The little twigs stood straight up, firmly ensconced in sandy holes. They were an army of twig-people fighting a war against pink pebbles I had strewn across makeshift sand dunes. Nature was in turmoil but the dappled sunlight made it seem like an idyllic moment of peace and silence. The opposing sides were arrayed and surveying one another, preparing for battle. I was enjoying the orchestration immensely, my imagination inventing a new world.
Then the pudgy mean-spirited bully of the class decided to come to my corner. I looked up at the rude interruption, disgusted by his decision to confront me now. He had spent the entire morning kicking my leg and grinning at me with his silver teeth on display.
His posse snickered. They stood a ways back, as if I was some rabid mongrel dog to be harassed. We played this little game at least once a week. It generally ended up with me in time out and the little gangsters- to-be on the soccer field because they got away with excuses.
“Miss! Miss! I didn’t know nothing! She did it!”
Guess it was time again. I stood up from my play, squaring my shoulders to face the group.
“I am Indian.”
Widening my stance, I got ready for the round of schoolyard fighting. The posse shot off their questions one by one in heavily accented English.
“Where are your feathers? Huh?” yelled one, “Do some magic! Sing some song!” shouted another.
The others hollered in excitement, skipping in a circle, bending and swaying in the stereotypical Native American fashion. They had heard my answer many times before, but for some reason, Indian was not a good enough answer.
It didn’t all start like this.
I walked in to class with a pink Barbie backpack, wearing overalls and a Disney princess shirt. Like any other second grader, I loved Clifford the Big Red Dog, and could not wait to start the year. Especially recess!
My silver anklets tinkled gently with each step, and my bangles chimed in harmony with each movement. Other than that, I was rather indistinguishable from my classmates. The room was still half empty, so I quietly went to my desk and set down my book bag. The classroom was bright and colourful, with posters of book covers, Kinect blocks, and numbers.
Wide-eyed and excited, I took it all in, carefully marking my new possible friends as they walked in the door. None of them looked or spoke the way I did, but it did not matter. The alarm bell rang at exactly 8:00 AM. The teacher’s soft voice called each one of us to say our name and introduce ourselves.
“What kind of name is that?!” sniggered the boy to my left. That was when it was over. The name, the jewelry, the mannerisms, the food, the language, and even my colour- neither black, nor tawny Spanish brown, or even white- set me aside.
Although I wasn’t the lowest on the totem pole, I was not very high on it either. I slowly retreated into the shelter of my heritage, the dancing, the religion, the dresses, the language, and accepted it as the wall between myself and others.
I was Indian, and nothing else really mattered.
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