Fall 2008 TCJ STUDENT EDITION
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STUDENT EDITION - PAGE 3
Lorraine By Sharris Neary
A Road Less Traveled By Daniel Eli "Zeke” Gazelka
The Persistence of Life By Patrick Freeland
Baa áłchini ya áhólyáa By Laura Lee Yazzie
Resonance By Heather Snell
The Drive Home By Michael Morningstar
One Morning in Early September by Karen Little Thunder
 Sharris Neary |
Lorainne
By Sharris Neary
Lorainne stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in an ice blue taffeta dressing gown, the kind from a 30’s movie. Bending forward and shaking her head, she watched as the drops flew through the sunlight to the floor. Maddie, the three year old daughter of Lorainne and her husband Max, watched intently as her mother prepped herself for the day.
Combing gel through her black, thick hair, she then carefully formed deep undulations with her fingers, clamping the high spots. Inspection with a mother-of pearl mirror confirmed the job to be perfect. Then, of course, came the inevitable moisturizing creme, followed by inflating her cheeks and slapping them with the back of her hands to ward off wrinkles. After all, you never knew when age might creep up on you. And, there could always be someone younger, more beautiful....like red-headed Marsha, the one who modeled for the painting on the Army poster. As if she would go to war!
Maddie watched and mimicked every move. Lorainne called her over, and sitting her on a chair, began to lovingly comb her thin, light hair, thinking hopefully that she saw a wisp of curl, but it was only where it had a little tangle. Still, by carefully combing in gel and pinning with bobby pins and clamps, Lorainne worked at achieving a wave in her hair. This was the only child she ever wanted.
Maddie worshipped her mother, and that was what kept her mother alive. Her worship was an acknowledgement of her overriding gift - beauty. She didn’t see herself as needing to connect with people - they should connect with her. So what if her husband ran a gas station? It was located on Miracle Mile and he had servants of the stars as his customers, and he was high up with the union bosses.
Lorainne went to her dressing table and began putting on her make-up for the day: oil moisturizer, pancake makeup, and a cloud of powder. She applied a startlingly red lipstick to her lips, then pressed them together. She carefully examined the result, turning her head several times to make certain that the fading bruise by her left eye didn’t show through. After dabbing Tabu behind each ear, from the bottle she had smuggled across the Tijuana border, she was ready to get dressed.
She put on a two-piece light-weight suit, rather simple in a style; only the "in” people would recognize it came from I. Magnin–one of those special gifts from Max.
Turning her attention to Maddie, she took out the hairpins and began running her fingers through her scalp-warmed hair. She loved dressing and primping her little girl - the only child she would ever love. Her hands lingered over the small child’s head; then she lifted up her face to give her a smile and a kiss.
Between Max, Maddie, her own personal needs, and taking care of the house, Lorainne felt it would be impossible to add another child. And yet, secretly she knew that new life was stirring in her. She didn’t want it to be; Max wouldn’t want another child to support. "This is too much for me already!” She could hear him now. She had tried all the old remedies - especially hot baths, but nothing had happened.
There was a syrup you could buy from one of the old ladies, and that was what she was getting dressed for today. It was not for the usual stroll downtown with Maddie, looking in store windows, handling new yardage, and then having an ice cream before going to the market. Today their destination was a house at the end of the street with a yard full of flowers and interesting plants. Stories about that kind of house usually included peeling paint and shuttered windows, but this house was a fresh white with lace curtains and windows open to the air.
She dressed Mattie carefully, making sure that neither her slip or underwear showed, and that her sox were in perfect alignment. They twirled together in front of the full-length mirror, then turned to go to the front door. The sun was shining brightly as they walked down the stone steps. A right turn on the city’s sidewalk sent them facing Mrs. Grimaldi’s house and, hopefully, relief from Lorainne’s situation. She had heard of women using coat hangers, but she was too afraid to do that.
"What time is it, Mommy?” Lorainne looked down at the famous designer lapel watch, another special present from Max. "It’s almost 10:30”, she replied. A little sigh escaped her lips.
Hopefully this will soon be over, she thought.
A few blocks farther and they reached Mrs. Grimaldi’s front walk. Lorainne hesitated, a common occurrence witnessed from inside the house. Finally, she straightened her shoulders and bravely came up the walk. She had barely knocked when the lady of the house opened the door, smiling.
