This is not an attempt to speak over the indigenous of America, in particular, but rather dedication in solidarity: for those of us who had our ancestors colonised, our land stolen and our languages and stories taken away from us. Whether you live in the mother country or the diaspora. We will all find our way home.
When you looked at it, you immediately thought of ghosts: the walls were peeling, the windows either gaping and ghoulish or boarded up with scraped planks. On windy nights, the place seemed to howl, creaking with melancholy and grief. The yard was dry and the porch sagged. Passerby took care to steer clear of it and the children of the town encouraged the superiority they felt of having a real Indian in our town, I'm telling you! Feathers and all!
The boy had the face of one who had not quite grown into his good looks and even in his tender youth he possessed a cold glitter of pride in his eyes, more of a guarding measure than actual arrogance. Children can be little devils, after all, sniffing out fear faster than hound dogs with their teeth bared. And some of them never grow out of it.
ooOOoo
"This is between him and me," a lanky but well muscled youth drawled lazily.
The midday sun blazed down on the ring of expectant children; the shadows painted on the scrub and the shimmering heat contributed to the ominous atmosphere, setting teeth on edge.
"Hurry up!" someone shouted, the cry carried up immediately by at least four others; it turned into a rhythmic chant, in tune to stamping feet or the clapping of hands. "Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up!"
Tristan McLean, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, chewed on the inside of his cheek. "You're all talk, Noel," he declared, to a chorus of boos and slurs.
"Give him the cowboy, Noel!" a tall boy with dimples shouted gleefully, pretending to cock a gun. This action raised a positive response, a girl next to him leaned against his arm, laughing.
Tristan's expression remained impassive, bored almost, which infuriated Noel. The boy raised his hands, calling for silence. "I'm giving you one last chance, McLean," he said, affording a benevolent air, "take back what you said about my grandfather and I'll let you walk."
"Take back what I said about the murdering bastard, you mean?" Tristan raised his eyebrows, "I might think about it."
Noel lunged at him but he dodged - the booing commenced, encouragement for Noel pouring in - this cycle repeated itself at least two more times, both boys getting angrier and more frustrated, until Noel burst out, "Stop being a coward, McLean!"
"Like your grandfather was?"
This was when chaos truly broke free. In a single move both boys had taken hold of each other and were twisting around, slamming into walls and onto the ground, both of them out for the kill - elbows flying and the sound of bone on flesh triumphant amongst the cheers of the bloodthirsty spectators.
"He - wasn't - a - murderer!" Noel panted as Tristan swung him onto the hard earth.
"I'm quite sure he was!" It was Tristan's turn to hit the ground this time, his head stinging from the gravel that scraped across his scalp.
"Good old scalping, Noel!" One of the crowd shouted, whooping, "Come on, then!"
Both of them were standing again; and in dodging a punch, Tristan lost his footing and tilted towards the floor. Sensing an opportunity, Noel burst out and pinned him to the ground. Tristan struggled but Noel's grip was firm enough for him to reach count-out. By now the cheering had reached feverish levels. Mock war-dances commenced as the children all celebrated the defeat of this Other, the one who was not like them.
"It doesn't change the fact that he was a killer," Tristan whispered, wincing in pain.
Noel shrugged, already drunk on victory. "It wouldn't," he admitted, "but he didn't kill real people, so... just the ones like you."
With that the group dispersed, Noel triumphantly leading the way, and Tristan left in a pathetic heap under the glittering sun.
ooOOoo
The house was dark when he entered but the smell of fried fish told him that his father was home. Tristan had rearranged his clothes so that the bruises were hidden but he couldn't cover the fine scrape on his cheek, which he rubbed on at intervals.
At the table, the food was already laid out. Tristan heard the creaking of a door somewhere in the house and his father appeared in seconds, thumping a lamp onto the table so that a warm glow spread out across the room, illuminating the corners and letting stark shadows dance on the walls.
