I'm So Over You.

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My nursing boards were scheduled to take place at the Civic Center over a two-day period. I asked Marion if Andrew could stay with her over those two days; I'd do better if I didn't have to worry about him. The first day of the test, the staff ushered us into a large room. We weren't allowed to bring anything in with us and we weren't allowed to leave the room. It was a long and stressful day. That night I went to bed early, my body was drained.

Around midnight the phone rang. "Beth.... This is Dorothy," came the slurred voice, "I'm over at a party.... Will you pick me up...and take me over to Lincoln?"

"No!" I barked and hung up.

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That weekend, the nursing boards finally over with, Andrew and I actually began to relax. Having nothing but welfare now money was tight. But it was okay, Andrew and I didn't need much. We went to fairs, the library, and to visit my family. We went to the beach twice a week and spent the whole afternoon doing nothing but play together in the water and lie on the warm sand. If I had loose change, I bought each of us an ice cream bar at the refreshment stand. It was a beautiful, wonderful time.

Unfortunately, it ended too soon. I came home from an overnight stay at my sister's one day and found Troy and Mathew sleeping in the house. They'd gotten in through the upstairs porch door.

I was angry, but didn't show it. Not wanting them to hate me, I didn’t want them to know how I felt. I scolded them and then let it go. My quiet time was over.

The phone rang just as I was falling asleep.

"Tell my dad Cheri had her kid," Misty snapped.

"Tell him yourself," I snapped back and hung up.

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Mickey came back from Texas, but Paul stayed with his dad. I went into labor in September and Troy drove me in. I didn't call Wilson. Why bother? He knew when I was due. I'd packed my overnight bag for Andrew also, intending that he stay with me. Troy dropped Andrew and me at the hospital door.

Around 5:30 p.m. the next day, Andrew tried to cut his sister's cord. The doctor helped.

Haley's initial color at birth was dark and her face was squashed, accenting her Indian features. My initial reaction to the way she looked was fear. My thought; "I've given birth to an Indian girl who will become a teenage Indian girl."

I was barely out of the shower when Steph arrived half an hour later from work. She very lovingly combed my wet hair out. Erik, Bobby and Chris arrived soon after. All of them took time to hold Haley. I was tired, but so touched and grateful to have them all there. When they left they took Andrew and his belongings with them.

"I'll pick you up and take you home when it's time," Steph offered.

I fell asleep that night comforted by my brothers and sisters. Alone with Haley, my feelings of fear passed.

She was beautiful.
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Disposable Children

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While we were visiting up north, Wally did something wrong and Dale got angry. Taking a stick, he smacked Wally on the butt and sent him to the bedroom. Tammy got up to go after her crying boy.

"Don't you go baby him!" Dale hollered, "You're always going and babying him!"

I felt for Tammy and Wally, but knew not to interfere.

Back home, Wilson and I visited Nova and I noticed how harsh she, too, was with children. Her 11-year-old, overweight granddaughter was always being hollered at. Why are so many people so mean to kids?
I never asked; I just wondered.

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Wilson had been sober now for several months.

I was seven months pregnant when I finished nursing school. My father, siblings, Andrew, Wilson, and Mickey and his brothers all came to the graduation, and afterwards, Wilson took the whole bunch of us out to a restaurant. It was the first time he’d ever done anything like that. Once at the restaurant, he surprised me with a wedding ring. It was a fantastic evening, bolstering the hopes and dreams I still had.

Not only was he sober, but he had a job.  Wilson was working for a traveling painting crew now and making good money.

Tired from working and going to school and in the third trimester of my pregnancy, I looked forward to resting. Because Wilson was doing well, I hoped that I'd be able to spend the summer taking it easy with Andrew. So I put in my notice at the Crisis Nursery. For the first time ever, Wilson would be taking care of me.

But nothing ever seems to go as planned. Two weeks before my resignation took effect, other night workers and I wrote a letter of complaint to our boss. The man being trained to take my place had us all worried. But in order to explain our concern, we admitted in our letter that we all had been taking turns sleeping on the job. On my very first night of work two years earlier, my supervisor had given me a blanket and told me were to go lay down. I was trained from the start that this was what the staff does.  As a nursing student during the day, I didn't complain about the opportunity to nap at night.  Unfortunately, my supervisor's supervisor wasn't amused.  I suspect that she knew all along that we were sleeping, but the fact that we were foolish enough to confess it in a written note gave her no choice but to take action.  As a result, the administration fired us all.

