Nuvasu

Prolog and Chapter 1

Sitting outside on her porch with its boards that creaked with each step sat Navasu. (Nu-va-sue) She loved to sit on that old porch feeling the warmth of the morning sun on her now aged skin while she rocked in her yet older looking chair. The rocking chair had been a gift from her father when she first moved into her house out in the middle of nowhere, away from the towns and the people who lived in them. Her father had built the chair out of wood he had left over after he finished constructing the place she now called home. That was such a long time ago, but yet it seemed like just yesterday to her. She didn’t hate contact with other people, or was hiding out in solitude, in fact, most of the people she socialized with, which was a lot, lived in town, but for her and most of her family, they just chose to live closer to nature and its beauty. The home that she lived in was also a gift to her from her father. Not a wedding gift, or a get out into your own place gift, it was just a gift of love. Teyee, (Tie-e) her father, had done so or was willing to do the same for all his children before he passed away. He had died in the early seventies at the age of 97, but she believed he would have lived much longer, if not forever. Though he was gone, the thought of him still filled her with hope and joy, and a very big part of her knew that even though he died, they would be together again, one day. As she sat smiling in the sunlight remembering her father and listened to the spring birds make their beautiful music, she gently placed her teacup on the table next to her. Picking up the pen from the table, she looks to her side and her smile widens as her eyes, which are still so full of life despite all the years they’ve seen, gaze on Nanuk. Nanuk, who was her oldest and dearest friend, was a wolf, but wasn’t like any wolf ever seen before. He was very protective over her and her family with a fierceness that would make the largest animal back down. While normal wolves only protected themselves or their cubs in critical situations and would usually run before they had to defend themselves, Nanuk always stayed by her side no matter what situation arose. The people who knew Nuvasu had always marveled at the notion of her having a wolf for a pet, but to her, he was more than just a pet. In fact, just the thought of him being called her pet was insulting to her and to him. No, he was so much more than that. He was her companion, her savior, not to mention he was Navasu’s first true friend. Nanuk was a part of her well before they physically met, and would be a part of her well after they went to the next life. Anyone who believed in the ways of her people, and believed in ‘Kindred Spirits’, would understand how she felt, and would understand that Nanuk was her Kindred Spirit. She could not help taking the time to stroke his soft fur that by now was heated from laying in the sunlight. Nanuk, not looking back towards her, since he knew that touch, just picked up his head a bit to acknowledge her, let out a comforting breath, and wagged his tail briefly before a rabbit sprinting across the front yard caught his eye. Even though he was a predator of nature, he didn’t even give the rabbit a second glance, letting out a tiny growl, he returned his head back down between his front paws and enjoyed the gently touch of whom he felt was a sister, not an owner. As Nuvasu watched him bask in the mornings glow, her smile began to fade. Leaning back into her chair and closing her eyes slowly, she once again remembered what she had set out to do. With a heavy heart, she picked up the notepad, which sat next to her teacup. “It is time.” She said to herself partly out loud, as if to convince her own heart. It was time to finally speak of all her sorrows, her joys, the loves she lost, and the loves she found. She felt it was time to tell her tale of triumph over the pains of a Mothers inability to love, and over the joys of a Fathers undying quest to show her happiness in who she was. It was finally time to let the world know that happiness wasn’t just folklore, or a fairytale made up to get children to fall asleep at bedtime. Nor was it just a word one might use to describe a brief moment in time. It was something that washed over you like a warm breeze on a summer’s day with the only difference being that it didn’t pass away with the passing of the clouds.

Letting out a deep breathe, she didn’t realize she was holding in, Nuvasu brought the pen to paper. Not knowing how to start, but knowing where to begin, she started writing…












