Carnival of Souls

A poem

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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.