By Robert Kibble
Manitoba, November 1955
The class goes silent. Just one word out of place, but that’s all it takes. She looks round to see they’ve all noticed. Of course they have. And most importantly, Johnson has. I don’t call him our teacher, because he doesn’t teach us anything apart from who we aren’t, and how to sing a song we hate. He grabs the wooden board from his desk and walks slowly towards her, his toothy grin showing satisfaction that someone has fallen foul of his rules. Her eyes widen. Her beautiful brown eyes. She trembles as Johnson puts the rope round the back of her head, holding her long black hair tight to her neck. He drops the board so it whacks her in the chest. She tries to hold in a cry of pain.
I look up at the clock. There’s an hour to go—plenty of time for someone else to attract Johnson’s wrath. Plenty of time for a word out of place, a forgotten rule to be broken, a word uttered in our own tongue. For us to be punished for being who we are.
I sit silent, consumed with hatred for this man, appointed to try to destroy us. I have talked back before, and I have worn the board. I have been left with it as the end of “O Canada” faded away, and I have paid the price. Opening my right hand, I can see the scars of the times I’ve paid that price.
She has soft hands. We held hands once, when no one was looking. She ran a gentle finger down the line of one of my scars. Of all of us, she’s the gentlest, the smallest, the one who most wants to do what she’s told. Her mother died in a car crash, or so she was “officially informed.” I’m not so sure. I’ve heard tales of the police stealing our people when an accident happens, spiriting them away to be forgotten in so-called care homes or foster families. I told her to hope, that her mother might be alive. That the police lied. That every one of the whites lies. And that someday, we will have justice in this land. In our land.
The snow outside is growing deep. I’ll have a long walk home if I miss the bus, but as the clock ticks, I see her face again, and I see her fear. Her time is running out. Only half an hour left. Her eyes flick round, not willing someone else to make a mistake, because that would be cruel, and she is not cruel, but deep down she is hoping, so the board will pass to someone else. That dreaded board. The board which says “INDIAN” on it, but means so much more. Whoever has that board when the day ends, when the clock ticks away…
A tear falls from her cheek onto her pad. It spreads out. I see it. I want to wipe her face, to tell her that it will be all right, to tell her that someday we will stand up and shout that these men came and punished us for speaking our own language, for being the rightful owners of this land, for respecting the spirits of this land, and that no matter what they do to us, we will get our revenge just by being alive. We continue to live here. We continue to exist, and we will not bow to them. We will not be wiped out by them.
Only five minutes to go. I look at my hand again. I look at the snow. I look at her. She is shaking. She has never faced the cane. She has never had to walk back to her foster family through the freezing wind.
Soon we will stand for the song. Soon it will be too late.
I know what I have to do. She must not suffer like I have suffered. She does not deserve that.
I push my book off the desk so it falls on my foot, hoping it looks enough like an accident. I swear. I swear in my own tongue. I look up at Johnson, trying to look shocked, resisting a rebellious smile.
He walks over to her, looking almost disappointed, staring at her a little too long. She stares up into his eyes. I remember her staring into mine. I will hold that thought. I will become that thought. I will wrap myself in that thought. He grabs the board from her, his hands brushing against her chest as he does so, adding another line to my mental list of his crimes. He pulls the board up, and walks over to me.
He places the rope round my neck. The scar on my hand begins to throb, as if it knows what’s coming.
I am doing a good thing.
My ancestors will be proud of me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Oh… oh my heart. This is layers of heartbreak and beautifully written.
Very touching and well done. It’s sad how people in authority can use their power to harm instead of help.
Nobility comes in humble guises, but true ones… what a hero!
This one hits hard… well done.