“The future lies with the white man,” my father used to say during dinner. I would kick my brother under the table, and he would roll his eyes at the familiar lecture. Mother would nod–the blond locks I envied gleaming in the gaslight–and instruct the maid to clear away the dishes. “There is no place in this house for superstition.”

Yet, when my father drank–often, heavily–he would sing songs of the Osage, or the Wa-zha’-zhe as he called them, his accent strong and rough. Once, from my bedroom window, I saw him sway under the moonlight in the back garden, his chest bare, and his arms raised as if in salutation to the stars.

The next morning I overheard a snippet of the scandalised lecture grandmother addressed to mother’s bowed head:

“…but you can’t take the reservation out of the Indian.”

Match the story (and the number) to the face at Mirrors.

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