We had little, even compared to the other indians, but I was content. We couldn't ask for more, being an outcast in our own world. My father always told me that it was because of our luck that we were stuck with little money, but I knew it was my fault. Six years ago he had fallen for a "white person", with me as a result. Because of that I was imperfect, contaminated.

"A half child," People would say as my father and I walked past.

"Tainted with the blood of the white people." They whispered when they thought we were out of earshot.

I made life miserable for my father. I stuck out like a sore thumb in the society of the indian reservation. While the other "perfect" native american children had dark hair and dark skin with deep brown eyes, I had blonde hair and green eyes that were almost grey. My was skin tone 5 shades to light, my complexion that of a caucasian person. The children at the market place stared as I walked through the streets, heading back to my father waiting at our adobe hut.

"Don't worry my Suni," My father said when I finally reached our home, "Someday you will find a place on this earth. A spot where you fit in the middle of both worlds."

He went silent and stared into the valley for a while. Then finally he spoke again.

"I'm going to college." He explained, " It's out in the real world where you won't be judged for being half-indian, you'll fit right in."

That very same summer day we boarded a flight to San Francisco. As we landed in the city I saw all of the little villas painted pastel colors. From the airport we took a taxi to one of the villas. It was painted bright pink and had a doormat that said "Welcome." I carried my little bag of belongings up to the front stoop and rung the doorbell. A kind looking lady opened it and shooed us inside. She led me up the stairwell into a little room with blue walls and a single mattress in the corner, leaving my dad standing in the entrance hall.

She instructed me to unpack my belongings before she went back to the first floor. It took me only ten seconds to dump out my bag on the mattress and sort through it. In the pile of stuff that now lay before me was a spare cotton dress, a pouch of dried berries, and a dream catcher. I picked up the dream a catcher and hung it on a small nail in the wall the turned and walked out into the hall.

"Thank you for taking her in while I study." I heard my dad say.

"Well of course," the lady replied, "It's my pleasure. But are you sure you don't want to say goodbye before you go? You won't be seeing her again until the feast of Thanksgiving."

"I'm sure," he replied, "It's better this way."

"Then I wish you good travels." she said.

I heard footsteps and then a door shut. The engine of the taxi started up and I stood in that hallway as my father took off to college.

I cried every day he was gone for almost two months, but eventually I got used to life in San Francisco and stopped my daily bawling. The lady who took care of me was kind and forgiving. She never left me hungry, gave me new clothes when I needed them and enrolled me in a local public school, I began to call her aunt Kim. For the next two years my life was as normal as it had ever been and -though I didn't realise it at the time- as normal as it would ever be.

My father visited every holiday he got, telling me about college and the ways of the world, but at the same time reminding me to stay proud of my indian heritage. I did good in school, in fact I got straight A's. I graduated from first grade, then second. Aunt Kim was so proud. A week after school let out, in 2005, my father visited to celebrate. We had a little party, as much as we could afford. Just a red velvet cupcake and a couple of helium balloons, but it was the happiest I had ever been.

Then my dad had to go back to college.

"If all goes well," he reassured me, "I'll have my degree by the end of the year."

But he never got his degree. In fact, he never returned to school. That very night, June 13th, he died in a plane crash caused by a freak storm.

:.:

I stood at his small grave next to our little pink villa. Aunt Kim stood behind me with a hand on my shoulder. I knelt down and lay the bouquet of Indian Paintbrushes in front of the stone placard. His favorite, I remembered. I choked down a sob. Even though he died two years ago, the pain was still fresh.

"It's time to go, dear." Aunt Kim whispered in my ear.

I looked at the inscription on his grave one last time.

Frederick Quinn,

1973-2005,

In our hearts he lives on

Forever.

"I'm ready." I said, turning around to look my aunt in the face.

She nodded her head and picked up my bags. She turned and walked to the car, while I allowed myself a few silent tears.