after New Year’s.” “Really, how come?” I asked, starting to feel worried. “I had some beer and I’m not used to it,” she answered, looking down at the floor. “Saalati, how could you? Don’t you know how dangerous that is for your baby?” I was so shocked and angry at her behaviour that I couldn’t hide it. “Everybody does it. Their babies are okay,” she said, getting a little defensive. “Saalati, no, that is so bad for your baby! It could grow to be very sick, you can’t do that,” I said, very concerned. “I know, okay, I don’t do that every day. It was just for New Year’s that’s all,” she said, getting agitated. “But Saalati any tiny drop could affect your baby’s health. You really can’t do that!” “What do you know? Have you ever had a baby?” she asked, her raven eyes narrowing with anger. “No.”

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“Well then you shouldn’t talk. Qallunaat always think they know everything like they’re so perfect. Well you never had a baby so you don’t know. You don’t know anything about it!” she yelled, getting up to leave. “Saalati, wait,” I tried to stop her but she didn’t look back. “You shouldn’t talk if you don’t know.” And she ran down the hallway. I was so upset I didn’t know what to do. What had I done wrong? I was just worried about her and the health of her baby. I entered Hélène’s class. She was waiting for me near the door. She had heard some of the commotion. She put her hand on my shoulder. “It’s ok, Karen, let her go.” “What did I do?” “Nothing. You didn’t do anything. She’s just embarrassed. She’ll be ok. The Inuit never hold on to grudges.” “Yeah but what about the baby, I was just trying to help.” “It’s best not to speak about child rearing if you’ve never done so yourself.” “Why not?” “The Inuit don’t believe that you can teach them something that you’ve never done yourself. In their logic, if you’ve never gone through it, then you cannot understand or know about it.” “Oh… that makes sense,” I said, feeling pretty stupid. “But why did she get so angry? That’s not like her at all!” “Well, pregnancy can make you do a lot of things that aren’t like you at all,” she said, laughing, “you say and do things that you don’t mean because your hormones are all out of whack. Pregnancy can also be a very private matter for some Inuit girls,” she said, becoming more serious, “they’re not used to talking about it. We don’t know the circumstances of her pregnancy. Just give her some time. It’ll be okay, I promise.” I went home with my emotions in a whirl and a huge headache. My concern for her had come off as my disapproval. I didn’t mean to imply that I was perfect or that I knew more than her. I didn’t mean to make her angry or upset. I

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was so sorry and heartbroken that I didn’t know what to do. Hélène was right. We didn’t know the circumstances of her pregnancy. Maybe it was a touchy subject, maybe she was embarrassed, maybe she was scared. And I just scared her even more. I felt so horrible that I couldn’t even eat or correct or do anything. I needed to talk to her. I needed to apologize. I braved the minus fifty weather, minus seventy with the windshield, and walked to Saalati’s house. I let myself in and found her on the couch. “Saalati,” I said, but she didn’t look at me. I felt so awkward and out of place. Saalati I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare or upset you. I was just worried.” She looked away from the TV up to where I was standing. “Wanna watch with me? It’s a good movie.” I looked over at the TV but didn’t really pay attention to the screen, I was just so relieved that she was talking to me. “Sure,” I said, and sat down next to her. I touched her arm lightly, “But I’m really, really sorry.” “That’s okay. I forgive you, do you forgive me?” “Of course I do, you didn’t do anything!” I said, smiling and happy that Hélène had been right. “Well I didn’t mean that you don’t know anything. You’re not that kind of Qallunaat,” she said, smiling, “you’re like an Inuk.” “Wow, thank you,” I said, feeling so honoured and such a strong sense of belonging. We sat and watched and I could hardly contain my happiness. I was no longer a stranger in a strange land. I was home. And I felt good.

Nalirqaituk

January is a very hard month for hunters. The cold makes it very hard to have the patience they need to wait for the animals. The hardest is seal hunting. They have to wait on the ice where the seals come up to breathe. The seal’s warm breath melts the ice, and they come up for only a very small time, less than a

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second, so the hunter has to be ready. Nowadays the hunters can hide and shoot them from a distance, but in the past, hunters had to wait at the breathing hole, harpoon in hand, arm in position above his head and just wait. Sometimes he would have to wait in that same position for hours. The seals can feel the presence of the hunter so they don’t come up too often. Once they do, the hunter has to pierce the skull of the seal with the harpoon very fast and pull the seal out of the hole. Maybe guns make it faster for the hunters now. But they still have to wait. The animals are more nervous and not as easily fooled. They are used to the noises of the gunshots. They can hear them in the water. And land animals like musk ox are scared of the airplane and skidoo sounds. It scares them very far away. Even in the summer time when the helicopters are circling, checking for minerals or to build mines or something, that scares them away too. So hunters have to go very far out into the land or on the sea ice. That can be very dangerous. In winter people sometimes drown because the ice is too thin. The ice used to be a lot thicker before the pollution from the mines and from the South. And the skidoos can’t warn them. Our ancestors were a lot safer when they went hunting with their dogs. The dogs would never get lost. They could remember the way back home. Nowadays a lot of people get lost in blizzards and never make it back. The rangers find them frozen to death. The dogs also used to warn the people of the thin ice. They could feel it and would start barking and wouldn’t run any farther. Now skidoos just fall into the frozen black waters. In the past our ancestors even used to make parkas with a very pointed hood for the men. It was so that they could easily be pulled out of the water if they fell in. Nowadays the fashions aren’t the same. Younger hunters like to wear more modern looking parkas, like Southern jackets. And even though they have the technologies like satellite phones and GPS, many younger hunters still get lost. Our ancestors didn’t need those things. They could find their way by reading the stars and the patterns that the wind makes on the snow.

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Anaanatsiaq tells me that the Qallunaat almost killed us when they slaughtered our dogs. They wanted to know where we were, they didn’t want us travelling around. They wanted us to stay in the same place so they killed all the dogs. They nearly killed us too. A lot of Inuit died of starvation. We used to depend on dogs for transportation, food, and life. But now they are just annoying and make messes in the garbage bins. People don’t tie their dogs so they just walk around town all the time, fighting over scraps. Two or three people in town have started dog teams again. Not for hunting, but for fun and to preserve our culture. There’s a dog sled race every year now and the winners get a big cash prize. Nobody used to mush until the competition started five years ago. They have to travel a large part of the Ungava coast, starting in one village and ending two or three villages up or down. The distance is about 700km in total and it takes them about a week, maybe a little longer. The townspeople in each village they pass through are always ready to greet them and give them warmth and food. I always get nervous when my father and Alec go hunting. Alec was lucky to learn hunting from my father. A lot of younger boys don’t know how to hunt because their fathers can’t teach them. They forgot or never learned how because they went to residential school. And some of them don’t have time because they have to work. But there are still some men that like to teach the younger boys even if they are not their sons. The elders always like to help and teach them too. Zachariah always went hunting with Alec and my father. He always tried to bring food home. It was better and cheaper than the foods at the Co-op. Since his parents never bought any food he liked to go hunting as much as possible. That way he didn’t have to spend his paychecks on Southern food. Zachariah would have been a good father one day. He also liked to go fishing with us. We would take my skidoo because he didn’t have one. He was trying to save money to buy one for himself but they cost 15,000$ or more. Even though they only cost like seven or eight thousand in the South, it costs us double to ship them here. He was trying to see if he could buy an old one from a teacher when they would leave. It would be cheaper that way.

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But for now he borrowed mine or came with me. I liked it when we went fishing together. He made nice new holes for me with the drill. It was too heavy for me to do it myself. That’s another new thing. Nowadays we drill holes in the ice but our ancestors used to do it by hand with a very sharp, pointy tool called a tuuq. It’s long and kind of like a harpoon but it’s meant to chip and break the ice. We still use it to break the ice if the drill can’t get any farther down. It’s cool to see the water bubbling and rising very fast, filling up the hole. I like the sound it makes too. Like when you unplug the sink when it’s full. Normally when Zachariah and I went fishing, he would take off with the skidoo and tried to get ptarmigan. They are white birds that are very hard to see in the snow. Only Inuit eyes can see them. We love eating ptarmigan. It’s so tasty. Kind of like chicken but much better. It’s fun to pluck their feathers too. The best was when we had a feast just the two of us. Fish and ptarmigan on the ice. Mamaktuk. It warmed us up and gave us the energy we needed to keep fishing and hunting. Sometimes we would go into my family’s shack. It’s a wood cabin and it has a stove and blankets and some chairs. It’s very small but comfortable and there’s lots of supplies in case we have to stay overnight. We don’t have satellite TV and couches and radios like the mayor and most of his family’s cabins do. We like to keep it simple. We don’t need TV when we have the land. There’s always something to do. Zachariah borrowed my skidoo this afternoon. He wanted to go hunting to try and get some more food. His parents always ate fast what he brought home. They shared it with their friends when they were drinking or smoking so Zachariah always had to get more. Before he left I told him to be very careful. There was a storm coming. It was in the other village and was headed this way. “Don’t worry Saali,” he said, joking. He knows I don’t like to be called that. It’s “Charlie” in Inuktitut and I’m not a boy. “I’m a good hunter. Maybe even better than your father!” he stuck his tongue out and started the engine. “Be careful!” I yelled after him, the smell of gas burning in the air as he sped off into the mountains. I went back home and found my grandmother in the

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kitchen. She looked very serious. She didn’t say what was wrong and I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to upset her, but I knew she was worried about the weather. “He’ll be okay,” I said, even though I was very worried too.

…

It was two days later and still no Zachariah. The storm had hit sooner than we thought and there was a blizzard that night. I hoped Zachariah had made it to the cabin. I hoped he didn’t get lost looking for it. It’s so easy to get lost in a blizzard, even if you’re just a few feet away. The blowing snow can easily confuse you and make you walk the wrong way. Lots of times people got lost on their way home because they ran out of gas and they decided to walk back. Lots of times they made it home, but sometimes they froze on the way. I hoped that didn’t happen to Zachariah. I hoped he was waiting nice and warm in the cabin for the storm to stop. It was still snowing and the winds were blowing very hard, ninety kilometers. It wasn’t even safe enough for the rangers to go out and look for him. We didn’t want them to get lost too. They would go when the wind calmed down. For now all we could do was pray. I asked sauniq to look after him and keep him company.

…

The rangers had gone to look for him. The wind was better and my father being the leader decided it was the best time. Hopefully they could reach him in time. Hopefully a polar bear hadn’t found him first. Ataata took the satellite phone that he had bought himself so he could call us at home. My brothers and cousins and everybody prayed. Kitty came over too, and lots of people were going to Zachariah’s house to keep his parents company. I made some food and Kitty and I brought them some. They ate hungrily. They thanked us. And Zachariah’s mother cried. I tried to comfort her but she pushed me away. She reached for the Vodka instead.

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My father came back with no news. It was too dark now and they would try again in the morning. Kitty slept over at my house and we and my mother and grandmother made a lot of bannock for the rangers to take with them. Mary cried all night. I tried to stay strong. I held my belly. The baby was moving around. The nerves were probably not good for it. I couldn’t sleep. I kept myself busy until morning came. I cleaned and dusted the house, I washed and waxed the floors, I scrubbed and dusted and polished. I needed to keep cleaning, to keep my mind and my body busy. Finally at six o’clock in the morning the rangers took off. There were about seven, eight skidoos, all men from town dressed in the red and green rangers outfits. Some of them had rangers flags attached to their skidoos so that all you could see when they drove away were red streaks waving and flapping in the white cold land. Just before noon the satellite phone crackled. There was lots of static so it was hard to hear. My father’s voice was being cut off. “….fou…im… kay…” “Suna? Ataata, atillu!” “…found him… He’s okay,” came my father’s voice, much clearer now. We all felt so relieved. We called the FM station to tell the great news. We were so happy to hear that he had been found alive. We all started jumping and clapping. The phone started ringing and people in town started going out again. Everyone had been staying home out of respect. The town had been so quiet and empty. It looked like it was dead. But now people were starting to drive their skidoos again and kids started running and sliding. Nakurmik Jisusi! Thank you Jesus! Zachariah is alive! Ataata got home in time for lunch. My mother had made caribou soup. My father ate it like he had never eaten before. He told us all about the adventure. They went to the lake but didn’t find him. They split up and looked around in different directions. He was nowhere to be found. No sign of him or the skidoo, not even any tracks. They decided to go farther. Maybe Zachariah was trying to go to the other lake. They passed an abandoned cabin and saw that he had been

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there. They found his iPod. The kept going further. Maybe he was trying to come home but had gone the wrong way. They finally found his skidoo after a few kilometers. It was out of gas. They followed the footsteps that went in every direction and found him sleeping in a snow grave. The snow was not good for making an igloo and he didn’t have the tools, so Zachariah had dug his shelter. He was very weak and had frost bite. He looked like he was frozen, but he was still breathing. They wrapped him in blankets and laid him in the qamutik for the drive home. They hitched the abandoned skidoo to a ranger’s skidoo and dragged it home too. He could have died out there. Alone and cold. No food. Many had died like that in the past. You can never trust the weather. It can change. And it can change very fast. People should never go out on the land alone, even if they know where they are going. But Zachariah was only trying to do a good thing. He was only trying to bring food for his family. And now he was the one being brought home in a qamutik. That night I went to his house. He was feeling better but still very weak. His face was very pale and his lips blue. His fingers and ears were white with frost bite. He had stayed alive by eating snow. I was so happy to see him. I gave him a big hug and told him that I loved him. “Nalligivagit, Zachariah,” I said. And then I hit him. “But don’t ever do that again!” He laughed his funny laugh and said “I love you too Saali,” winking his eye.

…

That was the last time I saw him. Zachariah killed himself that night. They found his body in the closet, a rope around his neck. He didn’t leave a note. His parents were so drunk when he got home it was like he had never left. He gave up. He was tired. Maybe he hoped that they would change. Maybe they would be better to his brothers and sisters now.

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The funeral would be tomorrow. There would not be any school. Nobody would go to work. We would be in church and then go to his parents’ house. That was where he was now, Zachariah, laying in the bedroom. I went to see him a few times. I couldn’t believe that he was gone. I was so happy when he was back – we all were – and now he was really gone. He must have had a lot of pain in his heart. And now he had no heart. Not even Jesus could help him now. That was what scared me the most. That was what scared us all. I touched his forehead with my hand. It was so cold. I leant down and put my nose on his cheek, smelling him one last time. That’s the way we Inuit “kiss”. “Uummp,” I said, “Aalumi. You had to go so that your parents could learn…” “Saalati,” Zachariah’s mother was watching. “Come help in the kitchen.” “Yeap,” I said, giving Zachariah’s hand another squeeze. As I followed her into the kitchen I took one last look. “I love you too Saali,” I remembered his last words and I thought I saw him wink.

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February

I lost a student today. They didn’t prepare me for that in University. Zachariah’s family and friends – the whole town – was in mourning. Ukiurtatuq was covered in a blanket of grief. He had his whole life ahead of him. He was smart, kind, and generous. So generous. I don’t think I knew anyone more generous than he was, putting his brother’s and sister’s needs before his own. A boy so mature, so many years ahead of his time. And he was funny too. He made us laugh. He was beautiful, inside and out. An angel. I didn’t know how I would deal with his empty desk. I didn’t know how I would get through a rough class without his gentle smile, without his unique laugh that always brought relief. I didn’t know how I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t know what I should have done. I didn’t know if I could have prevented it. But I did know I should have tried harder. The pain and guilt was so heavy. I wished I could have helped. I should have done more. To have students in my class that were so broken was overwhelming. To know that they had such thoughts and to not be able to save them all was shattering, crushing, heart-braking. I didn’t know how I would gather the strength to keep teaching when his empty desk was staring at me. I didn’t know how to be strong for the students in my class when I couldn’t hold it together. I didn’t know how I would do it, but I had to. Zachariah’s funeral was one of the most difficult things I had ever experienced. Everyone was huddled together in the tiny church, praying, crying, and moaning in mourning. I couldn’t understand the words because the service was held in Inuktitut, but I didn’t have to speak the language to understand a mother and father’s grief in losing their son. His mother wailed and waved to and fro, his father, hugging himself, shook quietly. His brothers and sisters, sat around the wooden coffin, wiping tears from their red, swollen eyes. Cousins, aunts and uncles hugged and consoled each other, some loudly, some quietly.

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When the service was over, the people formed a line to greet Zachariah for the last time. They reverently touched his forehead and face, touching his body for the last time before it left the earth. Some held his hand. Others whispered in his ear. All prayed for his soul. My turn came. I couldn’t tell that the casket was uncovered from where I was sitting at the back of the church. As I got closer, I got scared. I had never been to a funeral before. I had never seen a dead body. I didn’t want to look at him. I didn’t want to remember him this way. As I reached the head of the coffin I couldn’t hold my grief. I had to bite my lip so as not to let out a loud sob, but seeing his pale face, his lips so blue shook me so, I couldn’t control it. I sobbed and sobbed, my knees shaking and my heart pounding, and thought I would fall from grief when an arm from behind me helped me keep my balance. I made my way to the front pews where his family stood. On our way out of the church we shook their hands. I told them how sorry I was for their loss. I finally reached Zachariah’s mother, grabbed her hand and hugged her. I kept repeating how sorry I was, feeling her tiny body shake in my embrace. Each time I went to pull away she only hugged me harder. We hugged and cried so hard. We stayed that way for a long time. Zachariah was then taken to the cemetery. Everybody followed. We stood in the cold and watched him lowered into the frozen earth. Zachariah’s mother flung herself onto the casket and yelled deliriously. “It should have been me,” she yelled and kicked “It should have been me,” and falling onto the ground, she wept and made such sounds that only a grieving mother can make. Frightened, we watched. Scared, I held my breath. Strong, her husband held her up and hugged her, rubbing her back as he wiped away tears. When they had said their final prayer we made our way back home. Saalati found me. She ran up to me and linked her arm in mine. “You okay?” she asked. My lips quivered and my body shook from the grief and cold. My voice couldn’t make a sound. I could only nod my head ‘no’ as my eyes shut and tears poured out streaking down my face, freezing to my skin.

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“Come, let’s go home,” she said, and I followed her lead to my tiny house. The warmth was a welcome embrace. Here was this pregnant teen who just lost her cousin and best friend, taking care of me, her teacher. “I’ll make you some hot chocolate.” She knew where everything was. She wrapped me in a blanket on the sofa and turned on the T.V. “Here, drink this, it’ll warm you up,” she said, bringing me the drink. I took a little sip and I could feel it going down my throat and stomach like a fire. It did make me feel better. I set the mug down, upset with myself for feeling relief when I should be feeling sad. I started to cry again. Saalati watched in silence, her raven eyes glistening with moisture and her head down. “Nobody could have stopped him,” she whispered. She too could read my thoughts. I wrapped the blanket around her and we stared at the floor in silence.