"How was school?" the older man asked, by way of greeting, as he sat down. Tristan watched his elongated shadow flicker, and he joined his father at the table.
"Same," he muttered, "boring."
He felt, rather than saw, his father's eyes drift to the cut on his cheek; he chose to ignore it, and heaped a helping of rice onto first his father's plate, and then his.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Outside, it had begun to rain; the steady beating of raindrops on the tin roof calmed Tristan. Through the window - where slick rainwater had already started to cling to the edges - he saw a line of spindly, naked trees bend with the wind.
"Have I ever told you," he heard his father begin - and already Tristan moaned internally, for he knew what was about to happen - "about this story my grandmother used to tell me?"
"Probably," he meant to mutter it softly, but his voice - hollow sounding and raw - came out a bit louder than intended. Across the table his father raised his eyebrows but let it drop. They continued eating again. This time the rain wasn't so peaceable to Tristan; he sensed a strangeness in it, something keening and not quite right. The drops that fell felt more intense, enunciating the awkward silence that filled the sparse and tiny room.
"Is there," his father said again after a considerable amount of time, "is there something you need to tell me, Tristan?"
"No." Afraid that he sounded short, he tried again. "Nothing. Just the same."
"Who was it?"
"Sorry?"
"The scar, Tristan. You don't think I'm a fool, do you?"
"Just a fight. You know, kid's stuff, nothing serious."
"What did you say?"
Tristan sighed, knowing his father wouldn't let it drop. "It was Harold's kid. The Noel boy." He watched his father's reaction out of the corner of his eye; his old man had known the two people Noel's grandfather had killed back in the day. It had been a disagreement over property, just another example of how his people didn't matter, how a crusade for their own land had turned against them. Progress was a pointless word, few things had changed since the days of his ancestors. Blood on the ground only counted if it was someone else's.
"Even so," his father said after letting nothing but the rain speak, "even so, you've got to be careful - "
The same old words, the same old mantras, the same stories and cautioning - the scars and bruises on Tristan's skin throbbed painfully; he was tired of it, simply put.
"I know," he said softly, spooning some food into his mouth. "I'll be careful."
Three years later
And yet, even with these setbacks that he had gotten used to - sadly - he did feel that life was getting better. Noel's family had moved somewhere else - he didn't really care - a few months ago, and the "attacks" had simmered down to micro-agressions instead of anything more overbearing, and he had - though he felt utterly corny admitting it - found a "passion".
He had initially taken up drama because he wanted something that he could skive off, pass with minimum effort. He had fully intended to spend his time in that class skulking in the wings, part of the backstage crew or something where he wouldn't have to actually participate in that much on-stage activity. He knew he couldn't sing, so thankfully he was exempt from musicals. Dancing wasn't his forte, either. And it wasn't until the teacher - a woman named Mrs Niaque with Apache blood - had handed him a script did he realise that he could act.
At first he had protested; stumbling over his words and reading them with either too much or too little gusto, his fists clenching and unclenching.
"Don't be nervous," Mrs Niaque had said sharply, waving a hand to quench the giggles that erupted behind her.
"His ancestors would be disappointed," a carrying whisper came from behind her, the culprit waggling his eyebrows and beating his chests with his fists. The woman had barely turned around, steel flashing in her eyes.
"If you would get out of my class," she said with a smile, "because I thought I had already told one of you to go empty the trash. Now, McLean, from the top. Again. Don't disappoint me."
Tristan waited until the boy left, banging the door behind him and murmuring thinly veiled threats. This time, he tried to put some spirit into it; he remembered the animated light in his father's eyes when he had told him the old stories, the same stories that he had enacted with childish enthusiasm as a young boy. And that was how everything else had fallen back apart from him, the script and the stage. At the end of it all, he had nervously risen his head - once the recital was over he had gone back to just being Tristan McLean standing on a flimsy stage with only one of the lights working and dust in the heavy, ragged curtains.
