As long as I can remember, I have always known we were from Inukjuak. My mother, brothers, sisters, uncle, and other relatives talked about it all the time when I was growing up in the High Arctic. Inukjuak this, Inukjuak that; you name it, it was Inukjuak. It was the same way with the relocation. I heard that story so many times, I cannot forget even the most minute details. My first memories are like pieces of a puzzle that don't quite fit together. I'm sitting on the lap of Isa Naqtai, riding in a kayak with him. I'm the only person awake inside a very bright tent while my parents are asleep, playing with my father's closed eyes as he sleeps deeply.

I'm looking at a very high mountain above me and walking through a flat meadow. I'm happy in all of these scenes. I'm running on the sea ice near our home on Lindstrom Peninsula on a beautiful clear day. I'm the smallest boy of my two friends, Allie and Salluviniq. We come to a crack in the ice and the two bigger boys jump across. I jump too, knowing very well that I cannot make it. I fall into the crack. I don't remember landing at the bottom or feeling cold, but I remember looking up from the bottom to see a dog team cut across the crack above my head.

The next thing I know, I'm cold and inside our tent in a sleeping bag, though it is not yet time to sleep. I was born in Uugaqsiuvik, which is probably where the memories of the kayak trip come from. After the relocation, I lived on Lindstrom Peninsula. I have been all over the Arctic. To understand my journey, you have to know about my family. My roots are deep in northern Quebec, called Nunavik. This is my story.