One can’t predict which memories
Remain sadly present. I don’t know why
I remember that reservation day
Where a dozen Spokane Indian teenagers
Picked up roadside litter.
It was a summer job, funded by some
Government program or another.
On that morning, as we sat
In the truckbed along with garbage bags
Stuffed with refuse, I was relentlessly
Teased by Millie, an Indian girl-bully
Made mean by forces that I was too
Unlearned to understand. I wanted to cry
As she called me a white boy—
The worse curse imaginable to an Indian kid—
But I pretended to ignore her
As we drove to the town dump.
Once there, all of us stood in the truckbed
And threw the garbage bags as far
As we could. The older boys tried
To hit a skeletal dog corpse
That was too decayed to smell
Anymore. I tried to hit an old time
Washing machine that had certainly
Belonged to a grandmother.
As Millie threw a garbage bag, she
Spotted something in the distance.
Some desirable object. She jumped
Out of the truck, ran through
The obstacle course of what
Nobody wanted, and came back
With a huge stuffed bear. Millie
Was so happy to claim that stained
And damp toy—somebody’s former
Companion. It was one of those
Carnival animals that cost three dollars
To make and thirty dollars to win.
Millie bragged about her find.
And I guess her sudden happiness
Was too much for the other boys
To withstand. So they stole
That animal from Millie and tore it
Into pieces. They laughed as they threw
The amputated limbs and decapitated
Head back into the dump. Millie
Watched it happen. She didn’t fight.
She didn’t say anything as we drove
Away from what she’d lost. At first,
I was delighted to see her, the bully,
Bullied into silence. I reveled. But then,
She looked up into the sky
And stared directly at the sun
Until she couldn’t take the glare
And burn. Our tribal name, Spokane,
Means “Children of the Sun.”
And since Millie’s parents were
More religious than mine, I wondered
If staring into the sun was an ancient
Tribal ceremony. Doubtful.
But I had no other guesses at why
She did that. Now, as an adult,
I understand how some people
Will hurt themselves on purpose
In order to feel like they’re in control
Of their pain. I don’t know if Millie
Hurt herself in other ways.
But I think of her now, so quietly
Distraught by the cruelty
Of the other boys, and I realize
That she was cruel to me
Because that also gave her
Some sense of power, even
As all of us Indian kids remained
Powerless. That stained stuffed
Animal, damp with summer rain
And whatever else, stays
With me. As does Millie’s pain.
I hated her for causing me shame
But I’ve learned how to separate—
How to simultaneously feel rage
And forgiveness. Dear Millie,
I don’t know where you’ve run to.
I don’t know what you call home.
God, we were once so young
And loyal and disloyal to our tribe.
We were loved and repugned.
Dear Millie, you were never my friend
But both of us are Children of the Sun.
Thank you so much.
Lovely