I was upset, thinking it unfair. But since I had already stolen everything I needed for my new baby; including a large stash of diapers, wet wipes, and other paraphernalia, I accepted it. The nursery’s decision just gave me more time with Andrew a little sooner than expected. 

Although I complained a lot about the amount of deceit in my husband's family, my own hypocrisy  never occurred to me

Getting fired was one change in my summer's plans.  The other was much worse. The men Wilson worked with were drinkers and evenings in the motel with them were too much. He called from the motel one night, drunk. A few days later, he was gone again. As Troy was up north, and Mickey and Paul were visiting their dad in Texas, Andrew and I were on our own.

Good. It's about time. I was angry enough at Wilson for this latest drunk this time it didn't matter to me he was gone. I hoped that neither he nor Troy would ever come back. I was tired of everyone. In fact, when anyone tried to come around or call, I chased them off.

My disposition showed during a prenatal check. The nurse practitioner asked what was wrong.

"My husband's drinking up north. I don't think I'll let him come back."

Without hesitation, this woman, a complete stranger who knew nothing else about me, asked, "Would you like an abortion?"

I was stunned. Then outrage flooded me.  How dare she suggest that! I couldn't believe the stupidity of the question! How was it the baby's fault?  What makes her think I'd want to kill my baby!  How would killing my baby change Roland? How would it change how I was feeling? How dare she try to make things worse by suggesting she kill my baby! Would she ask that question so glibly to an upper-class woman married to a white man?  I extremely doubt it! I was so insulted, so outraged and so flustered by the question, words couldn't come out. For heaven's sake I was almost eight months pregnant!  I could have slapped her.

"OF COURSE NOT!" I finally spit.

I got through the appointment saying little else to her, and later told another nurse that there was no way I'd ever let that woman examine me again, let alone deliver my baby, even if she was the only one on call. Anyone that stupid and thoughtless had no business near my baby.
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If we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves

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For three weeks we struggled to rid our house of lice. Everytime I had thought they were gone, I'd look on Andrew's head and there they were again. Fortunately, the Crisis Nursery was well stocked with lice shampoo and even an upholstery spray. I helped myself to the products, putting them into the car as my co-worker slept, and went through our home washing every head, stitch of clothing, and stuffed animal in the house more than once.

And as I went throughout pulling out every piece of clothing I could find, I came across a pair of pants, a blouse, and a white blazer that had been missing for quite some time. Mine! Embarrassment washed over me. Not wanting the clothing to be found by anyone else and my false accusation of Misty discovered, I stuffed the clothes in a bag and gave them away at the first opportunity.

But as for the lice, despite my cleaning efforts, scarcely a week later the pests would be back. The mother of Andrew’s friend called one day and asked if we were having trouble with bugs.
Reluctantly, I admitted we were.

"So were we. But I think it's been coming from that new family that just moved in from the Rez. I went and asked her about it, and she acted like she didn't even know what lice were. I told her I'd wash her kid’s heads for her."

"I'll keep Andrew away for awhile."

The lice problem disappeared.
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In order to pass the Ojibwe class that spring, I had to stand in front of everyone and give a short speech in the language. Family and friends were invited to this event. Roland and the kids came, along with Roland’s sister Yvonne. After we had all given our speeches, we shared a potluck lunch that included venison, wild rice and fry bread. I was given an "A" for the class, but even more important, Yvonne said I did really well. I was so glad to hear her say that.

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The small man who owned the corner store was a friendly fellow, but unless I needed a last minute item, I avoided his store. His food was old. Previous purchases had included freezer burned ice cream and milk that was so outdated it plopped like pudding into the glass when poured.

I don't know why I went in this day with my WIC vouchers. I must have been in a hurry.

"You have WIC?" he asked, "here, I let you get pop with your WIC instead of juice. You can get anything. It's okay. I do this for my good customers. You are a good customer."

