The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (9 page)

It was the loneliest time of my life.

And whenever I get lonely, I grow a big zit on the end of my nose.

If things didn't get better soon, I was going to turn into one giant walking talking zit.

A strange thing was happening to me.

Zitty and lonely, I woke up on the reservation as an Indian, and somewhere on the road to Reardan, I became something less than Indian.

And once I arrived at Reardan, I became something less than less than less than Indian.

Those white kids did not talk to me.

They barely looked at me.

Well, Roger would nod his head at me, but he didn't socialize with me or anything. I

wondered if maybe I should punch everybody in the face. Maybe they'd all pay attention to me then.

I just walked from class to class alone; I sat at lunch alone; during PE I stood in the corner of the gym and played catch with myself. Just tossed a basketball up and down, up and down, up and down.

And I know you're thinking, "Okay, Mr. Sad Sack, how many ways are you going to tell us how depressed you were?"

And, okay, maybe I'm overstating my case. Maybe I'm exaggerating. So let me tell you a

few good things that I discovered during that awful time.

First of all, I learned that I was smarter than most of those white kids.

Oh, there were a couple girls and one boy who were little Einsteins, and there was no

way I'd ever be smarter than then I but I was way smarter than 99 percent of the others. And not just smart for an Indian, okay? I was smart, period.

Let me give you an example.

In geology class, the teacher, Mr. Dodge, was talking about the petrified wood forests

near George, Washington, on the Columbia River, and how it was pretty amazing that wood could turn into rock.

I raised my hand.

"Yes, Arnold," Mr. Dodge said.

He was surprised. That was the first time I'd raised my hand in his class.

"Uh, er, um," I said.

Yeah, I was so
articulate
.

"Spit it out," Dodge said.

"Well," I said. "Petrified wood is not wood."

My classmates stared at me. They couldn't believe that was contradicting a teacher.

"If it's not wood," Dodge said, "then why do they call it wood?"

"I don't know," I said. "I didn't name the stuff. But I know how it works."

Dodge's face was red.

Hot red.

I'd never seen an Indian look that red. So why do they call us the redskins?

"Okay, Arnold, if you're so smart," Dodge said, "then tell us how it works."

"Well, what happens is, er, when you have wood that's buried under dirt, then minerals and stuff sort of, uh, soak into wood. They, uh, land of melt the wood and the glue that phis the wood together. And then the minerals sort of take I place of the wood and the glue. I mean, the minerals keep I same shape as the wood. Like, if the minerals took all the wood and glue out of a, uh, tree, then the tree would still be a tree, sort of, but it would be a tree made out of minerals. So, uh, you see, the wood has not turned into rocks. The rocks have replaced the wood."

Dodge stared hard at me. He was dangerously angry.

"Okay, Arnold," Dodge said. "Where did you learn this fact? On the reservation? Yes, we all know there's so much amazing science on the reservation."

My classmates snickered. They pointed their fingers at me and giggled. Except for one.

Gordy, the class genius. He raised his hand.

"Gordy," Dodge said, all happy and relieved and stuff. "I'm sure you can tell us the truth."

"Uh, actually," Gordy said, "Arnold is right about petrified wood. That's what happens."

Dodge suddenly went all pale. Yep. From blood red to snow white in about two seconds.

If Gordy said it was true, then it was true. And even Dodge knew that.

Mr. Dodge wasn't even a real science teacher. That's what happens in small schools, you know? Sometimes you don't have enough money to hire a real science teacher. Sometimes you have an old real science teacher who retires or quits and leaves you without a replacement. And if you don't have a real science teacher, then you pick one of the other teachers and make him the science teacher.

And that's why small-town kids sometimes don't know the truth about petrified wood.

"Well, isn't that interesting," the fake science teacher said, "Thank you for sharing that with us, Gordy."

Yeah, that's right.

Mr. Dodge thanked Gordy, but didn't say another word to me.

Yep, now even the teachers were treating me like an idiot.

I shrank back into my chair and remembered when I used to be a human being.

I remember when people used to think I was smart.

I remember when people used to think my brain was useful.

Damaged by water, sure. And ready to seizure at any moment. But still useful, and maybe even a little bit beautiful and sacred and magical.

