PP. 1-5
(p. 1) It was as though the wings of one thousand birds soared in my heart, propelling me back to my family. I leapt over the side of the boat and ran toward my mother.
(p. 2) Her face remained as still as stone.
“Not my girl!” she called in what little English she knew. The birds in my heart fell from their sky.
(p. 3) I caught a glint of my own reflection in my mother’s hard eyes. The long braids she had once lovingly plaited had been cut away, along with everything she remembered of me.
I had grown tall and very thin from two years of hard chores and poor meals at the outsiders’ school.
(p. 4) When I left for Aklavik, I was just eight. Now I was ten. In that time I had learned how to add numbers and how to read books. I had perfect table manners and knew when to say my prayers. I could speak English and French. But I no longer knew the words in my own language to tell my mother that I was her girl.
“Not my girl!” rang out again like the slap of a ruler on a desk.
(p. 5) I turned to my sisters and brother. They just stared.
I tensed to run, but my father caught me in a tight embrace.
“Olemaun,” he whispered. I had not heard my Inuit name in so long I thought it might shatter like an eggshell with the weight of my father’s voice. At the school I was known only by my Christian name, Margaret. I buried my head in my father’s smoky parka, turning it wet with tears. I felt a touch much gentler than my father’s strong grasp as my mother’s arms joined his. Together they sheltered me in that safe place between them.