A Beautiful Lie
The train was coming slowly down to the station, squealing like the voices of the little girls who were anxious to start their journey towards the land of red apples. Black smoke filled the sky as it came to a stop, hiding the faces of our mothers who stood close by ready to hug us goodbye. I felt my mother squeeze my shoulders over the thick blanket that was wrapped around me as the white man yelled at us to start getting on the train. As the smoke cleared the land, I saw my mother’s face that was dampened with fresh tears, her eyes shining like the moon. I quickly embraced her, telling her I loved her as she stroked my long, black hair. The white man pulled me gently by the arm and told my mother that I had to leave now. Tears never stopped rolling down her wrinkled cheeks as I got farther away from her. From the train window, I spotted my mother who was being embraced by the other women of our tribe. I fell back in my seat after the train jerked its way forward, leaving my mother, my tribe, and my land behind.
There were at least twenty girls sitting in the car with me -- some were five and even fifteen-years old. The younger girls were comparing their clothes and moccasins with one another, pointing out their favorite beads and laughing. The older girls sat quietly in their seat, playing with the loose strands on their blankets. I thought that they must miss their mothers as much as I, so I sat in silence too, playing with my blanket until I started to get tired. It was hard to keep my eyes closed for a minute because the ride felt like traveling by horseback over the rolling hills. Every bump and rattle shook me awake and sometimes I thought I was back home until I remembered I was leaving it. The girls and I traded spots with each other often to stretch out our legs and sore bottoms. I found myself next to one of the older girls who had not spoken a word the whole time. As I was adjusting myself, she said hello to me and I returned the greeting. I smiled wholeheartedly toward her then began to cry. The girl gently pulled my face onto her chest and I cried softly as she stroked my hair like my mother.
For seven days I sat on the train, weeped, and was soothed by those around me. Home seemed to be a broken word as the train stopped close by the school that we, girls, would be sheltered by for three years. Smoke clouded our paths once again while we made our ways toward the big building where other Native children were. We all walked in a line lead by a white lady who wore a heavy dress and hat. Pulling my blanket tighter around me, I felt the snow under my feet caress my soles. I kept my head down low while the line moved quickly up the path. We all rushed through the doors of the school, becoming silent as we took in the surroundings, our chattering teeth was the only sound. The lady took us into a room full of tables and told us to sit down. I looked to my left and to my right. All of the girls were looking around too with confusion on their faces and fear. A few more white women came into the room we were in, their dresses dragging on the ground, their hair neat on top of their heads, and they looked at us one by one. Two women walked behind us and some even touched our hair and blankets. We were then told to take our blankets off and place them on the table. The women took the blankets and walked out of the room. I heard a little girl start crying, asking for her mother and I started to tear up as well. The women who took our blankets came back with clothes and shoes in their arms and placed them on the table. I now started to weep. I did not want to in front of the women, but I could not hold my tears back. The room was so dim that the white women did not look as pale as they were outside and I now felt a chill go past my bare arms. We were told to change into the clothes they gave us. I stared at the pile for a while, my heart pounding like thunder on a spring day, but I took the clothes and put them on. The dress and shoes felt funny to me as if I had put on another skin that did not belong to me. I wanted to rip it all to shreds.
After the women showed us our room, I sat on the bed for a long time as I played with the hem on my dress and the braids in my hair. The windows let in the light of the setting sun, turning the white blankets on the bed across from mine orange. This sunset was not as beautiful as the ones that painted the sky in my village. Pink, purple, and orange filled the sky as my tribe would come back from foraging and I would walk backwards to see it. The colors filled my soul. I felt the beautiful truth of my spirit. My spirit in this strange place I now call home has been emptied from me -- I am no longer beautiful. The sunset now is ugly and it does not belong here -- it does not belong in all of these lies. They said that this land would be better for us, but I found nothing good in it. I remember that my mother rejected my enthusiasm to come with the white men. She said that they were evil; that they wanted to take us away from our culture to make us more like them. My spirit got filled with their lies and I could not help but fall in love with them. Oh, how could I make such a mistake? The older girl I sat with on the train came into my bed in the night to soothe me as I slept. She was cold and her heartbeat felt like it was not there. We held each other close, trying to find the comfort that we lost. I started shaking my head, saying, “We do not belong here.” I heard her whisper in my ear, telling me that we do not.
The next day, I heard that Zitkala-Sa ran away from the women to hide from their scissors, but her hair still got cut. My braids were still long, but the girls I traveled with had their hair shingled already. My heart became so heavy that I felt I could not stand any longer. Gripping my braids tight, I searched for a way out of this like Zitkala-Sa, but I knew I would be found. I remembered there was a small door on the wall by the stairs and I decided to try and hide anyway. The doorway in the eating room was clear as well as the hallway. I quietly made my way through the lines of children, stopping every few children, but when I got past the doorway a woman came down the stairs. I tried to run, but she caught me. Her grip was strong around my arm. I started to yell. “No! Let me go! Do not make me a coward!” The woman holding me called for the others as I struggled. All I could hear was the quick tapping of shoes coming toward me. Another woman held me with strong hands, telling me to stop. I caught a glimpse of a rusty pair of scissors, but then my head was pushed down. On the floor, I saw my black braids lay limp next to my shoes. As the women let me go, I fell on my knees, running my hands through my short hair. Between sobs I yelled, “Cowards!” How could they strip me of my culture like this? It is as if they collected the sunset in buckets and threw all of the colors away. The beautiful truth is now gone and all we see is a lie in front of our eyes that shine like the moon.
-I own this story. No rights for you!-
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