“Aren’t we going a little overboard?” asked Yasmeen.
“Trust me. You can never be too careful at times like this. I’ve seen too many booze-related incidents, and not pretty ones.” Though Yasmeen was skeptical, her own mother’s mistrust of drunks and Iris’s earnestness tipped the balance on the side of caution. And while her father was never violent or abusive when he drank, he sometimes looked like he could be pushed over the edge.
They hauled her bookcase, with all the heavy books in it, across the floor, leaving behind a pair of dried-up turds. A parting gift from her little friend, Yasmeen supposed. She pinched them into a tissue and tossed them into the honey bucket while Iris scanned the room for extra fortification. They dragged over the couch and armchair and coffee table. They piled the four kitchen chairs on top of the couch. It made Yasmeen think of a bad horror movie, where the heroine goes nuts barricading herself in the house, trying to fend off a bug-eyed, three-headed alien. When they were done they collapsed on the floor in exhaustion. Red as a tulip, Iris attempted a joke about a Catholic, a businessman, and an atheist waiting in line at the pearly gates. She got most of it wrong but laughed casually, almost light-heartedly. It seemed completely out of character. Yasmeen chuckled and went to put the kettle on.
Blam. Something hit the house. It sent a shock wave through Yasmeen. The teacups slipped from her hands and shattered on the floor. When she dashed back into the living room she found Iris with all the blood drained out of her face, slowly backing away from the mammoth fist that had burst through the door, wrenching it off its hinges. Their blockade was destroyed, furniture strewn about the room. Tommy was glaring through bloodshot eyes. He was clutching a 26-ouncer, a dark stain spread over the crotch of his jeans.
He tried to climb over the wreckage but his foot caught on the leg of a chair and he tripped and fell backwards onto his tailbone. He flew into a rage. “Fuck you, you fucking bitches!”
He rolled onto all fours and wobbled upright. The floor quaked under the solid weight of him. He kicked the chair and staggered toward the kitchen with his bottle. He banged into the refrigerator, eyeballed it and waggled a finger. “Watch it or I’ll kick your sorry white ass all the way to Salluit!”
Suddenly the idea of addressing the fridge as though it were human seemed hilarious to him. He laughed and burped concurrently. When the joke got old, he set aside the bottle to massage his injured fist. He licked the blood off his knuckles.
Yasmeen hoped he’d forget his motives for showing up and go home and sleep it off. They could chalk it up to a bad night and let bygones be bygones.
Iris dropped her shoulders and relaxed. She looked at Tommy. “How about some tea?” she said. “And maybe a game of cards.”
Tommy’s eyebrow arched up. “Don’t you fuck with my little brother, do you hear me?” He took a swipe at Iris but missed and fell on the floor again. “You called the cops, you little fucker, didn’t you?”
Yasmeen looked at Iris but saw that she was just as puzzled as she was. Iris regained her composure and gently repeated the offer of tea. “Sit down and relax a little,” she said.
Tommy’s eyes narrowed to slits. He vaulted upright and pushed his face into hers. “Shut the fuck up, you ugly fuck.”
Yasmeen thought for sure Iris was quivering inside. She wondered how she was keeping it together. She, herself, was on the edge of fear but not terrified. More jumpy than afraid. At the same time she felt a kind of disbelief, a lag between her and the situation, as if the scene involved another set of people and she was just watching it all from a cloud. It didn’t seem possible that they wouldn’t live to tell the story.
Tommy inched backwards until he was butted up against the wall with nowhere to go. “You come here, you take our land, you call the police on us.” He snivelled up a river of snot and tears. “I’m going home now to get my gun and I’m coming back for both you ….”
His face changed abruptly, brightening like the sky after a terrible storm. “Ohhh, look who’s here? My very best buddy, Joanasi. Qanuippit?”
Qanuingngi, the voice answered back from the opening where Yasmeen’s door used to be.
Yasmeen wondered what Joanasi was doing there with a rifle on his back, as though he had just returned from hunting. Was he stopping by because he heard the ruckus inside?
