Bad Indians: A Tribal Memoir

what use I have for the butter knife. “What’s going
on?” she cries, “What are you doing?”
Maybe he called me a name, said I was white, or
worse, Indian. Maybe he was repeating something
the barrio women said about my pale mother. I don’t
know for certain, but I still remember the long cool
butter knife in my hand: hard, smooth, a kind of
silver that will last.
It stays there, hidden in the shadows of my hair as
it grows. Every once in a while I test the edge—every
year, the blade cuts a little deeper. I break crayons,
smash soft wax into the imperfect letters of my
name. I kick my way through the crowd of older kids
at the playground who say I can’t use the swings. My
father says I should hit those kids. I see how he
fights for what he wants; how his fists work for him.
I hear my mother crying that she’s leaving for good. I
am afraid, afraid of what I might do with this anger
against people who don’t understand that my whole
body feels as if it is wrapped around a bright and
soulless blade.
II. Sheath
By the time I am six I have a reputation. Not what
you think: I am not a bully. Too much has happened