Mom sat me down and told me about the phone call. There was a light in her eyes that I haven’t seen in a long time. It was the color of hope. Hope has a glint to it. Mom’s eyes had the glint, the shine of tiger’s eye. Her big brown eyes with streams of gold flowing through them. She said Angel’s cousin was expecting the call. Angel told him about me and Mom. He handed the phone to his wife, and Mom told her about our situation. She gave Mom a list of numbers to call and assured her that there are many people who are going through what we are going through. And there are good people out there, good programs, and good organizations that are out there helping families like ours.
But that’s not the best part. The best information was that down in some area called Orange County, in a city called Fountain Valley, is a place called the Southern California American Indian Center. A place that helps Native American families, from all tribes, that have found themselves in Southern California and in need of help … Like my family.
“Do you want to come with me?” she asks. “I’m going tomorrow morning.”
I can just imagine how beautiful the place is. A valley full of fountains. An American Indian Center. The place is probably filled with cool stuff from all my ancestors.
“Yeah. I’ll come with. I should meet my people.”
“Great. I have to run out and go to social services and get us on the housing list. Amy said they can even get me a temp job for a few days,” Mom says.
“Who’s Amy?”
“Jose’s wife.”
“Who’s Jose?”
“Angel’s cousin.”
“Last question … Did Jose offer you free tickets to an Angels game?” I ask.
She smiles. “Not yet.”
I decide to stay while Mom leaves to go do mom things. I’ve seen those places way too many times. Besides, if you’ve seen them once, you’ve seen them all. And instead, I choose to hang out with my uncle while he watches professional wrestling on TV. I don’t get it. Why would anyone willingly watch this? “But they’re not really fighting, are they?” I ask.
“Well, no. They are fighting, but it’s all choreographed,” he says.
“So they are just a bunch of grown sweaty men in tights, ballet dancing, without music?” I say.
He huffs. “I mean, yeah, but no, not ballet dancing,” he says. “They’re wrestling.”
“Pretending to wrestle. We can both be right and call it aggressive dancing.”
He turns it off. “No more wrestling for you. You hungry?” he asks, and gets up. “I’m making a ham sandwich.”
“I don’t eat animals anymore.”
“You’re Native. You got to eat meat,” he says.
“The animals need us to help them. This is how they need me,” I say, realizing I just ate two chicken tacos. Oops. But that’s okay, I’m still learning to be better. That takes time.
“The animals need us, huh?” He ponders. “I guess they do. Peanut butter and jelly, then?” he asks.
“Heck, yeah,” I say, and slap the table.
As I hit it, something falls off it and onto the floor. I pick it up off the carpet. It’s a notebook, just like my mom’s notebook. “My mom has one of these,” I say.
“Yeah. Grandma made one for every relative. It was her way of keeping our blood alive and red before she died,” he says.
I flip through the pages. It is handwritten, just like Mom’s. I can’t believe one woman wrote all these words and translations. Every page is filled top to bottom. My eyes rest on the word Indé. It translates to “heart.” “Why does my mom have a cool Ojibwe name and you don’t?” I ask.
“We both have cool names. Our mother named us after body parts,” he says.
“Mom’s name means ‘heart.’ That’s a body part. But you’re just Jonny,” I say.
“I know. I’m special. I was named after two body parts.”
“What are you talking about? Jonny isn’t—”
“Jonny. Jaw; knee. That’s two,” he says.
He’s right. Holy crap. And here I thought he had a common name. “Hers is cooler though. You can’t live without the heart,” I say.
He laughs. “I’m not so sure. Hearts break just as easily as jaws and knees. And to us Indians, eating and running are just as important as loving,” he says.
And just before I set the notebook back on the table, I remember the last thing Emjay said before he left. It was about my name. I was too angry to care about it then, but now I want to know why he called me those weird names while arguing with Mom. He called me a French fry. He called me a tater tot. And in my dream, he called me Hash Brown.
I flip to the O section and skim my finger down to Opin. Wow. Emjay was telling the truth. My name doesn’t mean “adventure seeker.” In fact, it doesn’t mean anything courageous or brave. I’m not even named after a body part. I’m named after a friggin’ vegetable!
Opin means “potato.”
