Fall 2009 TCJ STUDENT EDITION
subscribe to Tribal College Journal
STUDENT EDITION - PAGE 3
My Battle Wound By Desirae Grignon
These are Fancy Times By Clifford Stone, Jr.
Hesitation By Ruth Laws McLain
Coffee Break By Sydney Ice
On a Winter’s Day By Dave Madden
Julia By Michael Grant Allen
Novelty By Amanda Irvine-Louie
 Desirae Grignon |
My Battle Wound
By Desirae Grignon
Ahhh, stubbornness, the blessed trait bestowed upon me by my mother. Although she never confessed this to me, I always knew the origin of this gift. Even as a young girl I was always taught to stick up for myself and never back down. The ugly patch of light skin on my knee is a constant reminder of this lesson. You’re probably wondering how this ugly scar has anything to do with my inherited stubbornness. Well, it was a day of triumph, a day of acceptance, and a day of severe road rash.
The sun was shining and I had just gotten home from second grade with Ms. Echner. There was only one thing on my mind and it was leaning against my house waiting for me. It was my bike: my trusty-dusty, never rusty, beautiful pink bike. It was the apple of my eye with its bright pink exterior, thick white tires made to climb any mud-ridden hill. The white handles matched the wheels and were obviously made for comfort. I loved this bike so much that I hadn’t even touched my Barbies since I got it, and that’s saying something because almost nothing comes between a girl and her Barbies.
Routine took over, as I hopped onto the bike and threw my backpack next to the backdoor of my house. I rode my bike throughout the neighborhood, up and down every street until no inch of concrete was left unmarked by the rubber of my tires. When I finally got bored, I proceeded to my street where the Bicycle Wars had finally begun.
The Bicycle Wars was the ultimate test of endurance, strength and agility. An event where a young warrior could prove he was a man among boys. The street I lived on was a very long and straight road with a circle turnaround at each end; so naturally it was used for racing. It was a rumor that, as kids, our ancestors before us had also used this ideal place for bicycle racing.
I had always wanted to join the Bicycle Wars, but was always rejected with the utmost cruelty because of the insignificant fact that I’m a girl. But that day was different. That day something unexplainable came over me, something beyond my control. I decided I would no longer sit back and watch these idiots have all the fun. I was going to race, and I was going to race well! I positioned my bike at the starting point as the boys positioned their bikes also.
"You’re not riding with us!” protested one of the boys.
"You’re a girl, you probably won’t even finish,” chuckled Jim, the winner from the last race.
That day the usual phrases that were launched to destroy my ego no longer had the impact as they once did. I simply ignored the snickering and demeaning gestures and focused on my objective: down the road and back. Finally, the boys gave up trying to break me down, shrugged their shoulders and carried on with preparations for the race.
"Fine, you can race this one time. But only because I felt sorry for you and let you,” warned Jim as I rolled my eyes in disgust.
As is tradition, the winner from the last race began the countdown. As Jim yelped,
"Ready!” I positioned my feet on my white plastic pedals.
"Get Set!” he screeched, as I leaned my body forward ensuring the maximum amount of aerodynamics.
"Go!” I was off like a blazing pink phoenix.
Slowly but surely, I passed one boy after another, each with a look of hate and determination overcoming his face as he watched me pass him by. I was in second place, behind Jim, but I did not let that fact break my concentration. As we rounded the first turnaround, I felt the back end of my bike jerk away from underneath me. A moment of fear possessed me, but as soon as I knew I was still moving forward, my focus fell back into place. I continued on still in second place and still determined to mercilessly defeat the male empire of racing. I only had Jim to pass and I was almost ahead of him.
By now my butt was no longer on my seat, but in the air. I was hunched over my handlebars. My feet were pedaling 100 cycles a second. My bike was no longer riding straight forward but swaying left and right like a snake! If only I could push harder and gain the few inches necessary to take home the gold. The end was so near; I could feel the tingly sensation of anticipation flowing through my body. At that moment my front tire hit an abnormally large rock. The back end of my bike flew forward and the next thing I knew my bike, along with my entire body, was sliding sideways into the finish line.
