Page 6 of Stolen Dreams

Arms crossed over his chest, he screws his lips tightly and stares at the floor. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence or my question, but I don’t take it personally. Anger radiates off his aura like thick fog.

I glance at the office assistant. “I’ll take it from here, Enola. Thank you.”

They smile and nod, then head back to the front desk.

“Come in, Tucker.” I gesture to the guest chairs near my desk. “Have a seat.”

Tucker stomps across my office and plops down in one of the chairs, an exaggerated huff leaving his lips.

Closing the door, I cross the room and take a seat in the guest chair next to Tucker, twisting so I’m angled in his direction. Silence stretches out between us, a quiet I don’t disrupt.

Both my position in the room and my reticence serve a purpose. Sitting next to Tucker as opposed to the other side of my desk, I appear less an authority figure and more a friend. Remaining quiet for a couple minutes gives him a moment to collect himself and his thoughts.

He undoubtedly thinks he was sent here to be punished for his behavior in class. But I’m not here to discipline. My job isto find the root cause of his troubles, talk him through it, share the possible ramifications, and guide him on what to do when he feels this way in the future.

I extend a hand toward Tucker. “Don’t think we’ve met, Tucker. I’m Ms. Imala, the school behavioral specialist. But my students call me Kaya.”

His eyes flit to my proffered hand, then go back to staring at the desk.

I lace my fingers and rest my hands in my lap. “Ms. Cambridge tells me you’ve been upset. Do you want to share what’s bothering you? Whatever we talk about in here stays between you and me.”

As I say the last part, Tucker’s shoulders relax a little and his expression softens. Progress.

“When I was your age, kids in my class picked on me.”

With a slight tilt of his head, he peeks up at me, curiosity in his eyes.

I nod. “It’s true. Because I didn’t look like most of the girls in my class, they called me names and teased me about my heritage. They spoke to and about me with no regard to how it’d make me feel.” I pause and let my words sink in a moment. “Words hurt people. Sometimes worse than cuts.”

Throughout most of my childhood, many of my peers made me feel less than, unattractive, incapable, and as if I didn’t belong. Being the center of their censure, abhorrence, or discrimination came too easy for some of my classmates. What’s worse is they felt no shame, guilt, or remorse over the horrid names they called me or pranks they pulled at my expense.

I am not the only Native American my age or in my generation in Stone Bay, but there are fewer of us in town than when the Imalas journeyed here more than a hundred years ago and connected with the local Indigenous, the Stonewater tribe.As our numbers have dwindled over the generations, more of our history and culture have gotten lost, dismissed, or ignored.

My family strives to keep our ancestors’ memories alive. We share our stories, pass them down to each generation, and learn the suppressed and forgotten ways of our people. We take pride in who we are and where we come from.

When a student enters my office, their struggles may be unique and slight compared to others, but they are still valid. Each person deserves the opportunity to be heard, seen, and supported. I do everything within my power to provide this to my students.

Tucker’s brows scrunch together then relax.

“When those kids said mean things about me, it made me so angry. I wanted to yell and hit something.” I lean a little closer to Tucker and lower my voice. “I wanted to hitthem.”

This garners his attention. Wide hazel eyes stare up at me with dozens of questions. “Did you?”

An empathetic smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I sit back and slowly shake my head. “No, I didn’t hit them. When I got home from school, myanaanatsiaqfelt my sadness and anger.”

“What’s an anaa?—”

I cut off his fumbled pronunciation with a smile. “Anaanatsiaq,” I repeat. “It means grandmother.”

Tucker’s brows and lips twitch. He’s likely repeating the word in his head. Trying to master the speech pattern.

It isn’t often I use Inuktitut with people who don’t speak the language. But like most dialects, if you don’t speak them regularly, you start to forget. Considering the Inuit side of my family migrated to Stone Bay, some of the language and traditions have slipped away over the generations. Ahnah—myanaanatsiaq—works tirelessly to keep who we are and what we do know alive.

“How did she feel your anger?”

I shrug a shoulder. “Some people are born empaths. They just know how other people feel.”

Eyes lifting to mine, Tucker tilts his head and narrows his gaze. “Are you an empath?”

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