Mostly White. Alison HartЧитать онлайн книгу.
Papa try and stop men from taking us. Joe and I were playing in yard—they came and took us.
“This one’s dark.” He holds my arms hard. “Real dark Indian.” Joe cries, trying to get away from other man’s arms. They drag us to cart, howls of children crying—Papa runs out of house.
“Where you taking my children?”
Agent says, “All Indian children got to go to school.”
“Where you taking them?” Papa jumps on one of them like a bear the other agent raises his stick and beats Papa, beat him till I can’t see Papa move—just lump on ground. Papa, please get up please please get up. Last time I seen of Papa—on the ground.
Me and Joe huddle in dark all children weeping sound of horse hooves on ground crack of whip. Time to civilize and educate Indians the agent said, Joe crying I’m holding him. We get to school the place we would unlearn our savage ways. They stripped us scrubbed us cut our hair. Any time anyone speak Passamaquoddy smack of hand or lash with switch. We learn to speak without speaking.
“Get up and go to morning prayers!” Sister Anne commands. She shakes me—I’m cold—floor cold on my feet. I walk to church, all brown heads bowed in white clothing kneeling—
“Our Father who art in heaven hallow be thy name.” I kneel by Joe—Joe frowns. “Thy Kingdom come thy will be done.” I pinch his leg, he shoots a glance, I smile.
After Mass, breakfast. I’m so hungry one bowl of something lumpy I eat it anyways—always hungry at this place. We march in one at a time Sister Anne tapping switch in her hand—my back throbs.
I am dazed in class words tumble out of Sister Anne’s mouth like gurgling brook. I can’t make sense of it. Am I here? Or my spirit somewhere else, disappeared through closet floorboards.
Joe has rabbit fear in his eyes. I can’t reach him. Chore time, scrubbing floor, sweeping, dusting, my body does it. Where am I?
Lunch time. Some watery soup, my body eats it the children scared to talk to me afraid of beatings. Back to class more gurgling brook talk. More chores. Sister Anne’s piercing voice:
“Sweep that dirt in a pile first then sweep it in the dust pan. Don’t you know how to sweep a floor?”
My body follows commands, back to dinner, some stew. Nighttime prayers, we kneel beside bed all girls, booming voice of the Father we try to mimic his words as he walks by our beds, he stops at mine. Will I die? Will I die and go to hell? Father stares at me with steel blue eyes—my spine shivers.
I am awake or asleep, someone heavy on me, it’s dark—
“You—you seductress I know what you want.” The Father whispers in my ear hand over my mouth. His face is red, hair white like snow. He lifts up blanket something hard enter me he thrusts up and down up and down pain stabbing through my body—
“This is what happens to sinners!” The Father’s thrusts become harder, faster—
Am I dead? Did I go to hell? Is this hell? Joe Joe where are you—his scared rabbit eyes was his warning. Pierce sharpness over and over—
I am dead, am I? I smell sweetgrass the kind my mother used to hang.
Something sticky wet down my legs.
“You savage seductress you made me do it.”
He leaves. I am frozen I am in the hell they speak of.
Morning prayer. Hard to walk. My spirit gone I am just body. We kneel say morning prayer.
“Our Father who art in heaven hallow be thy name—” insides ache—
“Thy Kingdom come thy will be done—”
I am just a body—
“on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread—”
My spirit
“and forgive us our trespasses—”
Where are you?
“As we forgive those who trespass against us—”
Where are you?
“And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil—”
I must get you
“For thine is the Kingdom the power the glory—” back!
“forever and ever Amen.”
The Father closes the bible and leaves, Sister Anne rushes us to breakfast.
“Joe,” I whisper to him, “Joe, my spirit gone I must find it today at lesson follow me.”
Joe nods his head, Sister Anne shoves me away from him back in line for breakfast.
Sunlight through window, door creak open, calls me to find my spirit. Sister Anne bounces switch in her hand all eyes on switch—except me. My eyes on door. She commands us to copy letters heads bent over slates, she walks up and down the aisle past me, past Joe.
My spirit calls me.
I take Joe’s hand run towards door her back is to us—we run—me and Joe run—past the pasture, the outhouse into the woods—warning bells ring—I hold tight to Joe. Someone is behind us, Joe trips—lets go—he screams they get him—I run, I shout, “Joe, Joe!”
“Run big sister run!” he cries.
“I will come back for you.” I dash into trees I can’t turn back—my spirit calls—so fast I run I run until it’s dark. I run until I can’t see.
They tie you up to a tree and leave you there oh Joe, Joe. The last one that tried to run, they caught and tied him to a tree. We couldn’t talk to him, or give him food or water, his eyes, lifeless, until he couldn’t stand no more. I rock back and forth under a tree, I rock, the owl hoots, tears stream down for Joe, I rock, listen for spirit.
BIRD MAN
Coo of dove calls me, time to keep moving. Father Sun shines through green leaves of trees. My stomach rumbles for food, I spot pink flowers ahead of me. My mama and aunties showed me how to dig up roots and find the nuts. I get a stick and dig out the thickest root of the vine, pull it hard and out comes a necklace of round nuts. I brush them off, eat half and save the rest. I run to tall reeds of grass, sunlight bounces off pointed edges, smell water. Come to edge of riverbank and wait in sunlight, maybe spirit is in water, I drink from it, wait for river to bring my spirit back.
I lay back on the rock, river rushes past me. The warmth of stone heals my back, still feel Sister Anne’s switch. I drift in dreamland—
Little one, remember the story of Bear Island. We are the bear clan. My mother Sophia, a bear medicine woman, your grandmother. She had healing powers to cure ill, foraged forests for plants and herbs. White man disease came too strong—the pox. Came to Bear Island—whole island suffered, the wails echoed at night, wolves across the bay answered back. My mother tried, used herbs for my father Joseph, my brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles—pox took them. We went to bring them to rest with ancestors, to the mainland. We carry dead in a canoe heading toward mainland, they shoot arrows at us, forcing us to go back. They didn’t want the pox. My mother set the camp on fire, we left at night in a canoe, wolves howling, people howling, owls hooting—there was no peace that night.
Long journey, yes it was, all night gliding down the river, stars leading the way. Father Sun rises, on the shore, my mother offers tobacco. I carefully step out of the canoe and join her, facing the four directions. We walk in silence through the forest. My mother shows me what herbs and roots to pick. I eat berries and my mother fasts, so she can be hollow like a drum to receive the spirit. She thanks the plants as we go. My moccasins worn, I keep going. The cries of the people and the wolf howls haunt me, I keep going. Grandmother Moon lights our way to the bay. I gather branches for the fire. I sleep curled in my mother’s lap.