I had slid for a good five feet when I finally stopped. The tingly anticipation was replaced with a warm burning sensation radiating from my right knee, creeping up my body to my right shoulder. As I lay there in pain, a feeling of satisfaction and happiness quickly took over. It dawned on me that I had finished the race in second place! I jumped to my feet with a grin from ear to ear, as if to say, ha ha, I beat all of you! After every boy had crossed the finish line, every one of them got off their bikes and stood there looking at each other, then at me, as if not knowing what to do. It occurred to me that some of them wanted to ask me if I were okay, but they were hesitant to show weakness. I lifted myself to my feet, examined the damage done to my bike, and after they all gathered together and stood there staring at me, I bellowed the first thing I could think of.
"Ha! You all suck!”
And with that I turned around with my head held high and slowly walked my trusty-dusty, never rusty, beautiful pink bike down the road to my house.
Desirae Grignon (Menominee) lives on the Menominee Reservation in WI and attends Haskell Indian Nations University in Lawrence, KS. She is working on an associate degree in liberal arts and hopes to become a high school Minority Studies instructor. She says, "I have always loved creative writing and I plan to continue writing.”
 Clifford Stone, Jr. |
These are Fancy Times
By Clifford Stone, Jr.
"I hope we get a spot close to the gate.” I was always a little insecure about getting into my outfit with people strolling by. I could tell from the twinkle in his eye, as Grandpa Clyde looked at me through his rearview mirror, he knew exactly what I was talking about.
""Hey, looky there, Grandson, next to the fence and in the shade!” he said.
"All right!” I exclaimed, cutting Grandma Aggie off mid-snore.
"Harr! Quit your hollering!” she snapped as if she had been awake the whole time. "You’re always hollering!” she said.
"Aw, never mind her, Giff. She’s just cranky because you spoiled her beauty nap, Aye!” Whenever the three of us were together, I had the feeling Grandpa Clyde was using me as a pawn as he seemed to side-up against Grandma. Then when Grandma Aggie and I were alone, I could see the world in her eyes. She loved me unconditionally, and I thought she was the only woman I would ever love so much. I think of her every time I dance.
As I began to get ready for the Indian City powwow, it occurred to me that this was the only time the three of us were together anymore, powwow time! Although mom and dad were still together and in love, I was being raised by my grandparents as were many of the Indian kids my age. I lived in a revolving door of being spoiled by one and being disciplined in the old ways by the other. Crazy as it may seem, my grandparents took turns at being the disciplinarian and the spoiler, but being eight years old, fat and happy, I neither noticed nor cared one bit. I was in love with my Grandpa Clyde and my Grandma Aggie.
"Wait for me at the tent. I want to dance in together,” Grandpa instructed me. I waited at our camp as I was told while Grandpa Clyde went to meet up with his buddies behind his Ford camper. Vincent, Tugger, Woodgie, and a few of the boyz always gathered for a "snort” before each dance. This didn’t seem out of the ordinary or repulsive to me in the least. These were the Grand Champion dancers of the past who could still kick up dust and shake a tail feather or two. Most of them had fought in Korea and World War II as "The Flying Thunderbirds.”
These brave warriors were well-known and respected in the circle, as well as in the surrounding white communities. For them, the powwow was more of an opportunity to socialize. To gather, swap stories, and show off pictures of their grandchildren. As the powwow carried on into the early morning hours, voices echoed upon the steep cliffs of Indian City. I sat listening as tongues were loosened by the warm magic of the old canteen. Their stories became even more soulful and majestic.
Grandma Aggie eventually intervened to get me ready for the contest, which was usually at the end of the powwow. As the athletic dancers began to stretch and warm up for the final competition, more and more shiny brown faces began to appear from everywhere to catch a glimpse of their favorite champion in action. I remember Grandma, an old woman in a wheelchair, sitting right up front as I was walking up to take my place on the battleground. As I passed by, she reached out and stroked my hand warmly reminding me of the picture I had seen of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Grandpa Clyde kept it pinned up to the wall inside our outhouse. I would give all my mortal ability, my strength, and my speed for my Grandma, this beautiful person. It was for this woman who couldn’t dance that I would be dancing tonight. The prize money and notoriety does not matter to the dancer who moves and sways with heart and soul.
