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336 pages
First published September 28, 2021
He’d always talk about being a Stranger like it was a good thing, like it was the opposite of what the world seemed to think it was. “Never forget who you are, Margogo, and who you come from. We are warriors, us. We are Métis. We have fought and won our freedom. We’ve never lived by their rules. Aren’t meant to. We have to be free.”
Back then, we were always so happy to see each other. It was like Christmas every time. Mama was in treatment and normal, and Phoenix was in a group home in West St. Paul. I remember missing and loving them both so much. Phoenix missed me too. She’d always give me a hug so big and so long I thought she’d never let me go. She’d hug me before she hugged anyone else. Even Sparrow who was so small she’d cling to my side for the first bit, unsure about Phoenix and Mama, as if they were strangers.
To think she was almost free of it. She had almost overcome the sad Indian stereotype. She’d almost became an example. She used to try and tell herself she was only Métis, not a real Indian, as if that could spare her from it. Even though it never spared her family. It never made any difference at all to anyone on the outside looking in. She tried to hide it, kill it in her, be as white as possible, pass, but it didn’t much matter what she did. To the world she was still a squaw. Trying to reason that she was only half a squaw didn’t matter much to anyone else, not even her. And here she was now. Alone in a big empty house. Her family useless — every last one of them. Nothing to look back on but a bunch of shameful stories. No successes to speak of. Nothing to show for a life of hard work. Until now.