Chapter 15. Little Nezzy and I are spending a lot of time together. This summer she is attending Four Winds American Indian School just up in the hills from our house. Notice, I don't even call it a trailer anymore. Home is where the heart is. June passes and it's getting deeper into summer.
We fall into a routine, me helping around the house and Nezzy going to school. She comes to her grandparents house after summer school today and throws her little Hello Kitty backpack on grandma's couch. How was school?
Wow. I can't believe that just came out of my mouth. That is such a mom thing to ask, isn't it?
Nezzy looks up at me, straight-faced, and replies, School. It's taking up too much of my time. Can't argue there.
From the back room, a deep voice says, You gotta go to school and you gotta eat. Except when he says eat, it comes out yeet. I guess grandpa means you have to feed your mind as well as your body.
The only thing Nezzy likes about school is her teacher, Ms. Berta. I've met Berta a few times around town and I have to say she is the skinniest person I've ever seen. Her face is all angles, but it's her stomach that I can't help but stare at. It's concave, as in caved in on itself, yet she's always snacking on something, but where the food goes, nobody knows. Berta's hair is barely an inch long, spiked in all directions, but somehow it works for her.
I think I remember seeing her at my grandparents'house during my welcome party that first day I arrived up here. She was going to town on the venison, gnawing on it like her tongue was stuck in a metal trap. Nezzy talks on and on about Berta and says that when she grows up, she wants to be a teacher too.
At least she has something to look forward to at school. I despise school. With Marsha and her little snotty comments and how people smirk every time I mess up.
The only thing I like at my school is the 3 o'clock dismissal bell. That's right. pack your bags, we're going on a guilt trip.
We've started taking walks after Nezzy comes home from summer school. On our last walk, she shared a story. Nezzy said she and her big sister were talking to one of the new teacher's aides, a young white woman from Iowa. When she first met little Nezzy, the teacher said, oh, you're from the local tribe here. So how much Indian are you?
I mean, what percentage Indian are you, Nezzy? Well, Apparently, this didn't go over well with Tara, the big sister. Tara told me later that this question of asking Indian people, how much Indian are you, is a horribly impolite question to ask.
Actually, Tara said asking Indians this question is really racist and assumes that people have the right to know everything about Native people. I didn't understand. What's new? So Tara said that blood quantum, or a percentage of Indian blood, is what people are really asking for. So someone might say, I'm half.
or I'm one-fourth. Oh gee boy. Yet this very way of cutting Indian people up was based on outsiders trying to determine who is Indian for reasons like land ownership.
You should read up on blood quantum. It just might make your own blood boil. So after the teacher asked, how much Indian are you?
Nezi looked down at her body, shook her left foot, shook her right foot, wiggled both arms, looked up, and said, well. All of me. Her big sister let this new teacher know that she was asking Nezzy a loaded question when Tara replied, We're not saying anything about percentage, teacher.
But do you know what percentage of idiot you are? Back to our walks. A lot of times, Nezzy points out who lives in what house. Morneville isn't that big, so after a few times, I've already got the lay of the land. There's always one house we have to walk past, Nezzy insists.
It's Jeff and Junior's house. A dilapidated wood house across from the dollar store. The dollar store. Who knew you could buy a shirt or duct tape for only a dollar?
A dollar! Jeff is Junior's roommate. Berta just happens to be Jeff's sister, so sometimes Nezzy gets to see her there too. Everyone is connected to everyone else up here.
It reminds me of a spider web. People attached everywhere by a silvery network. Anyway...
Jeff lost his job last year at the car repair shop and hasn't found another one yet, so he spends most of his time underneath the hood of his Chevy two-ton truck. Guys, I'll never understand their fascination of cars. What's with them?
Put gas in them and they run, but Jeff must have polished and tightened every square inch of that truck. This time we arrive at their house just after lunch and knock, but we have to jump off the stairs as the door flings open. Junior stands bare-chested in the doorway eating a corn dog.
