Crow/Sarah Blue Character Analysis

Dad said his old man thought the law was there to protect some people and punish others. And Aboriginal people were the ‘others.’

My science teacher said that just because two things happened together didn’t mean one was because of the other, or as she put it: ‘correlation does not imply causation.’

But Dad said that was scientist-talk not police-talk, and if two things happened together you’d suspect the first thing caused the second until it could provide you with an alibi.

“Maybe I didn’t see anything. Or maybe I did. Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

She looked at me—or, no, she didn’t, she looked into the space I was standing in for a second, then away again. “On if you’ll believe me.”

“Oh, it was a long time ago. Twenty years . . . seven months . . . six days. Not that I’m counting!” She tried to laugh, but it broke in the middle. “Sarah just vanished a week before her fifteenth birthday. She got off the bus from school, same as always, but she never made it home.”

[…]

Twenty years, seven months, six days . . . Was Dad going to be like this, decades from now when he talked about me? I didn’t want him making my death some kind of depressing mathematical reference point for his life.

“We’re police officers,” he said, and I heard the pride in his voice. “We never stop looking for the missing.”

“He eats what’s inside our insides. The colours that live in our spirits. Do you think I was always a grey girl?”

“It is your grey. Like mine, but not. Everyone’s grey is their own.”

If I’m dead inside, I’m free.

No.

If I’m dead inside I’m dead inside.

“If you can name it, you can catch it,” she calls. “If you can catch it, you can fight it. Everything has its opposite. Remember!”

No ticking clocks.

Just choices.

They measure the distance between who we are and who we’re turning into.

“This gray’s yours,” I say. “My colours are mine. I’m not carrying your shame for what you did. Only my pride. For surviving you.”

And wherever we went, we went together.

Dad said his old man thought the law was there to protect some people and punish others. And Aboriginal people were the ‘others.’

My science teacher said that just because two things happened together didn’t mean one was because of the other, or as she put it: ‘correlation does not imply causation.’

But Dad said that was scientist-talk not police-talk, and if two things happened together you’d suspect the first thing caused the second until it could provide you with an alibi.

“Maybe I didn’t see anything. Or maybe I did. Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

She looked at me—or, no, she didn’t, she looked into the space I was standing in for a second, then away again. “On if you’ll believe me.”

“Oh, it was a long time ago. Twenty years . . . seven months . . . six days. Not that I’m counting!” She tried to laugh, but it broke in the middle. “Sarah just vanished a week before her fifteenth birthday. She got off the bus from school, same as always, but she never made it home.”

[…]

Twenty years, seven months, six days . . . Was Dad going to be like this, decades from now when he talked about me? I didn’t want him making my death some kind of depressing mathematical reference point for his life.

“We’re police officers,” he said, and I heard the pride in his voice. “We never stop looking for the missing.”

“He eats what’s inside our insides. The colours that live in our spirits. Do you think I was always a grey girl?”

“It is your grey. Like mine, but not. Everyone’s grey is their own.”

If I’m dead inside, I’m free.

No.

If I’m dead inside I’m dead inside.

“If you can name it, you can catch it,” she calls. “If you can catch it, you can fight it. Everything has its opposite. Remember!”

No ticking clocks.

Just choices.

They measure the distance between who we are and who we’re turning into.

“This gray’s yours,” I say. “My colours are mine. I’m not carrying your shame for what you did. Only my pride. For surviving you.”

And wherever we went, we went together.