Chapter 1




It was an unseasonably warm September 25th in 1920, the day that I was born, or so I was told, being just born, I really have no idea how the weather was that day, but from what I learned later on in life, WWI just ended and the world was trying to get back to where it was before the war started. The Eighteenth Amendment went into effect in January of that year making America dry, which meant no more ‘booze’, well not legally anyway, ‘Speak-easies’ where still everywhere so that one might indulge in a drink or two, not to mention, in November of 1920 women stepped forward and were able to vote and the Iceman still made his rounds delivering blocks of ice. I was born in a village just northeast of Mason City called Rock Falls, Iowa, and was born to Kimi Soikas, an unwed mother of the age of 18 who still lived with her parents and brothers and sisters. Though my Mothers family was of Native American decent, Sioux Indian to be exact, they left their heritage behind along time ago for what they hoped and believed were better ways of life. My mother, Kimi (Ki-Mee) whose name means “day star”, once dreamed of leaving her abusive and emotionless family behind for a better life, now relied on them to help raise me. Her situation was not uncommon back then, but yet still very unique in itself. Kimi grew up in a kind of loveless family that believed a heavy hand nurtured a heavy heart, would choose to take either a switch, cut from a near by branch or a belt to your back side over any other form of discipline. Therefore, with the lacking of tender words, or a warm hug from my grandparents, or without the support from each of the brothers and sisters, left all of them, especially my mother, cold inside. They weren’t exactly hateful, but very cold, as if the fires in their hearts were never lit or went out quickly after birth. Not all of them were cruel, but all of them did have their own issues, so to say. My Grandparents, who weren’t exactly poor, but weren’t rich either, did however own their own land, which they used for farming corn, wheat and the likes of such, so they could sell them to local markets for very little profit. Even though Native Americans no longer needed to live on reservations, and we were free to live anywhere we choose, the recession was still going strong which meant money was tight and moods were dim for them, and moving to another area seemed pointless to my grandparents, So they stayed put, and complained about the poor selling crops and the fact that so many of us lived with them.

Perhaps that was why it appeared to me that my mother always seemed as if she never had true feelings of her own, It wasn’t that she had no feelings, but it was like she would almost ‘mirror’ the feelings that were shown to her at any given point in time. I know my mother knew what true feelings were, and she did have very few of her own hidden away, deep inside herself. She was capable of showing them, but not very often. I know I felt the love of a mother and her newborn from her, I must have. And when we were alone, we would be close, like a mother and daughter would be, I guess, but outside of us she would revert back to the way she grew up. I know she had heard the words that described true feelings from time to time from either my grandparents or the men she would lay down with, but I know now that she never felt the words as she dreamed of as a child herself. Once my mother entered womanhood, she fell victim to both her own wild side, and the rebellion to get away from her parents new found Christian ways. Thus having her always seeking the attention of handsome, and later on, not so handsome men around. As she blossomed from young girl to young woman, she learned to adapt to the words like ‘love’ in a different meaning. For her, she took the words as they presented themselves, which usually left her angry, bitter, and with very low self respect, if any. You see, my mother was no prostitute or working girl. She just felt that if she gave these men what they wanted, she would get what she wanted, a way out of such a sleepy and dead end town. Instead, all she got was a broken heart, a child with no father, and a family that seemed to criticize everyone else’s short comings while not ever trying to correct there own. That could be way she always tried harder to me my friend, than mother. Maybe it was easier for her to let a friend down, than your own flesh and blood. I didn’t blame her then, and I don’t blame her now for the ways she was brought up, you can only teach what you, yourself have been taught, at least until you except your own responsibility of who you are.

As I think back, I can still picture my mother in her youth. She was so beautiful back then with long black, silky hair, the deepest brown eyes, beautiful tanned skin passed on from generation to generation that white people called red, and a smile that could warm just about any heart as she entered a room. As she became older though, her beauty started to change. Her deep brown eyes seemed to fade with sadness, her smile now seemed to be painted on, no longer warming a room, as it appeared to be just for show, and her laugh lines by her eyes turned into premature crows feet. Even though her beauty changed, she still was beautiful and yet so sad at the same time. I still remember her telling me to make sure I wore my “Happy face” when ever we would enter a room, even if it were with just our family. To make matters worse for her, now that she had a child, less and less worthy would be suitors would call on her, and the ones that did call were mostly white men just passing through on there way to make their fortune else where, and who seemed to look down on us for what we were, Indians. That more often than not meant they were only looking for a brief encounter, whether that would mean a one night stand or a week long affair didn’t seem to matter, in any case, my mother didn’t want to lose out on a chance to escape her life in Rock Falls with her family, so she would go with high hopes, and come home more hurt, a little more let down, and none the wiser than when she left. I know I sound hard on her, but what I say, and the how I feel sometimes, don’t reflect each other. I loved her then because she was my mother, now I love her out of respect for her bringing me into this world. I learned you can love someone even if it isn’t returned to you. A lesson all to painful to learn, but to some a lesson well taught.