I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry. Maybe both. I want to craugh.
My whole life, I’ve been answering to Potato. I feel gutted. I feel squashed. I feel mashed like potatoes. Like opins. But then I remember why I’m named Opin. I remember why I am a potato. It’s not necessarily Mom’s fault. It’s because my dad never showed up when I entered this world. And he never showed up to be a dad ever since. That must have crushed my mom. And I’m glad she didn’t name me what he wanted me to be named. I’m glad she was upset and gave me an Ojibwe name. I’m not glad she chose Potato, but she didn’t have her notebook with her. Her intentions were good. It’s just her memory that wasn’t. And I guess it could have been worse. I could have been named Onion or Asparagus or even Corn. Those names would suck much worse. I’d hate having to answer to Corn every day. Besides, I do like potatoes. Baked potatoes, mashed potatoes, potato chips, French fries, tater tots, hash browns, scalloped potatoes, potatoes au gratin, sweet potato fries. They’re all good. And they’re technically root vegetables. And roots are important to Native Americans. It keeps us connected to our ancestors, the same way trees are connected to other trees.
And all those gutted-up, smashed-up, maddened-up feelings I had one second ago are now gone. Instead, I laugh. And I don’t stop laughing. My name means “potato.” That’s hilarious. And it is so funny because names don’t really matter, in the end. Names change all the time. They’re not forever. Ask any Indigenous person what they prefer to be called. Native American? American Indian? First Nations? Indigenous? Indian? And it goes even deeper, on a tribal level. Ojibwe? Anishinaabe? Chippewa?
Names are just labels. That’s all. Just a word scribbled on a box. But I don’t belong in a box. No one does. Opin can mean “potato,” but that doesn’t mean I’m a potato. To me, opin can mean “adventure seeker.” Potatoes seek adventures, don’t they? They start in the ground, right? Just like us. We start in the earth. Then some rain comes down and gives us life, like all water does to all things. Then, bam, the potato begins to seek its adventure. It climbs and digs up from the dirt, just like Mom and I and Emjay have been trying to do. And finally, with a helping hand from an angel or an ancestor, or maybe a complete stranger, the potato is pulled from beneath the soil and sees the sun. It feels the wind. It is alive. The adventure has begun.
That’s why I am Opin. And that’s why I’ll never give up. Because like every opin, I’ll start from the bottom, but I’ll reach the top.
I close the notebook and drop it onto the coffee table. My uncle hands me my sandwich, but before I eat it, I look him right in the eye and say, “I want to take my shot.”
My uncle sets his plate down and smiles. “Are you sure? Are you done being a boy? Because if you hit that pole, you’ll be a boy no more. Are you ready to be a man?” he asks.
My mind floods back to everything I’ve been through. How I relied on my mom to make all the decisions for me and how I depended on her to keep me safe. But recently there have been changes in my brain. Big changes. I didn’t run when those guys in the park approached Leland and me. I stood up to them. I tried to protect my friend. I rescued Ani from the streets. And even though I needed her more than she needed me, I still protected her as best I could. And when Emjay took her away from me, I stood up to him. Sure, I lost the fight, but that’s a given. I was always going to lose, but the point is, I fought back. And it was me who made the decision to wait for the cop to return with the cart. Mom was ready to cut our losses and run. But I stood up. And it was me who convinced Mom to let Angel help us. And with my brother gone, I need to step up and be the man my mom needs me to be. She’s exhausted and has been trying to keep all three of us afloat for so long, all on her own. She wasn’t ready to be a grown-up. Her childhood was just as tough as mine, maybe tougher. But she fought and fought and fought, and look, we’re still alive. And along the way, she’s taught us how to fight and fight and fight.
I’m not saying I am a man. Clearly, I still have a lot of growing up to do, but I am realizing that I am not really a kid anymore. I’m somewhere in between.
“I don’t think anyone is ever ready to become who they are meant to be. It just happens, ready or not. And it’s happening now. I’m growing up,” I say, and head to the porch.
I slide back the door and step out, with my eyes fixed on the telephone pole. That inanimate object means so much right now. That propped-up wooden pole will now determine where I am in life. If I strike it, my childhood is gone. If I miss, then I’m not ready to be chief. I’m not ready to give up on my imagination and focus on the harsh realities of life. I can still play. I can still hope everything works out. I can still rely on my mom to take care of me, the way every kid lucky enough to have a mom should be able to.
