We go to the schools and they leach the dreams from where our ancestors hid them, in the honeycombs of slushy marrow buried in our bones. And us? Wel… - Cherie Dimaline

I realized in writing over the years that some of the first readers I’ve ever had, and people who still pick up my books, are a lot of Native youth. It’s such a privilege to have them read my work. And I get it. I remember growing up, there wasn’t Native literature around. It wasn’t common; you didn’t see yourself reflected—certainly not in a good way—in any of the media you had access to, books or movies or TV shows. You didn’t see yourself in a good way in the classroom because the version of history you were being taught was that we were saved, and we were savages, and all of these horrible narratives that really don’t feel good when you’re growing up and this is your community.

She’d collected the dreams like bright beads on a string of nights that wound around her each day, every day until this one. (p173)

"...When we heal our land, we are healed also." (p193)