My mother, Kimi and I lived with my Grandparents and three Aunts and two Uncles. They were what I think of now as my ‘reluctant’ family. Even then during the birth of the “Roaring 20’s”, they seemed so different than other families I’ve seen. Though I said it before, we were and still are of, Sioux Indian descendents, and my grandparents decided long ago to follow the Catholic ways of life and give up their Indian heritage. The only reminders of our own culture, besides the color of our skin, were the names we carried. My Grandmothers name was Aquene, (A-quean) which meant ‘Peace’, though she hardly lived up to her name. My grandmother was a short, thin woman with medium length, graying hair and a permanent frown on her still kind face. I can remember that even when she was happy, she always looked sad or upset about something, and when she was upset, which was pretty often, you knew it. She may have been short, but as my Grandfather would say to tease her, Aquene was all lungs. I was never allowed to call her ‘Grandmother’ or even ‘Grammy’ like I heard other children call their grandmothers. She always said she was too young to be a grandmother, but she eventually settled for ‘Nanna’, which was fine by me. Nanna always seemed to be busy, too busy to enjoy the simplest of life’s offerings, with the exception of her homemade wines that she always found time to make. Even though prohibition was still around, you could rest assured that there was a jug of ‘Dandelion’ wine in the cabinet, or a bottle of straight up Gin under the icebox. Nanna, when not helping with the land, would spend most of her time baking or cooking. The house always smelled so good, with either baked goods, such as pies or cakes made from scratch, or from what ever she was cooking for dinner that evening. I loved spending time with her in the kitchen, to me, that was the only time that she didn’t seem so distant towards me. My grandmother wasn’t just distant towards me I later learned, she was that way towards everyone. She loved to criticize everyone inside the family and out, but since my birth, she was especially hard on my mother, who was at one time my Nannas favorite. Next to my Nanna, my Grandfather, Mojaq (Mo-ja-k) was the scariest person I ever met. My Grandfather’s name meant “Never Silent”, and he really did live up to his name. I would just call him ‘Poppy’, even though it didn’t matter to him if I called ‘Grandfather’, or ‘Gramps’, just as long as I showed respect when I did call him. He was tall, and a bit heavy with thin, balding hair, and he always had a pleasant look to him, except when it was time to be punished, or taught one of life’s lessons, then he looked meaner than a dozen rattlesnakes. My Poppy wasn’t distant like my Grandmother, nor did he yell a lot, but when he was not happy, you knew it. He was quick to judge, and even quicker to punish, like it told him in his bible. Poppy would read the Bible, but he only read certain parts, I think. Back then, he took it on his own to teach all of life’s lessons according to the good book, and he used every and any manner to teach you, so that you’d remember best. Regardless of the age of the student, to him, fear was the best way to make you understand what he wanted you to learn, unfortunately, we all feared pain, so the belt, or what ever was on hand at the time was his teachers aide. My Grandfather, Poppy, wasn’t always an enforcer of rules and not all the lessons he taught were in a harsh manner. Sometimes in the summer we would sit outside on the porch at night while he smoked his pipe and tell us of when he was young, and times were so much simpler, when chooses were few, but yet so clear. That was a time when all of us seen that he would talk to us, not at us, like he would do during the day. During these stories he told us, Mojaq seemed so wise, so at peace with himself, and with everything around him. Poppy would always tell his tales, but stop short of the details that most of us wanted to hear, but were afraid to Question. We knew he grew up on a reservation, Ponca reservation I believe, but he never spoke of growing up as an Indian or on a reservation. Instead, he would ‘alter’ his facts to fit the situation that he was telling us. As I grew, I would wonder why he had such a short temper, and then I would think of how he used to tell us of his youth with such passion. Maybe he felt that the world in which he felt he had such a hold of then, got away from him, and never looked back or waited up for him, or maybe he felt guilty for giving up his dreams, his way of life for a quick path to happiness that turned into a road of bitterness. Either way, Poppy sure wasn’t the person he would describe to us. I still do not know why he was so ashamed of his heritage, perhaps if I had seen the world through his eyes, I’d understand better, but I can’t now, nor I couldn’t see through his eyes then, so I can only hope that he made peace with his past before he went into the next life. When we would sit outside and listen to his stories, he would always look up to the moon, and either nod to my Nanna, or to Jacy (Jay-sea), my oldest uncle, and tell the story of when they met, my grandparents, that is. They were both very young when they met, and arranged to be married by their parents, which of course was always worded differently. About a year after they wed, they moved to Rock Falls where they built their home, started a farm, and then started a family. My grandfather said he always promised my Grandmother the moon and stars above during there courtship, so it was no surprise to my grandmother after my uncles birth that my grandfather named him, Jacy, which meant ‘The Moon’. My Uncle Jacy, was born a year or so before my mother, and must have had a very different childhood than the rest of my Aunts and Uncle. Jacy was a giant not only to me, but to anyone around. He stood at around six feet seven inches tall, with long dark hair which he always had tied back, and he had ‘laughing’ eyes that would comfort you when you were down, or scare the jeepers out of you if upset him. His eyes weren’t the only kind thing about him, he had the ability to always make the most run down stranger feel welcome, not to the point that they were part of the family, but to show that if you were friendly, he was as well. During World War One, the United States wanted my Uncle Jacy to serve in the Army, but could not due to his feet, which were ‘clubbed’. I didn’t know what that meant when I was younger, they looked like feet to me, so I just thought the Army was really picky. Later on, I not only found out what ‘club foot’ meant, but I also found out that during W.W.I, thousands of Native Americans, mostly Sioux, fought for their country against Germany. To my Grandfather, that was a great honor for my Uncle to fight as an American. My Uncle later explained that it wasn’t an honor to him to fight as an American, as it was to fight along so many other Native Americans. I know it bothered him to not be able to enlist do to his feet, of all things, considering he was as strong as a bear, and could be twice as fierce. Once I was born, my Uncle Jacy would play with me when he had a moment, and nicknamed me “Nitika”, which meant ‘Angel of precious stone’, which angered my mother pretty bad. See, Jacy would say that my mother had a heart of stone, and I was an angel, so when you put then together, you got my nickname. Jacy liked to joke with everyone, even to me, some of the jokes could be hurtful, but to him, they were all meant in fun. That was him though, he could be kind and wicked all at the same time, but to me, he was usually kind, showing me games that I could enjoy myself, or making funny faces behind my grandparents backs. I guess I loved him most for those things and for never making me feel like I was a burden or an example to the already crowded house. One of most fondest memories about my Uncle Jacy was when I had just turned four, and one of my Aunts were to be going out on a date or something. My Nanna, of course, had to give her speech on how a respectable lady is to act, and then started talking about my mother, “Just look at what could happen to you,” she said, pointing towards my direction, “You want a bastard running around her too?” With that, Jacy came into the kitchen as if it were on fire, “A bastard? You just called her a bastard?” My Uncle growled, “She is an Angel, a piece of God himself! You should all be so lucky to ever bare a child like this one. All’s she ever does is play. She doesn’t cry, she doesn’t complain. She is no Bastard! The father of her is, not her,” Then he walked out of the room, and winked at me as he passed. My grandmother and Aunt were quiet for sometime, I’m sure from shock. Then She began all over again with her sermons, only this time, a lot quieter, and without me as the ‘Look what can happen to you’ example. Yes, Jacy was my gentle giant, my practical joke playing gentle giant.



