The following is an exploration of Assimilation vs. Inclusivity through a poem on the learning concept of Indigenous cultural genocide.
My name is 073
My name is Te’kala. I am 12.
I am from a village with a colorful, cheerful culture, loud dances and happy smiles.
My mother taught me some of her famous recipes, in her own style.
My name is Te’kala.
My days are filled with fishing with my father and brothers, then helping my family with dinner.
Today my brother went out to kill his first buffalo, but it does not make him a sinner.
He came back with heavy footsteps and puffy eyes, his tears carrying the weight of its death.
We do not kill and forget, my father reminds him, so brother takes a deep breath.
My name is Te’kala.
I two long, beautiful braids that reach down to my knees.
We live near a forest with 18-foot trees.
The life we made here is perfect no one would disagree.
My name is Te’kala.
Today me and my brothers are being sent to a school, away from home.
I say my goodbyes to my mother and father, with a wave.
I didn’t know it was a goodbye I would take to my grave.
My name is Te’kala.
I just got to my new room.
I share the bed with another girl my age.
I compliment her hair, she smiles at me but she still looks gloom.
We didn’t know we would have a haircut just that afternoon.
My name is 073.
I am 16.
I am from a small grey dorm room; I do not remember of a home before that, not even a clue.
My days are busy with kitchen work and other chores.
I have not eaten in days, my stomachs reminds me with its constant roar.
Yesterday a young boy, a new arrival, speaks to me in our language.
It was like there were memories coming from his voice rather than words.
I did not recognize it, my thoughts going backwards.
Our teacher heard him and took him away by the ear.
The boy did not come back, I stand there in fear.
My name is 073.
093 tells me she’s going to escape and wants me to go with her.
I deny, I don’t want to end up like the little boy, whose face is now a blur.
I don’t want part in this stupid ploy.
That night 092 left but was caught.
If only she tried to listen and learn what she was taught.
I watched through the window while the school was sound asleep.
I watch 092 beg for mercy, and ridiculously plead.
She called for help.
No one heard her but the trees and moon.
The stars raise, saying goodbye the afternoon.
The man tightens his clutch.
They beat her to her death I do nothing but watch.
The night is dark and late.
If I go to help, I will suffer the same fate.
The man catches my eye, I quickly hide from his gaze.
My head pounding and still in a haze,
There is no escape from this life, no matter how eager.
Our only escape was our memoires, but now we don’t have those either.
My name is 073.
Months later the same man comes up to me.
I do not look up to him, I don’t want to see.
“Where’s that friend of yours, 093?”
I know what he’s really asking me.
“I do not know anyone by that number, sorry.”
No, I did not tell them what you did to her, because then you’ll do it to me.
My name Is 073.
