Bad Indians: A Tribal Memoir

Sitting down to eat a meal cooked and served by
my father was a glorious moment. In our cramped
kitchen, we had a small table topped with imitationwood
Formica, accompanied by four aluminum-andplastic
chairs. Curtains with red polka dots, sewn by
my mother with much sweat and determination,
hung triumphantly at the windows—all the more
impressive because in high school she’d taken
flamenco dancing instead of home economics. My
father would take one of our mismatched plates from
the cupboard next to the propane stove and hold it in
one dark brown, thick-fingered hand while scooping
up steaming mounds of rice and beans, delicately
shoveling up an enchilada or two, and then put the
full plate into my hands so that I could put it at the
appropriate place at the table.