…

In class the next day I emptied Zachariah’s desk. I would give his notebooks and belongings to his mother. I shined and polished his desk too. I decided to make that day Zachariah Day. In class we shared our favourite memories and Zachariah moments. Most of them made us laugh. We wrote about how we felt. We read a story he had written. We talked about his hunting talents. We talked about his generosity. We talked about suicide. We talked about talking. I made sure they understood my door was always open. We drank tea. We listened to music. We made art. I didn’t know what else to do. The school board hadn’t even sent a psychologist. My students and I did our best to honour Zachariah. His desk became somewhat of a shrine. No one dared sit in his chair. Nobody put things on his desk. They went over and touched it from time to time. They kept it clean and shiny. As time went on, the pain diminished, and as time went on, the guilt did too. And although he was no longer with us, we still felt him here. And we said the things that he would say. And we laughed the way he’d want us to, if he were

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here today. Because that was Zachariah’s way. And what he taught was here to stay.

…

Getting to the end of February in the North was another critical step. Much like November, my mind got a little funny. Whereas November was grey and dreary, February was cold and weary. Your mind was tired and so was your body. The snow gripped me and didn’t let go. All I could see for miles and miles was white. Skies, sparkling, white. Ground, covered, white. Boots, parkas, mitts, and hats. Scarves, socks, and sweaters. Recess duty, lunch, evenings and weekends, white. Storms, snow days, blizzards, white. I couldn’t take any more white! Although it was fun to hear the crunching sound my boots made in the ice- covered snow, although it was fun to lie in a pile of it in the middle of the street, the novelty wore off quickly. I began to miss other colours. I begin to miss the city. And I began to miss my family. The routine again became boring. I craved certain foods. I craved certain people – any people, really, just to get out of the monotony that was winter in the North. I craved to go out on the land, to discover its beauty, but in a strange way to get away from it at the same time. I needed to see something different but all I saw was ice and snow, mountain after mirrored mountain, and all I wanted to do was go. In the city the snow was ugly and brown at this time, and even that would have been a welcome sight! A sign of March and Spring soon to come, but here all there was, was white, every day and every night. Feelings of loneliness began again, loneliness that colleagues and students simply could not fill. Cravings for touches and embraces, kisses and caresses. It was hard to be alone. It was hard to be away, alone. Hard not to have someone to talk to, to cuddle up and warm to. Hard not to have the most basic need of all; hard not to have any love at all. And while my mother and father could console me on the phone, what I really needed

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was someone to share my life with, to call my very own. I couldn’t stay here forever. I couldn’t stay here all alone. I needed to go back home. When the kids came back from lunch they even smelled like home. Like cooking and like warmth, their cheeks all rosy red, their little tummies full. The cold made us tired and also very lazy. I took naps and came back from lunch feeling rather hazy. Looking out and down the street, I saw the smoke rise from the chimneys, drifting up into the sky, another hue of white, up, and up, into the night. Although the days were a little longer, the nights were longer still. And I marveled at the beauty, and I fought to keep my will. I thought of my dear students and of their quiet strength, and all the things they surely faced, and there I found my place. I didn’t come here just for me, I came here for them too. And I repeated this as I said my grace: I came here for them too.

Avunnitik

“Ikki!” Kitty said. It was afternoon recess and we were standing around outside. It was the time of year when it wasn’t night time any more in the afternoon because the sun started to go down slowly. I love this time. It kind of feels magical. The snow sparkled so much brighter in the blue-grey sky. Everything looked like it was under a spell, a blue spell. And the moon was out so big and bright, and the stars also came out one by one. Everywhere you looked, the whole town was blue except for the stars and moon and snow, and the icebergs standing out big and white in the middle of the blue sea ice. Even though it was so cold it made me feel so warm. Teachers were all bundled up in snowsuits just like the little kids. They pushed them on the swings, played football, and helped them slide down the mountains of snow piled around the yard. Everyone was happy and playing in the

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snow even though it was more than fifty degrees below zero. Karen’s face was so red but she was jumping and dancing around and the kids thought it was funny and they joined her. Some kids were jumping rope too. The teenagers mostly just stood around smoking cigarettes. Teachers always tried to stop them but they still did it anyways. Sometimes we took our skidoos and went to the coop to buy junks. We weren’t allowed to go to the Co-op during school hours but the cashier never threw us out, so we bought pop and chips and ice cream to snack on during recess. The teachers didn’t want us to eat junks in school. They always told us to bring healthy food but we just eat the junks outside. The bell rang and it was time to go inside. Everyone was pushing and shoving trying to be the first one back inside. There was lots of traffic at the entrance because we had to take off our boots and put our inside shoes back on. Sometimes kids stole each other’s shoes and the teachers got very mad. But the kids didn’t do it in a mean way, they did it just as a joke. When we got back to our classroom Karen’s face was still very red and she was blowing her nose. “Okay everybody, sit down,” she said, as my classmates and I came back into class. “What are we gonna do now?” asked Marcussie on purpose, knowing that Karen hated it when we asked her that. “Yeah, what are we doing now?” asked Lucassie, smiling very wide. “Look at your schedule, what does it say?” Karen always answered the same way. She wanted us to look at our schedule to know if we were doing English or Art or Social Studies instead of always asking her. “Social studies, boooring,” said Moses, knowing that also bugged Karen a lot. “Ok Moses, come on, open up your book. What do you remember from last time?” “Nothing!” answered Moses, and the whole class started laughing.

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“Well of course it’s boring if you don’t remember anything! Pay attention and you just might learn something really cool!” said Karen, looking at all of us, but before she could continue Robert walked into the room. “Karen, are you ready? It’s time,” he said to her. “Yeah sure no problem, I’ll just finish taking attendance first.” My classmates and I started to wonder what was going on. “Time for what?” asked Marcussie. “Time for attendance,” answered Karen. “And after?” “Stop asking, just wait and see!” Karen didn’t tell us what was going on because she knew that always made us start talking and complaining and then it was too hard for her to get us quiet again. She put her pen down. “Okay, boys, please go over to Bruce’s class. Girls stay here. We have some people from the health and wellness centre that are going to talk to you.” Everyone started cheering and screaming and throwing pens and paper around, so happy to be missing class. When the boys left and it was only the girls and Karen, it looked like the class had been in a war. What a mess! “Okay girls, let’s just wait quietly till they get here,” said Karen. “Who?” I asked. “The nurses. One nurse will talk to us girls and another one will talk to the boys.” “About what?” “Something very important.” The nurse came right then. She was a Qallunaak. She had a lot of posters and looked very serious. She started talking to us about sex. At the beginning some girls were laughing, mostly the younger ones, but when she started talking about STIs, they got more serious. She told us about each one and what to do if we thought we had one. She also started talking about rape and what to do if it ever happened to us. Then she talked about pregnancy and why we shouldn’t drink or smoke or do drugs when we are pregnant. She also gave us a quiz and then we

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corrected it together. She was surprised that we didn’t know too much. After that she let us ask her questions. Most of us were too shy to ask her any, so she just told us that we could always go to the clinic if we had questions or we felt something strange or different in our bodies. Karen also told us to tell her and that she would come with us if we were too shy or scared. But I don’t know why they always sent Qallunaat people to talk to us about these things. We are too shy and we don’t trust these people that they send to ask questions. Sometimes we don’t know how to ask or we can’t understand what they are saying because they have very French accents or they use big words that we don’t know. Why couldn’t they send us Inuit people to talk to us about these things? We would understand better and not be shy to ask things in our language. We would also not be shy because Karen wouldn’t understand, so we wouldn’t have to feel embarrassed in front of her. The Qallunaat people that they send to talk to us don’t understand us. They don’t live here, they don’t know what it’s like. Sometimes you can’t say who raped you because you will get in trouble with family. Sometimes you can’t go to the clinic because nurses gossip too, and somehow everybody finds out who has STIs but when people are drunk they still have sex even if they have an STI. Qallunaat people can’t understand that and we can’t tell them these things. They already look at us like we’re dirty or stupid. If we told them these things, then they would really believe that. I know that they’re just trying to help, but they’re doing it the wrong way. They should have Inuit people talking to us about these things. And they should also have them do the same thing for the adults. Lots of adults in the community don’t know about these things and they have unprotected sex and spread diseases around. In our religion, we’re not supposed to use condoms. But the Qallunaat nurses always want us to use them. There are free boxes of them in the bathrooms at the clinic and even in the Co-op. I don’t understand. I know that it’s better to use them so you don’t get a disease, but God doesn’t want us to use them… it’s very confusing. I wish I could ask an Inuk about this, but there are no Inuit nurses here, and I’m too afraid to ask anybody else.

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The boys came back to class and I saw Karen and Bruce thanking the Qallunaat nurses. There was only a few minutes of school left so Karen let us chose a book to read from the many she had put around the class from the library. They were mostly about things we were learning in social studies. When the bell rang and everybody left to do an afterschool activity or go home, I stayed with Karen for tutoring. We started going over some things about writing an essay, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the Qallunaat nurse. “Why don’t they have any Inuit nurses come talk to us?” I asked. “I don’t know, that’s a good question.” “I think it would be better for us to learn more because sometimes we can’t understand what they say, or we’re too shy to ask.” “You know you’re absolutely right, Saalati, I’ll let Robert know you said that and maybe next time we can ask for an Inuit speaker to talk to the class, or try to get a translator or something.” I nodded my head yes, but I must have looked worried because she came closer to me and asked, “Why, is there something wrong? Is there something you want to know?” “Umm… nevermind,” I wanted to ask but I didn’t want her to judge me. “Saalati, it’s okay, you can ask me,” she said, sitting down next to me and rubbing my arm. “When she was talking about rape,” I whispered. “Yes,” “Um, why did she say not to take a shower?” “Oh because you need to keep the evidence as proof.” “The what?” “Well, when someone forces you to have sex with them and you don’t want to, that’s a criminal act. They will go to jail for that if you can prove who did it,” she said, very slowly, “and to prove who did it, they need to take a sample from the place in your body that has his sperm or maybe a hair of his, or anything

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belonging to his body that can be found on yours. They take it to a lab and by doing tests they can tell whose it is…. Do you understand?” “Yeah, I think so…” I could remember his blood and urine. I started throwing up. “Oh my Gosh, Saalati, are you ok?” Karen panicked. “Yeah, sorry, I just…” “Here,” she said, giving me a Kleenex, “come, let’s go to the bathroom.” In the bathroom I wet a paper towel and started cleaning my mouth and face. Karen looked very worried. She told me to drink some water. “Are you sure you’re okay, what happened?” “I just remembered how I got…” I couldn’t say the word so I touched my belly. “Pregnant?” I nodded my head yes. “Saalati, what are you saying, are you saying that someone raped you?” I nodded my head yes. “Oh my God, come here,” she said, pulling me to her and hugging me very hard. We hugged for a very long time. “Come, Saalati, we have to go to the police.” “No!” I yelled, starting to panic. “No, I can’t go! I can’t tell! He’ll kill me!” “Okay, okay,” Karen said, hugging me again. “But this isn’t right, he can’t get away with it. You can’t let him go free after what he did to you.” “I have to,” I said, “he’s in my family.” “Oh you poor thing,” she said with tears in her eyes. She hugged me again and for the first time I let myself cry too. I know anaanatsiak says that crying makes you weak, but sometimes it feels good to cry. I’d seen Karen crying more than once and she wasn’t weak. But maybe it wasn’t the best thing to do because as soon as I started crying, Karen started crying very hard too. We stayed in the bathroom for a very long time. She wanted me to come to her house and talk about what happened but I had to pick up Mary from

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daycare. We went back to the classroom and Karen said we could just continue studying tomorrow. I put my things away in my desk and started putting on my parka when I suddenly started panicking again. “Karen please don’t tell anyone.” “Oh sweetheart, I promise I won’t, but you know you really should…” “I know, but I can’t.” “I know,” she said, and looked down again. “See you tomorrow.” I said. “See you.” and I walked outside, into the cold blue air. As I walked home I looked back at the school. I could see the classroom, and I saw Karen sitting at her desk with both of her hands holding her head up. “I’m sorry,” I said, even though she couldn’t hear me, and “thank you.”

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March

February had left me bitter cold – and not because of the weather. Suicide and rape all in the same month. There were many things about the North that were extremely disturbing and depressing. Many things that made me want to pack up and leave and never come back. With all the violence and struggles, it made me wonder how Ukiartatuqmiut hadn’t done the same. Pack up and leave and go to a better place, a place where creeps and freaks don’t exist. A place where they can seek help. A place that could offer them a better chance at life. More opportunities, more help. But then I thought, what place is that? It doesn’t exist. There are creeps and freaks everywhere! And we have more chances and opportunities in the South, but there is just as much violence and struggle. The only reason why it’s amplified in the North is because the towns are so small that you see it all. In the cities, there are crimes and rapes and deaths and suicides and murders a mile a minute! The difference is that we don’t see them or hear about them unless they make it onto the news, and even then we are removed from it because we’re not directly affected by it or have never met the people in question. In the North you can’t get away from it. You feel it as a brother, a sister, a mother, a cousin, a friend and also as a teacher. You feel it in every way possible. You live amongst the good and the bad. The person who gave you a lift the other day might be raping someone at night. You don’t know. And sometimes you do know, when you’re waiting in line at the Co-op, that the man in front of you tried to kill his wife and set the house on fire, but then, who are you to do anything about it when she’s decided not to press charges? I was so angry. How could I ever make a difference in this place when the law and the courts let pedophiles and attempted murderers out after three years’ time? And I do believe in God, but how could I agree with the Inuit philosophy that it was okay because Jesus always forgives, so we have to forgive too? And not that it’s any better in the South, where you can’t even ride the metro without being shown a twenty dollar bill by a dirty old man who’s rubbing himself up against the pole, or living down the street from a psychopathic killer

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who records videos of butchering his victims and posts them on the internet? Or where you can’t even get a cup of coffee at the mall or go to school without wondering if you might get shot today? What the hell is wrong with our world? What is wrong with people? Have they no shame, no conscience? No heart, no reason? Even animals are not as savage with their own kind. I am disappointed in humanity; outraged with our actions – those taken and those not. I am absolutely shocked, and so vehemently angry at our condition, but angrier still that it will never change. There have always been and always will be suffering. And I feel defeated. And I feel no hope. And I hope not to feel.

…

I have taken to sewing to get my mind off things. I joined the ladies at the community centre every Tuesday and Friday evenings from seven to eleven. There we sat among the different colours and shapes of leather, fur and skin. With pots of tea and coffee brewing, the ladies sat and sewed, some of them chewing on the seal skin with their teeth to mold and render it malleable. The elder women brought their grand-daughters along to teach them the craft. The radio played accordion music in the distance and some of them sang along. Others sat extremely quiet, concentrated on their creations. Parkas, kamiit, pualuks, a real artist’s atelier is what it looked like, with different coloured fabrics and worn out patterns each and every way, and bits and pieces of thread and thimbles strewn around the floor. Minnie taught me how to make a pair of mitts while she embroidered her parka. I closed my eyes and smelled the leather, so smoky and so full of meaning. It reminded me of the stories we read in class about how their ancestors used to live. I could see the qulliks burning in the igloos and the fires of the summer camps through a sniff of seal skin. It all played out for me like a movie or like I was remembering, like I was one of them.

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“The worst part,” said Minnie, telling me about her youth, “was when they came for us to make us go to school,” she stopped to thread her needle. “Residential school?” “Aa.” “I cried and screamed, but they tore me from my family. I didn’t know if I would ever see my parents again. And my brothers and sisters too, because they separated us.” “They sent you to different schools?” “Aa, they didn’t want us to have any contact with our families. They were trying to erase that part of us.” “That’s terrible.” I said, knowing full well how hard it is to be away from my own parents. “They didn’t want us to speak Inuktitut, so they put us in schools where we didn’t know anybody. We weren’t allowed to send letters home, and if our parents wrote to us, we never got the message. They didn’t want us to have any memory of where we came from.” “That must have been very hard.” “Aa, I was only four or five. There were Inuit and Indian kids from all over the North but I couldn’t speak to them. I didn’t know their language. And I didn’t know any English either, so I had to speak to those Qallunaat by signs,” she said, motioning with her hands. “Because they said that if we spoke Inuktitut we would go to hell. We were very scared, and if we were ever caught speaking our language, they would hit us.” “I’m so sorry.” “But the worst part was when they cut my hair. A girl’s hair is precious in our culture. It’s what makes her a woman. It gives her beauty and strength and it was sacred for us. When they cut my hair I felt like I was no longer a person,” she said, her voice wavering. “And the older girls who had been there for a while laughed and pointed at me. They acted just like the Qallunaat did. They dressed like them in their stiff clothes and were mean like them, but they were considered

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‘good little Indians’ and because I couldn’t understand English or Qallunaat ways, I was bad.” “What happened?” “Well, I was punished a lot. I was sent to the headmaster’s office and made to sit in his lap.” I braced myself for what was coming. “He would spank me and make me repeat prayers and if I cried he only spanked me harder. I didn’t care about missing dinner because I hated that Qallunaat food. All I wanted was my family and my land. And I would pray in my head in Inuktitut to be sent back home.” I didn’t know what to say to her, so I nodded sympathetically. “Sometimes for Christmas we would have to sing for Qallunaat visitors and show them we could count and spell. They all seemed very pleased. If only they knew the things that went on at night…” Suddenly Minnie got very serious and stopped talking. We sewed in silence except for the music and talking around us. I figured I would respect her thoughts and let her be the first to talk. “They tried to erase our culture, but they couldn’t erase our memories,” she said finally. “When I finished my last year and was sent back to my community, I didn’t even know who my parents were. I had forgotten my language and how to live on the land. Some of my brothers and sisters never came back. We think maybe they died at the school, or maybe got sent home to the wrong village… aatsuk. But my parents remembered me and took me back. They taught me my language and culture again. It was very difficult because I didn’t even know who I was or who my parents were. I had no idea what it meant to be an Inuk. I had to re-learn everything the Qallunaat had erased, and I tried to forget the Qallunaat ways and the things they had done. But some people suffered very much and they still have a lot of pain. Some of them can’t heal and they need alcohol to forget. Like some of your students’ parents.” “Aa,” I said. “What did you do to forget?” I asked, softly, carefully. “Aalumi,” she whispered, “I didn’t forget. I never will. But I know they made mistakes. Qallunaat and Inuit we are the same. We speak a different

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language, we have a different history, we have a different culture, maybe we don’t understand or see things the same way, but we have the same heart and the same mind, ilai?” “I don’t know, Minnie, it seems to me they had no heart at all.” “They thought they were doing the right thing.” “But they were very wrong!” I said, the anger rising again. “But we are all God’s children, and Qallunaat make mistakes just like Inuit do.” “Yes but Inuit never did to Qallunaat what we did to them,” I said, with shame and embarrassment equalling my anger. “Maybe not, but you also gave us tools and knowledge that we didn’t have.” “How can you say that?” By then, many others were listening. “Karen, we cannot change the past, we must accept it. And the mistake that some Inuit people make is not being able to let it go. We all make mistakes. You cannot blame them for believing they were doing good. They believed they were doing God’s work and I can’t hate them for that.” “But…” “Taima! Enough.” Her voice silenced me. “The Inuit are a peaceful people. We do believe in fighting or arguing. That’s why from the earliest contact we never dared go against what they said. We believed they came from a place with more knowledge and more riches. We wanted to learn from them and get along with them,” she stopped to cough, the emotions having brought on a fit. “We will never move on if we can’t forgive, and not just us, but you have to forgive them too,” she said, her almond eyes narrowing into mine with such strength and conviction, such wisdom that twinkled in old-age gentleness. “Ilai, you’re right,” I said, bowing my head. And I kept my head down thinking, forgiveness: that’s something the Inuit should teach the Qallunaat. “To understand each other we have to forgive,” said Minnie, reading my mind. “That’s the only way we’ll get along. Learn from the past and forgive,” she

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said quietly. Murmurs of approval could be heard in the now silent room. Everyone had been listening. “You Qallunaat think too much with your head.” said Minnie, “Try thinking with your heart instead,” she said, and with that, got up to leave. I must have looked real funny sitting there with a puzzled look, fur in one hand, leather and needle in the other, because all of a sudden the women were laughing at me. “What?” I said, my face breaking into a smile, “What’s so funny?” “Karen!” laughed Sarah who had heard the entire conversation, “Look!” she laughed, pointing to my hands. “What?” I said, looking down, and when I tried to ask what was so funny, I realized I had sown the mitt completely so that there was no opening to put my hand in… “Oh my Lord…” I giggled, all the women and girls laughing in unison. “That’s because you think too much,” laughed Sarah, tears running down her face. “Ilai, Sarah.” laughed Minnie, taking the mitt from me, laughing boisterously. “Ilai,” I said, hitting myself on the head, cheeks red with embarrassment and shoulders hunched sheepishly… “I think too much with my head.” I said sarcastically, the laughing easing my anger and the breath calming and healing. “Naoruuk,” she said, taking the mitt from me, and as we all laughed hysterically, passing it around, I began to feel better, lighter. And as Sarah and Minnie helped me undo my foolish mistake, I couldn’t help but feel such an overpowering sense of love. I had read somewhere that the Inuit love to laugh. And after living in the North for some time now, I can earnestly say that this is true; they laugh all the time. They laugh to keep them strong, to keep them going. It’s their motivation and their coping in the face of struggle. If it weren’t for laughter and forgiveness, the Inuit way would not have survived. So immersed in these thoughts of laughter and forgiveness and all that they stand for, looking around me in this cozy little shack in the middle of nowhere, messy with scraps of

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fabric and fur, and loud with the sounds of laughter, I couldn’t help but feel love. Love for Sarah, love for Minnie, love for Saalati, and love for all the things they’re helping me learn.