"No thank you. I'll get juice," I said, while thinking to myself, 'why would I want to get pop when juice is more expensive?'

Returning, I met Andrew in the alley. He, along with some other boys, was racing around with a stick in his hands.

"Look, Mom! I'm part of a gang!"

_____________________________________________________
At fourteen, Savannah had a baby girl. I called the hospital and told them she was homeless, truant and addicted. I told them that her mother was homeless, too. I asked them to place Savannah and the baby in foster care. But someone showed up at the hospital and claimed them. I suppose all they had to do was tell the hospital that yes, they did have a good place to stay. The hospital released them.

On Savannah's new welfare check, she and Annie got an apartment together. I brought over some clothes and diapers from the Crisis Nursery.

"Just take good care of the baby and everything will be okay," I told Savannah, "Don't start drinking again. Use your check to get five bags of diapers and a case and a half of formula every month. If you stay out of trouble, social services will leave you alone."

A couple of weeks later, one of Verlin’s sister's called me.

"Do you have Savannah's baby?" she asked.

"No," I answered, "is the baby missing?"

"Well," the caller said, "Savannah was drinking and doesn't know where she left it."

She went on to say the baby had been missing for about ten days. As I hung up the phone, I was horrified. The baby could be lying dead in some alley. After a moments pause, I called St. Joseph's Home for Children. 'Misplaced' children often turn up there.

"Yes," The woman on the phone said, "we did get an unidentified Native American baby girl this last week."

I hung up the phone in relief, but I didn't call and tell the family. The longer the home kept the baby, the better. Unfortunately, the family eventually called St. Joseph's and the baby was returned to them shortly there after. 

Why does Social Services keep putting Savanah and her baby back on the street together?  Why isn't anyone stepping in to protect these two children?
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Diary of a Mad Black Woman

Today, December 10, 2010, My daughter had ordered two movies from Netflix - "Madea's Family Reunion" and "Diary of a Mad Black Woman."

I'm glad I watched  "Diary of a Mad Black Woman" all by myself, because when Helen's cousin entered the church, I began bawling like a big baby. I cried for the next half hour - not really watching the rest of the movie.  (Spoiler warning) - She reminded me so much of Lila - who also had a daughter and son about those ages when she died - and then to see this woman walk through those doors - grabbing hold of the Spirit with all her heart -  I had no idea I had all that grief still inside me.  How I wish that Lila had been able to do that.

They're Indian Kids. Let the Tribe Take Care of 'em. They Aren't Our Business.

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Carrie had been with us now for only about three or four months. It seemed like a much longer period of time had passed, but that was only because so much had happened in that short period of time.

Child Protection informed us that although there was proof Carrie was abused, there was no proof as to who did it. Without proof, they couldn't hold anyone accountable.  We were told Carrie's father and his family were to be allowed visits again.

Dalene, anxious to see her, took Carrie home for the weekend. On Sunday evening, they returned. Setting the baby out of the car onto the sidewalk, they handed her the overnight bag and gave her a nudge.  We had heard the car drive up and had come out, surprised to see 18-month-old Carrie climbing the steps to the door - by herself - dragging the little bag behind her.

They watched from the road until they saw us pick her up, then drove off.

When Cheri finally came back a week or so later and took Carrie, I laid on my bed and cried for a couple hours.

____________________________________________

I returned to the Ojibwe class in the last semester. I still felt it was important for the children to understand their culture, so I took Andrew and sometimes Joy with me to class. Pregnant again, I even considered wearing headphones on my belly in order to assimilate the baby to the language. Mickey’s brother Troy, whose friends had shaved his head during a drunk, moved in with us, too. I wanted the boys to get better at speaking also, so I wrote onto slips of paper the Ojibwe names of household objects and then stuck them around the house.

It seemed like a good idea, but no one was really interested. Those slips of paper remained stuck to our furniture for a good year, little noticed by anyone.

The boys weren't interested in the language, but attained other minor victories. While staying with us, Troy obtained his driver’s license, had his chipped front tooth fixed, and worked on getting his GED. Mickey worked on getting his driver’s permit and attended high school.

One day Mickey came home an hour early from class.

"What are you doing home?" I asked him.

"My advocate let me out."

