In a classroom bright with morning light, Niimi sits with shoulders tight. Numbers dance across the board, But in their mind, they're largely ignored. While others add with ease and grace, Niimi dreams of a different place. Where stories flow like river streams, And math makes sense in Ojibwe dreams.

"Why can't I learn like all the rest?" Niimi asks with heavy chest. Nokomis smiles, her eyes so wise, "Our people count the stars and skies. We measure time by moon and sun, Our math and yours are both as one. But different paths can reach the same, Your way of thinking's not to blame."

That night they sit beneath the stars, As Nokomis points to Mars. "Our ancestors mapped the skies above, Tracking seasons with patient love. They counted fish and planted seeds, Knowing exactly what each needs. This too is math, though not in books, It's wisdom shared in how it looks."

The teacher frowns at Niimi's page, Empty boxes cause her rage. "You must focus, try once more, Or you'll fall behind the score." Niimi's cheeks burn bright with shame, As classmates whisper Niimi's name. The numbers swim and twist around, While Niimi's thoughts stay firmly ground.

Instead of sums on worksheet lines, Niimi draws with bold designs. A dragon forms from numbers three, Breathing fire mathematically. The margins fill with wondrous beasts, On fractions, shapes, and number feasts. The teacher sighs, "This won't suffice," But Niimi sees a world so nice.

At home the lights flicker and dim, The cupboards bare, prospects grim. "We'll manage," says Mom with a smile, Though bills are stacked in a tall pile. Niimi helps count coins with care, Dividing what little is there. This math makes sense—it's real and true, Helping family make it through.

Ms. Begay notices one day, How Niimi sees things a different way. "Show me how you think," she asks, Giving space for different tasks. Niimi draws the math in scenes, With stories telling what it means. "This is your magic," she explains, "Your mind works well, just not the same."

When sickness comes with fever high, Niimi watches days go by. Hospital walls so stark and white, Nurses check vitals day and night. Under covers, notebooks glow, With stories helping spirits grow. Niimi counts the drips and beeps, Finding patterns while healing sleeps.

Back at school, a contest starts, For stories told from open hearts. Niimi hesitates at first, Fearing judgment at its worst. But Nokomis' words ring clear and true, "Your voice matters, through and through." So Niimi stands with nervous smile, And begins to speak Ojibwe style.

The tale unfolds of seasons four, Of counting fish along the shore. Of measuring rice in birchbark bowls, And tracking stars as night unfolds. The class sits still in wonder deep, As Niimi's words make numbers leap. Even the math teacher stops to hear, This different math made crystal clear.

"That was amazing!" classmates say, As Niimi beams in a brand new way. "I never knew math could be like that, With stories woven where numbers sat." The teacher nods with newfound sight, "There's many ways to get things right. Being smart isn't just one path alone, It's finding ways to make knowledge your own."

Now Niimi helps others see, How different kinds of smart can be. Drawing dragons from division signs, Finding patterns in poetry lines. Nokomis smiles with pride so bright, As Niimi shines with inner light. "This is your magic," she softly says, "The world needs your different ways."