Natsialiut

It was getting difficult to move around now. I was seven months and my belly was huge. My back really hurt and it was hard to walk and sit down, but I didn’t complain about it because this was God’s gift to me and I would never complain about that. I loved my baby so much and I couldn’t wait to meet him or her. I didn’t know the sex of the baby because they didn’t tell us in the hospital. They have made too many mistakes in the past so now they just don’t tell us. They always send old equipment and young doctors and nurses to the North, so most of the time they don’t get it right. That’s why they stopped telling us what they think they see in the little TV because they don’t want us to complain if they are wrong. To me it didn’t really matter anyway because I would love it just the same if it were a boy or a girl. It would be fun to have the surprise, like in the old days. But I would have to start packing soon because I had to go down to Montreal to have the baby. They didn’t have the equipment to deliver babies here, so every pregnant woman had to go down to Montreal a few weeks before she was due. We stayed in a place that was like a very old apartment building and we had to share with Inuit from Nunavut and Nunavik that came to the hospital in Montreal and it was very crowded. Everybody hated having to stay there. They should make better hospitals with more equipment in the North so that we don’t have to go all the way to Montreal just to get treatment or have appointments with special doctors or deliver babies. My mother was going to come with me. I wished my whole family could be there but it was too expensive. At least I had my mother. Nakurmik Jisusi, without her I would be nothing. It would be too hard for me to be a single mother,

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but I knew my mother would help me, and so would my father. And my brothers and sisters would love to take care of the baby too. Only two more months, I couldn’t wait! If everything went well I would be able to write my exams and graduate in June. Only three more months! Raa, everything was going so fast. I remember when I was just a little girl and I was playing and dressing up my baby brothers Tuniq and Yimmi like girls. That was so much fun. And we used to take pictures of them because they looked like dolls. I used to carry them in my amautik like I was their mother and they were my babies. I miss those days, the old days. They were fun. But I liked my life now too. I felt good to be pregnant. I felt lucky and proud that God chose me to give his gift to. And I felt good to be graduating school. I was really happy that Karen was my teacher. I think she was the best one I ever had, because she was not just a teacher, she was like my best friend. Well not like a friend, more like a big sister. We didn’t just have fun and hang around like I did with my friends, we also helped each other and she always tried to give me advice. Sometimes I didn’t really understand it because it was a Qallunaat thing, but even though we were so different I felt like we were the same. This morning the town was very excited. It was very early, like 6:00 and everyone was getting ready for the camping trip. Every year the school had a camping trip and people from town volunteered to come with the students as guides. Mostly the elders and the hunters liked to go, but a lot of drop outs and single mothers liked to go too. I guess they liked to have the chance to go fishing and hunting with everyone like in the old days. I could see some men getting their qamutiks and sikituuqs ready and there were already some kids playing hockey while they waited to go to school. The streets were so icy that they could play in their skates. It was always fun to watch. I loved watching the town at this time. It was that dark blue colour that I love and it was so peaceful. Everything was so calm and beautiful. Not like at night time when cargo comes in. Those nights are very loud and noisy. But early morning is my favorite time of the day, just like ataatatsiak. It was his favourite time too. He

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loved to have his coffee on the porch no matter how cold and windy it was. He just loved to feel the nature and look out on the land. He said that that was the only way to start the day, by greeting and thanking the land. I wished he could be here now. He always loved to go camping with the students and teach them hunting and fishing tricks. And I wished he could meet my baby. But I know we will all be together in heaven one day. Ilai, ataatatsiak? My parents were coming camping too. My father was packing the qamutik and my mother was making lots of bannock. I was going to help her make sandwiches. “Paniknga,” she said when she saw me. “Aa, ulaakut.” “Ulaakut.” “Have some tea.” she said, giving me a cup. It was the cup I made for her at school in grade four. It was a white plastic cup that had a paper you could put inside around the center of it. That part of the plastic was clear so you could see the design that I drew on it. I made lots of hearts and stars and it said #1 Mom and I love you. The teacher let us give our cups to our parents as a Christmas gift. My mom and I made egg sandwiches. There was no sound except for the water running in the bathroom because someone was taking a shower, and my father’s skidoo warming up outside. We also packed lots of beef jerky and chips and pop and some apples. “Getting excited?” she asked, smiling. I knew she was talking about the baby. “Yeah. I’m trying to choose a good name.” My mother laughed. “That’s the easiest part!” “I want the baby to have a sauniq but I want it to be a different name too.” “Asu,” said my mother, washing the dishes. “Don’t worry, I know you will find a good name.” I helped my mother clean up around the house and helped wash and get Mary ready for day care. We were going to be leaving the school at nine, so we had to get there a few minutes before for the teachers to take attendance. There

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were already some skidoos waiting at the school. I could see Robert talking with the men. Funny guy. He always tried to be like an Inuk but he still had a lot to learn. Sometimes he looked like he didn’t know anything, but I knew that he was trying his best. At least he liked to laugh, that was what made him a good principal. Sometimes we had principals that were very serious and too stiff. They weren’t good for us. They didn’t understand us at all, and it looked like they didn’t like us. At least Robert tried to understand us, and it looked like he liked us too. Sometimes my parents invited him for supper and he loved to eat and try everything and ask questions about Inuit culture. He looked like a kid, very excited and trying to eat and learn everything. We had fun when he came for supper. We taught him about Inuit things and he told us what it was like in the South and about his house and family. Usually when my parents invited him it was a Thursday because that way we could translate what they were saying on the radio. He liked to play bingo too, but he couldn’t understand if he tried to play alone. The skidoo was warmed up now. I dressed quickly to take Mary to daycare. Everyone else was too busy getting ready. I gave her a big hug and lots of kisses before hurrying home. I loved her so much, more than just a big sister. I kind of felt like I was her mother sometimes. I rushed back home because I could see lots of people gathering at the school. I had to go back home and put my camping clothes on. I put my old sweat pants and a t-shirt and hooded sweater on and made sure to wear wool socks (the other kind would make my feet freeze). Then I put on my parka and my snow pants to keep the wind and cold off my body. I also brought my nassak and my new pualuks that my grandmother sewed for me. Last are my kamiks. They are the best boots for fishing because the seal skin is waterproof. To be warm in the frozen tundra Inuit clothes are the best. Qallunaat clothes will make you cold after an hour or two. I was finally ready and I had to walk because my father already drove the skidoo to school. Lots of people were there: maybe thirty or forty skidoos with qamutiks full of children and teachers and supplies. It was one of my favourite

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days of the year because it almost felt like Christmas. Everybody was together and happy and very excited. Even the teachers had big smiles and looked more relaxed. I looked for Karen but she was already sitting in a qamutik with Hélène and Gerry and some kids, so I just sat in my father’s qamutik. I wished I could sit on the skidoo with him but my grandmother was sitting there. I hated riding in the qamutik because it was so bumpy and now that I was pregnant I was afraid for my belly, but the elders were more important. The ride was not too long, maybe about an hour or a bit more. It was so much fun to see everybody driving and riding in front and behind us. Sometimes when skidoos got stuck, lots of people got off their skidoos to help them. I loved seeing everybody helping each other, it was so much fun and I just loved that feeling that everyone was like a big family. It was also fun to see lots of people taking pictures and getting along. We love taking pictures of each other and of the land. It’s one of the ways that we fill our time since there’s not much else do to in this small town. I always think that they should teach photography in school or have a club, because it’s something that we love to do and we’re really good at, but we weren’t allowed cameras in school. I’m sure lots of kids and especially teenagers would get involved if they were allowed to do photography projects instead of always writing! Sometimes I think I should become a teacher because I have lots of ideas about how learning could be better for Inuit, like by using things that we like and are good at instead of learning things that are too hard for us. But I was afraid of going to college far away from home. And now with a baby to take care of, I knew I couldn’t be away from my family. I had to start thinking about a good job that I could get in town. Even though it was March, it was still very cold here. Karen told us that in the South the snow is melting and the weather is warmer. But in Ukiurtatuq, it would still be cold for a while. The snow would only start to melt in June. The ice in the lakes started melting now but it was very slow because the ice was very thick. There were some parts in the bay where it was very watery and we had to be careful not to get stuck, but it was still safe for us to go. We weren’t afraid of

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falling through the ice because we knew it was very thick even if it was starting to melt a little. I loved the sound it made when we went through a more watery part and the water splashed and looked like slush. We used to have a slush machine at the Co-op before it broke and it reminded me about the slushes we would drink! Those were very sugary and very yummy! I remember sometimes there were days when that was the only thing my friends and I would eat all day. Even the adults loved it. But the machine broke and no one knew how to fix it so we don’t have one anymore. I would try to have some when I went to Montreal. We finally arrived at the camp site. It was a big lake called Etua’s Lake. Etua was one of the first people to come to Ukiurtatuq in the seventies when the Qallunaat made the Inuit settle and stop traveling around. He had his igloo and tent near this lake and people started living around it. They just called it Etua’s Lake since he was the first one there and I guess the name stuck. Nobody lives here anymore but we still use it as a camping place. Some people have cabins here but not too many. Most have their cabins at another lake a little closer to town. But I liked going to Etua’s Lake because there were some trees. Even though they were very small and there weren’t too many of them, it was still nice to see because we don’t have any near the town. Everybody was parking their skidoos and the little kids were jumping all around. Most teenagers and some older kids were helping the adults carry and set up the supplies like the drills and tuuqs to make holes in the ice for fishing. Others were trying to start the camping stoves to start boiling water for tea. And there were some men that were already getting ready to go further into the land to hunt ptarmigan. The teachers were also getting ready lots of stations for kids to get juice, apples, sandwiches and granola bars, and they were also setting up some games and kites. I was helping my mother get the fishing sticks ready. I was just waiting for someone to drill a nice hole or to borrow the drill so that I could start fishing right away. I hoped to get lots of fish. When we went camping with the school we didn’t have any fishing competitions, but the municipality always held a fishing competition in the winter on a Saturday. They gave prizes for the biggest fish, the

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smallest fish, the most fish caught, and also the ugliest fish. My father usually won a prize. I always came very close but I never won! Today we were going to spend most of the day here. We would fish and play games and eat and around two o’clock we would be driving back to school. I really loved seeing everybody fishing and being together. It was so nice to see the elders, adults and kids playing and fishing together. They didn’t know it but they were learning from each other! Even the teachers were learning! The kids and elders were showing them how to fish. Before long some of the hunters had returned with ptarmigan. Some girls sat in a circle on the ice and started plucking the feathers. It was beautiful to see the white feathers flying away in the sky. With all the white all around us, it kind of looked like pieces of the snow were lifting up into the sky. And looking up I could see the bright green, yellow and red of the kites that the kids were flying. It almost looked like a painting. A very beautiful painting. Some elder women were boiling the ptarmigan and the smell made me so hungry. Mmm, it smelled so good! There’s nothing like eating country food on the land with my friends and relatives. Nothing could have made this day better. If only that creep weren’t here, this would really have been a perfect day. It had been a long time since I’d seen him. He hadn’t bothered me since the last time a few months ago. Since I got pregnant I didn’t really go out anymore so I hadn’t really seen him around except maybe at the Co-op or gas station. I guessed he hadn’t changed much. He was hanging out with his friends and they were just laughing like idiots and eating all the sandwiches that the kids got from the teachers. I wished they weren’t allowed to come but we couldn’t exclude anyone from cultural activities. It was their right to be here too. It kind of made me sick to see him there. It was hard to forget what he did to me those times. I guessed I should just keep praying that he would leave me alone. Karen came over to see me and I tried to teach her how to fish. She tried for a little while but I think she was cold or something because she didn’t really want to try for long. She was having fun just looking around. “It’s so nice to be out here like this,” she said, breathing in the cold air.

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“Aa, fishing is one of my favourite things to do,” I answered, taking a sip of hot tea. My grandmother offered Karen some tea. “Nakurmik,” she said, with a very English accent. “Ilaali,” said my grandmother, laughing at little. “Does she think my accent is funny?” Karen asked me. “No, she just thinks it’s cute I guess.” “Asu,” said Karen, taking a sip. “So I can see why you guys love coming out here. It’s so beautiful and relaxing.” “Yeah, it is. It’s very peaceful. Some people may think it’s boring but I love fishing because I can think about things.” I said, and Karen nodded her head in agreement. “I guess it’s hard to think sometimes when you have to share your house and room with so many people.” “Yeah, sometimes it’s very loud and I can’t think at all.” “What are some things you think about?” “Well you know, like about school and a job and the baby.” “Hmm, all very important things.” “Yeah,” I said, looking around, “and sometimes I think about my grandfather and Zachariah.” Karen nodded her head. She was about to say something but that creep interrupted her. “Hi Karen,” he said with his ugly, disgusting smile. “Hi,” said Karen, looking a little confused. He started laughing and walked away with his stupid laugh that showed his ugly, rotting teeth. “Who was that?” “Just a stupid creep,” I said, looking back down the hole to the bottom of the lake. “Okay, well I guess I’ll let you fish now,” said Karen. “Yeap, see you.” “Alright, see you later,” she said, and walked away. I wished I could hide at the bottom of the lake. I wished I never had to see him again. I wished he

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would just go away somewhere forever. People like him shouldn’t be allowed to live. Who knew all the bad things he’d done? I was pretty sure he’d done bad things to other girls too. I wished there were some way I could take the memories and bury them at the bottom of this lake and that they would never come back again. “Sauniq,” I whispered into the lake, “please give me strength, please help me.” I was so concentrated that I hardly heard my grandmother speak to me. “Saala,” she said, calling me by my grandfather’s name, “hairrit.” My grandmother told me to give my belly a break. Lying on the ice was not good for the baby, she told me, but the way that she looked into my eyes, I knew that she heard my prayers to ataatatsiak. She motioned with her eyes for me to look across the lake. Karen was playing with some kids and the creep was staring at her. He was smoking a cigarette and just watching her body move. Even though she was wearing lots of clothes, I was sure he was thinking of her naked. That dirty creep! He better not go anywhere near her! I wanted to tell Karen to be careful but I didn’t want to scare her. I looked back at my grandmother and she lifted her eyebrows, the Inuit way of saying “yes”. I had to tell her. “Ouima,” my grandmother said. I took one last look at that creep and something in the wind made me look up. A ptarmigan feather circled around my head before landing in the fishing hole. “Ataatatsiak!” I said. I ran to look where it landed but my grandmother stopped me. I wanted to stay and look at the feather, a sign that my grandfather heard me, but looking into my grandmother’s eyes I realized that the sign was not for me. I started walking towards Karen. I was not sure what to tell her or how, but I knew that I had to say something…

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April

The camping trip was a huge success. It was so nice to spend a whole day on the land with all the students and townspeople. Talking to the kids and the people outside of school when they were fishing and enjoying nature made me see them in a different light. I felt a real sense of community and I bonded with them, sharing and learning and seeing them shine. They are so proud of their culture and they opened up to me in a way that they couldn’t when we were stuck in the classroom. Even the parents enjoyed speaking to the teachers about fishing and having conversations that were not related to their children’s learning in school. There should be more opportunities like this for parents and teachers to socialize, to be able to communicate and build up trust and understanding rather than only being called in to talk about school matters. Being such a small community, there would be so many benefits for parents, teachers and children to have a stronger relationship outside the classroom, in order to build a stronger one inside. Sometimes parents didn’t understand that we, as teachers, were trying to help and educate their children, and that their cooperation was essential for their future. Sadly, because of our different cultures and languages, there were many misunderstandings that occurred when speaking to parents, much like when we were speaking to their children. Some of them saw us as Qallunaat that don’t understand them and they misinterpreted our concerns as criticism or complaints. Some of them felt offended because they thought we were telling them how to raise their children without having children of our own. But if we would be able to spend more time with them outside the classroom, I’m sure that they too would be able to see us in a different light. In any case, the camping trip had definitely allowed me to solidify relationships with my students and their parents, and had even given me the opportunity to meet and speak with some elders and other students and people that I rarely got the chance to. All in all, the camping trip was a learning experience from so many different aspects, whether it was learning more about

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Inuit culture, or learning more about my students and their families, but it had also been very valuable in that we all got to laugh and share a beautiful, relaxing day together in the beauty of nature. I’ll admit, I was freezing and I couldn’t wait to get back home. My toes were frozen and I couldn’t feel my face, but once I got home and took a warm shower, I sat on the couch, although exhausted, completely at peace and relaxed. As I ate my soup in front of the television, a habit I had grown to love, I felt happy. The happiest I’d been in a long time. It being Friday, I felt excited about going back to teach on Monday. It was almost like the trip re-energized and revitalized my passion for teaching. I had been feeling depressed and lonely and almost on the verge of giving up, feeling like my efforts weren’t going anywhere, but after spending such a lovely day in my students’ and their family’s company, I felt like I had found the energy needed to conquer the last three months that were left of this crazy and at times very difficult adventure. It was almost like there was magic in the air; a magic that lifted my spirits and showed me that no matter how bad it gets, there are still some people left in this world that truly love each other and the land they live on. The only thing that bothered me a little was when Saalati warned me about a guy. She said that she had seen him watching me and to be careful. I didn’t make much of it because I’d already received many late night phone calls from men asking if I wanted to have “fun.” It was very annoying, especially when they kept calling every half hour or so from midnight till four or five in the morning, but really they were harmless. I had asked Hélène about it too, and she said that all ladies, especially if they were single, were graced with those calls every now and then. I guess it’s only normal: when a town is full of your relatives, you would like to take your chance with whoever you can. And I could understand their loneliness too. Hélène suggested unplugging the phone or threatening them with calling the police – that usually got them to stop. I didn’t really want to unplug the phone, though, in case there was ever an emergency and someone needed to reach me like my mother or one of my students.