My mother was born about a year after my Uncle Jacy, and then came my Aunt Terona (Ter-on-a). She was as far back as I could remember, one of the bitterest persons on the face of the Earth. I never knew what Terona meant in Sioux, so one day I asked Jacy, and he told me it meant ‘Killer fish’, which is why he would playful and sometimes not so playful refer to her as ‘Terona the Perona. I really don’t think that it truly meant that, but it sure did it. She was pretty, like my mother, but with medium length black hair, high check bones, and dark brown eyes. She suffered with the same permanent frown syndrome as my grandmother. Perhaps that was why once my mother fell from my grandmothers graces, Terona quickly filled in the void, well, that and Terona and my Grandmother had matching personalities. Neither one of them never seemed to have anything nice to say about anyone, with the exceptions of each other, that is, while they were around one another, of course, But most of the time, they were closer than the stars and the night sky. Even though Terona had a natural beauty, she always tried to look much older than her years would permit, thus making her only pretty, and not so beautiful at the same time. This always put her and my mother at odds when it came to would be Suitors. Terona believed in using her looks and other means to get material things from her potential suitors, but not really making any commitments to any one fellow, where my mother would give her heart and soul to the men she hoped were serious, and got nothing in return, well, except with child. The one good thing about them, if you can call it good, was they had enough respect for each other to show their dislikes towards one another, which would trickle down onto me from Terona. When she would speak to me, it was always direct, like as a matter of fact kind of thing and from time to time she would remind me on how much I looked like my mother, but I don’t think she meant it in a good way, either that, or she had no idea on how to give a compliment.