The old woman’s touch had me alive with buzzing electricity, coiling and uncoiling, ready to shock everyone around me! As the low thunder of the drum began, I glimpsed Grandpa Clyde and his friends in the first row around the circle. I would show them all that what they had taught was not forgotten. I would let them see what my Indian name, "Whirlwind,” looked like in full creation!
As the song got louder and ever faster, I began to smile with the euphoria of being and knowing and loving. I caught glimpses of smiles on the brown faces that had come along with me to this magical place. I did not want the song to stop, and I blew my whistle encouraging more strength, speed, and lightning! As we swung and swayed, the whoops and hollers of the people around the circle became louder and frenzied with the same electricity that was in my belly. There was no sense of time or space as my brothers and I reached down deep to get the last climactic effort to finish strong.
In the moments just before the end of the triumphant war song, I was not at all surprised to see the spirits of the "Old Ones” dancing with us in a light purple haze mixed with red dust. I began to dance even harder and was recognized by my ancestors whose blood began to pound in my ears. On the final resounding beat of the drum, all was silent except for the sharp cry of the Eagle Brother that burst past my lips for the entire world to hear!
It must have been close to six in the morning as I purposely strode around the dance grounds in my cut-offs, braids, and Scooby Doo sandals. I saw her sitting near the gate that Grandpa Clyde had entered the day before. After a stop at the only concession stand open that early, I waved to her and she beckoned to me. Wonderful!
I spoke with childhood glee and innocence as I shared the cotton candy I had bought from my winnings with this beautiful person -- my Grandma.
Clifford Stone, Jr. is an enrolled member of the Kiowa Tribe of Oklahoma and is also half Cheyenne/Arapaho. Stone was inspired by his son Stephen and daughter Mariah to return to college and earn a degree. He is a Native American Studies major at the White Earth Tribal and Community College in Mahnomen, MN. Stone’s wish is "to teach future generations about the past by becoming the curator of ‘the largest Indian Museum in the world.’”
Stone says, "I’m not really in love with words or the process of writing as much as telling a grand story and having readers fall in love with the characters.” He adds, "My favorite words are Aaaaye, Anit, and Bunz, by the way!”
|
Hesitation
By Ruth Laws McLain
My parents were always strict, setting high standards for my sisters and our behavior. They expected to know where we were going, who would be there, and when we would return. We were Southern Baptist; at least, that is where we worshipped. They gave what used to be the family car, a 1969 yellow Chrysler four-door, to my two older sisters and then finally to me, to drive. It had been retired by my mother’s new two-tone cream LTD from Jolly Ford.
I played trombone in the high school band, joking that I wanted to sit in the back row with all the good looking guys; clarinet and flute players were mostly girls. One hot August afternoon, after band practice, some friends were going across town to the only burger joint, the Spin-A-Cone. My father reminded me before I left the house that he had just checked the Chrysler’s odometer and knew the exact distance to the band hall. He gave me permission to use the car only to drive straight there and back. At the invitation to go have a soda, I hesitated briefly but risked the wrath of my father and headed down Bogue Chitto Avenue toward my friends. Monticello, Mississippi, was so small there were only three signal lights; all the other intersections had yield or four-way stop signs.
Pulling up to the intersection of Highway 27, the signal light flushed red. I rolled to a stop and looked to the right at the large hill that is Monticello Municipal Cemetery. It was difficult to see any oncoming traffic from the right with the view obscured by the mound, thus the signal light offered crucial protection. I waited impatiently like the sixteen year old I was for the light to change to green, wondering if my fellow band members would wait for me to arrive. I looked up. The rear view mirror displayed an empty street behind me.