"Decent," Mrs Niaque had said, but her eyes shimmered and there was a hint of smile playing on her lips.
He soon learned that praise from her came sparingly and her criticism was always sharp, but even so he never felt as free as he did when he was being someone else. All the limitations that he had as himself - his race, his class - fell away the minute he was onstage, playing Lieutenant Bernard, the war hero in France, or the mogul of the jazz age... there was nothing quite as electrifying and hypnotic as this, he thought.
And everyone else could see it too. It was as he approached his graduation almost a year later that Mrs Niaque handed him a document printed on thick, yellow paper.
"Fucking hell," he had whispered, his eyes wide and his heart in his throat. "Oh, sorry miss - I just... hell."
"Language," his teacher admonished; but she was proud, he could tell. "This is an opportunity, Mr Mclean," she said seriously, "Take it, will you? Make us proud. Show them all that we're still here. That we won't be hiding." They shared a glance and he understood completely what she meant.
ooOOoo
But then he had found himself with an almost cracked rib and blood in his mouth. The other boy was just as beaten up but he had the upper hand in that everyone else believed his side of the story, except Mrs Niaque. But there was little she could do.
"Will this affect the scholarship?" He had asked her after he had cleaned up. Evening was about to fall, and the long shadows from his childhood had come out to haunt him: he saw them in the sky, painted on the blue mountains and lurking in the walls.
Mrs Niaque had been clearing up some books from her office, a small child trailing after her. The young girl must have been her daughter. She had two bright pink ribbons in her hair. "No." Mrs Niaque said sharply, slinging her bag across her shoulder and hoisting the child up with her other arm. "Another time, though? And you might not be so lucky."
ooOOoo
"And what was it this time?"
"He provoked me, father."
A deep sigh. Almost disappointed, which was the one emotion that Tristan could not stand evoking. "Son, you know that I'm not against fighting back - "
"But you sure act like it!" His mind was telling him desperately to shut up, but somehow he could not hold the words back. "It's the same thing every time! One of them says something about us and you always expect me to take it lying down! How can you ask that of me? How else do you expect me to react to them telling me that we should have all been wiped out instead, or that my mother was a - was..."
"Do not say a word." His father's tone was quiet, but Tristan sensed that for the first time that evening, he had truly angered the man.
"It doesn't matter." Tristan said shortly.
"Of course it does."
"No, it doesn't. You'll tell me another legend, another story but it's not going to change anything. No matter how proud my ancestors were, we - you and me and even them - we are all still treated like trash and you expect me to do nothing about it. Hasn't it occurred to you, that maybe if we had just done something, back then, we wouldn't be in this position?"
"Do not speak of what you don't understand!" His father shouted and Tristan immediately knew he had gone too far but he could feel his veins shuddering, his bones quaking with rage - not at his father, exactly, but at everything. "It is so easy for you to stand there and dismiss what happened to us, isn't it?" His father said, "The utter arrogance of youth! Legends? Stories? Do you not hear the disgust in your tone? Do you think our ancestors never fought back? Then you don't understand the first thing about our people! How dare you dismiss your heritage?"
Tristan didn't look at him. There was moonlight pooling on the kitchen table, spilling over like silk onto the rough floor. Finally he said what he had been feeling.
"It hasn't done anything for me."
ooOOoo
He stayed away from home for a few days, and when he returned both he and his father acted as if the argument hadn't taken place. But even though they remained cordial, even though there was still a measure of warmth left, the chink in the relationship was obvious. But they glossed over it. He went off to the university to take his degree in theater studies, surrounded himself with enough influence that he could forget that he was Cherokee. Almost. He persuaded himself that he could find acceptance and happiness in this denial.
She had been a beautiful woman and he had been surprised that he had chosen him. He had enough vanity to know that he was good looking, but at the same time, he still regained the sense of not being good enough that had so often plagued him during his childhood and youth.
