“Listen,” Buck had said, softening. “I know this is a tough thing to do, shooting after people like this. But we ain’t trying to hurt them. We’re just trying to teach them a lesson. They’re stealing from us, son. This is our land. My land. Your land. Your brother’s land. This land has been in our family for over a hundred years. And those Indians are stealing from us. They’re trying to steal our land. We just can’t have that. Okay, son?”
“But they were kids,” David said. “And an old woman.”
“Indian is Indian,” his father had said, close to losing his temper.
“Hey, Dad,” Aaron had said, trying to divert attention away from his little brother. “Let’s go see if those Indians dropped anything. Maybe one of those weird digging sticks.”
Buck had stared at David for a few seconds, trying to understand how this boy could have been his son. But there could be no getting around it. David was his son, one of two. All the family he had left in the world. Buck had shrugged his shoulders, mussed David’s hair, and then climbed down from the stand. Just before he’d followed, Aaron smiled at his brother.
“Hey, bro,” Aaron had said. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll get them next time.”
Thinking about the camas field, David Rogers barely heard Dr. Clarence Mather lecturing during that first session of the Native literature class.
“Jack Wilson is much more than a mystery novelist,” said Mather. “He is a social realist. Unlike many other Native writers whose work seems to exaggerate the amount of despair in the Indian world, Wilson presents a more authentic and traditional view of the Indian world.”
“Oh, God,” Marie blurted out.
“Do you have something to add, Ms. Polatkin?” asked Dr. Mather. “Yet again?”
“How can Wilson present an authentic and traditional view of the Indian world if he isn’t authentic and traditional himself?” asked Marie. “I mean, I’ve done some research on this guy. He isn’t even Indian at all. How would he know about the despair, or happiness, in the Indian world?”
“Ms. Polatkin,” said Dr. Mather, speaking very slowly. “Since this is the first session of this class, perhaps you might let me actually conduct the class? But, in answer to your questions, Mr. Wilson is, in fact, a Shilshomish Indian.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he says so and I have no reason to doubt him.”
“But the Shilshomish don’t exist as a tribe anymore. There are no records of membership. Lots of people claim to be Indians, and Wilson’s vague statements about his Shilshomish ancestors can’t be verified.”
“Are you going to blame Mr. Wilson for the shoddy bookkeeping of others?”
“No, but don’t you find it highly ironic that all of these so-called Indian writers claim membership in tribes with poor records of membership? Cherokee, Shilshomish? I mean, there’s not a whole lot of people claiming to be Spokane. And do you know why? Because we’re not glamorous and we keep damn good records.”
“I fail to understand your point, Ms. Polatkin.”
“There’s more,” Marie said. “I’ve been more and more curious about Wilson. I’m active in all the Indian organizations around here and I’ve asked around. Nobody at the Seattle Urban Indian Health Center has ever met Wilson, and nobody at the United Indians of All Tribes Foundation knows him. Nobody at Indian Heritage High School. And he’s never been in contact with anybody at the Native American Students Alliance here at the University. I also called all of the local reservations and nobody has heard of him. Not the Lummi, Puyallup, Tulalip, or anybody else.”
“Ms. Polatkin, please.”
“And I called the American Indian College Fund and Wilson has never donated any time or money. About the only person who’d ever heard of Wilson was the owner of Big Heart’s, the Indian bar over on Aurora Avenue. And the owner was white.”
“Ms. Polatkin, will you please make your point.”
“Well, for somebody who is supposed to be so authentic and traditional, Wilson sure doesn’t have much to do with Indians. I mean, there are so many real Indians out there writing real Indian books. Simon Ortiz, Roberta Whiteman, Luci Tapahonso. And there’s Indian writers from the Northwest, too. Like Elizabeth Woody, Ed Edmo. And just across the border in Canada, too. Like Jeannette Armstrong. Why teach Wilson? It’s like his books are killing Indian books.”
“Are you finished now, Ms. Polatkin?” asked Dr. Mather.
“Yes.”
“Fine, may we all continue with the study of literature?”
“If that’s what you want to call it.”
After class, David stopped Marie in the hallway. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. He just knew he wanted to talk to the pretty Indian woman.
“Man,” he said. “You’ve got a lot of guts, talking to a professor like that.”
Marie looked at the short, stocky white man. He was a decent-looking guy, with pale blue eyes and sandy hair.
“It doesn’t take guts to tell the truth,” she said.
“Where I’m from, it does,” he said.
“Where you from?”
“From Spokane. Well, from a farm outside of Spokane.”
“You don’t look much like a farm boy.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s what my dad tells me. My brother, too.”
Marie laughed. David thought he was being charming.
“Hey,” said David. “What do you think about the scalping of that guy? Do you think an Indian could do something like that?”
Marie gave him a cold, hard stare.
“Listen,” he said, trying to change the subject. “You think maybe we could get together and study or something? I mean, I don’t know much about Indians. Maybe you could help me?”
“Help you what?”
“You know. Help me get a good grade. I mean, I know about Hemingway, but I don’t know anything about this Jack Wilson guy.”
“I don’t think so,” said Marie. “I don’t care much for study partners.”
“Oh, well, how about lunch or something? Maybe a movie?”
“Are you asking me out? For a date?” asked Marie. She wasn’t surprised. It had happened to her before. She thought David was just another white guy who wanted to rebel against his white middle-class childhood by dating a brown woman. He wouldn’t have been the first white guy to do such a thing. She had watched quite a few white guys pursue brown female students, especially Asian nationals, with a missionary passion. Go to college, find a cute minority woman, preferably one with limited English, and colonize her by sleeping with her. David Rogers wanted a guilt fuck, Marie thought, something to ease his pain.
“Uh, yeah, I guess,” said David. “Yeah, I’m asking you out.”
“I don’t date white men.”
With that, Marie turned and left David standing alone in the hallway. Disappointed, he walked home to the place he shared with his brother, Aaron, a mechanical engineering major, and two other U of W engineering students, Sean Ward and Barry Church. Sean and Barry were studying upstairs while Aaron was watching television downstairs.
“So, how was your Indian class?” Aaron asked David. He had not wanted David to take the class especially since Aaron had heard Truck Schultz reveal that a white man had been killed by an Indian. David was always taking useless classes, like African American literature and women’s literature. Yet, David had been the only male student in the women’s literature class, and Aaron certainly appreciated those odds.
“It was okay,” David said. “Only one Indian in there, though. A woman.”
Aaron saw the interest in David’s eyes.
“Is she fuckable?” Aaron asked.