"Come in, come in!” she greeted. "Sit down!” "Would you like a cup of tea?”
"Oh, no,” Lorainne said. "We can’t stay.”
"I suppose I already know why you are here. You have that look. All you girls get that look. Shows right away. Have you tried anything else?”
"I’ve tried scalding hot baths,” said Lorainne.
"No, that doesn’t always work,” replied the little old lady, ruffling her immaculate white apron. "I have something that WORKS! But you have to be certain you really want it to work, because there’s no going back once you take it.”
"It must work!” Lorainne knew she didn’t have a choice.
Lorainne stood up as the older woman went into a back room and returned with a little unmarked bottle of dark liquid. They agreed on a price, Lorainne paid, and they quickly went down the path toward home.
"What did the lady give you, Mommy?”
"Nothing!” Lorainne said crossly.
Maddie sighed. She knew it was useless to question her mother further, and most of all, she should not say anything to her father. You learn many things in a family.
That night, Lorainne woke with terrible cramps and felt a warm sticky spot under her. She jumped up and went into the bathroom, running a small warm bath. She eased into it, not knowing what to expect. A great rush of pain, more blood, an involuntary push, and into the shallow water swooshed a little object. She grabbed it. It was a perfect little baby. As she picked it up, it let out a tiny cry. Just one. Then it went lifeless.
Max heard her get up, and was coming into the bathroom just in time to hear the cry. "What have you done?” He grabbed her out of the tub, and began punching her in the face and in her stomach. She didn’t reply, and he didn’t stop for a very long time.
The next night he came home with a big package–another one of his special presents. There was a long red hair on his jacket.
Lorainne never forgot the sound of that little cry, and years later, Maddie still heard her mother cry out in the night, "What have I done?”
Sharris Neary is of Cherokee/Scots/Irish descent and is currently a student at Salish Kootenai College. She says, "My instructor, Jennifer Green, encouraged me to submit this short story, which I really appreciate.” Neary has written mostly grants, but more recently she’s written reflections—"private writings about what I see around me.”
Neary says, "This is the first time I have had the courage to take a creative writing class, something my husband has wanted me to do for a long time.” She is especially indebted to her good friend Mary Louise Defender Wilson (Dakota-Hitatsa), "who told me stories and fired my imagination, as she has done for so many.”
 Daniel Eli "Zeke" Gazelka |
A Road Less Traveled
By Daniel Eli "Zeke” Gazelka
The warm wind caressed his cheek like a mother soothing her child. She was the only mother Jassim had ever known, for his own had died the day he entered this world. But there was something different about it today. Perhaps it was the sand that whirled in its fiery grasp, scouring his dark desert skin. There was something different in the wind that day. Maybe it was the anticipation reflected in the eyes of his fellow freedom fighters. Or perhaps it was the pistol he pressed to the back of the American’s head.
Much had happened to bring him to this moment in time. Looking back over the past few months, he realized how complicated life had become, how full of riddles and questions, how devoid of answers.
A fisherman’s son, his life had been drab and monotonous. The only excitement had been playing with the other children and eavesdropping on the nightly meetings held in their village. These meetings almost always revolved around the village elders and a group of men he did not know. He didn’t understand why his father seemed so upset after these nightly sessions. Conversations with his father yielded little, except short speeches about a corrupt dictator. He knew it had something to do with Saddam’s loyalists, but little else; his father had forbid his involvement in the gatherings. So, naturally, Jassim would sneak up to the meeting hall to find out what he could.
One night toward the end of a meeting, the men had become especially loud. He could hear his father’s voice rise above the others. As he peered through a window, Jassim could make out a few words, "…never…Saddam can burn!” The voices lowered and he could hear no more. Any excitement that could be overheard was at an end. He began the short walk home. A voice from the shadows stopped him.
"As-Salamu ‘Alaykum, my friend.”
Jassim did not return the greeting. He did not recognize this young man, a stranger to his small village.
"My name is Imad,” the stranger said. "Will your father allow you to join us in the fight against the foreign invaders?”
This invitation prompted a response and an eager glint came to Jassim’s eye as he asked, "Tell me, how I would do this?”
Imad told him of others, young men and old, taking up arms against the eyeless Western devils, and of the great victory Allah had promised the defenders of Islam. The more Imad spoke, the more excited Jassim became. Before the night was over, he had returned home to pack his meager possessions and left his simple life behind for promises of glory and excitement.