When the light turned green moments later, I was overcome by three spirits who pressed their thoughts on me. It’s hard to describe how I felt these three distinct voices. There was nothing audible, only intense demands insistent with their urgency around my head.
"Hesitate.”
"Wait.”
"Don’t go.”
Each delivered a similar compelling message and I could feel them above my head. I looked again in the rearview mirror. There was nothing on the street behind me or around my head. Did I really feel what I thought I did? I sat there thinking how crazy I must be for sitting at a green light when just then a carload of teenagers crossed the intersection from my right, speeding through the red light, squeals of laughter blended with "Sweet Home Alabama” blaring from their car radio as they whizzed by.
I sat there, astonished at what had just happened and trying to grasp the miracle I had received. God had spared my life. I would have been in the middle of the intersection when that car raced through and would have been killed. Still shaking, I turned right instead of going straight and headed toward home. Questions and awe swirled around me, and the thrill of being a part of God’s plan filled my soul.
I never told my parents what happened that day. It felt like it was my private miracle to discern. I spent years after the experience trying to discover God’s plan for my life and what good works I was spared to accomplish. I volunteered in the community, serving as both a 4-H Club and Girl Scout leader, taught Sunday school, and led mission trips, always wondering, "Is this why you saved me?”
Twelve years after my intersection experience I found my spiritual home and was confirmed in the Episcopal Church. Several years later I read Sogyal Rinpoche’s book, The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, and revisited my experience that hot day in August on Bogue Chitto Avenue. After reading the book and learning about Buddhist teachings regarding the interconnectedness of all living things, I thought again about that life-altering day. I realized that there was a car full of young people running the red light and that I wouldn’t have been the only one killed. They would have perished in that intersection with me. Who knows what plans God had for their young lives?
I am still trying to make a difference in the world, and feel embraced by God. He continues to direct my life, opening the doors to what He wants me to do. Without hesitation, I step through those doorways. The occasions when He has communicated with me in unambiguous ways I hold dear as I await my next epiphany.
Ruth Laws McLain (Cherokee, Swedish, Scottish, French) is a full-time American Indian Studies major at Haskell Indian Nations University in Lawrence, KS. She is a non-traditional sophomore, returning to school in her forties. Her husband, Paul, is an Episcopal priest at Trinity Episcopal Church (affiliated with the diocese of Kansas) in Lawrence.
McLain is a staff reporter for the Indian Leader, the oldest Native American student newspaper, operating at Haskell since 1897. She loves writing and hopes that her newspaper work, as well as her studies in the American Indian program, will enrich her abilities as a writer.
McLain was born in Orofino, ID and reared in MS. She has lived in 11 states, and loves the unique differences each offers. After completing her bachelor’s degree, she plans to pursue a master’s degree.
|
Coffee Break
By Sydney Ice
"She lay broken on the floor, tears streaming down her face and onto the cold tile of her kitchen. What had happened to her life? How did she get here?”
"How pathetic, yet so wonderfully entertaining,” I thought, laughing to myself and closing my book to breathe in the crisp fall air. It was hot and cold, all at the same time. To me, there had always been something so sophisticated about reading a book alone outside a coffee shop, and so it had become my favorite routine now that the weather permitted. I’m a sucker for a sappy teenage love novel with iced vanilla latte.
As I indulged in my rich beverage, I noticed a boy walk by that I had never seen before.
This was my coffee shop, perfectly located between the public library and Urban Outfitters, and I knew everyone here. It was the kind of place where everyone had a schedule, and we all knew each other because we all came at the same time. There was the girl who always brought her laptop, but hardly ever did any schoolwork. There was the guy who sat at the window reading the newspaper while guzzling down at least three mugs of the house coffee. And there was the group of students who all sit outside next to me with their art history flashcards. Thanks to them I’ve unintentionally gained a lovely appreciation of Renaissance art.
"Mind if I sit? There’s nothing left inside.”
"Excuse me?” The boy had walked outside with a cup and a Harry Potter book in hand. Even though everyone at my coffee shop knew each other, we never ever spoke to anyone else. We knew everyone’s routine, and knew very well not to mess with them.