Tommy rose tentatively but fell backwards again, muttering in garbled Inuktitut. He levered himself up a second time, shaky on his feet. “I’m going now,” he said. “I’m going now with my good friend, Joanasi.” His chest inflated as though he were invincible. He drew in a cavernous breath and kicked his boot high into the air, ramming it down on the broken door. “I’m going, and I’m getting my gun. And I’m coming back for you.” He tapped Joanasi on the shoulder as he staggered past him down the steps, coat half-on, half-off.
Joanasi volleyed Yasmeen a look that seemed to say both sorry and I never judge my friends. What else could he do? She nodded with understanding. She thought ahead to what would happen afterwards, putting herself in Tommy’s shoes. She reversed their roles and tried to see it from his point of view. Probably she’d flop into bed and get a good night’s sleep and consider everything again in the sober light of day. She’d remember they were friends above all, even though others of the same race had once exploited her. She would lower her head to keep the peace, crawl back without really crawling, contrite but not too contrite. And most likely she’d be forgiven because in his heart of hearts he would understand that she really was the victim here.
•
Later that night, as a precautionary measure, Paulussie went door-to-door collecting the teachers for a sleepover at his house. Yasmeen was pretty sure the storm had blown over and that Paulussie was just trying to appease them. He drew the blinds and invited everyone to find a spot on the floor. In no time, the living room looked like a reprise of their camping trip, a muddle of sleeping bags and toiletries and folksy crocheted quilts. People were tiptoeing and whispering, trying to avoid waking the children and alarming them. Jacqueline was at Tommy’s mother’s place waiting for things to calm down.
By the time everyone was settled it was nearly two in the morning. Sam brushed her teeth and announced she was hitting the sack; all this excitement was too much for one night. She threw her T-shirt over the lamp to dim the light. Iris got into her sleeping bag with all her clothes on. She tossed this way and that, sighed in frustration, unzipped her sleeping bag and went to get some papers to look over. Voices wafted from the kitchen. Yasmeen’s ears perked up.
“You should have seen him,” said Elliot. “He completely flipped his gourd.”
“Hm,” said Sarah.
“I mean, he was worse than I’ve ever seen him.”
Paulussie sighed.
“I actually thought he might kill me.”
“The kids.” whispered Sarah. “Lower your voice.”
It was clear to Yasmeen that they thought Elliot was over-reacting. Probably he resembled Morgan in his constant need for a crisis, something to remind him that he existed. And Tommy, was he so wrong to lash out? Was it even about right or wrong? There was no denying that the missionaries and the government had fucked them over big time. Frank had recommended all kinds of reading material on how the whites had deliberately destabilized the way of life in the North and Yasmeen promised herself before leaving Montreal that she’d be different. That she would make a difference. She had no interest in integrating her students into a world that exploited them and subtly chipped away at their culture. She intended to keep that promise.
•
On her way home from the Co-op two days later, Yasmeen spotted something blowing against the provisional door that Paulussie had rigged up for her, a rough piece of plywood on hinges barred with a padlock. She squinted. From a distance it looked like Kleenex. By the time she reached it she saw that it was actually a corner scrap of loose-leaf thumbtacked to th
e door. She put down her grocery bag and tore it off. Scribbled in blotchy ballpoint, it was smudged where the writer’s hand had accidentally rubbed across the ink. “Sorry about the other day. i will fix your door soon,” it said. “Lets be friends again, Tommy.”
Yasmeen smiled. She made a proud fist and raised it triumphantly into the air. Yessss! What did I tell you? Though no one was within earshot she sensed a presence, her father close by, cheering her victory.
September 21, 1983
Dear Morgan,
I once read that the Inuit word for white men (Qallunaat) means “men (I take that to mean women, too!) with thick eyebrows.” I also heard it means “men with large stomachs.” Do you think there’s a message in it? Am I (and my large, bushy-eyed colleagues) just up here looking to fill an insatiable emptiness—greedy for food, greedy for life, greedy for love even? And if so, why so greedy for a universe of ice, where nothing grows?