Imad brought him to a small village in a range of low hills, where Jassim met with many men. These men greeted him as their equal and told him stories of American brutality and of the vengeance that the freedom fighters, the Abu Mhed, had achieved.
His training began the next day. His sessions consisted of small groups in which three or four students were paired with a senior member of the Abu Mhed. Daily classes were in small huts. Instructions were given on demolitions, weapons use, tactics and sabotage. They were taken on exercises to observe the Americans, their routines and patterns. They were shown how to exploit the invaders’ weaknesses. Long convoys of supplies could be cut with one homemade bomb. Patrols could be effectively halted by a quick hail of RPG’s. All of these things were new and exciting to Jassim. He was now a freedom fighter for his people, helping to stop the eyeless American demons that came to rape, devour, and destroy. At least, that was what he was told.
But as he observed the Americans, he noticed contradictions. When the Americans removed their goggles, they had eyes. Rather than devouring children as he’d been told, they offered candy. They repaired schools and built hospitals. Something was wrong.
He determined to find out what others thought of these things. When he questioned his mentors, he was told this was all a facade; the Americans were truly bloodthirsty devils as he had been told. He commented to his fellow freedom fighters of the things he had observed but received only jeers in return. In frustration he turned to Imad and some of the others that had introduced him to the Abu Mhed. The response they gave was not one he expected. They rejected his observations as nonsense, not worthy of the elders’ time. "Your mind is weak!” they said as he was dismissed with a waving gesture of the hand. As he stepped out the door and turned the corner to leave, his keen ears caught the mutterings of one of the men, "Weak, just like his blasphemous father.” Then another voice, "If such talk continues we may be obliged to send him to the grave as well!”
A red mist grew before his eyes as his rage began to build. A tear slipped down his cheek as the meaning hit home. He was betrayed. The men he knew as brothers in arms had lied to him and murdered his father. He knew the implications of crossing the Abu Mhed, and the consequences had a sobering effect in Jassim’s mind. So, he remained a prisoner of his own people in his own land.
Now, with his pistol pressing the palm of his hand, he looked around at his fellow freedom fighters. Their twisted smiles and nods showed their anticipation of this moment. With a final breath of resignation, he lifted the muzzle of his pistol from the American’s head and fired three times, once for each of the freedom fighters. All three slumped to the ground, faces frozen in shock. Imad, gasping, struggled to bring his rifle to bear. Jassim leveled his pistol on the young man’s forehead. "For my father,” Jassim said, the warm wind caressing his cheek. He squeezed the trigger.
Daniel Eli "Zeke” Gazelka goes by all four of his names "which tends to confuse people considerably.” He grew up in Minnesota in the country around the Bemidji/Tenstrike area. Gazelka served in the Army National Guard Infantry unit for seven years, three of which were spent on deployment "to less than savory countries.” He says, "When asked what I did in the military, I borrow an old quote, ‘More than some, less than others.’”
The Leech Lake Tribal College student says, "Ever since my English 101 teacher at Ely Tech inspired me and then taught me to write, I have had a flare for writing. One wouldn’t think a Law Enforcement student would enjoy writing so much. Yet, writing has always been a way to express myself, and I enjoy it very much.”
 Patrick Freeland |
The Persistence of Life
By Patrick Freeland
On a snow-covered field of what was once corn, a small dark shed contrasts against the vast pallor. On one side of the shed, a door made from dull sheet metal faces west. Adjacent to the door, a window faces east. The only window is made from mylar, framed with odd un-matched pieces of siding, attached to the shed with nails. Protruding through a small hole in the framing of the window is a small black cable that disappears into the snow. The cable emerges from the snow on the north end of the shed, connecting to a rusty old generator covered with a beat-up wheelbarrow.
This morning, the sun has started to rise in the east. The sky, thick with overcast, reflects the light in a violaceous play of color onto the ground below. As the sun rises, the colors begin to fade. The ground turns white and the sky turns grey. The sun continues to rise and the darkness begins to fade. Like a flashlight covered in silk, the sun shines into the window of the shed. Inside the shed an old man is sleeping.