"There’s no good seats inside and it’s nice out. Can I join?”
I stared into his peaceful blue eyes while pulling my purse and book to my lap. "Oh, yeah, uh, I was just about to leave anyway.”
Like I said before, we never interfered with each other’s routine, and I had no intention of allowing someone to mess with mine. All 21 years of my life as an only child, I had been a creature of my own way. When I was a toddler, waddling around with long blonde curls, I refused to share my Barbies. The other kids just didn’t play with them right. And even in high school, I had taken pride and an odd satisfaction in knowing that, though my girlfriends envied my color-coded closet, none of my clothes would look as good on them as they did on my tall, lean body. I had worked hard to have the pieces of my life run smoothly, and I would never let anyone get in the way of that.
Still, walking home, I couldn’t stop thinking about those blue eyes. There was something about them. Something that said, "I promise.” I don’t know exactly what they were promising, but despite my normal character trait of keeping to myself, I began to plan out the perfect outfit for my next Sunday afternoon outing to Lucky’s Coffee, just in case he had a routine of his own.
He did. And his routine became our routine. We spent the next four Sunday afternoons together. I loved every minute of it.
So you really couldn’t live without these books? How about best-sellers? Harry Potter?
"Oh my God, no, I’ve never been into those. The New York Times calls it the best of the year. They’re just so tacky.”
James giggled, his eyes sparkling. "And you don’t think Lost Without You is tacky?” he argued, waving my book in the air.
I reached to grab it out of his hands, and when I did, he grabbed me, pulled me close, and kissed me. I hadn’t felt like that about a kiss since my first kiss when I was 13. Someone had made their way into my routine just by looking me in the eye, and I was okay with it. In fact, it was a new routine. I completely neglected all the previous aspects of my life that I used to be so meticulous about, for him. I told myself it was a normal feeling only months into a new relationship, but I knew it wasn’t.
"And as his headlights became distant, so did his memory. She sat alone.”
"Stupid book.” I slammed it shut. He was late, and I was mad. I had made him a special meal after we had gotten into a huge fight when I’d discovered he’d cheated on me with a girl he worked with.
"I don’t want to lose the best thing that ever happened to me,” he’d cried, begging for my forgiveness.
"I need some space. Come over right after work on Friday,” I’d said. "We’ll figure it out.” I was already too humiliated to introduce him to my friends, being so disgustedly wrapped up in my boyfriend of only six months, but I couldn’t lose him.
After waiting for two hours, I finally went to his apartment, praying I wouldn’t find him in bed with whoever she was.
I didn’t. It was worse.
"Hello?” My voice echoed in the empty living room, the empty kitchen, and his empty bedroom. He was gone.
When another Sunday rolled around, I decided I owed it to myself to get back into my old routine that I had left behind so long ago. My latte didn’t taste the same. It was better.
"Can I sit here?” I looked up to see a new pair of dark eyes. He looked friendly, innocent, and kind.
"No,” I said turning back to my new book. "You can’t.”
Sydney Ice (Potawatomi), 20, has lived in Lawrence, KS all of her life and attends Haskell Indian Nations University there. Ice is also a Photo Media major at the University of Kansas and she hopes to own a portrait studio in the future. About her writing, she says, "I have been writing stories for as long as I can remember and I dream about publishing at least one fiction book someday.”
|
On a Winter’s Day
By Larry D. Madden, Jr.
Cold northern wind blew wet snow, and rain followed. The tall red-gold grass swirled and shifted in the chilly breeze. Heavy slate-grey clouds raced across ominous, darkening skies. The late fall afternoon was dying, and Mike Star was still waiting for a trophy buck to come along and make his wait worth something. The brown and tan camouflage suit’s loose fibers and bulk blended seamlessly with the brown, yellow and orange of the tree in which he sat. The frigid wind chaffed his face and numbed his hands. Yet he waited, motionless, his weapon held loosely in his gloved hand, compound bow with arrow knocked, ready to speed death on a whim. The sun fell slowly toward the western wall, and darkness began to descend. Patience would bear fruit in the long run, Mike reminded himself.