Frank told us that the word tundra literally means “nothing.” Did you know the tundra (nothing) covers about a fifth of the Earth’s surface?
There are only two seasons here. The first is darkness, eternal night, when the drowsing sun barely lifts its head. The other season arrives in a burst, like the blink of an eye. Just enough time for wild flowers and berries to flourish quickly and die just as suddenly (I read that somewhere). I suppose they would call it summer—this warm jet of air, these short-lived weeks of open water and renewal. Next June, when night disappears almost entirely, the village will empty out. White teachers, including me, will go south again. They will board up the school. Against this bald silhouette of earth, families will paddle off in their boats toward the remembered smell of sea and char.
Dear old friend. Please forgive my poetic foray. It’s been a weird couple of days. Hope things are good with you and that your parents aren’t driving you insane. Oops, I forgot. My mother’s the nut job.
Big hug,
Yasmeen
PS. Apparently, jasmine is most potent after dark when it opens its tiny petals and releases its fragrance into the cool night air. There’s a garden buff here named Sam who knows all this stuff. How could I have gone my entire life not knowing this?
SEVEN
The custom of dropping in at all hours, unannounced, quickly grew on Yasmeen. The visitors were mainly curious strangers who had glimpsed her around town, and kids, some she taught and some she didn’t. The children arrived in packs. They stayed for ten minutes or an hour, unzipping but never removing their coats. They helped themselves to her board games and colouring books. They lounged on her couch watching whatever was playing on Saqijuvik’s one channel, CBC North, with its news reports from Cornerbrook. They drew hearts and stuck them on her fridge. They spoke into their hands, in whispers, occasionally bursting into laughter over a trifle. They trained their eyes on her, watching as she ate dinner or did laundry or baked a pan of brownies. She enjoyed having them around.
One night Elisapie stopped by for a visit. She opened her coat and flashed her new Boy George T-shirt. The brightest of Yasmeen’s students, she worked hard in spite of her issues. Elliot had gladly provided the backstory—that she’d gotten pregnant the year before when she was only thirteen and given the baby to her grandmother to raise so she could continue her education.
For half an hour she sat politely on the couch watching TV while Yasmeen corrected spelling tests and drank from an oversized coffee mug that had belonged to her father. Yasmeen observed her discreetly. Like many girls in the village, she wore shiny lip-gloss and a light dusting of blue eye shadow. Eventually the girl wandered over to where Yasmeen had her papers spread out. She dropped down cross-legged onto the floor and said, “You have no kids?” like it was a question.
Yasmeen continued correcting without looking up.
“You’re twenty and you got no kids?”
It felt like a weird conversation to be having with her student, like a boundary had been crossed. “Twenty-three, to be exact,” she said. As an afterthought she added, “Maybe one day, but not yet. I’d like to do some travelling first.” When she looked up, she saw Elisapie’s puzzled expression that seemed to say, what planet do you come from, anyway?
•
On Monday, after a beautiful weekend of Indian summer, Yasmeen walked into a class of students gliding backwards in stocking feet. They were competing to determine who could do the best imitation of Michael Jackson’s moonwalk. They’d seen it on Good Rockin’ Tonight. Yasmeen wondered how the pop star would react to the irony of a satellite dish beaming his popular walk into a place almost as remote as the moon.
Yasmeen clapped her hands. “Okay everyone, back to your seats.”
Elisapie asked if they were doing the Community Heroes unit today.
“That’s the plan,” said Yasmeen. “It’s Qalingo’s turn to present a special guest. I wonder who it will be.” She slung her camera around Salatee’s neck and said, “You’ll be our photographer for today. Don’t forget to take a lot of pictures.”
Salatee glowed.
“Okay, let’s everyone take out our Duo Tangs and something to write with.” She sent them one by one to the pencil sharpener while she went to prepare the soup for recess. As she was filling the big aluminum pot with water, Qalingo strutted in with his visitor.