The man is dirty, but not overly so. He sleeps in fatigued jeans and shabby, dated work boots with a hole forming in the left sole. Just like his clothes, his body is thin, haggard, and overworked. A look of peace covers the face of the old man as he sleeps on a worn mattress. He dreams. He sees his wife, the smile on her face, the shape of her body, and smells her perfume. He holds her close and she whispers in his ear, "I love you.”
Before he can say, "I love you too, baby,” she disappears from his embrace. A feeling starts at the base of his neck, and travels down his spine, getting more intense the further it falls. He sees his house, his belongings, and everything he knows pour into the ground around him. The relentless heat is unbearable. A wall of fire consumes the world around him. The man erupts with a cry of pain and lamentation as he loses everything, including his wife.
Abruptly, the old man awakes from his nightmare. Quickly, he sits up on the bed and stares at the door. His slumberous peace is shattered by the memory of the present. He breathes heavily. As he breaks free of his somnolence, he regains his sapience. He sighs and slumps down a little. He then looks toward the window.
Not much light shines through the thick plastic. But the mediocre warmth of the sun is more than enough for the old man. Outside the windy air is cold, but the inside of the shed is weatherproofed with planks of fiberboard and sheets of mylar. Resourcefulness is key to survival.
The man stands up, yawns, then stretches. His movements are slow, accurate, and routine. He reaches down next to the bed and picks up a threadbare green T-shirt. He pulls the shirt down onto his body. A dusty jacket made from many shirts sewn together hangs on a hook above the bed. He puts on the jacket and laces the holes down the middle. Pausing momentarily, he then reaches for a coffee can sitting on the shelf across from the bed. He puts on the pair of oily work gloves sitting on shelf, unlatches the door, and then steps outside.
Cold air pours into the shed as the man steps out onto the icy ground. He walks about twenty feet from the door, stops, and then stoops down to gather icy snow into the coffee can. He walks briskly back to the shed.
Inside, although the wind is gone, a chill remains. The old man empties the snow into a weathered stainless steel pot. He goes to get snow in this manner four more times. He pauses as he looks at the pot full of snow. He has followed this routine for months now. He hasn’t ever really stopped to look at the snow. It is beautiful in a horrifying way. This snow could kill him. But it also has kept him alive.
He proceeds to step out back to start up the generator one last time. His use of the generator is limited to boiling water. He peers into the gas tank and notices it is nearly empty. He pumps the primer, then flicks the ignition switch. Grumpily, the old generator starts up and idles, then the voltmeter shows a charge. Ready.
The old man goes back inside and places the pot of snow on an induction stove. He turns on the stove and turns up the heat. He would to let the water boil for at least thirty minutes before it was safe to drink.
The surface of the snow begins to come alive. Melting ever quicker, and becoming clearer, the mixture begins to fuse together. Soon it is in a completely liquid state with bits of dirt and splinters of corn stalk floating at the bottom. The water steams and bubbles. The heat from the pot of boiling water slowly warms the shed as the old man huddles by the stove. He watches the water intently, thinking.
He had spent much of his recent life thinking and contemplating. Questions of existence, purpose, and sanity were the usual subject matter. Sometimes he would daydream about how things used to be. Sometimes he would get angry, screaming at society and even God. "Why is this happening?!” Sometimes he would unplug the stove and plug in a radio, listening intently for anything–anything except the constant desolate hum. This time, his thoughts are of tomorrow instead of yesterday. He needs heat to boil the water. Diesel is hard to find, and there isn’t much wood to make a fire.
The generator sputters and then slows. A final cough and gasp mean the last of the diesel. The generator shudders as the engine comes to a grinding halt, shaking the shed slightly. Small particles of dust fall into the now still water. Too small to break the surface tension, myriad shapes and patterns dance across the water’s surface. Memories flood into the old man’s mind. He recalls a time when he didn’t have to use a generator to boil water; he remembers when he didn’t have to boil the water at all.
A small tear for the past slides down his face, cutting a clean line on his dirty cheek. The world had taken everything from him, except his life.
Patrick Freeland is a student at Haskell Indian Nations University in Lawrence, KS. He lives in Kearney, MO.
 Laura Lee Yazzie |
Baa áłchini ya áhólyáa
By Laura Lee Yazzie
She sits on the cold linoleum floor, crying softly, her elbows on her knees. She has flashes of happy memories: when she got married, the birth of her babies, and watching them grow. She is overwhelmed by thoughts and feelings, and the emotions are waiting to spill out. She moves slightly and feels the pain all over her body. Her right eye is swollen shut and it hurts when she tries to open it.