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Sometimes the phone calls were actually quite amusing. They tried at all costs to get me to say yes, and when that didn’t work, they started talking Inuktitut just to keep me on the phone longer, and if I wasn’t having it, they said they were coming over. I had to give it to them: they were determined! I always got out of bed and made sure the door was locked when I got those kinds of calls, just in case, but really, there was no need to worry. They usually stopped after a few tries. What was especially funny was being able to recognize the voice on the other line: saying that I would tell their wife or girlfriend that they had called was another way of getting them to stop. Anyhow, it was Friday night and it was only about nine o’clock, but there was really nothing good on the five channels that I got, so I just decided to go to bed. Spending the whole day outside in the bright white snow made my eyes extremely small and tired and my whole body felt like it had been trampled on by a whole herd of musk-oxen, so I couldn’t wait to sleep. Only one more week of teaching until Spring break and I would get to go home for ten days!

...

It was Sunday night and I couldn’t fall asleep. The phone kept ringing and nobody would respond on the other line. All I heard was breathing. It was really creepy and it was freaking me out. I kept asking who it was but the person just listened. I had thought about calling the police but what could they do if I didn’t even know who the person was? There was no way of knowing because my caller I.D. said “private number.” The same thing happened the night before, but it stopped after a couple of times. It was probably just a teenager trying to pull a prank. Even though I knew nothing would happen, I couldn’t help but worry. I kept looking at the alarm clock hoping that it was almost time to get ready for school but it was only 1:43. I decided to get up and look out the windows. I wasn’t really scared, more annoyed than anything else, but for some reason the sound of the electric heater

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made me jump. I looked out each window and didn’t see a thing. No one was outside. It was a very quiet night. I went back to bed and tried to fall asleep. Before long the phone rang again. Same as before, no answer, just breathing. Listening. I threatened with calling the police and the voice whispered my name. My heart started to beat a little faster. I called the police station. I was surprised at how shaky my voice sounded. The officer seemed unimpressed and told me to lock the door and go back to sleep. I think I woke him up. He said he would make some rounds if he called again but that really there was nothing he could do because there was no way of proving who it was and it wasn’t harassment if the person was just calling my house. Well that wasn’t any help. If I was home alone and feeling scared because some creep was playing with me, trying to scare me, disrupting my sleep late at night, wasn’t there something he could do? Just knowing that the police car was making rounds would make me feel safer. Even if it was just a stupid prank. The phone hadn’t rang for a while, so instead of sitting wrapped in a blanket on the couch, going to the window every few seconds, I decided to take the officer’s advice and go back to bed. My heart was racing and I was a nervous wreck and extremely upset that the officer didn’t take my call seriously. I was trying to calm down when I heard steps on the porch. My heart began racing faster than I’d ever felt before. I panicked. I froze like a statue in my bed, afraid that if I made any movement or sound he would try to come in. I could hear him standing there, thinking what his next move would be. Even though I was shaking and in extreme panic I managed to pick up the phone. I blocked the speaker with my hand to stifle the beeping when I dialed the number. The officer was disgruntled at the fact that I was disturbing his sleep once again. I told him that I heard steps on the porch but that I was too afraid to check out the window. He muttered something about having scared myself and reluctantly accepted to come make a round. As I hung up the phone, I sat on the edge of my bed, paralyzed. I heard the person outside trying the knob. Did I lock it? Would he be able to get in? He turned the knob again and again but fortunately it was locked and he couldn’t get

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in. He began to pound the door. Bang! Bang! Bang! Each pound felt like a gunshot through my chest. I was so scared that I couldn’t even breathe. Bang! Bang! Bang! Again. Oh please, please hurry up, I thought, hoping the police car would pull up. I heard a car coming down the street and began to breathe easier. The car stopped and I heard the door open and close. I got to the window and peered out by the little space of light coming from the window from the side of the wall between the blinds. It was the officer. He looked around quickly and walked up the steps to my porch. I walked to the door and opened it. “I’ve looked around and I don’t see anyone,” he said, his eyes expressionless and his mouth covered by his neck warmer. “But he was right here! He was knocking on the door two seconds before you pulled up!” “Well I didn’t see anyone. And anyways, I can’t take anyone into the station just for knocking at your door.” “But,” I began to protest and the tears started flowing from my eyes, fast and burning. “Listen, just lock the door and go to bed. It’s probably just a kid having fun. Don’t let them get to you, they do it all the time.” “Yeah but the calls,” I tried to say, but my voice failed me and all I could do was nod my head yes. I felt so humiliated and so disappointed, so angry that this man couldn’t even take the time to come in and stay with me for a little while, if only just to help calm me down. “Just get some sleep,” he said, and walked back to the car. He drove away in the direction of the station, not even bothering to make another round when I knew full well that the person trying to come into my house was probably hiding somewhere very close by, just waiting for him to leave. My suspicions were right. Not even one minute after the officer drove away, the pounding resumed, only this time louder. The heavy steps on the porch meant that he was back to stay. “Go away! Get out of here!” I screamed, but he only tried the knob again. “Get out of here! Leave me alone! I’m calling the police!” At this point I couldn’t control my sharp shrill of a voice, my throat

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making sounds I had never heard before. My body shook and I didn’t know what to do. Should I make for the phone or try to barricade the door? Lost in my thoughts and my heart beat echoing the pounding at the door, somehow, I heard him begin to kick. “Oh my God,” I thought, “Oh my God, this is really happening.” I tried to run for the phone, but he was faster than me. After a few kicks and grunts he stood in my living room having kicked the door in. It was the guy. The guy that Saalati said was staring at me Friday at Etua’s Lake. I had the phone in my hand but I was stuck, frozen in time, my eyes wide, fixed on his. I was a living statue. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. He came closer to me and took the phone from my hand. He threw it across the room. “Hi Karen,” he said, and I could smell his sour, rotting breath. “You don’t want to be my friend?” He asked, smiling the most wicked, horrible smile I’d ever seen. The only light was coming in through the broken door, and his face looked haunted in the shadows. He began to laugh a terrible laugh, more haunting than his face. He wore a hooded black sweater and dirty blue jeans and when he spoke his words left a trail of white smoke in the dark, black air. “Come here, Karen, let’s have some fun.” “No.” I whispered, backing away slowly. “Come on Karen,” he said, reaching out to grab me but I backed away faster, not noticing that I was backing myself into the kitchen cupboard. He had me. I was cornered. “Stop!” I screamed, trying to push him away, but he got a hold of me and began touching my body under my pyjamas. My stomach turned. I felt dizzy and needed to throw up. I was so weak under his weight and so afraid to anger him that I let him do what he wanted, figuring it might give me so more time to think. I looked around making sure not to move my head for something – anything – that I could use as a weapon, but there was nothing in my reach. He started trying to kiss my mouth but I gagged when he came near it. That made him angry and he slapped my face.

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“You little white bitch!” he yelled, opening the drawer, “You think you’re so perfect?” he screamed, laughing, hitting me and punching me in the stomach until my knees buckled and I fell on the floor. I tried crawling towards the door but he pulled me by my hair and standing behind me forced my head up with a butchering knife. I instantly stopped breathing. “You try to run away and I’ll kill you!” he yelled, the knife scraping my neck and making it bleed. He turned me around and took a swig from a bottle of Vodka he had in his jeans pocket. “You want some?” he asked, pouring some on my face. “Come on, have some, let’s have a party,” he said, laughing and taking another swig. “Open your mouth!” he yelled, and poured the Vodka in. The liquor stung my tongue and dripped down my neck making my cut flare up and burn in pain. “Open your mouth you little bitch,” he yelled again and stuck his tongue in it. “Mmm, mamaktuq! I never had a white girl before.” He forced me to drink more of the Vodka while he unbuckled his belt. “Let’s see how good you are Karen,” he said, and pulled down his pants while he ripped at mine. He was about to enter me when I heard someone yelling. “What are you doing? Stop it!” There was someone else in the house. “Let her go right now!” I couldn’t turn to see who it was. The disgusting creature in front of me just laughed and laughed. “I’m getting the police!” Whoever it was ran out and before he could think what to do next, he picked up the knife and ran. I found the phone on the floor near the television and began to dial the police station’s number, but before I could complete the call, he was back. He threw the phone across the room again and held the knife in front of my face. “I’m going to kill you,” he whispered, waving the knife back and forth. “No, please, I’ll do anything you want.” “Too late, Karen,” he said, and he lifted his arm to stab me when suddenly he turned the knife on himself. He let out a loud and horrible yell of pain, and started to pull the knife out of his stomach when he began to cry.

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“Oh my God!” I cried, traumatized as I watched this real-life horror story unfold right in front of my eyes. I didn’t know what to do or what to say to stop him from killing himself or from trying to kill me. “I want to die!” he cried, wiping the mucus and spit oozing out of his nose and mouth. He was yelling and convulsing on the floor of my living room, right in front of my couch, when Saalati and the officer walked in. The officer went straight to the thing writhing on the floor in front of me and covered him. He lay down on his body, forcing his arms on his back and handcuffed him. “My partner will be needing a statement,” he said while he walked the tortured excuse of a man to the car. Saalati ran to my side, her raven eyes wide and black with panic. “Are you okay?” she asked kneeling beside me. “I, I don’t know,” I muttered, as she searched my body for wounds. “I was walking around because I couldn’t sleep and I saw your door was broken.” I turned my head to look at her even though it hurt real bad. “You saved my life,” I whispered, my lips quivering and the tears streaking down, hot and stinging my skin. She grabbed me in her arms and I sobbed and sobbed uncontrollably. “I thought I was going to die,” I sat there shaking as Saalati cried into my hair, both of us grasping for air. I think we cried for hours, sitting on the cold floor, sitting in the blood and tears that had flown from him and me, sitting in the blood and tears of Saalati and of so many that had come before. The other officer came and took my statement, apologizing emphatically for his partner’s mistake. He alerted the nurse who came and looked at my wounds. I had suffered head trauma and many cuts and bruises, but none of them major. They wanted to send me to Montreal to see a psychologist to evaluate my mental state but I begged them not to send me. I wasn’t ready to go. All I wanted was to get some rest. I took a shower after the officer was done taking pictures of my bruises and cuts and wondered, as the soap cleaned my skin, and watched the bubbles

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twist and spiral down the drain if I would ever be the same. When I came out of the shower, all I wanted to do was lie in bed. I went into my room and got under the covers. Saalati got in next to me. “Karen, you can’t stay here,” she whispered sweetly, “I don’t wanna go,” I said, void of any emotion or tone. “But the door is broken, you’re going to freeze.” “I don’t wanna go anywhere,” I said, starting to cry. This was my bed, my room, my house, and I just wanted to rest and be left alone. “Okay, okay, I’ll stay with you,” she said, getting in close and hugging my arm. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe, the adrenaline finally slowing down, and my breath starting to become normal.

“Sinigiit sinigiit…”

Saalati began to sing softly in a whisper. Her voice was so gentle and the melody so melancholy, so sad in its beauty that all I could do was weep. And as I listened to the lullaby, Saalati singing it over and over again, I finally drifted off to sleep.

Tirilluliut

Karen’s house was freezing but she didn’t want to go anywhere else. I could understand how she felt. I felt the same way when it happened to me. I just wanted to be alone and just sleep and try to forget about it. I couldn’t believe this happened to her. I mean, I knew guys sometimes used to call her because she would tell me, and also because that’s what guys do in this town. They’re stupid. They think we’re just going to say yes. I guess some girls do when they’re drunk too. Aatsuk.

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But I never thought he would try to kill. Especially her. I’ve never heard of teachers being killed in any community. I hope this doesn’t get on the news because no teacher will ever want to come here again. Some Qallunaat already think it’s too dangerous here. Poor Karen. She was just crying and wanted her mother. I knew she just wanted to go home. She was so afraid, but at the same time she didn’t want anyone to know what happened. Just like me. She didn’t want to talk about it or remember it. She didn’t even want to see the doctor. I guess I could see now why she was worried about me. But I wasn’t able to talk about it because he’s family and also because he never got in trouble because of his father anyway. His father was out of town, that’s why they sent a new officer here for this week. He took the creep to the jail. I’m so angry that he had to do this to Karen and to all of us, but in a way, it’s a good thing that it happened because Karen had the power to put him in jail because she’s Qallunaat. Police always listen more to Qallunaat than to us, almost like they protect them more, but also because they’re not family so they can’t solve the problems on their own like we usually do. I hope that creep rots in jail forever. Now that he’s there he can’t hurt anybody anymore. Maybe now I could find the strength to say that he did it to me too. Maybe. I didn’t know yet. Karen called in sick to school the next day. “Robert,” she said, trying to hide that she was crying all night, “I’m sorry but I can’t come in today, I’m not feeling well….ok, thanks, bye,” hanging up the phone she put her fingers through her hair, wrapping some of it behind her ear. She always did that when she was nervous. She took a deep breath. “Why didn’t you tell him?” I asked. “I don’t know, I just don’t want to talk about it right now.” “But everyone has seen your door, they know something happened by now.” “I know, I just don’t want all the attention,” she said, getting angry. “Is there something I can do?”

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“No, I don’t know, I just, I need to be alone,” she said, getting up and moving her hands around like Qallunaat do when they get stressed out. “Okay, I’ll come back later,” I said, and started to leave. I guessed I would give her some time. I wondered if she would go home now and never come back. I was starting to go down the porch steps when I heard her crying again. She was in the kitchen holding an empty cup in her hand and she was just staring into nowhere, crying so hard it sounded like yelling. I ran back inside and took the cup from her. She squeezed herself down into a corner between two cupboards and cried and cried. I didn’t know what to do. I remember feeling this way too. That afternoon Karen called the school board and told them what happened. They told her she could get some days off work and they would send her home if she got a doctor’s note. Karen said she would just wait to go home with the other teachers that week-end. She said she would try to teach again tomorrow or the day after, but she just wanted to get some information. After that she went to Robert’s office to tell him what happened too. She asked him not to say anything to anyone because she didn’t want people to feel sorry for her. She came back home and went back to bed. It was so strange to see Karen like this. She wasn’t herself. She didn’t even look like Karen, in her pyjamas and her hair messy, her eyes all small and swollen. It was scary just to look at her. “Maybe you should call home,” I said when she woke up. “No, my mother will tell that something is wrong.” “But it is.” “Yeah, but I don’t want her to know.” “But Karen, I don’t know how to make you better, I think you should go home to feel better.” “No, I don’t want to go home early, I don’t want anyone to know, especially my mother.” “Asuu,” I could understand that. “If my parents know they’ll never let me come back.”

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“You want to come back?” “Yeah, I mean, you need to graduate.” “They can send another teacher.” “No, I don’t want you to have another teacher, I came here for you and I’m not gonna leave you now,” she said, her eyes starting to tear again. “I love you, Saalati, and I want to make sure you graduate,” she said, taking my hand. That was weird for me, that she was staying for me. I never knew anybody that would do something like that just for me. “But are you gonna be ok?” I asked, looking into her different eyes – they weren’t the same anymore. “Yeah, I think so, what happened was nobody’s fault, not yours, not mine, not even his.” “How can you say that?” I said, getting angry, “Of course it’s his fault! It’s all his fault, everything,” I shouted, “this is what he always does! He even did it to me! And to lots of other girls too!” Karen’s different eyes became wide. “You mean, he’s the one that did that to you?” she asked carefully. I nodded my head. “I’m so sorry,” she said, getting up, “Maybe now he’ll get some help.” “Help? What do you mean?” “I mean, he must be a very sick person, he must have a lot of problems in his head if he keeps doing these things. Maybe now he can talk to someone, like a doctor, maybe they can help him get better…” she said, looking in her cupboards for tea. “But he doesn’t even deserve to live!” I said, very angry. “Saalati, no, don’t say that. If you say that then you’re not any better. You have to understand that he’s very sick and he needs help. I guess this had to happen so that he doesn’t hurt anyone or himself anymore, you know what I mean?” “Yeah, I guess,” I said, I mean, I guess what she says is right, but how can she forgive him so fast and so easily?

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“I’m just happy to be alive, and happy that you’re here, and happy that he’s finally going to get the help he really needs,” she said, giving me a hug. “I’m happy you’re here too,” I said. I’m not really used to all this hugging and saying how we feel, it’s not really an Inuit thing to do, but I know that Karen needed it. Maybe she was right about him getting help. Maybe it wasn’t the devil or an evil spirit in him, maybe he really was sick or had some problem in his head. Aatsuk. I’m just happy he’s gone now. I hope he never comes back. “You know, we should call the police and tell him that he did this to you too,” she said, sitting on the couch. “Aatsuk, I don’t know…” “I think you should, I think it’s important for you to do it, it’ll make you feel better.” “Will it keep him away longer?” “Maybe, I think so,” she said, raising her shoulders. “I think all the girls he did this to should go and say something.” “But we’re afraid of what the family will say.” “Sometimes you have to do things for yourself, never mind the other people. Sometimes in life you have to just do what you know is the right thing to do, not just for yourself, but for every girl in this town and in this world.” “Ilai.” “Things will never change if you’re quiet all the time.” “But you don’t want to tell your family,” I say, not understanding. “That’s true, but only because I don’t want them to worry about me when I’m here.” “Asu,” I still didn’t get it. How come she was saying we can’t be quiet but she didn’t want anyone to know? Maybe because she’s a teacher? “It if happened in Montreal, if I were near my family, then I would tell them, but I don’t want them to think that all Inuit are like that or that I’m in a dangerous place, tukisivit?” “Aa.” I love when Karen speaks Inuktitut. “But what I mean is that we have to tell the police.”

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“Asu.” “So that they stop getting away with it all the time, and just keep hurting people and don’t get any help.” “Ilai, I guess they are the ones that need Jesus’ help the most,” I said, looking at Karen to see if I was right. “Exactly,” she said, nodding her head, “we all need Jesus’ help, but I think they need it the most.” “Yeah…” I said and took a sip of tea. I guess I never thought of it that way. Karen’s eyes closed and I could tell that she wasn’t sleeping, just thinking I guess, or maybe praying. I closed my eyes and prayed too, for Karen, for myself, for all the girls, and for him too.

