“We want to play too,” Leroy said.
“Then make your own fort,” Skipper said.
We constructed lean-tos from branches on the forest floor.
With everything built, we then divided into two groups. The Indians were the older kids, and the cowboys were us younger ones. Different-sized sticks became horses, bows, and rifles. Skipper outlined the story: Indians were minding their own business when some cowboys came to take over.
“You must leave,” said Leroy, aiming his big stick “rifle” at the Indians.
“Nope,” said Skipper. “Not gonna happen.”
And then the fighting began.
“I shot you! You’re dead!”
“No, I’m not! It’s just a flesh wound!”
“Hey, watch your stick! It almost hit me in the eye!”
And on it went. The yelping. The hollering. The laughing. The bang! bang! of rifles. The thwish-woosh-thunk of bows launching imaginary arrows and hitting the cowboys. The “horses” ran around the forts and lean-tos.
Finally, after everyone tired out, Skipper and his gang of Indians declared victory. Everyone jumped up and down, waving sticks in the air, yelling.
Skipper suddenly raised his hand. We all stopped.
“What?” Leroy asked. Skipper motioned to some trees nearby.
One-Eyed Sam, Big Jim, and Pete were leaning against some nearby spruces. Pete, in his dark green flannel, pulled a cigarette from his lips and blew smoke in our direction. The others just stared.
They were the wounded war heroes from World War II. One-Eyed Sam lost his eye over in Guam, fighting the Japanese. Big Jim came back with a crooked leg from the march in the Philippines. I couldn’t remember what happened to Pete, but he had served on the USS South Dakota battleship.
“Are we in trouble?” Leroy asked the men. “It was Skipper’s idea.” Skipper slugged him in the shoulder.
We waited. Their silence scared us.
“Nope,” Pete said, putting the cigarette back to his lips.
“You did good,” One-Eyed Sam said, and signaled let’s go to the others. As they moved back into the trees, Big Jim remained behind.
“You fought a good fight,” said Big Jim. “Just remember to take the fort with you before Jenkins finds it.”
Then they disappeared below the hill.
Later that evening, I stood in front of our old woodstove and told Daddy, Mama, and Chich about the warriors’ visit.
Mama’s concern was elsewhere. “You know Mr. Jenkins could have you all arrested,” she said. “How many times have I told you not to go there?”
Daddy sipped his coffee. “Oh, Cate, I used to play there with Harlin. He never called the law. Threatened us, but never called.”
“You never know. He might someday.”
While Mama and Daddy discussed the pros and cons of playing in the field, I sat down on the floor next to Peewee. She added a deep blue puzzle piece to an ocean scene of palm trees and sand. Chich’s sewing machine rumbled rhythmically in the corner.
“I wonder why the warriors were watching us,” Peewee asked. “They never said anything until we noticed them.”
Chich pulled out her scissors and began cutting stray threads from a pair of pants she was hemming for Daddy.
When I was your age and going to the old elementary school, some older warriors watched me and my cousins making doll-sized villages near the school fence one day. We stole bits of fabric, thread, and some buttons from the teacher’s sewing box. Then we built miniature plankhouses out of tiny cedar sticks and made horses out of bunchgrass. We brought our cattail dolls from home. When it was all set, we pretended the tiny village was alive. The women dried river eels on racks. The men rode horses and played a stick game.
One recess we came out and noticed the men stooping down behind the fence, staring at our village. They never said a word, but they were really having a look at it. The teacher started to walk over and shoo them away. She thought they would scare us. But my cousins and I begged her not to. We wanted them to look.
“Why did you stop the teacher from chasing them away?” I asked.
Chich smiled. “Because we knew why they were looking at our village.”
“You did?” said Peewee.
“Yes, because it reminded them of our ancestors’ stories and how life used to be before the white men came and forced us to move.”
◉ ◉ ◉
Back on the porch on 58th Place, sitting and remembering all this, I felt farther away from Grand Ronde than ever. I never lived on our rez before the white settlers. I never knew what it was like to have horses or wear beaded dresses. And I didn’t live on the rez now. I lived in a new neighborhood that didn’t understand warriors or the history of my people. They didn’t understand why my ancestors needed to win against the cowboys. This neighborhood only knew what was told to them in movies and television and history books.
That Indians always lose.
13 Budlong Blues
By Labor Day, everyone was ready for school to start. The parents. The kids. And everyone else living on 58th Place. Sunshine covered the sidewalks as our neighborhood gang of six — Keith, Addie, Anthony, Philip, Peewee, and me — headed toward Budlong Elementary School. It was just after the holiday weekend. The Santa Ana winds blew like the Chinook winds back home, only hotter. Instead of fall rains, 58th Place kept its sun and sported green grass, fresh trees, and colorful tropical flowers.
Anthony, Keith, and I were entering the school as fifth-graders. Anthony was in Miss Howard’s class. Keith and I had Miss Davies. Peewee and Addie were also in different classrooms as third-graders. And Philip, being a seventh-grader, left us at the entrance and headed toward John Muir Middle School, farther down the block.
“Too bad we’re not in the same classroom,” Addie said to Peewee. “But you’ll love Miss Clark.”
“I can’t believe Budlong has two classrooms for each grade,” Peewee said.
“Well, how many classrooms did your Indian school have?” Keith asked.
“Two,” I answered.
“That’s the same as Budlong.”
“No. Two classrooms in the entire school,” I replied.
Back on the rez, the Indian Agency school crowded grades one through seven into