She hears footsteps; she turns and sees her oldest son, Jared. At first he does not see her, but as he opens the fridge door, the light catches her back. She sees the pity in his eyes. He does not acknowledge her. She has made excuses, promises, threats, and has even begged her children not to hate their father. The first time he hit her, he apologized. The second time he promised it would not happen again, and a million other excuses followed thereafter.
She hears her other children in the dining room, the sound of cereal being poured, and her little baby girl whining because she didn’t get cereal past the line marked in her favorite bowl. She wants to get up and make a decent breakfast for them, but she’s ashamed of her bruises and so she continues to sit. Finally, she pulls herself up slowly.
The pain is intense everywhere he kicked and punched her. She walks slowly into the dining room. She kisses her baby’s forehead. The children are not shocked to see her bruises, and she does not explain anything. She tells her children to come home from school right away. Her third oldest daughter asks why. She asks whether her mother has forgotten she was going to a birthday party after school. She says she did not forget and says they are going somewhere special that evening. She makes them promise to be back at 4:00 p.m. sharp. She helps her them find school bags, sweaters, books, and school projects before they run out the door.
Then she quickly goes to the hall closet and pulls out a large worn-out duffel bag and frantically starts throwing in clothes, favorite toys, jackets, and picture albums. She picks up the phone and dials the power plant. A woman answers. She asks when Richard would be returning. The woman says he is not expected until 6:00 p.m. when he is scheduled for the night shift. She hangs up the phone and continues packing.
She pulls another small bag from the closet and goes to her room. She doesn’t have very many clothes, just a favorite worn out flannel shirt, a couple of Levi jeans, and some t-shirts bought at a thrift shop. She packs the small Navajo rug and the few pieces of jewelry that her grandmother left her.
Tears swell up as she thinks of the promises she had made to her grandmother, her masani, as she lay on the hospital bed. She remembers her grandmother telling her to always take a retreat during her "monthly time.” When she asked why, her masani said, "Granddaughter, woman-time is used to reconnect to Mother Earth and to receive needed nurturing.” Masani’s wrinkled face bore the weight of her years, but a gleam remained in her eyes. Masani said, "As I lie here and think of my earth walk, I look back to the times when I took care of my family and nurtured my young, always being one step ahead of their needs. I was so grateful when I could go lie down and get some rest. Over many seasons, I have learned how precious that time was. I took strength offered by Mother Earth, taking the stamina I needed to carry on.”
She prays softly, "Shima sani, help me today. I need the strength of Mother Earth, to take my children to a safe place where there is kindness, laughter, trust, and respect, a place where my children will not be afraid. I need strength to leave this terrible environment and to continue to care for my children. I cannot continue to sacrifice the love of my children. Love is the one thing that allows me to endure, to walk tirelessly, nurturing my love for my children. I am weakened. Help me, shima sani, to leave this terrible man.”
She finishes packing and puts the duffel bags by the front door. She walks aimlessly back and forth, frantically looking out the window, and checking the clock. She feels fear.
She remembers going to a domestic violence support group where a woman had described her abusive relationship as walking on "broken egg shells.”
Her abusive relationship with her husband was more like "walking on shredded glass.” It hurt so bad. The pain was so intense, it took your breath away. Each time you see that fist coming at you, you wonder whether you will see another day. You feel like a "nobody.” You are in your body, but you no longer know who you are. It hurts physically and emotionally, but you get numb to it.
She has her children but she always feels alone: nobody listens, nobody cares, nobody understands.
After school, Jared came into the house, yelling "Mom,” followed by the others who were excited that they were going somewhere special. When he found his mother in a grotesque shape, lying in a pool of blood, he knew she was dead. As he dialed "911”, Jared remembered the promise he had made to always take care of his brothers and sisters. He was angry at his mother. She always said, "You must blame your father, me, the school, the teachers, but never blame yourself. It’s never your fault!” But today, Jared blamed himself. He should have made his mother leave sooner.
Laura Lee Yazzie, 55, is a proud Navajo woman, mother and grandmother. Her clans are Tsinajinii and Ashiihi, her paternal grandfathers are Tótsohnii and her maternal grandfather is Dibe’ łizhini. She is a law advocate student at Navajo Technical College (NTC, Crownpoint, NM) and plans to graduate with an associate degree in December, 2008.
