As we constructed our lean-tos, the sun blazed above. The traffic noise from Western Avenue rumbled over to our street. I glanced up, checking out the neighborhood. That’s when I noticed a boy on the sidewalk staring at Peewee and me.
His white T-shirt and tan shorts accented his skinny black frame. He said nothing. Just stared. Standing next to him was his younger sister, I assumed, with four ponytail braids all held closed at the ends with different colorful barrettes.
I was startled at first, wondering why they didn’t say hello or something to let us know they were there.
As I stood and dusted the dry grass from my knees, the girl blurted out, “Are you Indians? Our parents said Indians were moving in.”
“Yeaaah,” I said slowly as I studied these new kids. They didn’t look like any of the kids back in Grand Ronde. I’d never seen anyone so dark. “We’re Umpqua. What are you?”
The boy looked at me as if I had sprouted antlers. “We’re colored,” the boy answered.
Now I was really confused. “What do you mean colored?”
“We’re Negroes,” the girl added.
I had never heard of that one. “Okay. What tribe is that?”
The boy’s mouth dropped open, and he burst out laughing, like I had asked a dumb question. The girl giggled so hard, she snorted.
“We’re not from an Indian tribe. Don’t think there’re any tribes in Arkansas where we moved from, just white folks that don’t want us around,” the boy finally said. “Haven’t you ever met Negroes before?”
“No,” I huffed.
“Nope, you’re the first ones ever,” Peewee chimed in with a smile, holding out both our dolls. “Wanna play?”
That Peewee. She made friends everywhere.
“Is this a real Indian doll?” the girl asked, checking out Peewee’s cattail doll.
“Our chich made it, so I guess it is.” Peewee grinned.
“Chich?” asked the boy.
“That’s how we say grandmother,” I said.
The girl studied the doll. She then squatted down to check out our lean-tos. She looked puzzled by the mass of tiny leaves, flowers, and twigs. “Is this how you live back where you came from?”
“No,” Peewee replied. “We had a house back home. This is a lean-to.”
I whispered to the boy, “Does she always ask so many questions?”
“Yep. ‘Nosy’ is what we call her at home.”
The girl jumped up from the grass and bolted up the porch steps. “My name’s Addie Bates and he’s Keith,” she declared. “Can we see your house?”
Peewee and I gave each other a sidelong glance. “Sure,” Peewee said. “I’m Theresa, but everyone calls me Peewee, and she’s Regina.”
“Where are your Indian blankets?” Addie asked as Keith and I entered the house behind them. “And how come your couch has stains?”
I cringed. I hadn’t thought about how bad the couch looked.
“Chich crochets all our blankets,” Peewee said. “And the government gave us this couch.”
“The government gave you a couch?” Addie asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “They gave us all this furniture. Well, except for Chich’s sewing machine. We brought that from the rez.”
“The rez?”
“Our Indian reservation,” I replied.
“What’s that?”
“It’s land where Indians live, work, and go to school. Ours is in Oregon,” I said, wondering if I was lying because it didn’t exist anymore after being terminated.
“And you guys know how to sew?” Addie continued.
“Addie,” Keith said, pulling on the back of his sister’s blouse, “shut up.”
Addie scrunched up her face. “Ooh. You told me to shut up. I’m going to tell Mama.”
We continued the tour and entered the kitchen. Mama was scrubbing out the refrigerator, stopping only long enough to take a drag from her cigarette. She acknowledged us with a nod. The scent of vinegar filled the air.
From the kitchen, we headed out back. Chich was there, supervising Daddy putting up the clothesline. He stretched the rope from the back porch onto the small garage as tight as he could.
“Chich, this is Keith and Addie,” I said.
Chich smiled at them, and Daddy walked over to us. His large frame towered over our new friends. They stepped back to give him room.
“Does this work for you, Ma?” Daddy asked Chich, pointing to the clothesline.
“It’ll do,” she said, nodding. She turned to us. “How about I make some sandwiches for you all?” Without waiting for an answer, she headed inside.
Daddy surveyed Keith and Addie and smiled. “You live close by?”
“Yes sir,” Keith said. “We live across the street and two houses down from you.”
“Nice to meet you. Why don’t you kids head back in for those sandwiches?” Daddy started putting his tools away.
We raced back inside. While we nibbled on peanut butter sandwiches at the kitchen table, Mama went to arrange stuff in the bathroom. Addie told us all kinds of stories about the neighborhood and the kids on the street — kids we had yet to meet.
Hanging out with Keith and Addie felt kind of like spending time with my cousins back home. So that’s why I couldn’t have guessed what was coming next.
8 The Wrong Kind of Indians
Addie ran home to get some pink plastic dolls and doll beds, and Keith brought back toy bows and arrows, decorated with brightly-colored feathers and fake leather.
“Can you teach me how you shoot an arrow?” Keith asked, handing me the bow.
“I don’t know how to shoot,” I said, and handed it back.
“Doesn’t your daddy own a bow and arrow?”
My brow wrinkled. “I don’t think so.” I looked over at Peewee sitting with Addie, who was going nonstop with questions.
“What about an Indian costume?” Addie asked her.
“Costume? No. Why would I wear a costume?” Peewee seemed perplexed. Frankly, I was too.
Addie threw her hands in the air. “Geez, what kind of Indians are you? Do you even have a tipi?”
I never thought about it. Tipis, Indian costumes. Heck, I never saw tipis or any of that stuff, except in a couple of old cowboy comic books at Cousin Harlin’s house.
I