After class, I caught up to Gordy in the hallway.

"Hey, Gordy," I said. "Thanks."

"Thanks for what?" he said.

"Thanks for sticking up for me back there. For telling Dodge the truth."

"I didn't do it for you," Gordy said. "I did it for science."

He walked away. I stood there and waited for the rocks to replace my bones and blood.

I rode the bus home that night.

Well, no, I rode the bus to the end of the line, which was the reservation border.

And there I waited.

My dad was supposed to pick me up. But he wasn't sure if I'd have enough gas money.

Especially if he was going to stop at the rez casino and play slot machines first.

I waited for thirty minutes.

Exactly.

Then I started walking.

Getting to school was always an adventure.

After school, I'd ride the bus to the end of the line and but for my folks.

If they didn't come, I'd start walking.

Hitchhiking in the opposite direction.

Somebody was usually heading back home to the rez, so I'd usually catch a ride.

Three times, I had to walk the whole way home.

Twenty-two miles.

I got blisters each time.

Anyway, after my petrified wood day, I caught a ride with a Bureau of Indian Affairs

white guy and he dropped me off right in front of my house.

I walked inside and saw that my mother was crying.

I often walked inside to find my mother crying.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"It's your sister," she said.

"Did she run away again?"

"She got married."

Wow, I was freaked. But my mother and father were absolutely freaked. Indian families

stick together like Gorilla Glue, the strongest adhesive in the world. My mother and father both lived within two miles of where they were born, and my grandmother lived one mile from where she was born. Ever since the Spokane Indian Reservation was founded back in 1881, nobody in my family had ever lived anywhere else. We Spirits stay in one place. We are absolutely tribal.

For good or bad, we don't leave one another. And now, my mother and father had lost two kids to the outside world.

I think they felt like failures. Or maybe they were just lonely. Or maybe they didn't know what they were feeling.

I didn't know what to feel. Who could understand my sister?

After seven years of living in the basement and watching TV, after doing
absolutely
nothing
at all, my sister decided she needed to change her life.

I guess I'd kind of shamed her.

If I was brave enough to go to Reardan, then she'd be brave enough to MARRY A

FLATHEAD INDIAN AND MOVE TO MONTANA.

"Where'd she meet this guy?" I asked my mother.

"At the casino," she said. "Your sister said he was a good poker player. I guess he travels to all the Indian casinos in the country."

"She married him because he plays cards?"

"She said he wasn't afraid to gamble everything, and that's the kind of man she wanted to spend her life with."

I couldn't believe it. My sister married a guy for a damn silly reason. But I suppose

people often get married for damn silly reasons.

"Is he good-looking?" I asked.

"He's actually kind of ugly," my mother said. "He has this hook nose and his eyes are way different sizes."

Damn, my sister had married a lopsided, eagle-nosed, nomadic poker player.

It made me feel smaller.

I thought I was pretty tough.

But I'd just have to dodge dirty looks from white kids while my sister would be dodging gunfire in beautiful Montana Those Montana Indians were so tough that white people wen scared of them.

Can you imagine a place where white people are scared of Indians and not the other way

around?

That's Montana.

And my sister had married one of those crazy Indians.

She didn't even tell our parents or grandmother or me before she left. She called Mom

from St. Ignatius, Montana on the Flathead Indian Reservation, and said, "Hey, Mom, I'm a married woman now. I want to have ten babies and live here forever and ever."

How weird is that? It's almost
romantic
.

And then I realized that my sister was trying to LIVE a romance novel.

Man, that takes courage and imagination. Well, it also took some degree of mental illness, too, but I was suddenly happy for her.

And a little scared.

Well, a lot scared.

She was trying to live out her dream. We should have all been delirious that she'd moved out of the basement. We'd been trying to get her out of there for years. Of course, my mother and father would have been happy if she'd just gotten a part-time job at the post office or trading post, and maybe just moved into an upstairs bedroom in our house.

But I just kept thinking that my sister's spirit hadn't been killed. She hadn't given up. This reservation had tried to suffocate her, had kept her trapped in a basement, and now she was out roaming the huge grassy fields of Montana.

How cool!

I felt inspired.

Of course, my parents and grandmother were in shock. They thought my sister and I were

going absolutely crazy.