Yazzie’s future plans also include obtaining a B.A. in criminal justice and attending law school at UNM. She wants to work in the domestic violence field by serving in the Navajo Courts.
She has been married to Jackie Yazzie, Jr. for 38 years, and they have five children: Delphine, Jonathan, Jonas, Jolene and Janene. They also have seven grandchildren.
From her hometown of Tsé Sí ání, (Lupton), Arizona, Yazzie travels 116 miles to attend classes three days per week. She appreciates how NTC integrates traditional Navajo teachings into all aspects of student education. She says, "I’ve learned that life often becomes easier the older I get because I begin to see what is important and what isn’t. I’ve learned that worrying doesn’t solve any problems. I want my children to live their own lives but be educated too. I am interested in their happiness and not their specific profession.”
 Heather Snell |
Resonance
By Heather Snell
The details escaped me in my youth, never striking me with clarity until I could understand the suffering I had seen that day. I never expected the impact the memories of that day left with me. But all these years later my heart carries the same scars.
Hot wind coursed over the plateau, filling the air with a dull howling and the harsh flapping of a forest of multicolored banners. The thin ropes that held the flags in place clanged against the rusting poles as if to beat a point into them. Despite the noise, the words that poured from the old man standing near the edge of the rise rang clear. His deep voice resonated to the mourners gathered around him as he spoke with reverence.
It had been an age ago since their ancestors had been aggressively transplanted here, but now this generation was firmly grafted onto the rough prairie. The mistreatment of these people had stunted their spiritual, cultural and psychological growth. The dry prairie dust coursed through their veins, constantly grating on old grudges and nerves. The obstinate expressions of the people standing there on that day of tribute showed that they had never forgotten.
The mass of dark eyes focused on the single flag being raised to half-mast in the background, the banner that had been carried by those who had oppressed their ancestors. They looked on it with a longing to finally be accepted as true products of its reign, often after loved ones had made the ultimate sacrifice, as was this case. A wish, which for all their efforts might never come true, as the newest occupants of their land had proved thus far to be less than accepting of its native children.
The elders seated near the front in rickety chairs craned their necks upward, the women squinting against the sun, the men adjusting their hats with sinewy hands. Their faces maintained a calm expression that was a mix of curiosity and emotional experience. There were a few younger women there with their bodies drawn closely inward, all clutching their jackets or a handkerchief to their chests or stomachs. As the service drew on, a few features reddened, betraying them. Even the children present were eerily quiet, as if, in some blood memory, they sensed a need for stillness.
The official in front finally drifted into silence and moved aside, allowing those in the front row to draw closer. They moved quietly, all kneeling down beside the grave to scoop up a handful of dirt for a moment before letting it slip from their grasp into the hole. The clods thumped heavily as they struck the coffin below. As they made their way back to their seats, the color guard stood stiffly at attention, the crowd’s gaze shifting to the group of men. In unison their elbows bent as their rifles angled toward the sky. The reports cracked and echoed over the prairie, the sound bringing most back to reality and sending a few of the children into tears.
After the service had finished, the flag was lowered and carefully folded into a triangle. The bearer carried it as steadily as he could while avoiding gopher holes and rocks. He gently placed it in the waiting arms of my great-grandmother. She tucked it under her arm and turned away stiffly, taking a moment to gain her bearings against the wind before walking toward the scattering of old cars and trucks behind us.
At that moment, many there had perhaps been thinking of the day the deceased had sealed his fate; the day he’d flashed a draft card and a grin, telling them he was going off to war. Other young men in the town had received the same call. He and his friends had been so proud to serve "their country” and looked forward to proving to the United States that an Indian was just as capable as any other person, an idea not many believed in. They might not have been allowed to vote yet, but they could be drafted just as easily as any other man. This day was merely an echo to the others that had played out so many times in the past, as tribute was paid to men who had died in service to a country which would not even recognize them as citizens until years later. She did not stay to watch them commit her last son into the ground.