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May

Once I told Robert about the incident he made sure that Sandy the maintenance guy came and put a new door up for me right away. I didn’t go over the details of what happened – I’m not one who likes to be showered with attention – but I told him that somebody had broken in and tried to attack me. His face seemed to age within seconds. The color drew from his cheeks and the twinkle left his eye. I could feel his sympathy and knew he was sincerely sorry for what had happened, but more than anything I felt disappointment mixed in with a little fear; disappointment that this kind of thing could happen in this usually safe town, the tiny town and people that he loved so much, and the fear that all parents have, that this might one day happen to his own daughter. I had asked him not to say anything to the other teachers, but he urged me to talk to Hélène, knowing that the sympathy of another woman would probably console me much better than he could. This was exactly why I didn’t want to tell my own parents. I didn’t want to see such ghastly faces as the one that Robert’s had become. I was afraid of hurting and upsetting them, of taking away their joy and causing upheaval in their stable, comfortable lives. I didn’t want to worry them and make them suffer. Hurting them this way would hurt me much more than what actually happened. I knew that I could handle this on my own, but causing my parents this sort of pain, I would never be able to bear. And so, even though I was strongly advised by the nurse and the school board and Robert and Hélène to take some time off and see a psychologist, I decided to heal on my own. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, I just wanted to get back to my normal routine. Once we got back from the break it would be exam time and I couldn’t let my students down. If I saw a psychologist and they put me on sick leave, I didn’t know if the board would be able to hire another teacher for the last two months of school, and even if they did, I wasn’t sure that I could trust this person to do things properly. I got these kids to the point they were now and I didn’t want to abandon them. I wouldn’t leave them at the last minute when they’d been working so hard to get to this point all year

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long. I guess I was being selfish, but I wanted to be the one responsible for their success, especially Saalati’s, not some other teacher who hadn’t been here all year and didn’t know the students and the town like I did. Of course word got out that something had happened. Hélène called and so did some other teachers, and when I got back to school on Tuesday morning the kids were looking at me with big eyes and whispering in Inuktitut. My students were quieter and better behaved than ever, and even though I knew people were talking, I still felt good about being back at school and back to my routine. Hélène offered me a spare room in her house and when I refused, begged me to at least come over for supper. With her young daughter at home, I knew she too was thinking what if it had been her? I shrugged off her concern but she made me feel like it was wrong. She made me promise her that I would at least see a psychologist just to make sure. She was worried that the impact of what happened would hit me later, or haunt me in my dreams. “It’s ok to ask for help,” she said, “we’re all here if ever you need anything,” but she didn’t understand that what I wanted was just to stop talking about it. It wasn’t worth all this attention. I just wanted to move on, and if it hit me later, then fine, I would deal with it later, but for now I was okay, and I just wanted to focus on preparing the students for exams and organizing Saalati’s graduation. I wasn’t going to let him get in the way of all of these outstanding accomplishments. I wasn’t going to let one bad thing take over and erase all of the good things that had happened this year. My neighbour Minnie was also feeling guilty that she hadn’t heard any of the commotion that night. It was almost like I had to console the people and reassure them that it was okay, that I was okay, and that it was meant to be; that everything happens for a reason and that even though it was scary, at least now he was getting help. I was packing my suitcase getting ready to go home for the break when the phone rang. It was the clinic: they had flown in a psychologist to evaluate me. Great. Now I had no choice. I put down what I was doing and was on my way to the clinic when Minnie knocked on her window as I passed by. She motioned for

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me to come in but I pointed to the clinic and mouthed that I had to go. She motioned that I stop by later and I nodded that I would. I entered the clinic and sat on the bed with the white paper on it, just like at the doctor’s when you go for a check-up. She asked me to tell her what happened. She asked me how I felt about what happened. She asked me a lot of questions about being here alone and it almost seemed like she wanted me to break down and cry. But I didn’t. I felt nervous, and my heart was beating quickly, but recounting what had happened really didn’t affect me. I simply told her what happened factually. She wrote everything down on her yellow pad of paper. She asked about a whole lot of things that had nothing to do with what had happened, like my childhood and romantic relationships. Then she asked why I didn’t want to tell my family and why I didn’t feel like I needed a sick leave. Finally she asked if I had any questions. I didn’t need a sick leave when I was already going on break. Ten days at home, really at home with nobody acting weird and sympathetic around me, was all I needed. I didn’t understand why people find it so weird that I just wanted to move on. The psychologist said something about me being in possible shock and that she would come back for a follow-up about a month from now for another evaluation. I wanted to tell her that it was unnecessary because I was totally fine but I complied. The only question I had was, what if this does hit me later, what do I do then? And is it normal that I just want to move on? Her only answer was that people deal with things in different ways and that this kind of reaction was actually quite common in the North, especially among Inuit girls. Then she gave me her number and told me to call her if anything changed before she came back and that we would go from there. For now she told me to just take things at my own rhythm and do the things that feel right and that I think are the best thing for me to do in order to move on. Finally, someone who understood! I stopped by Minnie’s on my way home. We had tea and she made me eat bannock. I wasn’t really hungry but I didn’t want to offend her. I guess it made her feel better to know that she had given me something to eat and drink. We

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didn’t talk about what happened. She too understood that I needed my space and just needed a breath of fresh air, so we talked about all kinds of different things instead. She knew I liked to hear about the old times, so she told me some of those stories, even though I have already begun to know her repertoire by heart. Still, they were fun to listen to, and even more fun to imagine life that way, when things were simple and good. I went home feeling refreshed and even a little happy, anxious to see my parents and my belongings back South. I listened to music as I finished packing and couldn’t feel luckier about the excellent timing of this break. It was the beginning of April and the school board had put the winter break together with the Easter holidays in order to give us ten consecutive days of vacation so that we could go home and visit our families, rather than just have one week off in March. The other teachers kept saying that as soon as we came back from this break, the rest of the school year would be over in a flash. Saalati would have to go down to Montreal in a few days too, since her baby was due at the beginning of May. Maybe I would be able to visit her where she was staying in Montreal while she waited to go into labour. I knew she would need to see a familiar face in such a big, strange, and scary city, and I wanted to be able to comfort her the way she had comforted me. It was the least that I could do after the way she took care of me the other day.

…

Landing in Montreal, rushing through the people and the carousels of luggage to hug and kiss my parents was when it hit me a little. I didn’t realize how loving their embraces were until the thought entered my mind that I came so close to never feeling them again. I cried a little but blamed it on exhaustion. The truth was that I had never been happier to see them. They took me home and I splurged on an extra-long-extra-candles bubble-bath and wrapped myself in my comfy bed good-night. I was home. I could finally breathe again.

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I didn’t plan on going anywhere or seeing any of my friends. That would take too much energy and I wasn’t in the mood for trivial small talk. I just wanted to be home. I needed “me” time. I needed to “recharge my batteries” – a French expression – for the hectic last few weeks of school that I was about to endure. So I ate. But not just any food, good food, the kinds of foods I couldn’t eat up North, like take-out and my mom’s home-cooked meals. I also did a lot of some of my other favourite things: I watched a lot of movies, old and new, at home and at the theatre, with my parents or alone. I went shopping, I got a massage, a pedicure and a manicure, bought a lot of expensive, imported chocolate and shoes, and drank some nice fancy coffees at a quiet café with a good book and fresh pastry. I went for walks in the crisp, Spring air, and played with writing lines of poetry here and there. Honestly, this was the best way I could spend the break, and the best therapy I could think of, just enjoying my time doing the things I loved, having quiet time alone and resting before the end of the year rush and stress of exams, correcting, and final marks. I knew that once I went back to Ukiurtatuq it was on; it was game time. It would be the race to the finish line, what this whole year had been working its way up to. I would have English and Social Studies exams for all the students in my class who are in different grades to create (the board left that humongous task up to the individual teachers) and pray that the Ministry of Education ones – the high school leaving ones – would not be too hard for Saalati. And once all of that was done, I then had to correct them and mark them and calculate the different marks with their specified weighting to come up with the last term marks as well as the final grades which determined whether my students would pass to the next level, and whether Saalati would graduate. These were no little tasks. And then there was Saalati’s baby on the way and all the excitement that would bring, but also the huge concern of her being able to study and write final exams while taking care of a new-born baby and resting and watching her own post-delivery health… But for now I was happy to relish in the happiness and warmth that being at home with my parents gave me, with pampering and spoiling myself and

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making sure that I was well and rested before the last leg of this adventure. A journey that I knew I would never forget.

Nurraliut

The teachers left town on Friday. I was supposed to leave that day too, but they had their own charter so I couldn’t get on it. I had to wait for the “sched” flight (that’s what the pilots call it), the regular Friday evening scheduled flight, even though that meant I had to sleep in another town overnight because there were no direct flights from Ukiurtatuq to Montreal. My mother and I would stay with some relatives in that town because we didn’t want to stay at the hospital’s transit where patients from out of town stayed to wait for their appointments. That place was so crammed full of sick and dying people and it was too small and smelly for me. I hated it there. And it was very old too. They should renovate it just like they should renovate our houses – it was built around the same time or even earlier so it needs to be updated and have better insulation and stuff like that too. I didn’t understand why they could make a fancy new airport but they couldn’t make a new hospital. That was very weird to me and to lots of other Inuit. But I guess the Qallunaat knew best about those things, that’s why we don’t even dare to ask them. My friends and family wished me good luck for delivering the baby before I left. I wished I could just give birth in my own town, that way they could be around me and come visit me and we could pray together, but I had to do it alone now, just me and my anaana. We were going to try to go shopping in Montreal but we were kind of scared to get lost in that big city with all those people. We were way too scared to take the subway so we just took a taxi everywhere and it was very expensive. But it was fun shopping in Montreal because everything was so much cheaper. That’s why a lot of Inuit go down for shopping in December to

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buy Christmas presents and gifts for their families and kids. Some of them even send up boxes full of groceries and things like shampoo and soap. I remember my first time in Montreal when I went shopping with my mother. I was so scared and I cried because I wanted to go home. I was only like eight or nine and seeing all of the cars and people speeding by so fast and not understanding any of the signs or language around me made me feel like I was in another country very far away, like China or something. I see it on the TV sometimes when they show all of those people crossing the streets in China or Japan with all those cars and signs and lights everywhere – that’s exactly what being in Montreal is like for us Inuit, because we’re not used to those things. We’re just used to our small towns and knowing everybody and speaking our own language, and the only things we see are the land and the animals. I wondered where the animals were in Montreal. How come they were not in the streets too? Where did they stay? There was no nature here, so maybe they didn’t even have animals any more. Too much pollution. Maybe they all had to go far away like the North or something. Aatsuk. It’s very confusing to me and I can’t understand it even if I try. At least Karen said she would try to come visit me. I knew she said Montreal was a very big place and that she didn’t live near the residence the hospital would put me in, but I still hoped I could see her, and maybe even go shopping with her! I hoped she was feeling better now that she was with her anaana and ataata. She must have missed her family very much being away for so long. I had only been away for one day and I already missed mine. I just hoped the residence in Montreal would be okay, better than the transit over here!

…

We had to take a taxi from the airport all the way to the residence. The taxi driver had a funny accent, not French, something else, something I never heard, and anaana and I couldn’t understand what he was saying! Aatsiaramai! It was very funny. We just kept laughing and he looked very mad! Maybe he

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thought we were laughing at him, ilai? We couldn’t stop laughing because we didn’t understand. I guess he didn’t understand us either. The residence was not so bad. There were lots of Inuit from different towns in Nunavik and even some from Nunavut. There were some people that we knew here, like relatives from other towns, and there were some people that anaana knew from when she was a little girl. Those that had been here for a while were telling us where we could go shopping and where the good restaurants were. They gave us food at the residence but it was not very good. It wasn’t not what the sick, older Inuit needed. They just gave them Qallunaak food but they needed country food to feel better and get stronger and have more energy. I wished I could have brought them some char or caribou from home. They would have liked it much more. I would try to remember to bring some next time if I ever had to come back here again. At least the residence was clean and the workers were nice. They didn’t speak Inuktitut so sometimes anaana and I translated for them. But the best thing was that there was a corner store, a “depanneur” right across the street. I think I went there like four or five times a day just to get pop and junks or gum! And slush! I probably had like two or three slushes every day. I liked the blue flavour because it turned my tongue and teeth a blue or purple colour. Even anaana liked slush but her favourite kind was red. I kept trying to call Karen but she wouldn’t answer the phone. I guessed she was very busy with her family. I just hoped I could see her before she left. She was going back on Sunday and it was already Thursday. I hoped she would come tomorrow or Saturday because I wouldn’t see her until after the baby was born near the end of the month, like maybe in three weeks. I just hoped she was okay and would still come back to finish school. I really needed her help to graduate. She was the one that knew me the best so I didn’t want any other teacher to come.

…

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“Hi Saalati,” said Karen. I thought I was dreaming but it was really her! Saturday morning I was watching TV in my room at the residence and I guess I fell asleep and thought I was dreaming, but it was really her. “Karen! Hi!” I said, with the biggest smile, getting up to hug her. I got used to hugging Karen. I never used to do that before, I guess it’s a Qallunaak thing to hug people when you see them, but I kind of like it now. “No, no, sit, sit,” she said, making me sit back down and hugging my face and shoulders with her arms. “How are you feeling?” she asked, fixing my hair to the side. “Good, kind of boring.” “Yeah, I guess it’s hard for you to be away from home,” she said, looking around the room. “Hi Elisapie,” she said, when my mother came in the room. “Eee, Karen, nice to see you,” she said, shaking her hand, “how’s you?” “Oh, I’m fine! I just wanted to come see Saalati before leaving because I know I won’t see her till the baby’s born.” “Ilai,” said my mom, smiling. “How did you find me?” I asked, wondering how she knew I was here. “Oh, I just called and asked if you were a patient here because I wanted to come visit you, and they said yes.” “Asu.” “So, are you having any fun here? Did you go shopping or to a restaurant?” “Yeah we went,” I said, “but it’s kind of too crazy for me here. I don’t know how people can live here with all these things going on everywhere.” “Yeah, it’s kind of hard to get used to it,” she answered, “even I’m having a hard time and I was born here!” she said. She looked good. She looked like the old Karen, like before the bad thing happened. She looked like she had energy and she looked happy. “There’s lots of funny things here,” I said, thinking of the bathroom. “Oh yeah? What do you mean, like what?”

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“Come here,” I said, and took her to the public washrooms. “Look!” I put my hands under the tap. “The water turns on by itself! Like magic!” Karen started laughing. A lot. Like she couldn’t control herself. “Oh my Gosh, do you mean you’ve never seen that before?” she asked, trying to stop laughing. “No,” I said, starting to laugh too. “They don’t have these in Ukiurtatuq,” “No, that’s true, I guess they don’t.” A janitor came out of one of the stalls and looked at us like we were crazy before leaving the bathroom. We didn’t know there was anyone else in the bathroom. That made us burst into laughter even louder. “Oh Saalati, it’s so good to see you,” said Karen, catching her breath. “Yeah and there’s even weirder things like in the mall. When you go to the bathroom in the mall over there, like farther down the street, they have toilets that flush themselves!” “What?” said Karen, laughing again. “Like when you get up from the toilet, it just flushes! My mom and me we got scared the first time it happened. I was just getting up and the loud noise of the flushing made me scream and my mother too! And the other people in the bathroom were looking at us like we’re crazy, just like that janitor did.” “Wow, what an adventure you guys are having!” said Karen, still laughing. “That’s so funny, but I guess I would be scared too if I’d never seen it before.” “Yeah, we were really scared! We didn’t mean to, but we just were!” “That’s okay, that’s normal.” Karen and I talked a little bit more with my mom too and then she had to leave to go back home. I didn’t tell her that I missed her because I guess I was too shy. And I didn’t ask her if she felt better now, because I didn’t want to remind her of the bad time she had, but she looked better and she was laughing a lot, so I guessed she felt a lot better now. She looked like the same Karen from before. I wanted to ask her why Qallunaat have these funny bathrooms. I just couldn’t understand them, I mean, are Qallunaat too lazy to flush their own toilets

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or wash their hands? Why are they made like that? But I didn’t want her to laugh at me so I didn’t ask. Three more weeks till the baby was here. I couldn’t wait.

…

I was feeling very big pains in my stomach one morning. I was in my room watching TV. It was raining and I didn’t want to go outside. I was very tired. Anaana told me to just lie down. Maybe the baby was coming. I spent the whole morning in my bed. I didn’t want to eat or do anything, I was just trying to fall asleep but then I started having bigger pains. It felt like I was having my period but much worse. When the pain would come it would hurt all the way in my back too, hurting all the rest of my body. Anaana called the nurse and they said it was still too early, to just keep waiting. What did they mean too early? Was the baby going to be premature? By evening they finally moved me to a room in the hospital. There were five other pregnant ladies in that room. We were all just waiting to see the doctor because he was the one that would decide when it was time for the baby to come out. He didn’t even want to listen to what I was saying. And he didn’t answer me when I asked him if the baby was too early. Anaana started praying. The pain was not so bad. I mean, it hurt a lot, more than anything, but not as bad as being scared about the baby. I was praying a lot too. I didn’t want there to be anything wrong with the baby, I wanted it to be healthy. But it was God’s gift and I had to love it even if it wasn’t. I didn’t want to think of it not being healthy, but I couldn’t stop my mind from thinking of all these different things, mostly because the doctor wouldn’t answer me or tell me anything. In the middle of the night they moved me to a delivery room. They told me to stay calm. They spread open my legs and stuck things up there. It made me remember that creep. I started to scream and they held me down. That made me scream louder. They made anaana go out of the room. Maybe they thought she was making me scream but she was only praying.

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I begged and screamed for my mother and promised to be quiet if they let her back in, so they did. Even though I was in so much pain, and I really needed to scream to push and let the baby out, I stayed quiet. I held my breath and my voice and pushed when they told me to and prayed in my head when they didn’t say anything. I held my mother’s hand and she was quiet too, but her eyes were wet from crying. I couldn’t stand these strange faces anymore. I wanted to go home! I wanted to see faces that I knew! I wanted to have my baby my way not theirs! “GrrrRAAAAAAHHHH!!!!!” I screamed and pushed with all my might. “One more, one more good one like that,” said the doctor. He was sweating. Again I pushed and my voice made a sound I had never heard before, a voice from deep down in the back of my throat. I was exhausted. I pushed so hard I couldn’t see. Everything went black around me and I couldn’t hear anything either. Just silence. But when I opened my eyes I started to see and hear again. I saw my mother and the doctors and nurses, and then I saw her. My little angel. My beautiful baby girl. The doctor and nurses were rushing to cut the cord and clean her. I wanted to scream and say “no, wait, her arnaqutik needs to do that!” but I remembered that Kitty wasn’t here. They let my mother do it instead. They gave her to me and I cried and hugged and loved her. My mother nuzzled her nose to her cheek. “Mmmp!” “It’s a girl, Sarita,” said the doctor. He didn’t say my name right but I didn’t care. “Congratulations!” “Thank you,” I said, and then the nurses took her away from me. “We just need to clean her and check her up and make sure everything’s okay,” he said, smiling for the first time. “Is she okay?” I asked, angry that they took her from me so quickly. Even though I was only a mother for a minute, I was already very protective. “Everything seems just fine,” he said, “muy bien.” Muy bien? What did that mean? “What’s that mean?” I asked. But he was already gone.

