Up Ghost River by Edmund Metatawabin Read Free Book Online Page B

the boys got it into their eyes, and they started to rub them and cry. It smelledbad, like a stinging in my nose. We left the line and hurried one-by-one to the three showers next door, dousing our hair under the warm water. Then we came back to the line, and Sister Wesley handed us each a towel. When everyone was finished, we returned quickly to the dormitory.
    â€œWe will now give you the clothes to use for the whole year,” Sister Wesley said. “You will be given two sets. If you tear them on purpose you will sew them yourself.”
    Sister Wesley walked to the cupboard by the wall and began pulling out neatly folded piles of clothes, some denim and some black and white. Each was embroidered with our numbers, according to our height. She also pulled out an undershirt, shorts, bathing trunks, pyjamas and running shoes for each boy. She clapped twice and we got in line again according to height. Then one by one we came forward. My pants didn’t quite fit, but I dared not say anything.
    It was time for our medical exam. Sister Wesley told us to stay in line, then left the room. In walked a man in a black cassock who introduced himself as Brother Jutras. He sat in a chair and told us to line up in front of him, the smallest boy stopping about four feet from him. I stared at Number Three’s back.
    â€œStep forward and pull down your pants,” Brother Jutras said when it was my turn. He reached forward and cradled my penis, touching it, examining it carefully, then eventually pulled at the skin to examine the tip. He also felt my balls; his touch immediately made me hard. Somehow I knew it was wrong, and I tried to pull myself away but he held firm. I looked away and waited for him to stop touching me. It took a while. Then he told me to pull up my pants.
    Sister Wesley entered. “Time for haircuts,” she announced, as she tied on a blue striped apron.
    There was silence. Then Tony said, almost inaudibly, “We don’t cut our hair.”
    â€œDon’t you have Indian Agents in Moosonee, Number Twenty-Three?” Long hair had been illegal since before I was born. When I was out in the bush, I saw that a few people still had braids. I asked Papa about it and he said that these people didn’t go near the settlements and so they did their best to ignore the white man and the wemistikoshiw ways. I remembered my grandmother saying our hair is a sign of our strength.
    Sister Wesley clapped and we lined up. She cut our hair with scissors, then used an electric razor. Our hair tumbled to the floor in tangled clumps, like broken bird’s nests. Tony caught my gaze in the mirror, and I jokingly pursed my mouth into the shape of a fish. He smiled.
    We heard the clap of Sister Wesley’s hands, lined up according to the numbering system, and went downstairs to the dining hall for dinner. I heard utensils scraping plates, and smelled roast beef, potatoes and gravy. I had hardly eaten anything for breakfast, and had no lunch, and my mouth watered. However, lining up with our trays, I realized that the good food was for the nuns; ours was a bowl of watery beans with tiny pieces of meat.
    I sat at one of the rows of benches, next to Tony, and dug in. The food tasted like muddy river water. It slid around in my mouth, slipping up my gums and between my teeth. I ate quickly, and afterward, I was still hungry.
    â€œEd,” whispered Tony. “Go ’n’ ask for more.”
    We were supposed to be silent, so I waited until Sister Wesley, who was patrolling the room, had moved to the next table.
    â€œNo!” I whispered.
    â€œCome on. They are our people.” I looked up from my plate. He was right—the servers behind the counter were all Cree men, younger than Papa. If they’d been raised right, they should share. “Go on,” Tony hissed, and he looked at me hard, like it was a test of my bravery.
    I looked at them again. They doled out the food onto the plates