Returning home she placed the flag on the mantle next to a line of black and white photographs. Her hands trembled with age as she fumbled to light the stubby remains of a sweet grass braid. The charred end glowed as the flame traveled down the dry strands before a puff of breath extinguished them. I stood next to her, my focus fixed on the small points of smoldering orange jumping to life like a heart every time she swept the braid through the air. Her body remained unshaken, but the thin wet trail of tears that coursed down her weathered cheekbones told an entirely different story. She muttered prayers under her breath and continued to smudge herself and the photos. She maintained her calm dignity as she finished, leaving without a word to fix a pot of tea. She would die of natural causes after her eldest daughter’s last child was born, the wounds on her heart healed into nothing but scars.
It was my grandmother that had walked alongside her that day; this is her story. I had yet to be born. Each time that I recall her story, I remember her strength and the losses our family endured. Someday I hope to pass this story on to my own children, and I hope that they are able to get as much out of it as I did. I pray that our future generations will never have to experience such heartache or suffer the same wounds conflict can bring.
Heather Snell (Fort Peck Sioux) attends Ft. Peck Community College in Poplar, Montana. Snell aspires to attend law school in the near future and eventually become a lawyer specializing in American Indian law.
Besides her enjoyment of academics, she enjoys writing, reading, drawing, painting, and playing videogames. She volunteers as a daycare aide and as a tutor at the local high school.
She thanks her writing instructor Dr. Rodney Standen, for encouraging her to submit her writing, and also her former art instructor, Travis Richards, for always offering enthusiasm and advice. She is grateful to all of the teachers she’s had over the years and to her family.
 Michael Morningstar |
The Drive Home
By Michael Morningstar
Just after closing time on a Saturday night, George was heading home from an entire day spent at the bar. Traveling down Main Street, he noticed a drive-through was still open. What’s one more bottle for the road, he thought to himself, as he parked and ordered a bottle of the cheapest whiskey. As he sat waiting with his arm stretched out the window, he looked upward. The moon was brilliant that night, and the sky was crystal clear. The air smelled pleasant from the constant summer rains of the previous few days. George had nothing to complain about, except for the fact that he had only enough money for maybe another bottle in the morning. He was on his way home when he saw his daughter walking on the road.
"How come you’re out walking at this hour?” George asked.
His daughter replied, "I was at a friend’s house studying for our midterms on Monday.”
Deciding it was not safe for his daughter to be out walking at night, he picked her up and proceeded to travel toward home. About halfway into the 15-minute drive out of town, the car began swerving all over the road.
George’s daughter pleaded, "Dad, let me drive, I have my driver’s license with me. You’re driving all over the road and it’s scaring me.”
Not realizing the extent of his inebriation, he mumbled back, "I’m fine, I’m okay.”
Everything began moving in slow motion, and there seemed to be a loss of sound. George looked woozily down at the floor, noticing an unopened bottle at his feet. Today must be my lucky day, he thought. When he looked back up there was a bright light, a horn blaring, and then: nothing.
When George awoke, he was upside down in his car. He groggily reached over to grab his daughter’s hand, but instead felt nothing. He crawled out the driver’s side window and struggled to his feet. In front of his car he found the body of his baby girl.
"Dana!” he cried, "Please wake-up.”
She didn’t move or respond; after a few moments, she stopped breathing. George sobbed and prayed for help -- no one came. Glancing tearfully over at the other smashed car, he suddenly recognized the license plates. Still shaken and covered in blood, he scrambled to the car screaming, "Grandma!” He found her lying in the ditch, barely alive. He begged her to hold on while he went in search of help. Knowing it would take too long to hike back into town, he decided to try the nearest home he could find. He ran toward the nearest light; when he got there, he found an old man outside keeping a fire.
George quickly explained the accident, and the old man replied, "Please sit, I’ll make you some tea. I’ll call for help; it is better if you rest now.”
"Why is it that you ran into that car?” asked the old man.
"I passed out at the wheel. I didn’t mean to. What have I done?,” agonized George as he began to cry again.
The old man gently told George to confess his sins and let go of the baggage that he was carrying. An anguished George told the old man how he had lost his wife to cancer and now blamed himself.
"I am no damn good. I just wish that I could give my life to fix what I have done tonight. I wish that I could trade my life for theirs,” groaned George.
The old man finally told George not to worry, that he would give George one more chance to make things right. He said he believed George was sincere, but if he ever drank again, the old man would take both George’s daughter and grandmother away again.
George closed his eyes for only a second, when he opened them he heard his daughter’s voice: "Dad, let me drive, I have my driver’s license with me. You’re driving all over the road and it’s scaring me.”
