In March, when winter term drew to a close, and the bruising around my eye had disappeared, I returned to my aunties’ house on the reservation. When I had traveled this route to Oberlin, the future was full of thrilling possibilities, but now I was unsure of what it held. The house had grown shabbier than I remembered as the war took its toll. Even white people, this far north, had little money to spend on beaded bags or birch bark baskets. There was not much food to offer, but Auntie Ahmeek brought me pine needle tea, sharp and tangy, for strength, and Auntie Shing Obe never left my side as I sat staring into the fire.

         “You are far away from us,” Shing Obe said.

      &n...

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