Indian No More: Chapters 1–10

Before being terminated, I was Indian.
Now I certainly don’t mean I was killed off or anything. It was 1954. The United States government didn’t do that anymore. They just filed away our tribal roll numbers. Erased our reservation from the map.

So my number verified that I was Regina Petit (roll number 3669), daughter of John Petit (roll number 858), granddaughter of Maude Petit (roll number 25) and Sid Petit (roll number 18).

Our ancestors were buried there like, Chup Tim-Tim, my grandfather, as well as Daddy’s five-year-old sister Bertha, who died from the flu epidemic of 1934.

When I was little, I dreaded stepping off the back porch to the outhouse before bed. It was too close to the woods! Daddy would have to coax me to go out.

When I was little, I dreaded stepping off the back porch to the outhouse before bed. It was too close to the woods! Daddy would have to coax me to go out.

“Lots of young guys from the rez took advantage of that deal. John and I were no exception. Hey, we pounced on that bus like a rabbit jumping into a snare.”

For Chup’s giveaway, smoked salmon, homemade breads, and every kind of berry pie covered long tables. Another table held homemade doilies, tablecloths, and extra pies as giveaways.

I leaned over to Chich, my curiosity piqued. “What are they singing?” I whispered.

“Thought we might be on the warpath.” Then he winked. Daddy seemed to find everything funny.

Angry words flew. Threats of battle. I cowered near the pantry window.

I felt devastated when Daddy came home and confirmed what the newspaper said.

Mama bawled, covering her face with her flowered handkerchief.

Mama flailed. “What are we going to do?” She paced the kitchen. “Where are we going to go?”

Daddy called it an opportunity and seemed to believe it. Chich called it an eviction.

Some families who could afford it put their money together to buy their allotments or bought cheaper land nearby.

Daddy carried our bigger suitcase and Chich’s portable Singer sewing machine onboard while Mama toted the medium-sized bag.

I crinkled up my nose when they returned. Chinese food didn’t smell like venison stew.

I stared at the surroundings. Busy asphalt streets replaced isolated dirt roads. Concrete replaced grass.

I heard every car that drove by, every breath from Mama and Daddy in the next room. But Chich’s muffled sobs from the other twin bed made my eyes wet.

Peewee and I took the dolls and ran out into the front yard. There we scavenged for sticks and leaves to make tiny lean-tos, the summer homes some Indians make when they’re away from home fishing, hunting, and gathering.

I cringed. I hadn’t thought about how bad the couch looked.

“Costume? No. Why would I wear a costume?” Peewee seemed perplexed. Frankly, I was too.

Daddy furrowed his black eyebrows and put down his paper. “What?” he asked.

“Because our people didn’t move around like Plains Indians,” she said. “We built plankhouses from wood, fished in the rivers, and cultivated camas and other crops.”

But then, Peewee was more easygoing and loved to have lots of friends.