Me: (Groans loudly)

Mother: (Stops cleaning dishes)  What is it now, Walter?
Me: It hurts.
Mother: (Sighs and sits down) Where does it hurt?
Me: (Groans again) Everywhere.
Mother: Hm.
Me: It started in my stomach. Then it crawled down my thighs, and up through my sides. It creeps right under my armpits to get to my shoulders, where it then jumps onto my face. It squeezes through my nostril, the left one, and goes straight for my brain. Now my whole body is practically numb with the pain, and it has its long, sharp, spindly fingers wrapped around my brain. And it squeezes. And squeezes. And squeezes. You should start to prepare yourself, because at any second now, brains will shoot from my ears, mouth and nose. Maybe even my eyes!
Edward: (Walks through the door)  Is Walt complaining about his pains again? Walter, none of us like being hungry. You can’t just stop working because you have pains or because you’re the youngest. We’re all trying to help the family as best as we can, but making excuses to stop working isn’t going to get any of us full.
Edward: (Grabs a rag and wipes his face, then slings it over his shoulder)
Mother:  (Gets back up and starts drying a bowl) Your brother’s right, you know. We all need to work together. We can get through this.
Me: I just can’t believe that the Indians are putting up such a resistance. It is not fair that they should get lots of great land, while we have practically nothing. The government is making them a more than reasonable compromise, even. Why would they want to put us through so much pain?

Birds chirp.

Soft breeze.
Rhythmic breaths of
my sisters.

Slowly my eyes
crack open.
Letting in the
new day.

The lumps that
are my siblings,
slowly rise and fall,
heads nestled together.
Protecting each other.
Trusting each other.

Ear splitting    BANGING.                 

On the door.

Everything.
    
Stops.

Who is it?
Mama knows.

On
the
floor.

Begging.

   Crying.

On hands and knees.
I run to comfort her.
It doesn’t matter Who’s at the door.

The last I remember about that day was:       
Strong hands
of many
MEN

ripping me from
Mama’s arms,
carrying me                       away.

And and the salty taste
of Mama’s silent tears

The huge room reeked

of determination and tension.
  The silence ringing
   through the air.
    Inhaling the breath of all.
     Eager to live conflict.
      And see defeat.

The Judge called the plaintiff to
state his case.

Their eyes locked.
Bright Eyes nodded.
Standing Bear nodded.

                                     It was time.

They stood in Unison.
Together. they were the voice
of their people.
Standing Bear the brain and
         Bright Eyes the mouth.
   Of the Same. being.

And their voice was heard.

Something is   in the    air.

I feel it.

I slowly stand from
the
r
   o
c
   k
i
   n
g       CHIAR,
       my old joints creaking.
I go to my family,
huddled  around the Omaha Daily Herald.

My son turns and
   envelops me
  into a tight hug.

“They did it.
Standing Bear and Bright Eyes convinced
them of our
humanity
under the US law.

They gave us a
voice.
We can go back home,” He says.

His wife hugs me as well.
The kids follow,
doing as their parents do.
    
    She ushers them outside to
         p l a y.

I look at my beloved son, and
place my hand
on my his arm,

   “There’s nothing left for us. It’s not our land anymore.
    We cannot go home.”

He looks me in the eye. His face sags.
How old he looks.
Wasn’t it just yesterday he was but a small child?
Playing as his kids play now?

“I know.” He whispers,

        “I know.”

“You can never

be certain,”
 
whispering. From behind.
    It was an older boy,

“which of the Agents
are the good ones,
and which don’t see you as
more than just another
lost soul to play.” 

I looked at the new white man in front of us,
       speaking to one of the teachers.

“My advice:
Don’t trust any of them.”

i need to be prepared
i need to be prepared

this is what my father has been
drilling into my ears
and injecting into my brain

i need to be prepared

i cannot go to boarding school
but they are coming to steal me away,
i will have to run one time or another

we are hunting,
father and i,
no game yet, but
we are persistent,

the morning air is crisp,
with each breath it
clears out yesterday’s
staleness, filling me
with new hope and
fresh possibilities

then ahanu comes running
“Mahkah! Father!”
scaring what little game there
might have been left

“What is it my little son?”
a stoic mask on father’s face,
he knows how to prepare for bad news

ahanu tries to catch his breath
and speak at once
“Mama just told me great news!
The Americans just made a new law!
Mama just heard from Urika,
then she told me to run to tell-”

i sigh,
“Come on Ahanu.
What is the news?”

“You can stay!”
ahanu beams,
pride shining through
every pore

“What do you mean, my son?”
father is as bewildered as i

“A new law says that if our parents
don’t want us to go to boarding school
we don’t have to go!!”

father’s mask cracks,
he smiles
showing his pearly teeth

then we’re laughing
and hugging

a small victory can keep our family together for at least a little longer.

I remember:

The whacking.
Dark hair covering the ground.

The crying.
Late at night, or
even during the day, out of nowhere.

Stricken expressions.
Slight intakes of breaths,
when a Taini becomes a Bertha
or a Mahkah becomes a George.

Children dying.
Taking away everything they believed in.
Sucking out their soul, and then
stuffing their shell with airy cream filling.

When I applied for my job, I wanted to help.
I still want to help the children.

I just don’t know what to do next.

Our lovely friends the BIA,

have made it their duty
to make us like the white man.

I know that that is
not going to happen.
Ever.

We run our government well, too.
So they do not need to butt
their heads in. But they do.
They do, and ever since we came
to live on the Reservation, or
the Sad Land, as I like to call it,
they think they can do whatever they want.

Only giving us white man’s tools,
and food.
We wear some white man’s clothing
now as well.

I don’t though. Not even if my original clothing
is not fit to wear.
I will never wear the
clothes that cause people to squirm.

A lot of my people are giving up hope.
Children are being taken away,
and we fear the loss of the only home
we have left, even if it is unpleasant.

It fills me with such joy though,
when I tell the people what I believe.
The forest fire of belief catches them,
and then they start to believe too.
I see the dying light in their
eyes rekindle, wanting to 

IGNITE.

I remember when I arrived.

I held hope in one hand,
and courage in the other.

Regret was just running behind.

I knew the only way I could lead a
truly happy and carefree life
was to be successful in society today.

     I was glad to be there.

I didn’t stand a chance in
the white world without wearing a
white mask.

But first, I had to make one.

They changed our names.
     Check.
They cut our hair.
     Check.
They converted us.
     Check.
They gave us new clothing.
     Check.

English fascinated me.
Mathematics challenged me.
I was enjoying my learning.
The teachers were proud of me. I was their top student.

    Then everything changed.
More than half our day became focused on manual labor
We did everyone’s landry.
The boys did industrial work.
We didn’t see them that much.
We cooked the meals,
then cleaned up after.

We didn’t do much English or mathematics anymore.

Then Elizabeth woke up one morning.
Eyes red. Much too red.

They separated us.

I saw Elizabeth again.
Through a glass window.
Red clouds fogging
up her face, and
her slightly waving hand.

I waved back.

I am successful now.
My profession: a wife.
I do my duty, and I love my son.
I also love english, mathematics, and
my best friend Elizabeth.
But they are not around
anymore.