“Well, I can’t stay here,” Daddy replied. “And you know how I hate working at the mill. I’m better than that.”
“You are Indian, right?” Cousin Harlin said. They both chuckled. “You think the government will really find you a better job?”
“Hey, the government and the navy are the same. You get jobs you’re qualified for. Same pay. Same work. Move up in rank.”
“Yeah. Go from scrubbing latrines to scraping paint off a ship. I remember.” Cousin Harlin grabbed hold of Daddy’s shoulder. “You better hope those government men keep those promises, or you’re going to end up without a canoe to get back home.” Then they both chuckled and hugged.
The train arrived. The conductor shouted for us to climb aboard. More tears. Big hugs. Daddy carried our bigger suitcase and Chich’s portable Singer sewing machine onboard while Mama toted the medium-sized bag.
The long train slowly cut across the land throughout the day and then accelerated into the night. The train’s wheels pounded the tracks, like beating a log drum. Windows shook like dance rattles. I looked outside. Darkness looked back.
Chich stared out the window too, her hands folded on top of her navy-blue clutch bag. I scooted right next to her. Peewee leaned in from the other side. Chich wrapped her arms around us and looked down. “You better go to sleep,” she said. “Morning comes early.”
“I can’t sleep,” Peewee said, yawning. “Could you maybe tell us a story?”
“What kind of story?”
“A good story,” Peewee answered.
“Mmm, a good story, huh?”
Now stories from Chich weren’t exactly the “Once upon a time” or “They lived happily ever after” stories. Indian stories spoke truth. Well, that was what Chich said.
Then she began:
Before Grand Ronde became a reservation, our people, the Umpquas, lived down south in our plankhouses on our farms. We had lived this way for as long as we could remember. But white settlers demanded more land. So in the winter of 1856, the Indian agent came to our people and said they had to move to Grand Ronde, a reservation some one hundred and fifty miles away. Forced to leave their homes, our ancestors left only with the clothes on their backs and what little they could carry.
Other tribes from around the area were rounded up too and joined our people on the journey north. But none of those tribes wanted to leave their homes.
They walked through mud, rain, and snow. Men. Women. Children. Elders.
The Indian agent only had eight wagons to carry those who couldn’t walk, which was not enough. Five Indians, including children, died because of the harsh conditions, and one was murdered.
At the end of the journey, federal soldiers corralled our ancestors and those of more than thirty other tribes to our home in Grand Ronde. None of those people ever got money for all that they left behind — their houses, crops, beads, tools, horses, canoes, and dentalium shells.
My chich was six years old when she walked that trail. She remembered soldiers shouting for them to keep moving. And she remembered her chich dying one night on the journey when the group stopped to camp. They quickly buried her without any of the proper ceremonies.
“I would never do that to you, Chich.” I hugged her.
“Neither would I.” Peewee hugged her too.
Chich smiled and hugged us back. “I know. But children often don’t have choices.”
Peewee wiped away a tear. “That’s a sad story, Chich.”
“It can be seen as a sad story,” Chich agreed. “But it is also a proud story. Many more tribes were removed and brought to Grand Ronde to form our community. The story shows that our people survive. Even in the harshest conditions.”
“Then you think we will survive this move?” I asked.
Chich looked out the window, pursing her lips. Then she stroked our hair. “Well, we are Umpquas. And we come from survivors. What do you think?”
Like I said, our stories strike a different chord than fairytales.
Morning came, changing midnight skies into robin’s-egg blue. I stared out the window from the passenger car. Tall poles held thick black wires that waved across the rows of crowded business buildings. Ford Fairlanes and Chevrolet Bel Airs whizzed by along the highways and paved city streets. I saw nothing with green firs or black cottonwoods. No golden-yellow fields. No silvery-white streams. No emerald-green mountains.
No familiar homeland at all.
6 Courtesy of the Government
Our family arrived in Los Angeles on July 9, 1957. The train station was huge compared to the tiny one we’d left in Salem. Rows upon rows of polished wooden benches lined the floor. A gigantic clock hung high above the front doors. Speakers blasted times and places. People rushed by, whipping around us. Some even pushed us aside. No one spoke to us or seemed to notice we were there.
“Time to track down this Indian agent,” Daddy said, wiping the sweat from his brow and hooking his black jacket over his arm. “He should have been here to meet us.”
We walked out of the station into the dry, hot air. This didn’t feel like home at all.
Daddy set our big suitcase and Chich’s sewing machine down on the curb. He pulled a piece of paper from his wallet. A white man wearing a tie and a short-sleeved shirt hurried toward us. “Are you the Petit family?”
“Yes, we’ve been waiting for you,” Daddy replied.
“I apologize. I’m Steve Parsons with the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Parked right over here.” He carried the smaller of our two suitcases and Chich’s sewing machine to his car while Daddy lugged the bigger suitcase. After Mr. Parsons set our things by the trunk and opened the passenger side back door, Mama, Chich, Peewee, and I climbed into the back seat. Daddy loaded in our bags and slid into the front seat next to
