Things changed at home after Chup died. Chich had her long, silver-streaked hair cut short in a ceremony to mourn Chup. Each chilly grey morning, as she twisted Peewee’s and my straight dark hair into two lengthy braids, we missed hearing Chup’s stories. After she finished, she would put on her well-loved yellow apron and make us hot, clumpy oatmeal with dried huckleberries and cups of coffee mixed with lots of canned Carnation milk and sugar. Then Peewee and I would head outside to play or head over to the Indian Agency school. Daddy would hitch a ride with Cousin Harlin to the mill while Mama whisked down the road for her waitress job at the rez diner. And Chich, well, she sewed, made pies, and did whatever else grandmothers did.
If I got up early enough, I’d join Chich on the porch to wawa-lax̣ayam·r kitɘp-san·r, or greet the day. We’d sit together — she with her coffee and me wrapped in my favorite wool blanket — waiting for the morning sun to reach Spirit Mountain.
“Remember that mountain is sacred to our people,” she would say. “It is a good sign if you see sax̣ali-tayi, so pay attention.”
I’d keep my eyes peeled. And sometimes I’d see a great bald eagle soar beyond the pines, thankful to call Grand Ronde home, just like me.
3 Divisions
The year I turned eight, I knew change was coming to Grand Ronde. The rez buzzed continuously with reports. Almost every night that winter, our family hustled over to the community center for what were called “informational” meetings hosted by the Indian agent. Even the elders’ Friday night bingo was canceled, which almost never happened.
I never understood everything being said. Us kids usually ended up inside the large community pantry playing with old toys or outside on the church’s playground with the merry-go-round and swings.
Even when it rained, I preferred to be outside with my cousins, but that day it was cold. Indians shouted at the white men in suits or at one another. Angry words flew. Threats of battle. I cowered near the pantry window.
“No! We won’t leave our homes!” one Indian said.
“We do not want your money!” said another.
“You cannot trust the government!” Chich said.
“They are offering us a better life,” said Daddy. His view did not seem to be shared by the others.
Frustration poured from the community room. Indians against the government. Family member against family member. Old against young.
I stared out the window at the soggy playground outside. I felt like this was what the Indian agent must have wanted all along. Us fighting.
At home, I asked Daddy what the meetings were about. Why was everyone so angry?
“The government just doesn’t want to be in the Indian business anymore,” he said, leaning back in his chair.
Mama said, “Someone from the Bureau of Indian Affairs had the nerve to say, ‘Cate, you might as well get used to it.’” Then she struck a match to light her second cigarette with the first one still burning in the ashtray.
The Bureau of Indian Affairs, or the BIA for short, was the government agency that sent those white men in suits to tell us Grand Ronders we were about to be terminated.
Our old schoolhouse had just been painted a new coat of yellow. You would think if the government painted it, they were planning on keeping it. I didn’t understand what they wanted with all our old buildings anyway. I worried about Chup.
“What about our cemetery?” I asked, looking over at Chich.
“They have promised to not take our cemetery from us,” she said. I didn’t know if I believed it. But maybe the government couldn’t sell a graveyard anyway.
The fighting at the community center didn’t change anything. Our tribe was against termination, but the BIA superintendent lied and said we were for it, claiming we took a vote. But no vote was ever taken in Grand Ronde.
But I didn’t know any of this had happened. Spring came, then summer and my birthday. I was starting to think we would be left alone. But we weren’t.
4 The Oregonian
Summer had been full of fun times, me celebrating my eighth birthday and playing with my cousins and friends. Then one late August afternoon, I decided to race home from Cousin Harlin’s house to give Chich a new picture I’d drawn for our farmhouse walls. Cutting through the wild barley, I sprinted past his older boys, Mark and Chip, playing out in the field. With my waist-long braids soaring behind me, I almost made it past Peewee and Leroy, Cousin Harlin’s youngest boy, when Leroy pushed her toward me. Peewee punched Leroy hard in the shoulder while I zigzagged to the side, leaving them behind.
“Hey Regina!” Leroy yelled as he grabbed his shoulder. “Where ya going so fast?”
“Home!” I responded. Didn’t glance back. Just kept on going.
I bolted inside the house, calling for Chich, ready to show her my drawing. The front door slammed against the wall, something never allowed. I was almost into the next room before I noticed there’d been no reply. I stopped. And listened.
“Chich?”
A quiet sob whispered from the kitchen. I crept into the room, hugging my arms and picture tight to my brown plaid dress. The drawn kitchen curtains blocked most of the sunlight.
Chich sat at the scarred breakfast table, her wrinkled brown hands trembling, holding The Oregonian newspaper.
I had never seen Chich cry before. I held my breath. Somebody must have died, I thought. Could it be an accident at Daddy’s logging camp? It wasn’t uncommon for people to get hurt with chainsaws and fir trees
