Nineteen June 1972 #2
“He’s Mi’kmaw, like me.”
She stepped back as her hands fell to her sides. “Since when were you an Indian?”
The question took me by surprise. “Since the day I was born.”
I assumed everyone knew. I lived with my grandmother on the outside of town, in the place where all the Mi’kmaq lived.
How could they not know? But then again, I was never friends with these girls and I would bet my life they had never even been on the road where I lived.
If my world was small, theirs was even smaller, defined only by the children they grew up with, the children of their parents’ friends.
Geography doesn’t make you neighbours, kindness does.
Their parents might’ve known who I was. “The girl whose mother died under that silly tree,” I could hear them saying.
She continued to eye me with suspicion, as if looking for proof that I was who I said I was.
I was relieved when the teacher walked in and told everyone to take their seats.
I closed my book as Deborah walked back to her desk on the other side of the room.
After roll call, and after the bell rang, sending us off to our first class of the day, I felt Deborah’s eyes on me and heard the whispers as I walked down the hall.
“Did you know she was an Indian? She doesn’t look like one to me.”
I ducked into a bathroom to let them pass.
I didn’t want to hear anything else they had to say.
I locked myself in a stall and sat down hard on the seat.
The only thing I could think about in that moment was Kenneth’s brother.
His pleading face, my silence. And then the face of Kenneth, his sneer, the smell of the wet ground so close to my head.
I traced the scar with my finger. People came in and out of the bathroom.
Someone asked if I was okay. I stayed until the bell rang letting people know they were meant to be in class, and then I walked down the hall and out the front door.
“You have a face on you like a squished toad. Why aren’t you in school?” Kiju said when I walked in the door. Outside, I could hear John stacking the winter wood.
“I’ve never told people I’m Indian,” I blurted.
Kiju looked up from stirring her stew, surprised by my admission.
She continued to stir and continued to look at me. I wanted her to say it was okay, that I must have a good reason, that no one would think less of me, but she just looked at me, waiting.
“I didn’t think it was important. Is it important?”
“Isn’t it who you are?”
“How would I know? I don’t even know who my father is, or was, or is, or whatever.”
“True, but you do know who your mother is, who I am.”
“My mother is dead.”
“I’m alive and well. Do you think she would be hurt if she knew you never told anyone who you really are?”
“I don’t know.” I sat on the kitchen chair and put my face in my hands, elbows on knees, and Kiju took the large wooden spoon out of the pot and came over and knelt across from me. She held up the spoon and let me taste it. It was thick and salty.
“Are you embarrassed to be Indian?” She returned the spoon to the pot and took her seat.
“No, of course not.”
“Then why deny it?”
“I’m not denying it. I just didn’t say anything. I didn’t say I was or wasn’t.”
“I think you have some soul-searching to do, Aliet. Don’t let that light skin of yours keep you from being who you are. What you did is a lie of omission. Nothing good comes from denying who you are. Only hurt.”
I wanted to defend myself, to make Kiju understand that I’d never denied who I was.
Susan knew, my family knew. I was never asked, so I never told.
If I were to be honest, it never crossed my mind that people didn’t know who I was or where I was from.
Perhaps I was too self-involved. If I had been asked, I would have told.
I was not ashamed. But for some reason, I couldn’t explain this to her.
I couldn’t find the words to help her understand that I was just who I was and if others saw me as they wanted to see me, how was I supposed to know that or fight against it?
I put my school bag on my bed and went out the back door to help John until Kiju called us in for dinner. It was a quiet meal made awkward by Kiju’s attempts at conversation and John’s confusion over my silence.
“Well, I think I’ll head over and have a cup of tea with Mrs. Jeremy. You two can clean up the dishes,” Kiju said after dinner as she put on her jacket and walked out the door.
“Kiju seems happy,” John said, and then leaned over and kissed me.
“She is starting to come around.”
He looked at me, not understanding.
“We had a birth at the tree a couple months ago.”
John flashed a big smile and started to say something, but I put up my hand to stop him.
“It didn’t go well. A nosy milkman saw us helping Paulina, that was her name, to the birthing tree. And he called the police on us. They took her away and put us in handcuffs and took us into the station.”
“Oh, Aliet! Why didn’t you tell me about this last night when we were out there?” He sat down across from me and reached his hand out to take mine.
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to ruin a perfect moment. Afterward, Kiju was quiet again, like she does when she’s sad, but I think having you arrive changed her mood.”
I let go of his hand and began picking up the dishes and placing them in the sink. John brought over the glasses and cutlery.
“Deborah, the girl from my school that we saw, asked me today if you were part Chinese or something,” I said as I dipped my hands into the warm water.
“Why would she think that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t you tell her I was Indian like you?”
“I did, and she was surprised. She said she didn’t know I was Indian.”
The smile on John’s face slowly faded, his lips closed tightly. “Why wouldn’t she know that?”
“I never told her.”
“So you just let people believe you were white?”
He moved backed to the table and sat down again. Then he looked at me in a way I didn’t recognize.
“I just don’t understand. Are you embarrassed?”
I wiped my hands on a towel and sat down across from him, my hands on the table. They were shaking, and I wanted a solid surface to rest them on.
“No, of course not. It’s just never come up, I guess.”
I could hear Kenneth again, could see his sneer. The word half-breed echoed in my head.
“Has anyone ever said anything bad about us in front of you?”
“Of course.”
“Of course?” He sounded exasperated. “And what did you do?”
I thought for a moment. Deep down, I knew there was a right answer and a wrong answer, but all I could think of was the truth.
“Nothing. I don’t think people like that are worth my time.” I felt superior just then, but my confidence was fleeting.
“Well aren’t you the lucky one, to be able to sit in a crowd and ignore it. To know that they don’t mean you. It’s not something I could do. Or Ben. Or Sally. Or Kiju. Or your mother. You do see that, right?” He stood up and stepped toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“This is weird for me.”
“I’m not embarrassed. I just assumed everyone knew.”
“How would they? Look at you!”
My heart sank. To hear this from strangers or even Kenneth was hurtful, but to hear this from John was devastating.
I looked down at my hands. The tiny freckles seemed so clear now, the soft brown against my white skin. “Why are you mad?”
“I’m not mad,” he said as he reached for the doorknob. “Well, maybe a little bit. It’s like you don’t get it. People treat us differently and you just allow them to think that you’re . . .” His voice trailed off.
“I’m what?” My confusion was edging toward anger.
“You just don’t have to deal with the crap that we have to deal with. It’s just weird for me, okay. I need to get outta here.”
He walked out the door as I stood, my hands still solid on the table, but he didn’t turn to say goodbye.
I heard him outside speaking to Kiju, his voice low and kind, so different from just moments ago.
A few minutes later a car came up the driveway followed by the sound of closing doors, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of saying goodbye.
I put on my boots and went out into the garden.
“Like he’s so perfect,” I squawked to the chickens as I threw feed on the ground, a little harder than I needed to. “I messed up. So what? He’s the one leaving, all dramatic.”
“Who on earth are you talking to?” Kiju was leaning against the back door, her arms folded over her chest.
“No one.”
“You seem awfully angry at those chickens.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with that John up and leaving, does it?”
“No,” I said unconvincingly.
“You sure?”
“He’s just being a child.”
“He is a child, and so are you. So maybe give him a little time. I’m sure whatever it is, it will work itself out.”