Actually, he's double fisting it. A corn dog in each hand. He smiles when he sees us, wipes the ketchup off his lips, and then licks it off his finger. Can't waste my daily vegetable serving. Running up the three stairs, Nezzy flings open her arms as she makes to hug him, but Junior's balloon belly beats her to it.
Her little head bounces off his gigantic stomach. Her head whiplashes back and she flies down the stairs. Junior and I reach her at the same moment.
Her tiny lips are quivering as she tries to hold back the tears. We each grab one hand and gently pull her up. Oh, Nezzy, I quickly say, trying to get her mind off the hurt. Look, you've grown!
and I hold out my hand level to show her where her head meets Junior's belly. He winks at me, catching on to my plan. All her pain is erased by hearing this.
Wide-eyed, she whispers, Really? Assault with a deadly weapon, a deep voice laughs from the doorway. Rumi, you better put a shirt on, man, or we'll have another casualty on our hands. Jeff!
Nezzy yells. Oh, Jeff, you're here! He steps down to where- She's standing and pats her head.
Jeff is movie star handsome with carved cheekbones, tanned, well-toned arms, and soft black eyes. My little friend squeals, Jeff, sing for me, sing me that song. But he walks past her.
Oh, Nezzy, not now. I've got to figure out where this transmission fluid is leaking from. Next time.
And he walks to the hunk of junk parked in the driveway and slides under it with his tools. Nezzy is in love with Jeff's voice. Apparently he's a gifted singer, but Nezzy can never convince him to sing for her. He sings at powwows up here in the Turtle Mountains with a drum group called Four Directions during the annual Turtle Mountain Powwow, but I haven't heard him sing either. I wish he would wheel out from under the Chevy and just sing for the girl, but no.
Adults are stuck in their own world, and sometimes they pass by moments they can never get back. We must go past Jeff's house once a week on our walks, and he always has some excuse. Sorry, Nezzy, my throat hurts.
Or, I just have to return this phone call. You know the drill. Yet, it never gets her down. Jeff is a nice guy, just too busy for us kids. Nezzy tells me what her favorite songs are each time we begin our walks.
She acts like today will be the day he'll sing for us. Each day, she's always sure that this day, she'll finally get her wish. One day, I hope she will.
Come here, my girl. We'll make some snacks for everyone. Berta, like a skinny fairy godmother, appears in the doorway and says, while looking at Junior, We don't want anyone to starve to death. Berta is just as quick to make sure Nezzy doesn't cry after her brother gave us all the brush off. But Berta's staring at Junior a bit too long.
Hmm, interesting. It's now already the first week of July, and so the preparations begin for the upcoming annual Turtle Mountain Pow Wow. The next afternoon, we're back at Junior's house where Berta is helping with the dance clothes. Jeff, of course, is elbow deep in oil under the Chevy out front. The entire living room is a mess of fabrics and two sewing machines.
I only write about powwows at school during our annual week-long unit on multiculturalism. How nice. My school spends a whole five days talking about people who had some pigment in their skin, and then we spend the rest of the time on dead white men. One year, I asked my sixth grade teacher why anyone with dark skin is called a minority. That word seems like it's a bad thing.
I told him, what happens in a few years when the white population is going to be the smallest group and the Indian, Latino, African American, and Asian people are the majority? Maybe call the whites a white-ority or a minor blanco? He didn't know what to say.
You can't argue with facts, folks. And it's common fact that the best food comes from these multicultural groups anyways. Tacos?
Yum. Haggis, which is oatmeal stuffed in sheep stomach from the Scottish people. No, thanks. Let me put it in easier terms.
Maple syrup, discovered and perfected by native people. Good. Escargot, snails eaten by French people. Bad.
Case closed. Those with mucho pigment win. So anyway, I had no idea how much planning it took for a powwow.
I sort of thought we would just show up. Not even close. I also didn't know that Nezzy and Junior danced.