My Aunt Bena (Ben-a) came two years after Terona, which the gap of time in between them really did make a difference, in my eyes, at least. Bena, whose names meant ‘Summer Flower’, was said to look just like my Grandmother in her youth. I really didn’t see it, but my Grandfather and Grandmother did, so I guess it was true. Aunt Bena had the same ‘laughing’ eyes as Jacy, smooth, sleek, dark brown hair and a smile that you loved to see. She was 12 years old when I was born and she was the one who spent the most time with me. Bena, who, like the rest of the family had her fair share of chores to do, both inside the house and out on the farm, still found time to play with me. She would pretend that I was her daughter, and tell me stories, mostly fairytales of princess and princes while brushing my hair. Every now and then she would tell me tales of our ancestors or of our heritage that she had learned in school, or by children that she talked and played with at school. I would sit on the floor, braiding my dolls hair that my Grandmother had made, while Bena would braid my hair and entrance me with stories on how our souls were connected to animals of the forest, or how when we would leave this world, we would either join our spirit animals in the next, or come back to this world as that animal. She would tell me that they were the beliefs of our people long since forgotten. I enjoyed when she would tell me things in secret that my Grandparents never would talk about, like Sioux culture, or like how the bible never made any sense to her. To her, even with all the knowledge she had about our Indian back round, the future was brighter elsewhere, where civilized folk dressed accordingly and servants did the chores of the house, all the roads were paved, and you weren’t judged by your skin color or race. After all these years, I’m still waiting for her idea of the future to come around. It’s was funny to me then, though my mother was always blamed for having a wild side, my Aunt Bena did have a wild spirit that showed right down to the way she would dress. Back in those days, ‘Proper ladies’ never wore pants, or short dresses. They had to wear big puffy dresses and girdle things to make them look like Hour Glasses, not to mention, they had to have long hair to make them look more respectable or pure, I assume. Not her, not my Aunt Bena. She would get newspapers, books, or magazines and follow up on the current times, and when my Grandparents would lecture her about what she was wearing, or on how she was acting, she would quickly point out that ALL the American women were doing it, she just wanted to fit in. That would always make me laugh, the way she used there on logic against them, especially when it really frustrated them. Aunt Bena may have had a wild spirit, but even she knew not to push for too long, before the frustration turned into one of life’s painful lessons.



Matwau (Mat-wah-u) and Abir (A-bir) were the last of the children born to my grandparents. They were twins, not Identical twins, but twins never the less, and according to my grandmother, they were a double blessing from the God in Heaven for following his ways believing in the him. If you would have asked any other of my Aunts and Uncles, they would have told you the same thing I’m writing now, Matwau and Abir may have come from Heaven, but more than likely they were kicked out, and not much of a blessing at all. Both of them seemed to be born with neither, a heart or a soul. Matwau was born first, just two minutes before Abir, a fact he always reminded her of, as if it was a difference of a year instead of 120 seconds. He was thin, and wasn’t that tall then, considering he was still growing, with a mischievous smile, piercing eyes, and a very arrogant attitude. Abir, who was short and kind of heavy didn’t worry much about her looks as did her sisters. She had the same smile as Matwau, but she had softer eyes, with short dark brown, almost black hair. I never knew what their names meant, and still find it of no interest. As I grew up, I learned it was never a good idea to play with them when I was asked to. It would usually end up with me either getting hurt, or in trouble, or both. They weren’t always mean, but they were always self centered, which my grandmother never seen. To her, they reminded her of the Angel Curbs depicted on many religious items. Matwau and Abir loved to point out that I really wasn’t part of their family, but someone whose father decided that I wasn’t good enough to be part of his family. When I was little, that would hurt, and I would ask my mother if it were true, she would of course tell me that they were just playing, that they didn’t really mean it, and that she would talk to them. Whether she did or not, I don’t know, but I do know they never stopped their ignorance towards me, they just toned it down a bit. The twins didn’t just show dislike towards me, they both seemed to think that the whole family didn’t belong having the same last name as they had. Over the course of my life, I have met other twins, both identical and non identical, and with all that I spoke to, they would said that they had some kind of bond between each other, not necessarily a profound one, but some kind of bond regardless. Matwau and Abir never showed any kind of bond between them except for the fact that they only cared about themselves, not each other, themselves.



