The Brave

by James Bird

  I lean back and watch the animal-shaped clouds above me come and go. It’s beautiful. And the distant mountains look so close and so far away at the same time. Some of them look close enough to run to, and some look so far it would take a plane to get to. But the coolest things I take in are the trees. They line the road on both sides of us, pointing high up to the sky like they’re all giving me a standing ovation. Yes, I survived the flight and found my mama. Let’s all celebrate.

  In Huntington Beach, you are lucky to see any trees that aren’t palm trees. I have nothing against palm trees—in fact, I have drawn dozens of them—but it’s nice to see trees with actual branches that are thick like elephant limbs and sprouting colorful leaves as green as grass, as brown as wood, and as orange as … an orange? So this is what fall looks like, huh? It’s beautiful.

  As the sun slowly dips into the earth, it lights up the tribal designs painted onto the bridges and overpasses as we drive beneath them. They resemble the logos that superheroes plaster on their costumes across their chests. They look like birds with jagged edges instead of feathers, kind of similar to those drawings we read about in school while studying Egypt and the pyramids. On the side of the highway, I see a small makeshift pop-up shop with a sign that reads AUTHENTIC NATIVE AMERICAN JEWELRY. If I were a tourist, I’d definitely stop in for a cool bracelet. But I’m no tourist. No, I’m a resident now.

  I look into the truck’s back window to see if my mom is wearing a bracelet, and she is. Hers is a thin red leather band wrapped around her wrist a few times. Maybe all Native Americans wear jewelry. Kind of like how lots of rappers wear gold chains and how my dad wears his favorite football jersey every Sunday. I wonder if she bought it at that stand? Maybe that’s why she was late. If she got me one, I hope it’s black.

  * * *

  Two hours later, we pass a sign that reads FOND DU LAC RESERVATION: 7 MILES with an arrowhead pointing left. As soon as we pass it, the truck veers left off the highway and continues down a long road that appears to run right through the middle of a forest.

  Fond du Lac doesn’t sound Native American at all. It sounds more like a French dessert. I thought Native American names were supposed to be how they are in movies, all about animals and thunder and start with things like “he who walks with” or “she who stands with,” yadda yadda. But if learning French is something I have to do to be a Native American, then I’m screwed. My head is going to explode. And what is a Fond du Lac anyway?

  We pass another sign that reads HOME OF THE OJIBWE. I wonder how that’s pronounced. Are any of the letters silent? I freeze frame the word in my mind. Six letters. This is what I do every time I discover a new word. I must be able to count it if I ever hear it in a sentence. If I can’t, my brain freaks out and sizzles, like when a pilot spills coffee on the flight control board. Okay, not really, but that’s what it feels like.

  My mother pulls back the sliding window behind her head.

  “We’re Ojibwe,” she shouts to me without turning around.

  Holy crap. My mom is a legit mind reader. Either that or she really grilled my dad for details about my counting issue. But it’s more fun to believe in magic. I lean into the open window.

  “Ten. It’s pronounced O-jib-way?” I ask.

  She nods and pulls the window shut again. That’s the end of our talk. That was perfect. A question asked, an answer with a nod, then boom we’re done. If all people could be this easy to talk to, I’d actually have friends that stand on two legs. I lean back into Seven and pet her head.

  I’m Ojibwe. That’s so cool. Or at least I think it is. I know nothing about the Ojibwe people other than one is my mother and she drives a pickup truck. I remember in school reading how the Native Americans were fearless warriors that had many battles with the US government back in the day. But so many Westerns I’ve seen also showed me that the Native Americans are wrinkled-up old men who deliver a super-wise message just when our white American hero needs to hear it most. And if they weren’t old and wise, they were portrayed as violent savages. Red-skinned villains who leaped out of bushes and attacked indiscriminately. I’m starting to think that Hollywood might have to travel to Minnesota and see my mom. She’s beautiful, has a soothing voice, and she can read minds … She’d be an instant star. And she’d definitely make people see Native Americans differently, that’s for sure.

