You see, what I object to, what I greatly object to, is the implication that my people’s story does not count – that it has been nothing but an aberration, a bump in the road, a mistake from which you will now rescue us. What did you expect would happen here, Little Merchant? Did you expect us to let go of all that has shaped us? To cast aside our history? And take up yours maybe – is that it? As if by doing so we would gain an identity more significant than our own.
When our people’s paths diverged, the road mine were forced down was not a pleasant one, but what it made of us is not something that you can now discard or repaint in your own image. We are not you, neither do we long to be you. We have our own story, it has given us our names and our language and our songs, and much as I am pained by how we were crippled by it, I will not have you make me ashamed of what I am. That would be another way of allowing you own me, I think, and I no longer have any desire to be owned.
Quartered: WiP 13/05/2013