I know it sounds like I’m chocking on sour grapes here, but I really am not. I loved them then, and love them now. Everyone of my Mothers family taught me something at one point or another. Love is a many splendid thing, as it was once phrased, and I agree. You can love the sun for it’s warmth, though it can burn you, if you let it, just like, you can love the feel of rain, though you can drown if it gets too deep. I love my Mother’s family for whom they were, not so much for how they were. In my youth, I learned that bad times were more common than good times, so you learn to live with what you had, and try to make the best of it, which I believe I did. I grew up from birth till I was a little over four years old with my mother at my Grandparents house. I really didn’t have many children around my age to play with, and with the exception of my Aunt Bena, I usually played by my lonesome. My mother used to tell me about how intelligent and independent I was as a child. I’m not sure about the intelligent part, though I was able to read small, easy printed material, and write more than just my name, but I can believe the independent part. Most people would have thought it to be odd but, though I was by myself, I never felt alone, as if someone were always watching me but not in a creepy way, which probably helped me feel more independent, not that I thought much about it then. I remember playing with my dolls, especially the one that my Nanna had made for me which was a rag doll, with long black hair from a horse on top of her head, a hand stitched mouth and button eyes. I would sit outside for hours in the soft sand like dirt, making cakes and pies out of it for our pretend dinner, offering it to whom would ever pass us by. My Uncle Jacy would sometimes pretend to eat it, and then complain to my doll, whose name was Hanna, about how his cake tasted a lot like mud. I would laugh at the funny faces he would make as he spat out his dessert, he would then go back to tending the rest of his chores. I can’t say that I remember much about farm life at my Grandparents, with the exception of making mud pies, or taking long walks through the fields, and playing in the snow during the winter before my mother and I moved away. Winters were very cold there, and they would last forever, or so it felt like anyway. During the cold months, no farming was done, but there were always chores that needed to be done regardless of the weather, and once they were completed, we would drink warm cider by the fireplace, listening to either the radio or more of Grandfathers stories. One of my most favorite stories that my Grandfather would tell was about Paul Bunyon, and his big blue ox called Babe. Poppy would tell the tales on how The mighty Lumberjack had cleared the trees from Iowa to Kansas, and how he harnessed up Babe, his blue ox and plowed from Canada to Mississippi to get all the logs from one place to the other, thus making the Mississippi River. To me, it was kind of funny, but sad at the same time that my Grandfather could tell of tales of American folklore, but never about Native American folklore, things that I’m sure he heard as a child growing up. Like I said before, he never mentioned it, and we never asked, that was the unwritten rule at the Soikas Farm.

Growing up on my Grandparents farm and home was almost a twenty-four hour a day job for them. Since World War I had ended, the prices of crops went down due to the fact that Europe no longer had a big demand for corn, wheat or other foods grown here in the States, and most farmers, like my Grandparents owed the banks a lot of money for extra lands that they bought during the war. So they farmed what they could sell, which usually just barely paid the bank notes. Later on, well after my mother and I left, things did get better for them, much better in their later years, but when I was young, times sure were tight, so they worked, prayed, and took little pleasure in the rest of the world offerings. The one thing that always bothered me growing up there was that my Grandparents, who converted to Christianity, would let my mother and aunts carry on in such a way that it had to be a sin in the eyes of God. They were free to pursue suitors in just about any fashion so they could find one to marry them, or at least take them away to from there. Growing up, I would often think about that, and about my Grandfather. I’m sure a time did come when he wished he would have gave a hug instead of a beating, or a kind word instead of an insult or put down. I am also sure that he really wanted his daughters to have more respect for themselves, and for their families, but I guess he was so blinded by his own wisdom, that he failed to see the important things right in front of himself. I can say that I’m sure of this, or I believe in that, only because I watched him over time by less and less cruel towards all of us. I watched him go from extreme, to caring through the years, with the only person feeling his anger being my grandmother. They loved each other, they had to I guess, they loved each other enough to have six children, not to mention, they did grow old together knowing they could have ended their marriage anytime they wanted to. Their love was odd to me, but yet seen all the time, even now. My grandparents loved to argue, not hateful arguing, but they were drawn towards each other like the way opposite ends of a magnet attract each other. To put it mildly, and in the easiest terms, misery loves company, and they loved each other. When I was younger, it always frightened me, to see them mad at each other, though it was more often that he was mad, took it out on her, providing we weren’t on hand, and then she would take her anger out on us. It was like the trickle down affect with emotions. In the later years, it was just those two, and my Grandmother really would fight back with him. I assume she had no one to vent on after he would verbally beat her up, so she would turn it right back at him, and as time passed, the verbal assault became less brutal to the point where they just bickered all the time. I am reminded of them every time I see older couples bickering in the stores, or at the markets, even in parks about such trivial things like what foods they like, songs they know, or even what movies they’ve seen. I look at those couples and think to myself, “my, that’s a lifetime of love there”. It might not be every bodies Idea of love, but it does work for them, so why question it?



