When the schools came
village families were broken
like stones under a great hammer.
The age-old pull of the seasons of fish
and game
still tugged at the chests of the men
with the insistence of embeded fishhooks;
and when the great caribou migration started,
or apochrophal schools of salmon
returned to Bristol Bay,
when jagged leads began to appear
like great seams in the Arctic ice pack,
or the first dirty trails of springtime
showed in the snow on the sides of mountains
pinpointing bear dens. . .
came the inevitable morning
to Native families throughout the northland
when there was something different in the houses:
men rose up earlier than usual,
and with great deliberateness
pulled on their travelling clothes,
drank coffee, talked very little,
and went out on the trail of their fathers.
Women stood in the doorways,
saying nothing,
no longer able-as had always
been their custom-to go along behind.
Little children ran after
their daddies’ disappearing boat or sled-
helpless to prevent the leaving,
or the growing distance between them.
There were schools in the villages
now,
and the White Man’s Law
said Native children had to learn.
Well, they would.
-Bill Vaudrin
