S ometimes the best way to understand what you have is to lose it. Growing up in Whitehorse, I remember having the perfect childhood: bicycling in our backyard, catching frogs, hanging out with my sisters, and just doing all of these wonderful kid things.
I was the son of a well-spoken and well-regarded Gwich’in woman. My mom was the youngest of thirteen kids. Before she was born, my grandparents had left our community of Old Crow, Yukon—my grandmother to become a cook at a residential school, my grandfather to become a janitor—so they could be with their kids.