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“Aren’t you Spanish?” asked a nurse. “No.” “Oh…” she said, “we thought you were Spanish,” looking a little embarrassed. “No, I’m Inuk!” I said. “Oh…” said the nurse smiling nervously and backing up. “I’ll let you rest,” she said, leaving the room. My baby weighed seven pounds two ounces. A very healthy baby. They gave her back to me after about an hour. That was the longest hour of my whole life. She was wrapped in a pink blanket and she was sleeping. She had pink cheeks and black hair. I held her in my arms and promised to never leave her again. “What’s her name?” asked my mom. I didn’t even think about that. I looked down at her and her eye kind of winked a little. My heart beat fast! “Eliziah!” I said, “Elisapie Zachariah Mae Annahatak.” “That’s a beautiful name,” said anaana. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” and she picked up her granddaughter, my panik, and began to sing.

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June

Where had the time gone? The end of the school year was just around the corner and there were so many things to be done and so little time! All the teachers were running around excited for summer holidays, but also in a panic over all the correcting, marking, packing and cleaning to be done. Along with the exams there was the last day of school activities, the awards and certificates and the graduation ceremony to plan. Despite being a school with a small staff, we really came together when things needed to get done. If it weren’t for the tireless team-work, care and motivation from everyone, things would be a disorganized, chaotic mess. I felt so lucky to have been a part of this school. Its spirit was dedicated to the children. It was beautiful and humbling. June in the North was quite bittersweet. It was sweet because summer holidays were fast approaching and everyone was in dire need of a long vacation. It was sweet because everyone was enjoying the land and each other’s company, sharing laughs and conversation, making a conscious effort to keep these laughs and conversations in our memories. It was sweet because we were hanging on to these moments, making them even sweeter, and growing even fonder of them. But it was bitter because they were our last moments together, and for some of us, they were the last moments of our Northern adventure. It was bitter because we had to say goodbye. For some teachers it was their last year in the North. For the longest time I had also thought I would be leaving in June. Luckily, the board extended my contract for the following year and I was overjoyed to learn that I would be coming back next August. Still, I was going to miss this place, the town and the school over the summer break. Those little faces, the eyes that opened wide for “yes” and the scrunched up noses that said “no”. I was going to miss the kindness and the lessons of the elders, and the companionship of my colleagues. I was going to miss the beautiful orange and pink-purple sunsets, the cracking sound of the bay ice melting, the smell of the clean, crisp air. I was going to miss looking out into

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the horizon and basking in the splendour of the land, in its stark white slopes and dark starry nights. I was going to miss watching the Northern lights colour the tiny town, dancing in hues of iridescent greens and blues as if mysteriously alive. I was even going to miss the sounds and of the smell of skidoos, the burning gas and all that it provides. I was going to miss every little thing about this place, I thought, as I looked out of my classroom and across the street to my tiny brown house, the melting bay behind it, the endless sky beyond. My thoughts were interrupted by the ring of the school bell. My students didn’t have class with me; instead they were spending the next three days with Bruce, a special schedule to accommodate Saalati’s English exam. Saalati maked it to class on time, Eliziah on her back in the amautik. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking tired and out of breath, “but there’s no place for her at the daycare and no one can take care of her at home so I had to bring her to school,” “That’s okay,” I said, smiling warmly, and carefully take her out of the amautik. “She can stay with me while mommy writes her exam, right Ellie?” Saalati laughed a little while Alec brought a sort of round transportable baby bed for his little niece. “Una!” He said, and placed the bed in the back of the room. “Mmmp!” He smelled little Eliziah’s cheek deeply, made a funny face at her and left to go to Bruce’s class. “Nakurmik!” said Saalati, calling after him. “Yeap,” said Alec walking out. I had taped a sign on my classroom door that read “QUIET. EXAM IN PROCESS. PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB.” We had three days of a very long, very gruelling English exam for Saalati to get through; the same exam that graduating students were writing in schools in the South. I could not believe that she was expected to write the same exam when English was not her first language and when her reality and culture is so different from teenagers in the South. Of course I didn’t let my frustration show because I didn’t want it to affect Saalati. Instead I smiled, squeezed her shoulder, and told her not to worry.

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The exam was based on a theme. We were to begin with an introductory activity followed by a reading comprehension where she was expected to read various texts and answer questions, which would then be followed by the listening component, where she was to listen to a variety of texts and answer questions on those, and then came the oral component of the exam, where she was to discuss her thoughts and share her opinions regarding the theme and then finally do the final part of the exam was the essay writing portion. I was hoping we would make it to the end of the exam without a major crisis. I was hoping that this wouldn’t be too much for her, what with being a new mother and the importance that she put on this exam for graduating and for her future. The first couple of days went fine, in fact, better than fine – they went great. Saalati was flying through all the parts so quickly that she only had the last part to complete; the hardest part, the essay. When she was late for school on the third day I didn’t panic. It was normal that students were a few minutes late in the mornings, and with Eliziah to take care of, I knew that Saalati had a good reason. When she was an hour late, I started to worry. Something was wrong. I called her house from the staff room. She answered in a very subdued voice. “Are you okay? What’s wrong? Why didn’t you come to school?” I asked, not being able to hide my concern. I got silence as an answer and then, “I’m not coming.” “What? What do you mean you’re not coming? You have to finish your exam!” I said in shock, not believing what I was hearing. Hélène had warned me about this: how so often students drop out at the last moment of school, often during final exams. For some students coping with an exam in a second language and the fear of failure was just too much to take. They rather make the choice of leaving school than feel like they are not smart enough to pass. “I can’t.” My heart skipped a beat. “Saalati you have to, you’ve come all this way, you can’t stop now! You’re so close, just one last essay and you’re done! Forever! You’re good at writing essays, it’ll be okay, I promise, I’ll help you,” I tried to convince her with all my might.

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“I don’t know. I’m just gonna quit. I can’t do it. I have to take care of my baby.” She resisted with all of hers. She lacked confidence. She was scared. I understood. “Saalati, it’s okay. Don’t worry. Your essays are always really well done. Just come and try it. Bring Eliziah like the other times. We’ll do it together, all three of us. I know you can do it. Please just try. If you come and try and you can’t do it, then I won’t force you, but you have to at least try,” I begged. My heart pounded loudly in the very long silence. I was even on the verge of tears. “Okay,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll come now.” “That’s great! See you soon,” I hung the phone up with such excitement, such relief. I was able to convince her to come. I felt like we had just dodged a bullet. I ran upstairs to my classroom. I waited for her impatiently until she showed up about ten minutes later. I sat next to her and read the question out loud, the same question we had been discussing from the beginning; at least there was that. At least it was familiar to her now and although she was probably fed up of it, it’s not like she had to write an essay on an unfamiliar or unrelated topic. She had some good ideas and all she needed to do was write them on paper. I told her to make an outline of how she would answer the question, a task she had done countless times in class. I told her to pretend that it was just a regular class essay and not to worry, that she was good at doing this and that she would be fine. When she was done we went over her outline together and I told her it was perfect. She smiled a small smile and exhaled a long, deep breath. “Hey,” I said, squeezing her shoulder as I usually did, “you’re doing good. You’re doing really good. Amazing.” She smiled again, a little bigger this time. I bent down and looked straight into her raven eyes. “Salaati,” I said, “I am so proud of you. Really. This is an amazing thing you’re doing here today.” Her smile widened. “Now, start your rough copy,” I said, patting her knee as I got up, and for some reason, her smile turned into a laugh, the most beautiful laugh I’ve

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ever heard. So I laughed too. And we sat there, laughing, exhausted but happy, all three of us, sharing an exquisitely special Northern moment.

…

I didn’t get any sleep my last few days in the North. And it wasn’t because the sun stayed out for so long, setting only around eleven at night, it was because of the insomnia set in by excitement. Tomorrow was the last day of school: a morning of activities followed by an afternoon of awards and certificates, and then the graduation ceremony and supper. I was leaving Ukiurtatuq after tomorrow. I couldn’t believe how fast the year has gone by. I was setting up the gym for the ceremonies, blowing balloons and cutting out stars in shiny silver and blue paper that I would stick around the curtains of the stage. Gerry was happily printing out banners with the school board’s name, logo and class year, and some of my older students were painting banners in Inuktitut, English and French that said “Congratulations Saalati” or “Congrats Grad.” Behind the stage that was in the middle of the gym, some teachers were helping me set up and decorate the tables for the graduation supper while others grouped balloons into arrangements and stuck them along the walls of the gym or looped garlands of crepe paper around the bars and basketball nets. There was feeling of great joy, accomplishment and celebration in the air, and everyone was enjoying getting ready for the big day tomorrow, the day that many have been anxiously awaiting, some since the first day of school back in August.

…

This was it. Today was the big day. It was lunch time and the morning activities were pleasant. The kids always enjoy games on the tundra with sandwiches, apples and granola bars. I’d come home to change out of my jeans into something more appropriate for a graduation ceremony; black dress pants and

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a white blouse. This is a very special occasion so I put a little make up on and some more fancy jewelry – I was proud and wanted it to show. I made my way across the street to the school. Salaati was waiting there for me to curl her hair. She was also dressed more formally but she was so shy that she covered herself with the white graduation gown instead. Her raven eyes were wide and sparkling and her cheeks were flushed with a rosy hue; her long, flowing hair, curled as if by magic around the iron. She was stunning. She was always a pretty girl, but today, she seemed older, poised and calm. Today, she was a beautiful woman and a caring mother. Her skin seemed to tingle and glow with warmth and love, with pride of her accomplishments, and a certainty of success. She had done it. We had done it. It was time. After the others students had received their awards and certificates, Saalati walked into the gym and was received by a standing ovation. The whole town had come to witness this very special event; it was not every year that somebody graduated in Ukiurtatuq. As Saalati made her way to the stage everybody applauded: the little kids opened their eyes wide with marvel and her relatives cheered fervently and rapturously, some unable to contain their emotion. The gym thundered with applause for several minutes, everyone standing in respect and admiration of Saalati’s great accomplishment. And although I was beside myself with joy and pride, I could no longer swallow down the huge lump in my throat, the big tears in my eyes. I don’t remember being so happy about anything else in my life. Honestly, I think this was the happiest I’ve ever been. Robert said a few words, shook her hand and presented her with a school diploma. (The real one would be on its way sometime in the Fall). Salaati had passed all of her exams and her highest mark was English. He moved her tassel to the left, signifying that she was now a graduate, and there were more cheers and applause as she made her way to the microphone, ready to say her speech. She spoke in Inuktitut, so I don’t know what she said, but her emotion was raw as she cried into the microphone, pouring her heart and love into it. Before she was finished she said some words in English.

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“And um… I would also like to thank Karen,” she said, stopping to cry. “Thank you for all of your help…” she put the microphone down to wipe her eyes with a tissue. “Nakurmik,” she said, looking at everyone, and threw up her cap. The gym once again thundered with applause. Everybody began lining up to shake her hand and take pictures with her and her family and baby Ellie in her arms. I stepped out of the gym and ran across to my house. I flung myself on my bed, sobbing and heart-broken, a pain so big, bigger maybe, than the times I had cried for home and for my mother. I didn’t want to leave her, but I knew I had to. I composed myself and made it back to the gym for supper. There were less people around. I found Salaati in the kitchen, getting some food ready, ran to her and hugged her. “You did it!” I yelled, excited, happy and sad all at the same time. “You graduated!” “I know,” she said, “I wanted to say more…to you… but I couldn’t…. I was too sad,” she looked down at the floor. “Oh don’t worry about that, it was amazing, it was perfect! I’m so proud of you and happy for you, I’ll never forget this day,” I said, hugging her again, “I love you, Salaati, and I’m going to miss you so much,” I said, my lips beginning to shake and quiver and the lump rising again. “Me too,” she said, and we hugged in silence until Robert came into the kitchen, singing and dancing and looking for food. “Oh, that’s so nice,” he said, putting his hands together, and coming closer “I am so proud of you, both” and wrapping his arms around our shoulders, one on each side, he led us into the gym singing and dancing, laughing, and looking for food.

…

The supper had gone very well. We ate and laughed and enjoyed everybody’s company. Teachers, students, family, and friends, Qallunaat and Inuit, all of us together. People had brought gifts for Salaati and she opened them

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as we all watched and took pictures. She also had a gift for me: an uluk, a traditional Inuit knife for cutting meat that she had her father make for me. She knew that I had always wanted one, I told her often about how special I thought they were and how I liked the fact that they were just for women. It meant a lot to me that she had remembered that and I was honoured that she had one made especially for me. After the supper we cleaned up the gym while Saalati and her friends and family went to a big bonfire; the local tradition on graduation night. I had stopped by for a few minutes getting a ride from Hélène and her husband, but we didn’t stay long, as we were leaving the next day and still had some last minute packing and cleaning to do. The houses had to be left ready for the next teacher that would move in. I went to bed using my jacket as a blanket since all of my sheets were packed for the summer. I was exhausted but I couldn’t sleep. My mind raced with different thoughts, with flashbacks of the ups and downs of my first year teaching and of my first year away from home. The dogs howled and I turned over, my eyes closed but sleep not coming. I took a deep breath and listened to the sounds around me knowing that this was the last time I would hear them. And at some time in the middle of the night, I finally fell asleep.

…

With morning came the usual anxiety and nervous rushing that travel always incites. Waiting for the school bus to come pick all the teachers up is always filled with double, triple, quadruple checks: did I forget anything? Was everything clean? Was there anything left in the fridge? In the drawers? I got my bags ready and waited outside. I looked around at the tiny, empty house, and suddenly, it didn’t look so small anymore. I looked around, taking it all in, saving it in my memory. I would be spending the summer at my parent’s house, and although I knew I would be back in a couple of months, this was the first time that I was leaving my very own first home.

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Honk honk! My reflections were cut short by the honk of the bus. It was time to go. I took one last look and opened the door. Time to go. I climbed into the bus, sitting at the back and watched my house disappear behind me. I exhaled and looked forward. It was early morning and the town was still sleeping. The streets were empty and in the bay the tide was high. “Good bye!” I said in my head. “Good bye,” to every house and every wave. We made our way up to the airport. I walked in and there were some people there to greet us. Some townspeople had come to see us off and wish us a good summer. As I shook hands I noticed Saalati in a corner, sitting with Eliziah in her amautik. She was waiting to say good bye. I walked up to her. “Hey,” I said. “Hi,” she answered, getting up. “So, I guess it’s time?” “Yeah, I guess,” “I’ll wait until the plane comes.” “Okay.” “We sat together in the tiny airport lounge filled with people. She told me about the bonfire. I gave her a paper with my email, address and phone number so we could stay in touch and before we knew it, the pilot was calling for us to board. “Well, take care of yourself and of your baby,” I said, touching Eliziah’s cheek with my thumb. I bent to kiss it and tried hard not to cry. Instead, I smiled and gave Saalati one last hug. I tried to pull away but she kept me locked in her arms. “I’ll miss you,” she said. “I’ll miss you too.” I said, “But don’t worry, I’ll be back soon.” “Okay,” she said, smiling and nodding. “Bye Karen,” “Bye,” I said, and walked out of the tiny airport into the tiny plane. I exhaled. That was hard but not as hard as I had thought. I was able not to cry, to stay strong in front of Saalati. But now in the plane the tears fell hot and fast.

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I waved good-bye from the tiny plane window, watching Saalati wave back. The sun shone on Ukiurtatuq, its rays like speckles of snow that fell softly to the ground, sadly, like the song of a swan, like a last ever lullaby. Good-bye my tiny little Northern town, nakurmik and aatsunai. Nakurmik and aatsunai.

Manniliut

Sauniq, where were you? Ataatatsiak, I needed your help. I couldn’t finish that stupid English exam. It was too long and hard! I was so tired of it. Nobody could help me with Eliziah, they were too busy working. I couldn’t keep taking her to school with me: I couldn’t focus on my exam because every time she cried or made a sound I had to check on her, and then I lost concentration and forgot what I was thinking to write. I had to do everything myself and it was too much. I couldn’t go. I couldn’t do exams and take care of Eliziah at the same time; she’s more important than me. I just had to stay home and take care of her, ilai Sauniq? The phone rang. It was Karen. She convinced me to go back to school and finish the exam. Sauniq was funny with his timing. Sometimes he took very long to answer my questions, sometimes he didnt’t answer at all, and sometimes, like now, it was like he was still here. Even though it was Karen that called, I knew in my heart that it was really him. But I guess they were right, Sauniq and Karen. I was almost done and then I would graduate. Just a few more hours, just one more essay and I would never have to go to school again! And then I would have a diploma and get a good job and be able to take even better care of my panik. Finishing the exam wasn’t so bad. I guess I panicked for nothing. Karen was right, it felt like I was just writing an essay for her in class. It was a good thing that we practiced so much all year long. I wouldn’t be able to do it without her. And it was a good thing she didn’t mind that I brought Eliziah too, because I had no idea who would have been able to babysit her. Most people were working and there was no room at the daycare. Karen never had a baby but she looked like she really loved Eliziah, she even called her “Ellie” as a nickname. 177

I finished writing the essay fast. Karen made it easy for me because she made me remember how we did it in class. I made the outline first, like the introduction, the three main points or reasons for my argument and then the conclusion. After making the outline I just had to write it out longer with bigger sentences and more information from the texts. At the beginning of the year, writing an essay seemed like a huge, impossible thing to do, but now, after Karen reminds me of the steps, it’s even kind of easy. But I’m so happy I’ll never have to do it again! Karen was trying to talk to me about going to college. I would like to go, but I’m scared of all the hard work and studying and essays I would have to do there. And I would have to leave my family and live in the South… that was too much for me to do right now. Especially with Eliziah so small. And I know my family needed me too. Maybe I would try to go when she is older. I wish they had a college in the North so it wouldn’t be so far away and that I could come home on the weekends. I hope they make a college here soon. That would motivate a lot of graduates to keep going to school and get an even higher education. Most of us are too scared to go study and live down South; it’s too different and we would miss our home, our family, our land and our culture too much. We can’t even go there on vacation without getting homesick after one or two days. But if they made a college in the North, I’m sure a lot more Inuit would get college diplomas and help make our towns a better place to live. I’m sure that we could even get some Inuit people involved in the government that way. It kind of makes me wonder if that’s the reason why we don’t have a college; so that the Qallunaat can keep controlling us; so that we don’t learn how to speak for ourselves and fight for our rights. If they ever make a college here I would be the first to register. Today was my graduation day, the day I’d been waiting for since August, and the day I’d been dreaming about since I was a little girl. Graduating is a very big thing for our small town. It gives everybody the motivation that is sometimes hard to find in the North. Sometimes people get lost in drugs and alcohol, but when somebody graduates it’s almost like they’re an angel. They give the whole town hope. It makes the young kids want to graduate and keep going to school,

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and it makes adults see that they can do it now. Even the elders are motivated because they see future leaders in the graduates; young Inuit professionals that can help bring more healing and wellness back into the communities. It gives them hope for their children and grandchildren and for future generations of Inuit. I was very shy to have the whole town clapping and watching me in the gym, but at the same time I was so proud and happy that everybody had come there for me. It was my special day but it would have been nothing without them. I had a hard time saying my speech because of all the emotion I felt; all the love and inspiration that was in the gym from all of the people, I tried to thank them all and to tell the kids that they can do it too, because if I did, they can, and there’s nothing stopping us. I tried to thank my family and friends, and even Sauniq for their help. I thanked the teachers too, all of the teachers I ever had since my first day of kindergarten, and I wanted to thank Karen more, but my emotions didn’t let me. I wish I could tell her how much I love her, how much she means to me. Karen is like a big sister to me and I’m going to miss her so much. I guess I’ll go see her at the airport tomorrow before she leaves. I’ll try to tell her then, I just hope I won’t be too shy.