The loud crack of a branch alerted him to movement behind him. Mike turned slightly to gain a better view of the approaching animal. A huge white-tail buck stood behind the tree, its ears and tail erect, listening for any sound of danger. White gusts of steam billowed from the animal’s nostrils adding to the air of natural magnificence. Mike watched intently as the buck moved through the underbrush and made its way into the kill zone ten yards in front of his tree-stand. The buck nosed at the ground and then moved forward cautiously, stepping lightly over fallen branches and brambles.
Mike waited for the buck to turn its attention back to the ground, then rose slowly and brought his bow up. His heart was racing as he stared at the powerful animal. Mike marveled at the buck’s huge horns and exceptional musculature. He knew that this animal had been evading killers for several years, and Mike felt a sudden stab of remorse as he watched the buck make its way through the brush. Adrenaline pumping through his veins made blood pound in Mike’s ears.
As he watched the buck, a vision of his native ancestors wearing buckskins and eagle feathers, hunting animals in the same manner, flashed in his mind. Mike steeled himself and raised his bow. He pulled the string taut and measured the distance mentally then loosed the shaft. The arrow flew straight and true, striking the buck behind the left shoulder and passing completely through its chest before lodging in a nearby tree. The buck jumped and bolted through the trees, dark blood flowing thickly over its heaving flanks.
Mike jumped down from his perch and gave cautious chase; he knew that wounded bucks could be extremely dangerous if cornered before they went to the ground. Blood stained the ground and the light dusting of snow. The failing light made the dark spots lustrous. Mike followed the trail through a small outcrop of trees, determined not to lose his prey. Over low hills and down into a shallow valley, Mike tracked the buck. The bloody trail was becoming thin so he knew the buck could not get much farther. The last rays of the dying day broke through the heavy clouds, announcing the end of the cold winter day.
Mike stepped lightly through the heavy grasses as he descended in the gully. At the bottom he found the buck lying on its side next to a small semi-frozen creek. Gusts of steam puffed from the massive animal’s nostrils and mouth. Its legs kicked fitfully as it tried to stand when Mike approached. The buck’s eyes were wild; it raised its head then fell back to the earth panting.
Mike walked slowly up to the buck and gazed at the powerful beast. In his heart Mike felt a certain kinship to this animal, and to his ancestors, who had gone through this same scenario thousands of times over the long history of this land. Mike knelt beside the heaving animal and placed his hand on the buck’s twitching neck. The pulse was slow and shallow. The buck’s strength was nearly spent. Mike closed his eyes and prayed aloud, "Brother, forgive me for taking your life. Your sacrifice will not be in vain. Your strength and vitality will go on into my family and me. Your flesh will feed and your hide will dress my children. Hold no grudges as you travel to the next world.” He closed his eyes and thanked the deer again. Slowly Mike reached to his belt and grasped the bone-handled knife hanging there. The long steel blade flashed as it slid smoothly from its sheath. The worn handle felt cold against Mike’s palm. He looked at the blade for a second and remembered the day his grandfather had placed it into his hand and told him that it had been his great-grandfather’s scalp knife. As Mike knelt thinking about the history of the blade, the buck made one more attempt to flee. It shuddered violently and nearly got to its knees. Mike stood by and watched with admiration, then stepped forward and drew the blade across the buck’s corded throat. Blood sprayed across the wet stones and into the icy water. The buck convulsed once more and lay still.
Mike dipped his fingers into the warm draught and smudged two lines down his face; then he sang a short song of thanks. With the buck dead and the animal’s spirit appeased, Mike began the arduous task of dressing the deer and hauling the body out of the woods.
The snow had come in heavily by the time Mike finally loaded the last of his equipment and had delicately placed the buck in the bed of his truck and headed for home. He felt elated and remorseful at the same time. As Mike drove home, he wondered if his ancestors had felt the same way.
