“Well, if I didn’t know you were Indian, I would say you look Mexican and they speak Spanish. California used to be part of Mexico. Then the US and Mexico fought a war, and now it’s part of the United States.”
I nodded like I understood what he was saying. I wondered how many different kinds of people I’d end up meeting in Los Angeles.
When everyone finally settled in, the brothers walked behind the theater. Soon the curtains opened. We applauded when the first marionette, a tall Spanish dancer, came onstage. Her beautiful black lace and red silk attire blew in the breeze. She had long eyelashes and full red lips. As the boys sang, she danced with her wooden high heels clicking. I didn’t understand the song, but I liked the melody and rhythm. The puppet twirled and kicked her leg high. She finished with a split, arms in the air. We applauded again. She bowed and left the stage.
The second performance didn’t work as smoothly as the first. They brought out a big black bull with giant horns. He pranced around the stage, pawing the floor. His large bulk filled the tiny stage. The bull tripped, dangling off the stage. At one point, he ended up with his behind in the air. Everyone howled with laughter.
When the bull finally straightened himself out, a small man appeared that Keith told me was called a matador. His outfit was adorned with elaborate trim, black cording, and gold buttons. He held a bright red cape in his tiny hands.
He waved his cape, and the audience laughed. The matador was facing the bull’s behind. Philip grinned and then twisted the handle to turn the bull around.
Now facing the matador, the bull lowered his head and charged. The matador flew up and disappeared offstage.
The bull looked around, trotting from one end of the stage to the other. When the matador reappeared, he held a tiny sword in one hand. The matador raised his sword at the bull and faced the audience.
He struck the bull on the head with the sword. The bull shook his head and collapsed, his wooden body crashing on the stage. The matador had knocked the bull out. The audience cheered and applauded. Anthony and Philip came out from behind the theater and took a bow.
Afterward, we all helped the brothers put away everything from the yard. When we were all done, Anthony and Philip began suggesting games we could play outside. Playing inside someone’s house was never an option — even on a hot day.
“How about war?” Philip said, sitting on the edge of his porch. Carl and Debbie also joined us. Debbie lived across the street and Carl lived next door to the brothers. They seemed a little younger than me and Keith. Carl was white, but I couldn’t tell about Debbie. Her hair was light brown and curly, but she actually looked a little like me and Peewee.
“Nah, we played that last time,” said Carl. He picked up an empty paper bag, wadded it up like a ball, and threw it at Anthony. “How about baseball?”
“My mom grounded me for a week after we used her couch cushions for bases,” Debbie said. “No way.”
“I know something way more fun than that,” Addie offered. “Regina and Peewee have a tipi in their backyard. We could play Cowboys and Indians.”
“Great!” Anthony exclaimed. “We’ve never had a tipi to play in.”
Keith checked over the tipi in the backyard and gave it a thumbs-up. We constructed a soldiers’ fort on our front porch using the metal rocker, a card table from Keith’s house, and a couple of blankets spread over the top. The teams could run around one end of the house to the other as well as anywhere on the block between our three families’ houses. The prisoners either ended up on our porch at the fort or around back inside our tipi.
With everything set up, Philip made all the rules. “The soldiers have the guns, and the Indians have bows and arrows,” he declared.
I immediately balked. “Indians have guns, you know,” I said. “We play Cowboys and Indians back home too, and all our Indians have guns.”
“Indians can’t have guns because Indians can’t win,” Philip responded.
“What?” I stepped back, hands on my hips. “Indians can’t have guns because they are automatically supposed to lose the game?!”
“Come on, Philip,” Keith said, seeing my expression. My face was getting hotter by the minute. “We’re playing with real Indians now. Let them have guns.”
“No, that’s not how it works,” said Philip.
I stood with my arms folded. Six kids stared at me, including Peewee. Apparently, nobody was going to stand up to Philip.
“Come on, Regina,” Peewee pleaded. “Let’s just play it their way.” She didn’t care if we had guns or not. She just liked playing.
After some awkward silence, I reluctantly agreed. The Indians would have bows and arrows instead of guns.
The game began. Everyone yelled, running around shooting whatever we had. Sticks. Fake rifles. Plastic bows and arrows. Soon I was captured and stuck on the front porch. I didn’t really care to play anymore anyway. At least Peewee was happy.
I sat down with my head on my knees. The game was so much better with our cousins and the bigger kids back in Grand Ronde.
Back home.
12 A Different Style of Cowboys & Indians
When we played Cowboys and Indians on the rez, we made sure the Indians had guns and that they could win.
One year, we waited most of the summer until the rains ended to sneak onto Yamhill field, part of Old Man Jenkins’s property. Jenkins was white and didn’t like what he called “savages” on his land, so we always snuck in. We played right where the field met the tree line.
Skipper and some of the older kids from school brought a bunch of lumber, nails, and hammers and started building a makeshift fort by the tree line. Cousin Harlin’s boys, Leroy, Mark, and Chip, followed along with Peewee and
