Raymond LuczakWE WERE HERE FIRSTIn the stories passed down from generations ago, there were no giants. If there were any, they'd been long dead. But we Ojibwe were always here. When we first heard about Paul Bunyan a century ago, we women laughed. It was one of those foolish white man's myths. It was okay for Paul to chop down anywhere he wanted, but it wasn't okay for us to tell him to stay off our lands? That part of our story was always omitted. We never had a voice. His shadow hid us all. We grew up hating those stories. They were as bad as those Indian statues that stood outside general stores a long time ago. * I never cared for beading wallets and purses to sell at gift shops outside the rez, but when I went with my mother to Two Harbors, which wasn't too far from the Split Rock Lighthouse, I was surprised by the high prices they charged for our things. I understood why my mother didn't say too many bad things about the white man. They had the money, and they kept our merchandise under glass. We weren't those tacky souvenirs that littered the rest of the shops. Then in the Superior Gift Shop, I noticed one of the salesclerks. I didn't know his name. He was tall with a five o'clock shadow stubble. I was fascinated. Most men on the rez didn't grow full beards. His skin had no acne aftermath. He was truly pale with a sprinkle of cinnamon freckles. He flashed a set of perfect teeth. He was like a perfect doll. No blemishes anywhere. * We didn't visit Two Harbors often because it was such a long drive, but on my fifth trip to Two Harbors, I went alone. My mother had taken sick. At the Superior Gift Shop, I followed her instructions to the letter, and negotiated for a slightly better price. I was surprised when the manager, a dour-faced woman with spangly earrings and lacquered fingernails, agreed. "You're so good to take care of your ma." As she tallied up the wholesale cost against my list of items, I looked over to the pale boy. He caught my look and blushed. I stood outside and waited for a few minutes. I looked at my mother's car parked two stores down the street. It was overcast with the promise of thunder and lightning, and Superior Lake didn't have any boats out. There weren't many tourists. I didn't turn when I heard him step outside. "It's gonna rain." "Yep." I walked off to my mother's car. I unlocked it and then looked back at the gift shop. He was still standing there with hands in his pockets. I waved and then got into my car. He looked as surprised as I was. On the way home, I thought of the America that I'd seen on television. In it there were no sitcoms, news programs, reality shows, and modern-day tales about us Native Americans. We didn't have enough of those fairy tale qualities to make for compelling television. We were best squirreled away on lands far away from choice locations and forgotten. The unspoken rule was: Don't remind us of how badly we've treated you and your people, so stay out of our sight. * The next time I saw him, I noticed that his left shoe had a much thicker sole than the other. I didn't mind. His skin was creamy white as milk. It had none of the harshness or the sun-soaked wrinkles that came from living on the rez. He hobbled a little, but I liked that. It meant that he was a little different. Anyone who wanted me had to be a little different. There was no mistaking the fact that I was pure Ojibwe through and through. I took him onto a path deep into the woods where my cousins and I used to play when we were little. The winds sighed as we conjoined tongues and bodies next to a fallen log draped with moss. He made me feel magnificent. I didn't care about his club foot. The rest of him was flawless. I couldn't get enough of touching him all over. I felt as if I was touching the other America before it had gotten corrupted with greed and religion. As he erupted inside me, I knew that I would get pregnant. Three months later my body began showing. Everyone on the rez was furious that I'd had sex with a white boy. I would now weaken their blood, and my child would be forever caught between the rez's seemingly quixotic ways and the white man's toxic ways. Would he be Indian enough to be accepted on the rez? I knew that it wouldn't be fair to the baby to grow up like that. He had to live on one side of the fence. He didn't need to feel so confused about himself. * When I felt the baby kick for the first time, I felt as if I was awakened for the first time. I saw everything around me with new eyes, and I knew that he would need stories to guide him through the days of bewilderment. He will ask, Why did the white man treat us so badly? Because they were stupid and selfish. I will make up stories about Good Old Paleface and his trusty sidekick Tonto. We will win in them every single time. He must learn that we will persevere. Why were they stupid and selfish? Because greed was their religion. I will make Tonto the kind of horse who has a nose for silver and gold to the point of starvation and death. He will die a broken horse because he never got to wear horseshoes made of silver. My children will learn to be on guard whenever a white man offers a deal too good to be true. Why was greed their religion? Because there's no better-looking suit than greed itself. Why do we have casinos? Because we intend to bankrupt the white man in the same way they brought us down with the poison of alcohol. * I told my mother what I needed to do. She was surprised, but she agreed to drive me to Two Harbors. I showed up at the gift shop with the baby. The manager was startled to see it. "Where's your son?" "Out back." He was startled to see me with the baby in the stockroom. "Hey." "This is yours." "What?" He looked at the baby, then at me, and again at the baby. "What?" "I can't keep it." "Why?" He glanced around. "Why not?" "Because the baby will have better chances at life if it's white." He looked at me. "I didn't think . . ." "So you thought you could get rid of me just like everyone else? Oh, no. You keep it. You learn what it's like to be weighed down with things you can't get rid of." The baby cried. "Here." I put the baby into his arms. "You can call him whatever you want. Good-bye." I ran out the back door and jumped into my mother's car. She'd been waiting for me. I cried, but I didn't look back. We never returned to Two Harbors. It was always a long drive, and we were tired of beading anyway. It was time to make something else. * A few months later I met my husband and had four of his children. It took all my might to keep him from drinking, but otherwise he was a good man. He knew that I had a son out there, but I never talked about him. Years passed. They were good years. My husband and I shared stories with our children. They had to stay tribal and true. Finally, after our fourth child went off to college, I went back to Two Harbors. The Superior Gift Shop was still there, but its merchandise had gotten tackier, sleazier, and practically everything was overpriced. I walked in carefully. I wasn't sure if my son would be still around, but when I saw a young man in his mid-twenties who moved like us people, I stopped. What was he doing here? Maybe he was now a graduate student doing a summer job. It had to be him. "Can I help you, ma'am?" "No, but I have a question. For you. Are you happy with your life?" He stepped back a little. "Yeah. Well, it's the only one I know, so yeah. Why?" His eyes were suddenly lit with questions: Do I know you? Why am I getting this weird vibe? "I'm glad." I smiled and left. I was happy not to know his English name. Much better this way. For weeks after, whenever I was alone, I cried harder for him than I had for any of my kids. I never told anyone about seeing him again. * My people are about passing stories from one generation to the next, but we are failing. We can't compete with the dazzle of the Internet and Hollywood. We don't get a lot of movies made about us unless it's about cowboys and the Wild West, and if we talk about life on the rez, we're too busy drinking and fighting. Not much wiggle room for Cinderella squaws. We don't have a lot of room for the white man's guilt. There are no giants in our stories. We once ruled this land, and that's more than enough for our stories to live on. We will heal whole again.
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