"What do you mean, 'let you out'?"

"Well, I didn't like my art teacher, so a month or so ago my Indian advocate let me drop the class and go to study hall in his office instead. He'd ask me a couple questions and stuff, but I wasn't really doing anything there so now he just lets me come home instead."

I called the advocate. "In the first place," I told him, "I don't agree with letting him drop art.  He has to work out his problems with his teacher. But in the second place, Mickey got two 'F's' last quarter! How come you’re letting him cut out of school?"

"What are you worried about?" the advocate, also a tribal member, responded, "He's got three years of school left. He's got time to catch up."

About ready to blow my top and getting nowhere with this man, I called the principal, who agreed Mickey shouldn't be leaving school early. It was too late to get Mickey back into the art class, so he placed him into the real study hall instead.  Unfortunately, the principal didn't have the cojones to fire the advocate for being the idiot he was.

The following day, Mickey confided that the Indian advocate had told him  "Don't listen to Beth, all white people talk like that."

'What a jerk,' I thought angrily, 'why isn't that so-called advocate helping Mickey apply himself? Don't they think an Indian kid can be expected to work hard?  Do they look down on Indian kids that much?  If anybody dares treat Andrew that way when he gets to school, expecting less of him just because he's Indian, I'll knock em to the moon!

Right - it's easy to blow up at all the fools outside the family.  But to open my mouth and say something to family members?  Not so much...
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Dying In Indian Country

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Up in Wanda's apartment, Annie sat. Her newborn, settled in the seat of the baby swing I'd lent her, swung quietly back and forth.

"I knew she was dying. We even called an ambulance the other day. But when they got here, she wouldn't go. She said she was going to die anyway and didn't want to die in the hospital. They said there was nothing they could do if she didn't want to go."

Later, Wilson struggled with guilt for not having gone to Lila when he'd first been called. Could he have talked her into going? Would it have made a difference? What was it that Lila had wanted to tell him? The last question haunted him worst.

He also finally recognized the "other strange smell" that he had noticed in the apartment. It was the same smell he's noticed when he'd had gangrene. The smells of rotting flesh, as Lila sat on that couch drinking and dying.

Wilson drove her body home to the reservation. She was buried at the family plot in Mission, near the sight of a tiny body laid to rest seven years earlier.

_________________________________________

A month later we hurried to get up north as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, as we arrived and ran up the steps to the Indian Health Service hospital, Wilson's sister opened the door and told him he was too late.

There were few people Walter knew near the end. Wilson, during Lila's funeral the month before, was grateful to be among the few whom his father was still able to recognize. However, Lila's funeral, because of Walter's confusion and poor health, was kept secret from the old man.

The wake was held in the Community Center, which was packed with people. Grandpa or Uncle to most of the reservation, Walter had been a well-respected elder.

Sitting on some steps at the far end of the room, I held Annie's baby and tried rocking him. He was crying. His face and hands were dirty and he wouldn't eat.

"Let me take him to the hospital Annie."

Pointing to her dad's casket with her lips, Annie moaned through her tears, "Go ahead. I'm not worried about him. I'm worried about that old man over there."

As I got up with the baby, I thought to myself, 'But Annie, Walter is fine, it's Shaine that needs you.'

Savannah and I walked through the snow carrying baby Shaine. At the hospital, the doctor admitted him with an ear infection and impetigo.

"It's not that serious," the doctor said, "But this is a better place for him to sleep than the floor of the community center."

At Dale's that evening, I spoke to Candis, whose foster dad had brought her down for the funeral. I was worried about what she must think of men.

"Do you remember when you were little, when you cried at night and Grandpa Walter would take you into his bed and comfort you?"

"Yes," she answered.

"That's the good way ... the way daddies are supposed to be. He never hurt you; he just comforted you. That's the way daddies are supposed to love their little girls, not like what those others did."

She was silent.

"Your grandpa really loved you, Candis."

The next day someone from the hospital called Annie and warned her that Child Protection was coming and if she wanted to keep Shaine, she'd better get over there before the worker did. Annie didn't go. Social services removed Shaine from the hospital and put him into foster care. A couple months later he underwent heart surgery secondary to Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. He was never returned to Annie.

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