i

geezer last term, Louise, or hes been tripping on some mother fucking flashback.
Everyone laughs. Well not, everyone. Alameda and ) dont. She looks up at the ceiling.
Her lips move as she silently counts to ten then seems to start back at one. I smile at
Chunta. )ts just self-expression.
Self expression? They pay you to teach that shit?
Yes, self expression within the assignment. ) didnt say it had to be the writers
childhood memories. )t could be any childhood memories.
But didnt you tell us that feminists believe that the personal is political? Chunta
smiles back at me, flipping to a page in the beginning of his notebook. Yup, right
here, personal is political. All connection has greater purpose.
So why cant that writing have purpose? Doesnt it explore historical elements of
Crow culture?
Crow culture? Really? Really? What the fuck do you know about Crow anything?
The class shifts, quietly moving books to bags, pens to purses.
) dont, ) say. )m just here to teach writing.
Bullshit, he says, slapping his notebook shut. You came here to save. You must love
this good old days bullshit before the white man and his small pox and firewater.
The clock ticks to the top of the hour, and the hallway fills with students from other
classes. They look at me, and I wave them toward the door. Chunta takes his time. He
packs one book in his backpack at a time, looking up at me with long lashed eyelids.
Everyone else files out of the room, eager to escape whatever the hell is coming next.
You liked that? he asks.
No.
No? (e stands and strides up the haphazard row of desks. ) bet you did.
I look out the window at the first few flakes of snow.
) need to see you tonight, he says. Not a question. A statement. (e extends a single
finger and slides it across the turquoise bird dangling from my bracelet. His finger
lightly presses against my wrist. I am charged with the memory of that finger, his
touch, and my body.
Yes, ) say. ) am barely able to breathe.
) meant what ) said.
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