Bad Indians: A Tribal Memoir

When I think back on that moment, I have no
memory of sound, of voices—only the sight of that
belt blurring towards Little Al’s backside.
I lost the ability to form words, in my head or my
mouth. I forgot there were such things as words. I
was nearly as crazed as my father, stomping my feet,
beating the air with my fists, hands outstretched,
hands to ears, inarticulate noises coming out of my
throat from deep in my gut—rooted to the spot,
writhing.
Afterwards, I was forbidden to go into my
brother’s room to hold or comfort him. He huddled
on his bed, trying to muffle his sobs with pillow or
hands while my father hollered, “Boys don’t cry!”
I sat on the other side of the thin wood walls of the
trailer, listening, learning to hate.
One morning, up before our parents, I found Little
Al frantically stuffing his wet pajamas behind the
toilet, his face stricken with fear.
We looked at each other silently.