I am an American Indian

I am an American Indian

My life has been put before me like a movie; the script unfolds and guides me through every stage, each act.

I was born into an Indian world. From the beginning, I shared with my family, my mother’s family. My father had left my mother, who is 5/8 California Indian, soon after I was born. I grew up without a real father, and only recently have I realized how much I hate that fact. I was born in the hallway of a hospital in the Bay Area. Even then it seems that I wanted to do things my way. It was the beginning of my strangely unique life. Many of the things that have happened to me sound like a story from the mind of a lunatic.

I remember the best times were spent with my sister and my mother when I was around four or five and we lived in Truckee. Bridgette was doing cartwheels on the lawn and she got bee-stings on her hands and feet. Dad was gone by then and we lived in Village Green in the trailer. One morning mom told us that Indians never went out looking for eggs and that Easter is really supposed to be about this guy named Jesus—he died, or was born, or came back to life or something important like that on that day a long time ago. We colored eggs anyway for fun.

I was very talkative and strong headed—friends with everyone. Old Gladys and Ernie lived next door to my grandparents, just down the street from us in Village Green. I would catch Ernie when he came home from working in the woods with my grandpa and I would see if he saved me any goodies from his lunch. I would eat anything. He usually saved me something sweet; maybe Gladys knew and put it in his black metal lunch box just for me. Those are secrets that I will never know. They passed away with Gladys a few years ago, probably earlier since she had developed Alzheimer’s disease. The old folks—they sometimes take it with them.

The trailer park was not near a reservation; Washos never got a recognized land base when they were pushed out of their homeland.