Larry D. Madden, Jr., a.k.a. "Dave,” (Osage), 34, and his wife, Tara, have three children: Haley, Alexis Rain, and Daniel Sky. Madden says, "They are my greatest inspiration and my greatest supporters.”
In Fall 2009, Madden will be a junior at Haskell Indian Nations University in Lawrence, Kansas. The liberal arts major and self-professed lifelong avid reader says, "The Haskell professors have aroused in me an interest in writing which I didn’t know was there.” He adds, "Writing is one of my favorite and most frustrating pastimes.” His future plans are "in the air right now because I am not sure if I want to get a bachelor’s degree in environmental science or try something in the writing field.”
Another of Madden's short stories was also published in last year's Student Edition (TCJ Vol.20, No.1).
|
Julia
By Michael Grant Allen
The chair, with cushions filled apparently with cement and supported by a weird, angular frame, was more of a medieval torture device than a chair. Julia had bought it off some nun at the St. Teresa’s church yard sale and brought it from her pad to ours.
I met Julia while attending Golden City University, on a Friday, spring-break weekend. She was working part-time at the library, uniformed in black jeans and black t-shirt that said "I Love Picasso.” The "Picasso” part was the artist’s signature printed in neon green.
"You know he used to beat his women,” I said pointing to the shirt, not the best line, and she took a moment to answer, scanning books and scanning me like I was month-old lettuce.
"I actually don’t like him,” she said finally.
"Why then -- may I ask -- are you wearing it?”
"My ex made it for me. He’s a welder.”
I chuckled then stopped, seeing she was not smiling.
"I’m Kaiser,” I said. I told her I dug Picasso more than anybody.
"I’m Julia,” she said as a looming, moon-complexioned man shambled in to the desk to replace her.
Spring was only beginning and the chill of loneliness stung; she stood me up twice for coffee, but eventually we started chewing gum, patting each other on the belly, hanging out, becoming buds. I didn’t hang with much anybody else.
Summer rolled around and we acquired residency at Happy Lane Apartments, apartment B-1, where our first night we had the skirmish over the chair.
I declared the chair universally unfit to sit in, or look at, while trying to finish a term paper, and dumped the garish thing into the trash, but not before drinking a few beers and demolishing the chair first.
"I loved that chair!” Julia cried with an armful of tomes from the library.
"You loved it? Why?”
"It had character, plus it was comfortable. Are you smoking?”
"No, I’m not smoking.”
"The trash truck doesn’t get here until tomorrow. Can you get the chair back?”
"I would, but I actually destroyed it.”
She dropped the books and slumped to the floor.
"I was gonna buy you a new one,” I said.
"You said you’re not smoking. I know now it’s because you’re drinking.”
"I’m celebrating.”
"Oh yeah, what else did you throw away?”
"That nun, Sister Vallejo . . .?”
"Vega.”
"Vega. I don’t trust her. Those Benedictines, I don’t trust ‘em.”
Blah, blah, blah, la, la, la. I see clowns, whoo heee, clowns with Calvary uniforms, swords in hand, fluorescent-orange spaghetti for hair, bulbous red noses, so white, so blue, so walking dead. My mind a rat circus . . . .
"Forget it,” she said and started supper. Salmon with rice, very simple. I drank the rest of the Heinekens and went to sleep, eventually.
And that’s how it went down for awhile, punctuated by purchasing of much stuff. I’d go insane, she’d tolerate it. She’d go mini-insane because I drove her there, then we’d buy DVD’s, towels, milk, Pine-sol, lint-remover, whatever. Feel reborn. The buying all made possible by the end of that summer. I found work at American Jayhawk, an insurance company, and Julia did the library gig full time as we both dropped out of school.
The weekend after the chair incident, I was overcome with an intense mixture of sentimentality and guilt and decided to purchase a puppy I’d seen advertised in the Golden Times. After shelling out 200 bucks for the dog, I maneuvered my brown, battered Chrysler through the city for some time, with the pup licking the passenger’s side door, and then stormed over to the library. I parked, ran, and burst through the entrance doors; the library was as empty as a waiting tomb. I trotted up to the front desk and called for Julia: nothing.