After my fourth birthday, things really started to change where we lived. The summer’s drought brought on more hard times for my Grandparents, which turned into even harder times for all of us, even me. I finally got my lists of chores, as petty as they might have seemed to Matwau and Abir. I did them to the best of my ability and took a lot of pride in each job I did. I helped with the dishes, sweeping the floors, and whatever task was asked of me, no matter how small it was, plus on Sundays, when we would come home from church, I would get to help Nanna prepare lunch. I really enjoyed helping her in the kitchen. There, doing those things with her like making the biscuits and shucking the corn or peeling the potatoes, I really felt like I belonged there, that I wasn’t just a burden on them and on my mother. If there was any time when I could say I felt close to my Nanna, it was during those times when I was with her in the kitchen. She was so eager to teach me how to make various things, and I was more than willing to learn from her. I can recall the last time I was helping her make dinner, my mother had gone away for about a week with a man she had met and was quite serious about. His name was George, and though they only knew each other for a very short time, about two weeks, I believe, he had taken her to his home in another town to see if she might like to live there with him. My Poppy was reading the newspaper, and mumbling about the then President Calvin Coolidge, whom I thought his name was Coolie, my Uncle Jacy and Matwau were out back cutting wood, and my Aunts Terona and Bena busied themselves mending some clothes. I was kneading dough for the biscuits, which we made every Sunday, while Abir tended to getting the ingredients for a cake she was planning on making all on her own. Nanna was basting the chicken and giving instruction to Abir so she didn’t mess up another cake when my grandfather came into the kitchen to announce that our up coming trip into Mason City was off due to the recent happenings of the K.K.K. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I knew it was bad by the way my grandfather started complaining that these people who hated the Blacks, the Jews, the Mexicans, now they hated Indians as well. I never heard my grandfather call himself an Indian, he broke his own rule, that shocked us all. Our dinner that day was full of conversation, but not the good kinds. We were warned to not walk alone, especially at night, and to avoid going into town until this passed, if we did go into town, we were to avoid eye contact with strangers. None of this really applied to me, I was just over four years old, but I listened anyway. The K.K.K. monster wasn’t going to get me, no sir! It was after dinner, when I seen the newspaper in Jacy’s hands did I realize that the K.K.K. was much more scary than any old monster could ever be. My Uncle told me that the Ku Klux Klan (K.K.K.) were men and women, mostly men though, who thought that all races that weren’t white were inferior, and shouldn’t exist. They would burn crosses, and hang colored people for no other reason than the fact that they weren’t white skinned. Jacy also explained that these Ku Klux Klan peoples would cover their faces and dress up like ghosts in hoods and robes while they did those terrible things. Now that they had moved up our way to Indiana from down south, not just the Blacks, Mexicans, and Jewish had to worry, now they wanted to rid the world of Indians as well, and with around four million members to rally behind, we all had a reason to be scared. He read to me that they were having a protest in Mason City, and that was why we couldn’t go there to see the movies. The movies then were silent ones, ‘Talkies’ wouldn’t be invented for sometime yet, but that was besides the point. Jacy was able to see I was more than a little confused and scared, so he put his arm around me, smiled and said, “You need not worry, my little Nitika. I’ll protect you, that is as long as you stop making me eat those awful pies you and Hanna keep making.” I laughed, and agreed, feeling much better, but still confused. I know we weren’t to talk about our Indian back round, but weren’t we here first? Didn’t the white people come here to live? If they were so much better, then why did they have to leave their homes? I just hoped my Mother was o.k. I really wanted her home, so I could at least know she was safe. I feel asleep that night worrying about her.