My uncle joins me, holding his bow and arrow. It looks homemade, in a good way. Multicolored yarn wraps around the wooden bow. There are shapes and letters carved into the frame. “What are these symbols?” I ask. “Are these letters in Ojibwe?”
“I’ve carved all my attempts into that bow. Every etch you see is a time where I missed my shot,” he says.
Wow. He missed a lot. But I guess the lesson there is obvious. If you miss, try again. Never give up. Practice makes perfect. All the clichés people wear on their T-shirts.
But hey, he eventually hit it.
“I hit this pole and I’ll be a grown-up, right?” I ask.
“Hitting that pole won’t make you a grown-up. There’s a huge difference between growing up and becoming a man.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Your mom has been with you since the day you were born. She’s been watching you grow up your entire life. But you have been with her since the day you were born. You’ve also been watching her grow up your entire life,” he says.
I never really thought of it that way before. I am watching my mom grow up. All kids are watching their parents grow up, at the same time the parents are watching their kids grow up. There’s no line in the sand for people to cross over from kid to grown-up. We all just keep growing as we keep living. “There are no grown-ups. There are just growing-ups,” I say.
“That’s right,” he says, “but what do I know, I’m just an Indian on a porch shooting arrows at a telephone pole.”
I’ve never shot a real bow and arrow before. All of mine have been imaginary. But this isn’t make-believe. This is real. And right now, I am going to find out if I got what it takes to be a man. He hands it to me. It feels warm and worn and war torn. I load it up and notice my hands are trembling a bit. Why am I so nervous? There’s nothing between me and the pole except some garbage cans. No one will get hurt.
I place the arrow’s groove into the bowstring and pull it back as far as I can. I lift the bow, aiming the arrowhead directly at the pole. It’s heavier than I imagined it to be. And harder. My arm muscles begin to tremble a bit. I take a deep breath. The pole stares back at me. I close one eye, and then the other.
“Take your time,” my uncle whispers into my ear.
I wake up in our hidden cavern. The fire we made last night is smoldering and out. The last thing I remember was all our ancestors dancing around me. Mom was singing. My wolf was howling. And Emjay, the traitor, was there. I charged at him. That’s all I recall.
I sit up and see Mom is gone. My wolf is gone. But her bow and arrow are still here, lying beside me. Maybe she went to get water? Maybe she went to … Then I hear voices.
I grab the bow and arrow and get up slowly. I go toward the sounds of men. They are coming from just behind the large rock in front of me. I slowly climb it and quietly peek over to see who is there.
It’s my mom. She is standing tall and proud, facing the white general. At his side is Emjay, my traitor brother.
“Tell me where the boy is, and I won’t shoot you,” the general tells my mom.
“He is gone,” Mom says.
“What do you mean gone? Dead?” he asks.
“The opposite. He is more alive now than he has ever been before,” she says.
“She speaks Indian mumbo jumbo! What is she trying to say?” he asks Emjay.
“She says the boy is gone. In his place, in his body, he is now a man,” Emjay says.
“Go look around. He can’t be far. I’ll watch her,” the general says.
Emjay walks off, not toward me, but in the direction of another cluster of boulders. I load the arrow into the bow and set my aim toward the general’s neck. Last time, he was struck in the heart, but he didn’t die, because he is heartless. But the neck. The neck surrounds the throat. The throat is where all the lies hide. All the threats. All the broken promises. All the hot air.
The general takes a step toward Mom. “I told you once, and I’ll tell you people again, you can run, but you can’t hide,” he says, and lifts his gun toward Mom.
“We’re not hiding, and we’re done running. Opin, now!” she shouts.
I aim for the neck and release the arrow. It rips through the air and … flies right past him, inches away from his neck. I missed. I took my shot and missed. But before I can load another arrow into the bow, a distant gunshot is heard. And moments later, a bullet strikes him directly in the neck. He drops his gun, and both his hands cup his throat, trying to stop the blood from escaping. He falls to his knees; his eyes dart around, searching for the person who shot him. I stand up to look for the shooter too, but I don’t see anyone.