"Fifteen minutes and the library will be closing!” I jumped as someone bellowed in a voice that can only be described as the demon Belphagor, talking through an oboe. It was Julia’s co-worker, zombie-man. Actually his name’s Matt Williams, assistant librarian.
Julia had taken off early.
"Thanks, Matt,” I said, watching as he lurched back into the catacombs of texts.
I ran back to my car and realized the puppy was gone, stolen, or he flew away. Either way, he was outta there.
"Damn!” I shouted and sped off home, where Julia was waiting.
"I felt sick so I came home early,” she said.
"That’s okay, honey. What’s wrong?”
"Headache.”
"I’m sorry, baby.”
I brought her some hot water and Alka-Seltzer and later pan-fried some chicken breasts, but she didn’t eat.
"You’re so quiet, what’s on your mind?” she asked later while we were watching TV.
"Nothing,” I lied, and not for the last time.
Michael Grant Allen (Prairie Band of Potawatomi) attends Haskell Indian Nations University in Lawrence, KS where he is pursuing a creative writing degree. He hopes to continue his schooling after graduation to earn a master’s degree.
|
Novelty
By Amanda Irvine-Louie
Everyone’s been wondering aloud how he’s feeling
On the eve of inauguration
As he prepares to take his alternative act to the stage on the heels
Of the biggest puppet show since Sesame Street
A Black Man
In the White House
In the middle of the night
And nobody is shouting for security
He can’t sleep, the political commentators are guessing
Though his bed may be the softest in the land
Because he hovers on the brink of history
And has likely been experiencing vertigo
I get it
It’s a novelty
Of unprecedented proportions
That a black man should become president
Because Americans are habitual bigots
Who hardly figured on accomplishing something so "progressive”
As electing a person of color to our highest office (by a landslide, no less)
And were not prepared to articulate that event
So it now must be commented upon at every turn
An extra word inserted into his title
With pronounced emphasis
So the whole world knows we’ve stepped outside our cast iron comfort zone
And conferred on a real live minority Ultimate Status
Even the supposedly savvy folks haven’t grasped
That calling him "Black President”
Is like saying "black doctor”
As if the two parts of the title are oxymorons
And you wouldn’t (unless you were ignorant or insensitive, of course)
Because it is rude
Because ethnicity isn’t a measure of capacity
Because his competence isn’t related to his complexion
Because being "a black man” has nothing to do with being "the President”…
…But he’s about to change that—
Once
And for all
Kinnikinnick of the Bitterroot Salish, also known as Amanda Irvine-Louie, wrote her introduction as follows:
"I am the spubus daughter of David (Pokey) Irvine, granddaughter of Wanda Phillips and Burton Irvine, descendant of the Confederated Salish and Kootenai tribes. Iqs yognunm. I am learning. I cannot finish my introduction in my language, because I am part of the lost generation. My father entered the public school system a fluent speaker of his indigenous tongue, and graduated with merely a few common phrases remaining to his memory. Fortunately for my family, my children are among the reclaimed, learning our language at the Nkrusm immersion school, and Two Eagle River High, returning that precious gift back to us bit by bit. My family is living testament to the impact of occupation on generations of a subjugated people.”
Irvine Louie expresses that because of "a burgeoning loss that cannot be adequately expressed in any language, I write. The attempt to find the right words is what keeps me sane.”
She is a junior in the social work department at Salish Kootenai College in Pablo, Montana, an honor student, a peer mentor, and a researcher on social issues. She adds, "The world is chock full of opportunities to become disturbed and concerned. Because I am the kind of person for whom the experience of empathy is an autonomic emotional response to human suffering, I engage in a great deal of therapeutic writing to sort it out.”
Irvine-Louie hopes her writing engages readers and elicits genuine emotion. She says, "Through these types of connections we realize the likeness of our needs. Thank you for this opportunity to connect with other tribal college students.”