Fatty Legs: A True Story

In front of me, at least a dozen children dressed in uniforms crouched in a silty garden, breaking the earth and pulling at roots with small tools. These had to be the naughty children who were made to kneel for forgiveness. Behind them stood two immense wooden buildings, so much larger than our schooner, with rows and rows of windows. I had forgotten how big these buildings were. This was where I would go to school, but I would not be like these children. I would be good and spend all of my time inside, learning to read. (pg. 22-23)

After we were inspected for cleanliness, we were led in single file into a strange room that separated the boys' and girls' dormitories. It was filled with long benches, instead of desks, but there were books placed along them. At last, I would learn to read. Standing at the head of the room was the priest who had taken my parents away the day before. I spotted Sister MacQuillan in the front row, but she did not get up to teach us. Instead, the nuns came around and made us get down on our knees and hang our heads. It seemed like an odd way to learn anything. Agnes saw my confusion and whispered to me in Inuvialuktun, “We are supposed to pray for our souls.”

I nodded my head and prayed to start class soon.

My prayers were not answered.

After kneeling, we were taken to eat a breakfast of soggy, bland, mushy oatmeal. Each bowl was sprinkled with a scant teaspoon of brown sugar, which hardly disguised the revolting, tasteless stuff.

I wondered how Agnes, who was sitting next to me, could eat it with such enthusiasm.

“You get used to it,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

“Really? So, do we learn to read after breakfast?”

Agnes put down her spoon and turned to face me. Her face was sad and sympathetic. “Oh, no, we will not begin classes until the ice freezes again in the fall.”

I stared at her, horror replacing hunger in my belly. My spirit sank like the stockings that slouched around my ankles. Why had I been so eager to come here? I thought of my sisters and cousins. They were still in Aklavik, nearly within shouting distance. I wanted to yell to them to wake my father and tell him to come and get me so that I could spend the day dancing and watching the games.

"What do we do, until then?" I asked her, fearing the answer.

"We do chores, and we play."

I had spent so many days anticipating the thaw, and now I would spend my days scrubbing, gathering wood, and mending uniforms, impatiently waiting for the freeze. (pg. 42-43)

Source:

Pokiak-Fenton, M., & Jordan-Fenton, C. (2012). Fatty legs: A true story. Annick Press.