He slammed on the brakes and pulled the car over to the side of the road. He hugged her as tears rolled down his face, and then switched places with her. Before she put the car into drive, he quickly reached in the back seat and grabbed his bottle. He opened his door, and started to pour the whiskey out.
"Why are you spilling out your booze? I only asked if I could drive. You don’t have to do that,” said his daughter.
Still feeling the Old Man’s presence, George smiled at her warmly, and replied, "Because I love you.”
Michael Christopher Morningstar, 23, is a member of the Three Affiliated Tribes. He is Hidatsa/Mandan and a member of the Hidatsa Met Si No Ka (Flint Knife) within the Nagi-Nawe (Three Clans). Michael attends Fort Berthold Community College in New Town, ND, where he is pursuing an associate of science degree in computer information systems. Some of his favorite writers and people who inspire him include Victor Morningstar, Elsie Morningstar, Madison McDonald, Henry Rollins, and David Brin.
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One Morning in Early September
By Karen Little Thunder
Amid the sounds of the morning’s activities in the early morning hours of September 3, 1855, the soft cries of an infant could be heard. A camp of Lakota people were beginning to awaken and move about on the grassy banks of Mni To Wakpala (Blue Water Creek). Thin trails of smoke emerged from each tipi, dissipating easily into the pre-dawn sky and sending forth the tantalizing aromas of wood smoke and simmering buffalo meat. Accompanying the cries of the infant were the soothing murmurs of his mother, who gently spoke to him as he began feeding at her breast. Despite the commotion of the previous night and the desperate fear permeating the camp, she hummed a gentle lullaby as he nursed. The lullaby spoke of love and encouragement, tenderness and hope, for his future among the People.
Outside their tipi, a sudden commotion arose as pounding hooves announced the arrival of scouts on horseback, and hurried conversations were exchanged among the warriors of the camp. Tranquility was shattered as her husband burst into their home and desperately urged her to take their baby and leave the camp: attack was imminent!
Because they had previously discussed an emergency plan, there was no question and no hesitation in their separate actions; they would meet later in the day at a designated point. Quickly tying the infant into his cradleboard, the Lakota mother hurriedly grabbed a bag and, with the precious bundle in her arms, she stepped outside the tipi. Seeing the chaos and bloodshed erupting across the camp, she immediately ran.
A horseback soldier of the United States Army appeared abruptly near the fleeing mother and child. With his single gunshot, the woman felt one side of her face shattered into a bloody mess of bone and scorched flesh. The infant, tied securely in his cradleboard, fell to the ground in the arms of his mother. The soldier then proceeded onward, spurring his horse further into the mayhem in search of more killing.
Later that morning, a small group of soldiers converged at a site near the destroyed tipi. The frantic cries of the infant, who had sensed his mother’s distress, resounded amid the screams of the wounded and dying. Although still in his cradleboard, he was now lashed to a post that was the remnant of a wooden framework used for drying buffalo meat.
The group of soldiers focused their attention on the infant from a short distance away. Under the apparent influence of the propaganda drilled into their heads and the bloodthirsty adrenaline of the morning’s conflict, they began taking turns firing loosely aimed shots at the infant. Their brand new Sharps’ rifles echoed across the valley of Mni To Wakpala. One shot struck the baby’s feet, another, his abdomen. When a final shot silenced his cries, the successful soldier was patted heartily on the back by his comrades.
Not far away, the Lakota mother lay down her outstretched hand for the last time. Although the gunshot inflicted earlier had stolen her eyesight, it had not killed her. During the mayhem, she had sung for her son the lullaby that was their very own. The lullaby that she sang now spoke of tenderness and encouragement, love and hope. The lullaby carried them both into the company of their relatives.
Karen Little Thunder (Rosebud Sioux ) attends Sinte Gleska University (SGU) in Mission, South Dakota. Little Thunder is majoring in the four-year business administration program with a tribal management emphasis.
Little Thunder says, "This story was written in reflection of personal experiences I’ve had over recent years and is partially based upon research shared by the Lakota Studies Department of SGU, particularly Mr. Victor Douville. I am a direct lineal descendant of Little Thunder, who was amongst the leaders of a Sicangu (Rosebud Sioux) band massacred at Blue Water Creek in Nebraska on September 3, 1855.”