  The ride becomes uneven and rough as the paved road ends and a dirt road begins, so I pull Seven tightly into my arms. Together we watch the sun melt behind a snowcapped mountain. And just like that, day becomes night. And night is much darker here. Huntington Beach had light posts and headlights in all directions, but here, now, I can barely see Seven’s face, which is just inches from mine. After a long stretch that seems like another hour, we pull into a pebbled driveway. It’s too dark to make out the neighborhood, but from the truck’s headlights, I can see that the house we are parking in front of is small and cream colored.

  As soon as the engine stops, I grab my luggage and hop out of the truck. I don’t see the ground I’m standing on. It’s so dark it looks like I’m standing on the night sky. A black sheet. But not a smooth black cloud, one that feels like it’s made of a million little rocks. The porch light flips on. I look over toward it and see a woman standing at the front door, staring at me. She looks like an older version of my mother.

  “We are home,” my mother says as she exits the truck and approaches me.

  She slides her arm over my shoulder, which stills my body. I am not used to affection … at least not from a human. But this time, I let her touch me. And to be honest, it feels nice. Her arm is warm. It must be that fire-skin.

  “Nine” exits my lips.

  She pulls me in closer to her. Our bodies touch for the first time. She’s so warm. Her ribs against mine. The feeling makes my heart beat faster.

  “Breathe in the air. You need to fill your body with this place,” she says.

  “Forty-nine. Why?”

  “So you two get to know each other.”

  “Twenty-six. That’s weird.”

  “This place is very weird. You’ll see,” she says, and pats the side of the truck with her other hand, the way people pat their pets.

  Seven hops out of the truck and rushes over to my mom. I’ve never seen Seven react this way to anyone besides me. Seven never really liked my dad. They just coexisted.

  “Twenty-eight. She really likes you,” I say to her, but I’m sure she can tell by the way Seven keeps licking her.

  “Of course she does. I’m very likable,” my mother says.

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “Is she fixed?” she asks.

  “Ten. She’s not broken,” I reply, which causes her to laugh.

  “I mean, is she spayed? We have many strays around here that would fancy a good-looking gal like her.”

  “Seventy-eight. No. My dad was planning on taking her to the vet, but I guess he was always too busy,” I say.

  “Well, let me get a good look at him,” the older woman shouts to my mother. “I need to make sure you picked up the right one.”

  Her voice is not as soft as my mother’s. Hers is worn and raspy. But as someone who pays very close attention to words, I can tell that there is something special about her dialect that is unlike any way of speaking I have ever heard before. It’s almost as if each word is its own sentence.

  “Sixty-three,” I say, loud enough for her to hear me.

  I hope this doesn’t turn into a conversation. I’m tired and hungry. The last thing I want to do right now is count.

  “Sixty-three? You guessing my age now, kiddo? Not even close. Aim higher. Reach for the stars,” she says while pointing up to the star-filled sky.

  I count her letters. “Seventy-one,” I say.

  “Now you’re making me sound like I’m old enough to be your grandmother,” she says.

  “You are his grandmother,” my mom replies.

  “Fifty-five,” I say back to her. “And twenty to
you,” I say to my mom.

  “Fine. Fifty-five it is,” my grandmother says happily, like we just settled on her new age.

  “Seventeen. You’re my grandmother?” I ask her.

  “I am. Three. I did that one for you,” she says, and laughs at her own cleverness.

  “Twenty-five. It doesn’t work like that.”

  “Mother. Zip it,” my mom says. “Let the boy taste before all this chewing.”

  My mom nudges me toward my grandmother. I approach her, and she immediately puts her hand on my face—just like my mom tried to do at the airport. This time I let it happen. The last thing I want to do is insult an old lady, but this face touching is all so new to me. Is it an Ojibwe thing, or do I come from a family of face touchers?

  Up close, my grandmother wears more wrinkles than my mom but is just as beautiful. Her emerald-green dress flows to her feet. Her deep brown eyes move slowly across me, studying my face. I follow them from my forehead to my injured nose, my ears, my mouth, and finally my chin. She smiles. I guess she approves?