…

It was time. It was early morning and everyone was still sleeping. I guess they were tired from the bonfire. It was a very fun night. Lots of people came to celebrate with me. We made a huge fire a little bit outside of town. People came with their trucks and hondas. There was lots of loud music coming from the truck radios and people were dancing and singing. I guess they stayed there very late, but I didn’t stay long. I didn’t want to be around people that were drinking. Even though it was a happy celebration, I always get nervous when people are drinking and I don’t find it right that they were drinking at a graduation party. That just doesn’t seem right to me. Now that I had my daughter, I didn’t want to be around drinking at all. I wanted to teach her how to live the right way. I was a mother now and I had to be responsible. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to protect her

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against everything, and one day when she’s older she’ll discover it too, but I had to do my best to teach her how to live a good life, so I had to be a good example. I got dressed and took Eliziah with me. I had no ride to the airport but I started walking along the road. I knew that somebody would stop to give me a lift; Inuit always help each other that way. When I got to the airport the teachers weren’t there yet. Some townspeople were there, it’s kind of a tradition to say good-bye to the teachers when they leave. Parents like to shake their hands and wish them a good summer. When the teachers arrived lots of parents rushed to shake Karen’s hand, so I just waited until they were done. She saw me and came to me right away. We talked for a while until she had to board the plane. I hugged her for a very long time. I knew she said she was coming back in August, but still, I couldn’t stop myself from worrying that this was the last time I would see her. I was trying very hard not to cry. I wanted to ask her not to leave but I knew that she had to. I wanted to hold on to her forever. She told me that she loved me. I wanted to tell her that I love her too, but I couldn’t make my voice loud enough. I really wanted to, but I was too sad. I stuck to the airport window, waved good-bye and watched the plane take off. She was waving and smiling at me too. I turned and walked out of the airport. The air was getting warmer. I started walking down the long, rocky road. My heart felt heavy and I was tired. Why does everyone I love always leave me? My feet dragged in the dirt and I just wanted to cry and cry, but I knew I had to stay strong. As I walked, I looked around the land. I watched the beautiful mountains and the blue bay, the never-ending sky, and the little coloured houses in the distance. Summer was coming and there would be fishing and camping and berry picking; lots of long, hot nights, swimming and barbeques. Karen told me that there would be a teacher from a University in the South coming to teach Inuit to become teachers here this summer. That sounded interesting and like a very good job. I would be able to keep learning and not have to leave town… The sun’s bright warmth and light filled me with energy and hope and although I knew I had many choices to make, many responsibilities and many

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more ups and downs to go through, Eliziah’s soft breath tickled the back of my neck, reminding me that I was not alone. “Good-bye!” I called, even though I knew she couldn’t hear me. “Aatsunai!” I kept waving even though the plane was just a little dot in the long, blue sky. “Naligivarit,” I whispered.

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Afterword “Sometimes a person needs a story more than food to stay alive…” (Chambers, 2004, p. 1)

Teaching and living in a remote, isolated Inuit community in Nunavik, the Arctic region of Quebec, Canada, has provided me with many wonderful life and learning experiences. I always say that even though I went up there to teach, I ended up learning so much more. Being a city dweller, Nunavik’s beautiful, white mountains and the wildlife that inhabits them allowed me to get in touch with nature and thus with myself. I developed a patience, an inner peace, a respect for the land so great that I could spend hours by myself, just listening to the bell-like sound the waves make when they hit the little ice-bergs in the thawing bay; hours lying in the middle of a frozen lake, feeling the sun’s rays warm and tickle my face as I looked out into the great vastness ahead of me, so clean and pure. In the city we are always rushing, working, running here and there, but in Nunavik time slows down. There is no pressure, no stress. You take the time to experience every breath, and the calm changes you; it finds you, and then you find yourself. Although sometimes I would get a little homesick and miss my family and the comforts and distractions of city life, my students and colleagues became a new family; a Northern family. Colleagues became my brothers and sisters, students became my children and the townspeople my cousins, uncles and aunts. My Qallunaat colleagues and I lived a real life, complete with ups and downs, fun and sad times, we developed strength and courage, and although we were very far from home, we were home. There are many reasons why I decided to leave my tiny Northern village. After four years of teaching and learning in the North, I felt I had accomplished what I set out to do. Much like Karen, the Qallunaak teacher in my novel, I wanted to become independent and to experience something totally different, something that I could call my own. Fresh out of University, I held naïve notions about Inuit life and believed, like the Qallunaat women teachers who taught in the Arctic before me, that I was on a mission; that I would bring much needed care and knowledge to the Inuit children I would meet (Desautels, 2009; Strong-

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Wilson, 2005). Hannah Breece and Abbie Morgan Madenwald, for example, are two Qallunaak female teachers who taught in various Arctic villages during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Breece and Madenwald both travelled to the North to teach but also participated in community life of the villages they were stationed at (Desautels, 2009). Their memoirs outline their teaching and travelling experiences in the North as well as their personal interpretations of Northern culture (Strong-Wilson, 2005). Unlike Breece and Madenwald, however, I did not document or reflect in writing about my teaching and living in the North while in the North. This is an experience that I have chosen to undertake as part of my Master of Arts, one year after my return from the North. The decision to move and to teach up North was fairly easy: I was young, adventurous, needed a job and wanted to become independent. After many interviews for teaching jobs in and around the area of Montreal, as well as some overseas (England, France and Australia), I was offered a job in a tiny, isolated Inuit village in Northern Quebec. I immediately said yes, excited that I would be able to move far enough away from home, yet still be in the same province. Somehow, knowing that my parents were in the same province and in the same country as me made the move for both my parents and myself, a little easier to handle. Although I was going into the unknown, I was still closer to home than I would have been overseas. And so, “armed with a trunk” and a boyfriend (Strong-Wilson, 2005), I made the move that has since changed my life. Initially, I had decided to stay in the North for only one year. One year, my boyfriend-at-the-time and I figured, would be enough for me to begin to acquire some teaching experience as well as gain some independence and save some money. I therefore signed a teaching contract for the 2007-2008 school year, not expecting to stay any longer. As it turns out, life has a funny way of throwing things your way when you least expect them. After only about a month of living in the North, my boyfriend and I decided to split up. He was not adjusting well to the North, missed his family and the comforts of city life and blamed me for it, as it was, of

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course, my fault that he had moved away. Countless arguments and hurt feelings later, we decided it would be best if he went back home to Montreal. I stayed. And here is where my story begins.

My Story I first arrived in Nunavik for Orientation Week, August 13-17, 2007. Orientation Week is a yearly event held in one of the larger Inuit communities where the new teachers with the board are flown in before going to the respective villages to which they have been assigned. During Orientation Week, new teachers attend various workshops given by pedagogical counsellors about teaching in Nunavik, the Inuit culture and language, and the board’s education programs (Mueller, 2006). During this week, most of the new teachers board with returning teachers, school board staff, or Inuit families. My host for the week was an Inuk male in his thirties who worked for a well-known Inuit corporation in town. Although he was welcoming and seemed nice enough, I couldn’t help but feel awkward and worry about this arrangement. Luckily, another new female teacher was also assigned to board at his house, so we found comfort in each other’s company. Upon arrival at his home, we were surprised to find that we would be sleeping in our own rooms. We weren’t expecting such luxury. For a bachelor, his home was kept quite well and we began to feel more comfortable. Unfortunately, when he showed me my room, I could not hide my shock. There was no bed, just a mattress on the floor. I could not believe that this was how the school board expected me to sleep. I called home and told my parents how great everything was and that I was fine, masking the deep discomfort I felt in order to save them from worry. I will never forget the second call I made, however, the one I made to my at-the-time boyfriend who was still in Montreal and would be meeting up with me in our Inuit village that weekend. I will never forget the crying and snivelling I did when I told him that I had to sleep on the floor. The more I spoke to him, the more I felt that I had come to the end of the world, or as Mueller (2006) puts it, to the moon: a world of only rocks and dirt.

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As the week went on and our host had parties with friends to “welcome” my colleague and I, we became more uncomfortable sleeping in his house. He had told us to wash the sheets on our mattresses because who knew what was in them after parties. He did drugs and drank uncontrollably. He was not violent but still, my colleague and I wanted no part of this. We asked to be moved. I remember lying on the mattress using my wind-breaker as a blanket, praying that I would make it through one more night amidst the drinking and partying. I was too afraid to sleep, fearing that something might happen while I slept, especially since I had heard my host and one of his friends discussing my colleague’s and my bodies one night. We were finally moved. We could not have been more relieved to share an empty teacher’s house (the teacher was in the South on maternity leave). I felt like I had escaped, as if I had made it out just in time. The rest of the week went by fine, and I was glad to be receiving all sorts of important information during the workshops. I would never forget that feeling of vulnerability, however, and was reminded by one of the school board staff that this is the harsh reality of the North; that these are the conditions that some of my students live in. I felt like I had just hit a stone wall. Even though I had heard stories, I didn’t want to believe they were real. I hadn’t thought of that side if it – of my future students – I was too busy worrying about my own comfort, and that realization hurt me the most. On the last day, Friday, I met my boyfriend at the airport (he had flown up from Montreal) and we were off to the little town that we would call home. Much like all new teachers to the North (I have met many in my four years in Nunavik), I was amazed and excited to start teaching. I wanted to know every bit of information on the Inuit culture and people I could get my hands on. It didn’t feel like reality, but more like a dream, to meet all of these new people (teachers, students, townspeople) at the same time. It was a lot to take in and I was in culture shock. Everything was so different from my home, from city life, from anything I had ever known up to this point. I felt like I was in another world. And although I was excited and the adventurous side of me took over during the day, the nights were completely different. I became withdrawn, lonely and melancholy. Having

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never been away from home, I missed my parents and everything about them. I would lock myself in the bedroom and cry myself to sleep, another aspect that probably did not help my relationship with my boyfriend, although he was too busy playing video games to notice. Upon reflection on my first week in the North, although it was quite different from Karen’s, I have drawn on my personal experience to write about the feelings and roadblocks that she experiences during her year in Ukiurtatuq. In the Introduction to the thesis, I took great explained how this novel is a work of fiction. In order to create the character of Karen, a white teacher travelling to the North for the first time, I did draw on my own experiences. Feelings of fear, despair, worry, and loss play a large part in Karen’s trying to make sense of her new surroundings, compounded by trying to fit into another culture, which in turn, is complicated by the fact that she has to teach the children of a culture with which she is unfamiliar. Added to these feelings are the worries that new teachers face regarding the adequacy and impact of their teaching, away from home or not (Wilson, 2002).

Choosing a Path As I stated, making the decision to live and teach in the North came much easier than making the decision to leave. I felt that leaving after four years of life and learning experiences and in the year that my first students were graduating was an appropriate time: a time that reflected the growth and accomplishment that we had experienced together. Even though I had initially signed the contract for one year, I had kept renewing the contract because I felt I wasn’t done; I wasn’t done teaching and I wasn’t done learning. I didn’t want to leave out of a hasty and rash decision, as I have seen many teachers do for various reasons (personal and professional), but I also couldn’t live with the guilt that I would experience, the guilt from leaving my students. My students were no longer my students after a year, but close members of my Northern family. The bonds had become so strong that I felt an almost maternal relationship with them, and I didn’t want to abandon

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them. I felt that they needed me, but the truth is, I needed them too. And to be quite honest, I still do. They will remain on my mind and in my heart forever. Still, it was time for me to return to the South, come back home to my family and friends, and pursue a relationship that will hopefully end in marriage and children of my own. The timing was as perfect as timing can be; a nice “wrap-up” with a new adventure on the horizon. I had saved enough money to buy a condo in the city, and was accepted into the Master’s program at McGill University. I intended to pursue a career in the South that had begun in the North. I wanted to teach, but I also wanted to gain a deeper understanding and knowledge of my experiences in the North. And so began my new journey, one that would shape my personal, professional and academic life, one that would result in a novel. Upon entering the Education Building at McGill, I had no idea what I would write my thesis on. In fact, I was not even enrolled in the thesis program. I figured that coursework and a project were better suited to my interests, as I had no clearly defined topic. I only knew that I wanted to further my knowledge in order to become a better teacher, and that my body of experiential knowledge teaching in the North could help me bring a different perspective to research and class discussions. I selected courses that were required to complete the program but found myself most interested in readings about Natives or other Indigenous groups, and writing papers and assignments mostly about my experience of teaching in an isolated Inuit village. It was during a methodology course that a concept-mapping assignment pointed me towards a frame of study that best suited my personality: a holistic theoretical framework (Maxwell, 1996). In trying to narrow my interests to a particular question or topic of study, I discovered that I was so invested in discussing the Inuit that I realized that I was personally connected to the Inuit because I had spent so much time with them and felt I understood their world (Lincoln & Denzin, 2000). Most importantly, something in that world seemed to speak to me personally.

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After I read the third chapter of Maxwell’s 1996 book, Qualitative Research Design: An Interactive Approach, I wrote my own “researcher experience memo”, an exercise that Maxwell suggests a researcher do to find the root of the problem. In his own memo, Maxwell describes how he first became interested in his area of research and makes the astounding discovery that his study actually stemmed back to his childhood. Upon writing my researcher experience memo, I discovered that my solidarity with the Inuit, and especially with Inuit women, could be traced to childhood experiences: the experiences of bullying, of feeling left in the margins, but also experiences of abuse, both physical and sexual. While I was trying to bring awareness and bridge the gap between Native and non-Native relations, I unconsciously was also trying to make sense of abusive relationships and how these affected my everyday life. It was not until I wrote the research experience memo that I was able to identify and make clear the relationships between myself, my teaching and my connection to the Inuit people. This discovery was shocking for two reasons. First, I had never gone back far enough in my mind, or reflected long enough on the issue to make the unconscious reason for my interest and solidarity with Natives conscious. I knew I had always been interested in Native history and culture, even as a child in primary and later a student in high school; there was something fascinating that intrigued me about Indigenous survival and strength amidst forced hardships of colonisation. As a Master’s student, I had also been interested in being able to share my experience and to speak with and to the ‘Other’ (Alcoff, 1992) (see The Problem of Representation in Introduction regarding speaking with and to the ‘Other’). But I would never have been able to make the personal connection without that methodology course and the researcher experience memo, as those horribly traumatic and shameful experiences lay hidden so far in my unconscious, I never wanted to admit or accept that those things had actually happened to me. I am still afraid of those memories but despite myself, found huge relief, even therapy, in the writing of all parts of this thesis but mostly, as Karen, for all the years I suffered alone; not being able to bring myself to cope with the shame and

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the guilt – and the anger about what happened to me and what continues to happen to others. And in order not to suffer, I put it completely out of my mind so that I wouldn’t have to deal with it. But after witnessing and aiding my students in the North and their sisters or mothers around these very issues, with that researcher memo, I realized that I couldn’t hide what had happened to me anymore. To do so would have been hypocritical: wanting to raise awareness around these issues yet running away from them myself? This is why, although I’ve quarrelled with myself and weighed the arguments for and against self- disclosure very heavily in my mind, I feel it is of utmost importance to tell this story: a story that is mine but also theirs; the story of the many children and women who suffer abuse, who are silenced, but yet who survive.

Fiction vs. Autobiography I always loved stories. From the time I was a little girl, in elementary school, my first grade teacher, a lady whom I will never forget, introduced me to the story-telling world. My mother often tells me the story of how I would get home from school and arrange my dolls and teddy bears in a circle and read them stories, showing them the pictures, holding the book high in my hand and panning it for all my “students” to see. Imitating my teacher gave me such great joy; a feeling of love and care swept up inside me, just like the feelings of love and care my teacher expressed for me at school, a place that was usually unkind to me with bullies lurking behind every wall and in every corner. Stories were my haven; the place where I could live and laugh and love without feeling guilty or ashamed. They were what kept me going; the place of magic and adventure, the place where dreams came true and wishes were granted. They gave me hope, motivation and inspiration, and before long, even though I could hardly hold a pencil, I was writing and creating stories of my own, stories that my teacher proudly “published” (using cardboard, tape and unused wall- paper samples) and read to the class. My family and I frequently laugh at these memories of me reading and teaching, nodding in amazement at how what we

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thought was a simple childhood pass-time or hobby has turned into a life-long interest, passion and career. Thinking back to my first semester as a graduate student, while these very personal realizations of abuse and their connections and relationships to my larger theoretical framework of study were beginning to become clearer, I was still nowhere near a topic of study. I knew that I wanted to write about my experiences in the North and that I wanted to contribute to the existing body of research on the Inuit, but I also could no longer fight the personal feelings that were coming to the fore. I was on the cusp of a break-through, but was afraid of my honesty. I wanted to tell my story but was afraid of the consequences. I also hugely doubted my narrative writing abilities and believed that my personal story had no place in academia. I therefore decided against my heart towards a more empirical study, one that examined and discussed globalization in the North and how its impacts and effects affected traditional Inuit culture and values in the context of education. In my second semester I wrote a paper on this subject for a graduate course in my second semester entitled “Frozen Food: The Struggle for Subsistence in an Inuit community”. Under the guidance of the professor, the paper received much praise for its insights and contributions, a paper which I presented in Dublin, Ireland, at the Ireland International Conference on Education in April 2012. The feedback on my presentation from colleagues and academics at the conference, as well as from professors and colleagues at McGill inspired me to change from the non-Thesis to the Thesis program. I felt I had found a valid and interesting topic for a Master’s thesis. And although I had, there was something lacking. There was no room for the passion, the story, the strings that pulled at my heart. Upon discussion of my ideas and thoughts for the thesis with Dr. Teresa Strong-Wilson, who became my supervisor and whose work and experience centres around narrative and First Nations issues, I decided one day last Spring to take her advice. I would follow my heart, a calling that I could no longer ignore,

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one that felt much more in tune with and honest with my personal relationship to my academic study. My idea was to write a novel based on my experiences as a Qallunaat teacher in an Inuit village. Once articulated, the ideas began to flow endlessly. As I spoke about it with her, I felt my mind and heart open up and pour out, prefiguring what would happen on the page/screen. I wanted to write a piece, I told her, and as I restate in my Introduction, that painted an honest portrait of what it’s like for a white woman teaching in the North. I also felt that this experience would not be enough to tell the whole story. I felt it was important for the readers to experience l’autre coté de la médaille, the other side of the medal, to take the French expression, in order to gain some understanding of what it’s like to be an Inuit student being taught by a Qallunaak teacher. I thought that including the experiences of the ‘Other’ as well as of the Qallunaak teacher would aid non-Indigenous teachers and be a valuable resource in their preparation for teaching Indigenous students. I also thought that telling the story from “two sets of eyes” would impart value to the work for a larger audience, all with the aim of helping to bridge gaps of communication between Indigenous and non- Indigenous people. From the beginning, it was clear that the work would be a fiction. I did not want to write my autobiography of teaching in the North because I did not want to tell my story or the story of actual people and places for various ethical reasons and concerns, but also because, as Chambers (2004) states, when autobiography has

no topic other than I or has a topic but fails to consider ideas other than her own, she shows discourtesy and does not instill confidence in the insights she may gain from her inquiry. And without a careful examination of the autobiographer’s own doings and actions, her character of spirit, as well as how those are historically shaped and social situated, I believe, it is unlikely the [autobiography] is ethical either. (p. 2)

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The reason for this Afterword is not to enumerate and discuss the various reasons for having chosen to write a fiction as an arts-based, qualitative inquiry. The reason for this Afterword is rather to look back and reflect on my narrative, to discuss and examine my creative writing process and to interpret how my actual experiences in the North affected my research and writing both personally and professionally. In choosing to tell this story, to write a novel about living and teaching in the North, I see now as I write this reflection, that although I hope my initial goals and aims about bringing awareness and understanding around the language, culture, social and educational issues discussed in the novel are accomplished, I also hope to bring solidarity and a message of hope. I hope to un-silence and in doing so, to inspire women to stand up to their abuse(r), to tell their stories. In reflecting on this work, I dream that that they may be heard and that we may listen. It is for these reasons that I chose the path of my heart. It is for these hopes and dreams that I chose to write about a topic that keeps me up at night, the reason why I keep a notebook and pen on my bedside table; it is at night, when the rest of the world sleeps, that my heart speaks to me (Chambers, 2004, p. 9). It is at night when the curtains of the unconscious are torn away, curtain by curtain, flashback by flashback memory. Between dreams and reality, between the past and the present, I hear my heart speak to me and I write what it says.