But in the end, it hadn't really mattered; she left, after all; another flickering shadow on the wall, extinguished when the light came out.
ooOOoo
But she had left behind a daughter, an exquisite creature that had women on the sidewalk standing over her pram in ecstasy, pinching her already rosy cheeks and responding to her laughter in maternal fits of joy.
Tristan had let his father name the child; had shown on his doorstep humbled and wanting to apologise but not knowing how he could, really; what was there to say that wouldn't feel dishonest? He was ashamed of upsetting his father, but that had been years ago, and besides, he still carried the scars - some on his skin, some underneath, ones that he would never talk about.
"Piper," the old man had said, after a racking cough - one of the many bouts that had worried Tristan especially, as of late. "Piper."
"Father," Tristan asked, his brow creased in concern as the old man turned to the side and let off another spout of spine-cracking coughs, "are you okay?"
"It's fine."
ooOOoo
"Please, you don't understand - how serious it is - please, couldn't I take out a loan? Work to repay? I promise you, I don't leave my debts unpaid, sir, if you could only take a look - "
The doctor looked down at the young man, immediately distrusting of everything about him. "If you can't pay up front, I don't trust you to pay in the end. I don't run a charity."
It was all Tristan could do not to bang his fist on the table in frustration, "You're a doctor - isn't it your duty to save lives?"
"Mr McLean, if you could leave - I can't have you upsetting my patients, you understand. This is a respectable business."
"Respectable." Tristan echoed; not in disbelief, but resignation.
"Yes, the door is to your right. I'm sure you can see yourself out."
ooOOoo
He did everything he could, applied and took whatever odd jobs came his way.
It wasn't enough, in the end.
ooOOoo
The funeral was a small, simple affair. Despite himself, Tristan had opted for a traditional send-off, knowing how much having the old rites performed would mean to his father. It was, after all, the least he could do.
It rained that day; a fine, light rain: more of a mist, really. The mountains in the distance were dark, hulking giants standing over their tiny procession. He had gone back to the small shack they had called home. Once had put Piper to sleep in the room that used to be his own, he went to sit at the table. Outside the window he saw a line of trees, standing straight in the fog.
Everything was in the same position that his father had left before he had gone: oilskin raincoat hanging on a splintered peg, boots shuffled in a corner and a collection of rocks on the windowsill. He might have just left for a walk.
He did find success. The money left a sour taste in his mouth, however, for it had come too late for his father. But it was not too late for his daughter and he made sure that she received the best of everything: schools, housing, clothes and food. He never wanted her to grow up lacking the way he did, apart from a mother of course, but that couldn't be helped.
Tristan recognised the danger of the spotlight, of being singled out. It wasn't pretty, experience had taught him that and he did not want Piper to ever have to go through even a shred of what he did, so he kept his distance.
His father had left her with some of the old stories and Tristan wasn't sure what he felt about that, but Piper loved them. He had once loved them as well.
But whenever he was offered a role that called upon his blood as a Cherokee, he felt as if he had no choice but to decline. Who was he, after all, to carry the burden when he himself had so vehemently denied his own people? Apart from that he could still remember sneering faces calling for the cowboy, of death threats and calls for genocide that were still ripe. It was too much for him and he always had to decline. A part of him hoped, however, that one day he would be brave enough to accept.
Helmut Lang, he thought with good natured and self mocking scorn as he sat in the car with his phone pressed to his ear; god, what have you become? Finally, she picked up.
"Hey, dad?"
"Piper, how are you?"
"Fine!" The excitement in her voice was poignant but just like any other kid, she attempted to tone it down for face, "Yeah, everything's fine. You're coming later, right?"
"Yeah, I'll be there in a while."
"Okay, see you in a bit then, dad! Love you!"
"Love you too, Pipes."
There was a grey streak in the white sky; birds sat in a line on a telephone wire. Tristan raised his eyes to them and after a short moment they beat their wings once against their sides and flew off into the air.