It's not something that ever came up. Nezzy outgrew what she wore last year, so she needs something bigger to wear. So, what costume are you going to wear now, Nezzy? And with my question, the room halted to dead silence. Good heavens, what did I do now?
My motto should be open mouth, insert size 10 foot. Apple, costumes are for Halloween. Outfits for Indian powwow dancers. Outfits are for Indian powwow dancers.
Ferda explains gently. Junior adds ever so humbly with a wink, and if you're on loan from da great OG boy nation like myself, then you call it regalia. Berta laughs loudly and catches me looking at her. She blushes a little and goes back to her sewing.
Interesting. Auntie Over comes over that afternoon, too, and is working on sewing tiny beads onto both Junior's and Nezzy's outfits. I can't believe that it takes her over an hour just to finish sewing beads onto one square inch.
I grab a small handful of the beads and can barely see the center hole. And my great aunt is sewing these so tightly together that the soft cotton material is hidden behind them. Wow.
As Auntie sews, she explains what design she's making. It's a floral pattern unique to the Ojibwe tribes who historically lived in the woods and always admired and were connected to woodland flowers. Actually, Ojibwe still live in and love the woods and flowers.
Each flower Auntie is sewing is a bright color ranging from red to turquoise to yellow and is connected by a vining trail of thin green beads with leaves attached throughout. Picasso, eat your heart out. You ain't got nothing on this native art.
So, Auntie, why does Nezzy have flowers on hers, but you're sewing some ribbons and a beaded hummingbird onto Junior's? Well, see, just like every dancer is different, we have to make every outfit different, too. Patting Nezzy on the head, she continues, our girl here loves to be outside, so I'm honoring that part of her heart. And tapping Junior's back, she adds, and Junior goes to each person in life and finds the good in them, bringing out to best. hummingbirds do the same thing to flowers his beating reminds him to keep doing that man this shrunk again this year junior stands in front of the mirror in the living room putting on his clothing trying to fit a feather bustle around his lower back wiggling his ample behind hey bn it's your stomach that grew my boy auntie laughs give it to me i'll let it out again junior just winks at me and gives his belly a rub because he mellowed dramatically shakes his mile-long midnight black locks, and turns to Auntie.
Don't hate me because I'm beautiful. What a ham. You are what you eat, I guess. Come here, Apple, Bertha nods to me. You can help with Nezzy's shawl.
She's going to be a fancy shawl dancer this year. That's what her mama danced. I look up when she says this, and my face must have shown my dislike when I hear her speak so matter-of-factly about Nezzy's mom, the mom that's nowhere to be found and who abandoned this sweet little girl. berta holds up the small black shawl with beading and fringe dangling around the edges now nezzy you will get me some more yellow ribbon we need to fix the ones that fell off oh was your mama ever a beautiful dancer she won a prize at every powwow she danced she tickles nezzy under her chin after she left the room i shot off but how can you say anything nice about her mom the mom that abandoned Well, sometimes a person has to hear about the good things because we know too many bad things in life.
Her mama had such a beautiful way in her dancing that made you believe she would just up and fly away. She'd hold onto her shawl with both hands and make jumps and moves for every drumbeat. Not everyone can do that, Auntie explains.
So, this used to be her shawl you're working on, but you made it smaller? The one that Nezzy will wear? Yeah, yes.
Sometimes a person just loses their way. I think her mom will find her path home again, Apple. It's a bit big for such a tiny girl, but Nezzy knows that the fringes should never touch the ground when she's dancing.
Auntie nods to me and whispers more. Every girl wants a hug from der mama, innit? Dis shawl is our way of giving dat to Nezzy. All right, I guess.
For some reason, nobody will let me hold a grudge up here. Against anyone. Ugh. While we work mostly on the shawl, they also let me help with Junior's beaded vest, size XXXL. Junior, size XXX, triple threat.
Apparently now, I am the thread cutter. Oh, what an honor. But I have to admit, it's cool to be a part of something. It's been a long time since that's happened. Er, wait, really?
Never.