My Writing Process The novel began with my bedside notebook, a little black notebook with shiny grey sequins on it where I would make lists or write poems, paragraphs or a simple phrase or word that I did not want to forget; an idea that came from my heart which I knew my head would forget in the morning. I would write the thought down, sometimes waking and staying up for hours in the middle of the night to record my thoughts properly, with the whole scope of sensory feelings that came with them, and so that I could use them as a guideline for my characters and plot. During waking moments, I made lists of events or experiences that I

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wanted to make sure to narrate, like parent-teacher interviews, or family hierarchies, or winter camping activities. I also made lists of Inuktitut words that I remembered, along with their English meanings, so that I would not forget to include them, hoping they would add an element of realism to the writing. Along with the bedside notebook I also kept a research journal, a file on my computer where I wrote personal responses to academic and fictional accounts of Native and Inuit life. But when it came to the actual writing of the novel, although I did look at the notebook and research journal when I needed inspiration or came to a stand-still, mostly, the words flew like magic out of my fingers, and all that I could hear was the fast paced typing on my keyboard. I worked in silence. I locked myself in my condo, despite the beautiful summer weather in July and August, despite returning from an exhausting full- time teaching job in the fall months. I surrounded myself with tea, chocolate, and tissues, and let my heart do the tapping. All I had to do was close my eyes for a brief moment, and think back to my first year in the North, and the story told itself. I decided to name the chapters by the school months, making the chronology of the story simple and easy to write about but also straightforward for the reader to follow. The premise is that the readers follow the white female teacher through her first year of teaching in the North, so writing the chapters as “months” was logical in my mind. In order to enter the story-telling mood, all I had to do was close my eyes for a brief moment and I was instantly transported to the land of ice and snow. When the chapters called for a more serious and sombre tone, mostly Saalati’s chapters, I would sometimes listen to Mumford and Son’s first album, Sigh No More. Mumford and Sons are an English folk-rock band, my favourite band, whose melancholy lyrics about life, death, humanity and religion, coupled with their music’s slow drumming, sad string section and their lead singer’s gut- wrenching, heart-broken voice always helped me get in the sad, solemn, pensive and existential mood that I needed for writing. I would also watch clips of Elisapie Isaac, an Inuit singer song-writer, whose songs on Youtube reminded me

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of Inuit tone and cadence in Inuktitut as well as in English speech. I think the fact that she is a very successful female Inuk who works hard to bring awareness around the issues discussed in my novel was also an important factor that contributed to the way Saalati’s character was written. I wanted Saalati to portray the image of a strong Inuit woman, one who, like Isaac and many of the Inuit women I have met, are resilient and determined, surround themselves with positivity and hope, and in the end, not only survive, but succeed; an image which, as discussed in my Introduction, is not one that we often see in Native fiction written by non-Natives. I based the chapters around my four years in the North, using the months as springboards for the selection of events. For example, August is always about settling in and meeting the new teachers; September is mostly about planning and organizing lessons, October when the caribou usually migrate, November when homesickness hits, December marks the excitement of going home for the Holidays, January and February the longest, coldest and usually the hardest months, both professionally and personally, March about camping, April the excitement of Spring, May, the anxiety of exams, and June, graduating and leaving. I then wrote the chapters to match the personalities of the protagonists. Karen, a white female teacher, who is a lot like me, experiences some of the thoughts and feelings that I had as a new teacher in the North. I used my own experiential knowledge of having very strong relationships with female students for four years to write Saalati’s chapters. When it came to writing in her voice, I closed my eyes and imagined conversations I had with female Inuit speakers, and the words seemed to come naturally to me. I tried to imitate the cadence, tone, and vocabulary used by my female Inuit students, a thing I had come accustomed to doing when conversing with them. When I used to teach my Inuit students, I would often use the tone and cadence they used when speaking English as I thought it would be more familiar to them and make it easier for them to understand me.

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Certain events in the novel, like the moment when Karen and Saalati are admiring the caribou migration and feel like they are watching a miraculous occurrence, or the attack that Karen experiences by a male Inuk who breaks and enters her home, are inspired by true events. In these instances, although I do not retell my actual experiences, they do, nevertheless, express the same feelings and emotions that I felt when experiencing the actual events. The decision to include the attack Karen experiences came after much thought and personal conflict. I wanted to include the event because it was a moment of my time in the North that stands out drastically and that I will remember forever, and which adds to my personal story of abuse, but I was also afraid to include it as I did not want to add to the fears that female teachers may have of going North to teach. As far as I know, my personal experience with this kind of attack is one of very few that have happened to female teachers living in the North. As it was part of my story and experience, however, I decided to include it in the novel because it is something with which I had actual experience and I thought knowing what it feels like would make Karen’s character easier to identify with. Also, I included the incident as I thought it would solidify Karen and Saalati’s relationship, not only as teacher and student but as women, bringing the two together in sharing and coping with their stories of abuse. Another extremely significant moment of my experience in the North that I wanted to include in the novel was the feeling of guilt; the feeling, that as a white teacher going North to teach, I am still involved in the colonizing of the ‘Other’ (Strong-Wilson, 2005). I was unaware of it at the time, but this reflection has made me realize that the unconscious writing of my heart was in tune with this feeling before my mind ever was. When writing the sewing scene, for example, Karen explores a story of the past, a history of hurt, a history that is very painful for Inuit to speak of: the residential school era. Karen’s discussion with Minnie is one of a naïve white girl who, in feeling guilt by association with the white colonizers, looks to Minnie for answers about what her people have done to Minnie’s.

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Reviewing the novel in order to write the reflection on my writing process is when I was struck with another realization: much like Breece and Madenwald, in my first year of teaching in the North I thought that I was on a mission to change it: to bring much needed care and education to the children and their parents in an effort to make it a better place to live and learn (Strong-Wilson, 2005; see also Desautels, 2009). I soon realized that a society’s socio-economic problems are a greater task than I was able to take on. I modified my scope so that I could help at least one person. I know that my teaching in the North has helped more than one student, there is no doubt of that, however, my teaching in the North has also made me realize that teaching in the North was exactly the thing I was preaching against. I had not realized, until this reflection, that I had gone to their land, as a Qallunaak of European descent, with the mindset of improving their condition, and to teach and instruct them in the language of the coloniser, to impose Western, White ideals on them, (in the context of the school system) and also to force them to speak to me in that language, just as their parents in residential schools had been forced, just as my colonizing ancestors had done (Strong-Wilson, 2005; Desautels, 2009; Mueller, 2006). This realization was quite a blow. There were times that I felt, and that was one of them, like pressing the delete button. Like throwing my computer against the wall and letting it bang and fall into a million, shattered little pieces. But after all the crying was done, I collected my thoughts and centered my heart. The story has gained even more value for me in that I, the author, have realized these complicated dimensions to the work, and still, am ready to invite criticism. I may have felt like a traitor, but in feeling like a traitor, I felt even more of what the pain and struggle for understanding in the Inuit world must be like; how difficult it must be for one of my students, for example, a mere child, to tell his or her Qallunaak teacher and put into the words of the colonizer, in English, in an English that he is still learning, that he hadn’t done his homework or he came to school late because his parents were drunk and fighting, some of the most direct and harshest effects of the colonizing story (Mueller, 2006.)

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After reflecting on the novel, on the story and the writing process, I have come to the realization that as a human, my heart dwells on mistakes, and that mine specifically dwells on my own mistakes, on the mistakes of others, and like Karen, on the mistakes of my ancestors. “You must explore and write the suffering and grief that comes from writing in an imperfect world. But you must also make peace with the past and the present, and live into the future” (Chambers, 2004, p. 11). I was shocked to read these words in Chamber’s (2004) article, many months after having written the sewing scene. These words bear a striking resemblance to Minnie’s words of advice on forgiving and forgetting and of making peace with the past, words my heart, although forever broken, managed to write all on its own, a symbol of strength, of hope, but most of all, of survival. Upon reflection of my novel I have also come to realize that my memories of the North, or rather, the way I have constructed them in my novel, deal largely with a longing for an idyllic past. Much like Saalati’s character, who often reflects on the “good old days”, the days of her ancestors, I also long for my experiences of teaching and living in the North. As Strong-Wilson et al write, “future remembrance” is often centred around nostalgia – the idea that a return to an idealized past is required in order to have a future…” (under review, p. 5) I have discovered that my memories of the North, as written in the novel, are a form of memory work, that centres around nostalgia. Not only do I long to live those idyllic days in the North again, but I have unconsciously written in such a way that will allow me to remember those experiences into the future. That nostalgia is based on a feeling of loss; one that idealizes a bond with the nature and the people of the North and that becomes projected and re-instated in my writing (Strong- Wilson et al, under review, p.6). Saalati’s character especially expresses the nostalgia of my unconscious: a world of inner-peace that only the North can offer me; a world of deep familial-like bonds with students and colleagues; a world of wonderful experiences not available in the South. This unconscious longing for the North only began to occur one year after my return to the South: the exact time that I began to write my novel. This longing – and the writing of it through Saalati – is therefore in tune with ‘belatedness’, the notion that a break from

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isolation of the event is necessary in order for it to be carried forward (Strong- Wilson et al, forthcoming, p, 12). I have therefore created a “post-memory not through recollection but through ‘imaginative investment and creation,’” one that is animated by a “deep personal connection”, but in such a way that interposes a critical distance (Strong-Wilson et al, under review, p. 12). Had I recorded my experiences of my time in the North in a diary or journal like Breece and Madenwald while I was still in the North, my results would have been quite different. Without the lapse in time and relocation to the South, there would have been no room for critical reflection on my experience as a White teacher travelling North and there may have been no Salaati: my attempt to interpret a Northern world through Inuit eyes. There would have been no room for my mind to begin to interpret my own thoughts and feelings about my experiences and no room to question them. The use of language in my novel is one example I would like to discuss. Like Fowler (2002) also writes with respect to her own teacher story, the narrative seemed to flow out of me: “stories began to tumble out of my pen before I was aware of what was happening and what might lie beneath the surface” (Fowler, p. 6). In describing Saalati’s hair and eye colour, for example, I often use the word “raven.” While I initially chose this word to invoke a more genuine feel for Indigenous culture, I have since fallen upon two different readings of the word and how they relate to my unconscious. Whenever I come across the word “raven” in Native literature, it always inspires a mystical sort of feeling in me, a link that I associate with Indigenous culture and spirituality. It is one of the words of the English language that I love dearly; it is powerful, moving and inspirational. But the more I reflect on my use of the word “raven”, the more I feel betrayed by myself. Karen’s use of the word in describing Saalati is reminiscent of a colonial perspective with which I am extremely uncomfortable. From this point of view, Karen’s use of the word to describe Saalati may not be seen as the “nod” to Native culture that I intended it to be, but more like a romanticized perception of what a white colonizer holds of the mystical ‘Other’. Although this was not my intention at all, I cannot dismiss the possibility that in

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my location as a Qallunaak writing about Inuit, my use of the word “raven” may be misinterpreted and criticized by Indigenous readers. As discussed earlier, my personal connection to story-telling has greatly influenced the writing of my novel. Telling this story has also influenced the memory of my experiences in the North. Looking back at how I constructed the story, I am amazed at the knowledge I discovered in my unconscious and how I wanted to continue to remember the North in my heart. Upon reflection I have asked myself various questions about my writing: “What is powerful? What is omitted? What doesn’t fit? Which clichés “gloss over” experiences?” (Wilson, 2002). Like myself, Karen had to relocate to the North in order to find herself. This is apparent in Karen’s “January” chapter, in which she struggles with the superficiality she finds in her own Southern culture. These feelings and perceptions are actually a representation of my present struggles, a feeling aligned with exile (Wilson, 2002). As a result of her experience in the North, Karen begins to feel, like I feel presently, as an “exile from my own culture” (Wilson, 2002, p. 76). This forces me to ask the question: “is the relocating to there about hiding from here?” (Wilson, 2002, p.80) It is clear that this feeling of exile was one of the reasons why I moved North: to find myself and to become me; however, it is even clearer still, that after having moved back South, a part of me still remains and will forever live in the North. The journey, the sense of exile, the isolation and the dissatisfaction with my own culture, the feeling of not wholly belonging, neither here nor there, is one that I believe I may continue to struggle with my entire life. I stated earlier that I had found myself in the North, that I was able to break free from the entrapment I felt living in Montreal with its constant stresses and obligations. In the North, I was able to learn who I really was, to do what I wanted to do, and that time did not matter. Furthermore, moving North provided freedom; personal and financial, but also a freedom from my traumatic past. By writing my memory of the North as a landscape of white purity, of infinite blue sky, I constructed a place where I could run far away from the painful memories of abuse, despite my attack in the North, and replace them with infinite

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opportunities for happiness. The way I describe the vastness of the land, its emphasis on purity and whiteness, accompanied by endless horizons, are symbols of the freedom I always longed to have, a freedom that stands in stark contrast to the painful memories of abuse with which I feel tormented.

Conclusion The North is a place of white mountains and blue bays, of grey rocks and dark nights, teeming with wildlife, yet wrapped in a blanket of solitude. It is cold and unforgiving in its harshness, yet abundant in its giving. The people of the North have survived on and because of the land, a land that seems barren and life- less at first glance, but upon further reflection is a land that has given shelter, food and clothing to its people. It has allowed them to survive, it has given them fire, determination, and courage. My journey to the North, what once began as a simple teaching job, has changed my life forever. Along with all of the personal, professional and academic experiences it has afforded me, it has also given me the gift of finding my story, and the power of words. Little did I know, sitting in that circle in my first grade class, listening to the teacher read stories, that my heart was already carving a path for me. Little did I know that becoming a teacher would lead me North. Little did I know that in the North I would find my home, and that once I left the North, I would long to return home. Not a day passes that I do not long for the tiny, little Northern village, not a day that I do not long for the comfort and happiness I found in my students’ laughter, not a day that I do not think and worry about them. I chose to follow my heart. I found my path and it lies in this story. And yet, upon reflection, it seems to be a very tightly-woven course, a path that only the heart would know; a path that speaks and listens to other hearts. And as I sat on my couch, just having finished writing the last sentence of my last chapter, face streaked with tears, I looked out the window and saw a single snowflake fall, slowly, as if to signal that I had chosen well.

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Glossary of Inuktitut Words

Aa: yes or response to hello Key-mit: I need a key Aalumi: term of endearment Jisusi: Jesus Aarjuliut: December Junks: slang for junk food (English Aha: emphatic yes pronunciation) Ai: hello Lukuuapik: very picky, strict or fussy Ajak: aunt Mamaktuk: smells good/tastes Amautik: traditional women’s Inuit good/delicious parka with large hood for carrying a Manilliut: June baby Misirak: dipping sauce made from Amiraijaut: September animal (i.e. seal or whale) fat Anaana: mother Mmmp: expression of love Anaanatsiak: grandmother Naak: stomach/belly Aqpik: wild Northern berry Nakurmik: thank you Arnajutik: person selected to cut Naligivarit: I love you umbilical cord at birth Nalirqaituq: January Arnalingnguutivik: October Nassak: traditional Inuit knitted hat Asu: expression of understanding Natjuijarvik: November (like the English “oh”) Natsialiut: March Ataata: father Nauruuk: let me see Ataatatsiak: grandfather Nukaapik: little sister Aatsiaramai: I’m laughing a lot Nurraliut: May Aatsuk: I don’t know Ouaaay: expression of happiness Aatsunai: good bye; farewell Ouima: hurry Atillu: again Oui-oui: French speaking non-Inuit Aujalirut: August person Avunnitik: February Ouiouititut: French Ayy: expression of affirmation Panik: daughter Bibi: baby Panikgnai: hello daughter Eeee: expression of fear Pisitik: very good or very well done Free-housing: Inuit teenager slang Pualuks: traditional Inuit mitts meaning home is free from adult Qallu: eyebrows supervision Qanu: how/why? Hairrit: come here Qullik: traditional Inuit oil lamp Hey: look Qallunaak: one “white” or English Honda: all-terrain vehicle speaking person Hot-knifing: Inhaling fumes of Qallunaat: more than one “white” or marijuana from a metal knife heated English speaking people on a stove burner Qallunaatitut: English Ilai: true/it’s true Qamutik: traditional Inuit wooden Ilali: you’re welcome sled Ikajurtau: help Qangattajuu: plane Ikki: cold Qangattajuu tikittuq: the plane has Kaamiks: seal skin boots arrived (plane is here)

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Raaa: expression of Suvalik: Inuit desert of wild berries surprise/disbelief and fish eggs Riiis: expression of anger or Tamaaniingngilaurit: get out of here frustration Tirilluliut: April Sauniq: namesake (literal translation: Tukisivit: do you understand? bone) Tuktuk: caribou Sikituuq: skidoo/snowmobile Tuuq: traditional Inuit tool used to South: southern region of the create holes in ice (for ice fishing) province of Quebec Ulaakut: good morning Sunamut takuuna: what are you Uluk: traditional flat rounded knife looking at? used by Inuit women Sungngi: nothing Una: here as in “take it” Suyu: what’s going on? Ukiurtatuqmiut: people of Suvit: what are you doing? Ukiurtatuq

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