Mom picks up his gun, stands over him, and points the barrel directly at his stomach. This is where all the hate boils and grows. The gut stores all the hatred, and a hole will let it pour out and disappear. Her finger is on the trigger, twitching but not yet squeezing. “You are to never go near me or my children again. Are we clear?” she asks him.
He clears his bloody throat, and manages to cough out a few words while staring into my mom’s eyes …
And suddenly … we are no longer outside. We are in a small apartment. I am no longer holding a bow and arrow. I am now holding a brown teddy bear. I am no longer standing on a rock. I am now peeking behind a door. And I am no longer twelve. I am back to being four. This isn’t a dream. Or a premonition of the future. This is the past. This is a memory I buried, and like a potato, it is now unearthed.
This was once my home. My mom is no longer holding a gun. She is now holding a frying pan. And the general is my dad. And he is on the ground, bleeding from his fists and from a gash in his head. “We’re clear,” he says.
She drops the frying pan and turns to me. She has a bloody lip. But still, she smiles.
I run up to her and wrap my arms around her. I’m crying. From the noise. From the violence. From the memory making me relive this all over again. Mom takes my hand and rushes me out of the apartment. Our red Pinto is parked on the street.
“Mom,” Emjay says from behind us.
“Let’s go,” Mom says to him, but he doesn’t move.
He’s a kid again. He looks scared and confused. Mom runs up to him and kneels down, clutching his face in her open palms.
“It’s time to go, Emjay.”
“But all our stuff?” he says. “My toys. My clothes.”
“It’s just stuff. The world is full of stuff. But I need you to come with me now. It’s not safe here. Do you trust me?” she asks.
Emjay nods. Mom takes his hand, and they join me at the car.
As we get in and the door shuts … I am back to my dream. The general is gone. The guns are gone. My mom is gone. It’s just me.
“Opin,” Emjay says from behind me.
I turn around. He is facing me. It was he who shot the general in the neck. He drops the rifle in one hand, and in his other hand, he holds Ani. Not as a wolf, but as herself.
I open my eyes and release the arrow. It rips through the air and heads straight for the telephone pole … And … passes it.
I missed. I took my shot and missed.
I am not a man yet. I am not ready.
I still have time to be a kid.
Should I cry? Did I let myself down? Or should I be glad that my childhood still has a playground in it? And why are my eyes so wet? Was I crying while reliving my memory? Is that why I missed? Should I try again?
“Bring me another arrow,” I tell my uncle.
But he takes the bow from me and places his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t grow up too fast, kid.”
He walks back into his apartment. I stare back at the telephone pole. It stares back at me. I imagine the tall wooden pole morphing into a buffalo. It stares at me, larger than a building. It breathes thick white clouded air from its nostrils. Our eyes meet.
“I’m glad I missed,” I say to the buffalo.
I slowly back away, out of the porch and into the apartment. I pull the sliding glass door shut and give the buffalo one last look … But it’s gone. It’s just a telephone pole with my uncle’s arrow lodged in it.
I turn around and see my uncle on the couch, back to watching TV. His sandwich is half in his hand and half in his mouth. I sit down and pick mine up. I take a bite. The peanut butter is crunchy. The jelly is raspberry. The bread is soft.
I chew my food and chew on a thought.
I smile, because I realize something.
I have it bad. I know that. But some people have it much worse.
I was one of those some people yesterday and all the days before that. And maybe tomorrow or the incoming days ahead, I’ll have it worse again.
But today, right now, I have a sandwich to eat. I have a couch to sit on. I have an uncle to talk to. I have a TV to watch. And I have a giant invisible friend buffalo outside reminding me that the only way to one day be a man is to first be okay with being a boy.
And being a boy is okay. And not rushing through it is okay.
I just wish Ani was here with me.
Every boy needs a best friend. And she was mine.
But I guess losing someone you love is something that happens to everybody while they grow up.
It hurts. A lot. But maybe it tells us to hold on to the ones we love even tighter while they’re still with us. We shouldn’t take things for granted, especially love. And especially dogs.
What a painful process this whole growing-up thing is. I wish we could all just stay kids forever. But we can’t, because then who’d be paying the rent?