Qalingo wore his usual dark glasses into class and an Expos baseball cap, one from his vast assortment of hats. Yasmeen was surprised when she saw his guest, the first community hero she actually knew in person. Previously they had interviewed the mayor, a throat singer, the driver of the sewage truck, and the best soapstone carver in town.
Yasmeen smiled. “You again,” she said.
Joanasi shrugged, looking slightly but not altogether uncomfortable being the centre of attention. Yasmeen gave him her chair, asking would he like a glass of water.
“It’s okay,” he said. She didn’t understand if he meant yes or no, so she went to get him one anyway. The students took their seats.
Elisapie gnawed the pink eraser on the end of her pencil. She raised her hand and asked Joanasi what it was like to work at the radio station.
“Fun,” he said, glancing at Yasmeen to get a sense of whether he was doing it right.
“The floor’s yours,” she said. “The kids just want to write about who you really are as a person. Say whatever’s on your mind. There are no wrong answers.”
He said, “Well, okay then.” He slid down in the chair and stretched out his feet. “The radio station is really fun.” He pulled his mesh cap down over his eyes and fiddled with the peak. “I get to play all the music I love, as long as we have it. Sometimes we don’t have the songs I want to play, though.” He laughed. “Too bad.”
Elisapie rushed to copy down everything he said. Qalingo just listened, spellbound, forgetting to take notes. He sat with his elbows propped up on the desk and his chin in his palms.
Yasmeen jumped in, modeling the interview process, hoping the students would catch on. “Like what music?” she said. “ … for example.”
Joanasi straightened in the chair and pushed his cap back up. “Like maybe The Police, the new album, and Shout at the Devil. Yeah, that. I wonder how I’m gonna get my hands on it, the mail takes forever here.”
Yasmeen nodded and smiled and said she knew The Police but not the other song, who was it by? He eyed her in a way that dragged out the suspense.
“I give up,” she said.
“Mötley Crüe,” Audlaluk blurted out, tickled that he knew the answer before his own teacher. He had a face like a penny worn from rubbing that always made him look like a wrinkled old man. She gave him the thumbs up and said, “Okay buddy, your question next.”
He sat for a long while not saying anything, doodling aimlessly on his paper. His crossed legs swung nervously under his desk, holey socks dragging back and forth across the floor, collecting dust. Yasmeen prodded him but said
to take all the time he needed. She reminded him that all questions were good, how else were people expected to learn? Her words encouraged him and soon he half-formulated a question about hunting, about how Joanasi became the best goose hunter in the village.
Yasmeen was glad to learn something she didn’t know. It occurred to her that there was much she didn’t know about Saqijuvik. Her intention of jotting down all he said, for later reference, evaporated with his captivating story about a bad hunter who decided to leave home because what he really wanted was to be a caribou rather than a man. Joanasi told it masterfully. He explained how the man ended up in a large village run by caribou and how he begged the chief to let him become one of them, though when he finally did he had trouble keeping up with the herd. It took time for him to acquire their skill.
“Don’t stop now,” said Yasmeen. “Just when it’s getting interesting.”
Salatee followed his every move with the camera, self-conscious about setting off the noisy shutter. She bent on her knee for a shot, then changed her mind, moving in for a better angle.
Joanasi reached for the glass and drank. Yasmeen was glad she had thought of the water. He licked his lips and leaned forward to look each kid squarely in the eye.
“One day when the man was old he decided he wanted to see his family again. He asked the chief for permission. The chief let him go. The man walked many days. When he saw his village in the distance he was so excited he forgot all about the traps hunters set and got caught in one. Two boys with rifles were waiting for him. Before they could shoot, the caribou that was really a man cried out for mercy. It scared the boys. He told them, ‘Don’t shoot, just tear off my skin with your knife.’ The boys obeyed and were surprised to find a man inside. They were surprised to learn that the man was actually their father who had left them when they were very young.”
Yasmeen Page 8