Bad Indians: A Tribal Memoir

disappearance at every turn. If I’m not a good wife,
I’ll disappear. If I’m not a good mother, I’ll
disappear. If I’m not a good daughter, I’ll disappear.
If she doesn’t love me, I’ll disappear.
I journaled my way through it all, and I still do.
This essay started in a journal.
But recently, I realized that I am ready to let go of
those old journals now. They are just words. No
matter how I try to preserve them, the words will
fade. Lead markings will soften, ink will lighten.
Paper will crumble. Water will seep in, soak apart
wood fibers, bleed colors. Like the ancient
petroglyphs of my Esselen and Chumash ancestors,
my journals are subject to wildfires, floods, lightning
strikes, vandalism, time.
I am no longer dependent on making a mark on a
piece of paper to know that I am alive, not
disappearing, not swallowed up by the horrific
unknown that once pursued me. It was good power
that I learnt, but there are other ways to use it than
to just hold on. It kept me alive, but now…
Now I am what is behind the markings on paper. I
paint my sunburst on the thin wall of a rock shelter,
transfer my power from my body to a symbol. Create