I finally breathed. “What’s wrong?”
Chich looked up from the paper, her eyes red. Mine began to fill. “The president has just signed a bill from Congress saying that we’re no longer Indian,” Chich said as she wiped her eyes with a dishrag.
“We’re no longer Indian?” I dropped my prized drawing. My mind raced, trying to understand. All I could say was, “But . . . but what if I still want to be one?”
I felt devastated when Daddy came home and confirmed what the newspaper said. According to The Oregonian, it was the law. Public Law 588, to be exact. Signed by President Eisenhower on August 13, 1954, the law said the government didn’t need to provide for our education, health care, or anything else as promised in the treaties. The government declared us only Americans now instead of our own nation. We didn’t need a reservation anymore. Nor our tribal roll numbers. Really?
The article said that many other Indian tribes had been terminated in Oregon, and it had been happening to other tribes elsewhere within the United States. Mama bawled, covering her face with her flowered handkerchief. Chich wiped away angry tears. Peewee and I nibbled on dry cornflakes at the table, as quietly as possible. Best not to ask questions when adults were upset.
“Well, it’s done,” Daddy said, sipping his coffee and staring out the kitchen window.
Mama flailed. “What are we going to do?” She paced the kitchen. “Where are we going to go?”
“tɘnɘs-man, you are Indian,” Chich said to Daddy while stroking my hair. “I am Indian. The girls are Indians. Fight this.” She looked at me. “For them.”
Daddy leaned forward. “With what? Good looks? I know I’m handsome and all, but you know we can’t fight the government.” He stood up, facing us. “It will all work out in the end. Trust me. I’ll take care of us.”
And then Daddy took it upon himself to change our lives forever.
5 Southbound
Daddy had plans, all right.
In the late spring of 1957, Daddy signed us up for the federal government’s Indian Relocation Program. The government promised Indians a better home, furniture, schooling, and a good job. Daddy called it an opportunity and seemed to believe it. Chich called it an eviction.
The termination law said we could buy our land if we wanted to stay, but we couldn’t afford it. Almost no Grand Ronder could. The government marked up the land prices two to three times what the lots would normally sell for. Everybody on the rez said no one should pay that much, even if they could. Some families who could afford it put their money together to buy their allotments or bought cheaper land nearby. This wasn’t an option for us, but we held on as long as we could until we were forced to move.
When Daddy announced we’d be leaving for Los Angeles, California, in July, Mama sobbed for three days and smoked a whole carton of Pall Malls. She got a headache so fierce she threw up. This didn’t help her hundred-pound body weight.
“I’ve never lived outside our reservation,” I said, sketching on a piece of paper Mama had given me to keep me busy while she packed. “What if I can’t be Indian in Los Angeles?”
“Of course you’ll be Indian,” Mama said, carefully folding my clothes into a battered suitcase she got from someone at the diner. “You’ll just be living differently.”
I scribbled hard, digging my pencil deeper into the paper and causing the lead to break. “What will it be like?” I asked.
“It will be like here, only different,” Mama said.
I slumped over my drawing. “Geez! That’s no answer.”
Daddy poked his head through my bedroom door. “What’s no answer?”
“Mama says living in the city is the same as living here but different.” I rolled my eyes. “What kind of answer is that?”
“Hey, watch how you talk to your mama,” Daddy said, sitting on my bed. “Look at it this way. The city has houses, yards, schools, stores just like Grand Ronde. They just have more of them and more people.” He gave me a hug. “But we won’t know how it is living there until we get there, right?”
“But what if we don’t like living there?” I looked at Mama. “Can we move back home?”
Mama glanced at Daddy. Then she continued packing.
Daddy smiled. “Sure. But first we need to give Los Angeles a chance. When I was traveling in the navy, and even now being away logging, I saw more jobs in other towns. I know I can get a better job down in California with more pay and not be gone from my girls all the time.”
I couldn’t say I really believed him after listening to the other adults in the community. To them, we were about to be cheated, just like we always had been by the government.
The summer morning we left, a misty fog covered the train station so thick that the morning sun struggled to peek through. A few family members stood around saying good-bye. Chich spoke in Chinuk Wawa to Aunt Rosie, her younger sister and Cousin Harlin’s mama. I considered it their secret language. When adults didn’t want us kids to know what was going on, they usually spoke it.
Chich smoothed away strands of black hair, sprinkled with gray, from her sister’s tearstained face and then adjusted her straw hat. Aunt Rosie pulled out a handkerchief from her overstuffed pocketbook. Wiped her eyes. Blew her nose.
Meanwhile Mama busied herself by fussing over Peewee and me. “Quit fidgeting with your dresses,” she said. “We need to look our best for the trip.”
Peewee and I wore matching store-bought crinoline dresses but in different colors. Mine was blue. Peewee’s was pink. I didn’t care much for them. The fabric scratched so bad it was like hornets biting my legs. My black-and-white saddle shoes blistered my heels. But I was stuck with this outfit, instead of the wonderful handmade dresses Chich sewed for us each year.
“You know, you can’t trust the
