Bad Indians: A Tribal Memoir

to turn tail and run for the hills. The dark skin, the
wide nose, the scowl, the thin lips set in an almost
straight line—yes, I know Tomás, though he died
long before I was born.
Tomás bears the look of a man who has seen the
worst life can throw at him, yet refuses to give up.
But he’s not fighting back with faith or tenderness or
even a sense of protecting his family. No, this man
fights back out of bitterness, out of sheer cussedness,
out of a bent and misshapen pride. He fights back
because violence is the only way he’s ever known
anyone to get what he needs. He fights back with his
fists and feet, his bear body, his biting wolf teeth, his
human eyes.
You don’t mess with this man. He’s created a
space around himself that few dare to breach, a kind
of glow, like a smoldering ember, that makes you
want to go out of your way to maintain a safe
distance.
Even in this family portrait around a campfire,
twelve of the other fourteen people gathered seem
huddled together on the left, their bodies held away
from Tomás. It’s hard to believe this is the man who
took his son out to find and bring home a Christmas
tree, who danced at a party of Indians and