  “You’re our little red-blooded boy, all right,” she says as her hand slips off my chin.

  “Thirty-five. Isn’t everyone red-blooded, technically?” I ask her.

  “Maybe. But you’re our red blood. That makes you special,” she replies.

  “Forty-three. I’ve been called many things in my life, but never special.”

  She hugs me. It catches me off guard. And when she starts squeezing me, I immediately get embarrassed by the fact that my grandmother is much stronger than I am. She finally releases me and steps aside for me to enter the home.

  “Gifts are wrapped so you don’t see what’s inside. You are special, you just have to tear away the wrapping paper to see what your gift is,” she says as I pass her.

  Her words roll in like a thick fog and begin to take shape. As I count the letters, I read them, and her words hit me even harder than her hug. Maybe I do have a gift and I just don’t know what it is yet.

  “One hundred and seven,” I say, and enter my new home.

  The scent of burning wood and ash fills my nose. I inhale deeply to take it all in. I remember this smell from the only time I ever went camping with my dad and his friends. He wanted to teach me how to be a man by showing me how to fish and start a fire and not get scared during campfire ghost stories. All three were disasters. I begged him to throw back every fish he caught. There was so much fear and pain in those beady little fish eyes that I couldn’t bear being a part of their deaths.

  Needless to say, I wasn’t invited to go fishing with them the next day. And I guess someone like me takes all the fun and spookiness out of ghost stories when I recite numbers the entire time. I was looking forward to building a fire, but that was thwarted by the park ranger telling my dad that due to a heightened forest fire danger, campfires were prohibited. So really, camping was just me sitting under a tree and drawing all day while my dad and his friends did their thing. But I did like the smell of the fires they made anyway, when the forest ranger wasn’t around.

  The living room walls are decorated with all different kinds of art. Some are paintings, some are hanging fabrics, and others are drawings. As I scan the room, I notice all of the artwork is of animals. It immediately gives me a feeling of belonging. These are my people. I can actually be a productive addition to this house. I love drawing animals.

  “There’s always room for more, you know,” my grandmother says, and hugs me again. It’s almost overwhelming, all this affection. And I don’t even know their names yet.

  “Thirty. Thanks. I love to draw,” I say.

  “All red bloods do,” she says, and points to the crackling fireplace. “Warm your bones.”

  “Twenty-seven,” I say, and walk toward the fire.

  At Dad’s house in Huntington Beach, we didn’t have a fireplace. We had a heater. We hardly even needed that. But this fire is real and alive and loud.

  I sit down beside it and put my palms near the flames. The heat wraps around my hands like it is grabbing my skin. It moves up my arms and presses against my face. I close my eyes and listen to the flames crack like whips against the burning logs.

  My mother speaks to my grandmother in a language I’ve never heard before. She and my grandmother go back and forth a bit, but I stay focused on the stream of heat flowing through my body. I didn’t realize how cold I really was. I am actually thawing myself out like I was a bag of frozen vegetables.

  I’ve read somewhere that there is always something positive to find in every situation. When it comes to my counting problem, there are not many positives; believe me, I’ve searched. But I did discover one. A loophole I found during one of my failed attempts at being an athlete. During soccer tryouts, a bunch of kids were speaking Spanish. And I guess since I didn’t know what they were saying, my brain wasn’t compelled to count. Of course, this led me to actually trying to play soccer. If I made the team, I’d be in a place where I could appear normal. But alas, when you suck, you suck. And I sucked.

  As my mother and grandmother speak to each other, I wonder if they’re talking about me. Maybe bringing me here was a huge mistake and they’re fighting over which one of them has to drive me back to the airport.

  “Are you hungry?” My mother breaks into English.

  I open my eyes and see that she is on her knees beside me, warming her hands. Her skin is so close to the flames that they nearly touch. And the colors of the two are nearly identical. Fire-skin suits her perfectly.

