The memory of our deer hunts made me sad for Grand Ronde. The hunters would ask for
sax̣ali-tayi’s help in providing food for their families and the community. When the men came home, the deer would be hung up and slaughtered. They took time to thank the deer for giving up their lives for us.
After they processed the meat, the men would distribute portions throughout their families. The women marinated the meat in spices, then fried it or placed it inside a big pot of stew. Sometimes it seemed like forever before the food was served. But when it was, everyone ate to their heart’s content.
Now none of that was going to happen on 58th Place.
“No bows and arrows?” Keith asked.
I laughed. “You could use bows and arrows, but my daddy and his cousins don’t.”
“But in the movies . . . .”
I smirked. “How about your people?” I asked Keith. “Do they hunt?”
Keith’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding? We always lived in the city. We buy our meat at the store. In fact, that’s where we buy all our food.” He paused. “Do you even have grocery stores?”
“Yes. You sure seem to think we live like those Indians you watch on TV.”
I watched Keith sip his Kool-Aid. He seemed in deep thought, like he wanted to say something but didn’t. So I asked him, “What do your people look like on TV? Does it show how they lived long ago?”
“Only if you watch Tarzan movies. We wear loincloths, carry spears, and do a lot of mumbling. And it seems like we’re scared of every animal around.”
“That sounds weird. I never saw any of those movies. People think you’re like that?”
“I don’t know. But whites and sometimes other folks do see us as different.”
Different. That was how I was feeling since moving to LA.
11 Summer in the City
Figuring out how to be an Indian in the city with no cousins to play with wasn’t easy. I missed our adventures through the woods, creeks and fields back home. At least Peewee and I had our new friends, Addie and Keith. And they were about to introduce us to a couple of other kids on our street — Anthony and Philip.
Clear skies and a full sun met us out in the street. We walked toward the corner of Western Avenue and 58th Place. Keith and Addie led the way. “Anthony and Philip live there,” Keith said, pointing to a square white house at the end of the block. “They moved here before we did. Their last name is Hernández. They’re Cuban.”
We wandered into the brothers’ front yard with rows of kitchen chairs, benches, stools and a few milk crates lined up in front of a professional-looking puppet theater stand. The sun spotlighted a tall box carved out of dark wood with intricate gold-paint designs all around. The arid wind blew at the red velvet curtains and silky tassels.
“ ‘Cuban’ isn’t a tribe either, I take it,” I said.
“Nah, Cuba is an island far away,” Keith said. “They speak Spanish there and make cigars.”
Addie jumped in. “Anthony says he misses Cuba a lot, especially his cousins.”
I understood. I missed mine too.
“And Philip says they can never go back home,” she added.
I was about to ask why but then realized I probably knew the answer. If it was anything like what happened to us in Grand Ronde, I knew exactly how Anthony felt.
“They put on good shows,” Addie said, looking for a row of empty seats. “They do this every summer. They’ve done a magic show, a circus, and a musical.”
Anthony, the younger brother, met us and held out his hand to collect admission. “A penny each, please.”
The two pennies I received from Chich that morning for Peewee and me clinked in Anthony’s hand on top of Keith’s money.
Most of the neighborhood kids sat around us. I sat down next to Peewee, who’d sat next to Addie. “Anthony and Philip aren’t their real names,” Addie said.
“They’re not?” I asked.
“They changed them to make it easier for the teachers to say in school,” Keith explained, sitting down next to me.
“The government made our elders change their names too. The Indian agent couldn’t say them right,” I said.
“What were your real names?” asked Keith.
“Don’t know. It’s been since before Chich was born, maybe even her parents, since anyone said them.” I watched Philip and Anthony bring out paper cups through the front door.
“So they gave you ‘Petit’ as your last name?” Addie asked.
Peewee nodded.
“You know, Petit isn’t an American name,” Keith said.
I shrugged. I didn’t know what it was, except not an Umpqua name.
Mrs. Hernández, wearing a nurse’s uniform, brought out small brown paper bags full of fresh, hot popcorn for everyone in the audience.
“Mrs. Hernández was a doctor in Cuba. A real good doctor too,” Addie whispered, continuing her gossip. “She’s not allowed to doctor here, though.”
“Why not?” Peewee asked.
“Mama says it’s because she’s a Cuban doctor, not an American doctor. Now she’s a nurse. But she still helps everyone on our street.”
That didn’t seem right. Doctors were doctors. Period.
I noticed some white kids filling in the seats. While Philip offered cups and Anthony poured fruit punch, Mrs. Hernández passed out the popcorn. She stopped in front of Peewee and me.
“¡Hola! ¿Hablan español?”
I leaned back, startled as I took the bag. I’d never heard that language before and didn’t know what to say. Peewee’s brow scrunched up.“Thank you?” I said, hoping that was the right response.
Mrs. Hernández tilted her head, looking at me. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, switching to English. “I thought you knew Spanish.” She continued giving away popcorn to the rest of the kids.
I looked at Keith. He shrugged. “I don’t know what she said either,” he offered.
“Do I look like