  “Twelve. I was, but I think I’m now too tired to eat,” I say.

  She rises from her knees and offers me her hand.

  “Let’s introduce you to your room, shall we?”

  I love how she makes everything seem alive. Her truck, the cold Minnesota air, our house, the fire, and now my room. Everything has a life.

  “Thirty-three. Okay,” I say, and take her hand.

  I stand up and nearly trip over Seven, who is already warm and passed out directly behind me.

  “Let her sleep. Her body needs the fire, too,” my mother says.

  I step over Seven and follow my mother into the hallway, which has even more artwork adorning the walls.

  “We are a million moving paintings, all blending together to make one masterpiece called life,” she says, and stops in front of a closed door at the end of the hall.

  Okay, so maybe Hollywood did get one stereotype about Native Americans right. Maybe they are all wise, because my mom just said the wisest thing I’ve ever heard.

  “Seventy-seven. I never really thought of life that way,” I say, and take my first step into my new room as she opens the door.

  But before I see inside, I turn to her.

  “I know this sounds horrible, but I don’t even know your name,” I say.

  She smiles. I can tell she wants to say more, but for me, she simply says, “Cecelia.”

  “Seven,” I say, which prompts Seven to wake up and trot into the room. Cecelia and I share a laugh. “She has superhero hearing,” I add.

  “Just call me Mama,” she says, and shuts the door behind her.

  “Fourteen,” I say under my breath. “Thanks, Mama.”

  A baby’s first word is probably mama, and here I am, almost thirteen years old, saying it for the first time in my life. Mama. Two letters repeated one after the other. Like yo-yo and tutu. But I don’t have a yo-yo and I don’t wear tutus. I do, however, now have a mama.

  I guess I’ll learn my grandmother’s name tomorrow. Right now, all I want to do is sleep. The room is smaller than my room in California, but that’s okay, because I don’t own much. The walls are empty, but I’ll fix that in no time. The bed is against the wall with a red-and-blue blanket covering it. Above the bed is a large dream catcher. The only other time I saw one of these was dangling from the rearview mirror in my neighbor’s car. I wondered why people had them in their cars. I figured the last thing you’d want to do while driving was have a good dream.

  I
dig into my bag and pull out a drawing of Seven that I made a few years ago and my box of tacks. I walk over to the wall, pull out one red tack, and hang the drawing next to my bed. There, now it feels like home.

  There’s a wooden dresser on one side of the room, which looks homemade, but I’m too tired to unpack. Instead, I kick off my shoes, turn off the light, and make my way through the darkness to my new bed. I pull back the blanket and nestle in. Seven jumps up, and her body pins me down. Although this bed is smaller than my previous one, it feels more comfortable, more slept in. I wonder who slept here before me? I sink into the indentations of the mattress. Whoever it was, they were bigger than me.

  “Good night, girl,” I whisper to her … and she licks my cheek.

  “Hi, room, I’m Collin. I guess you and I will be living together now,” I say aloud, but the room doesn’t respond because it’s, well, a room.

  “I’m quiet, too. You and I will get along well,” I say.

  I shift to my side so I can face the window. Before I sleep, I try to watch the dozens of tiny twinkling dancers perform on the black-night stage to the orchestra of the howling Minnesota wind, but I’m too tired to enjoy their performance. I close my eyes and sleep for the very first time in this strange and new place I’ll now be calling home.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MY FIRST DAY AS A NATIVE AMERICAN   (39)

  Under my eyelids, everything is orange and warm. I open them and let the sun hit my face. It’s like my skin is walking on hot pavement. Not so hot it makes you run, but hot enough to wake you up and get you out of bed. I never noticed things like this in California. Maybe it was because everything over there moved so fast. My dad banged on my door for me to wake up, get going. He was always in a hurry. Feeling sunlight touch your cheeks wasn’t an option then. But here, I can take in the morning. Maybe this is what it means to be Native American? To notice all the nature around you. Are the rays of the sun considered nature? Or maybe I’m just really exhausted and too tired to make sense right now.