Jornada del Muerto: Prisoner Days by Claudia Hall Christian Read Free Book Online

authors because they make him homesick for a
life he never had.
    His favorite book,
however, is The Invisible
Man . (A book about a black man written by
a black man.) He told me that he always felt invisible. Most of his
violence was a way of insisting on visibility. He never knew that
other people felt invisible like he had always felt.
    It’s amazing how much we have both learned
about human beings now that they are all gone. And how much we miss
them.
    I started talking about George and his
reading to say that he’s read my entries so far. Last night, he
told me that he thinks that I shouldn’t worry about writing these
entries the right way or wrong way. He thinks my great-great
grandmother wanted me to do it. Whatever way I write them will be
perfect.
    I’m not sure why that made me feel better.
It just did.
    I’ve been thinking a lot about my
great-great grandmother. I guess because I feel she “made” me write
this journal, it forced me survive all of this.
    My great-great grandmother had her first
child, my great-grandfather, when she was fourteen years old. Over
the course of the next twenty years, she had ten children. She told
me that my grandfather was her favorite, born of her first, and
only, real love. But she was the kind of mother who whispered the
very same words into every child’s ear. I have no idea if he was
truly her favorite.
    For a woman who left such a wide mark on my
life, she was a tiny person. I doubt she ever weighted over a
hundred pounds. She stood less than five feet tall. She never
drank, ate sugar or smoked. She cut her hair only once every
decade. All of my life, her hair flowed deep white and gray down
her back, almost to the ground. She used to say that she was like
the white man’s Samson. Her power was in her hair. Of course, that
wasn’t true. She just didn’t like to get her hair cut.
    My great-grandfather had his first child, my
grandfather, when he was 18 years old. My great-great grandmother
was 32 years old. When my great-grandfather went off to war, she
invited my great-grandmother into her home and raised my
grandfather as her own. My great-grandfather never returned from
that war. Over time, I honestly believe my great-great grandmother
forgot that my great-grandmother was not her flesh-and-blood
child.
    Maybe not. On her deathbed, she cried over
my great-grandfather’s death. It was the first and only time she
openly mourned the loss of her child.
    Like his father, my grandfather ran off to
war leaving a pregnant girlfriend behind. The pregnant girlfriend,
a white girl, dumped the baby, my mother, on my great-great
grandmother’s doorstep. The note read, “My parents want to kill the
Indian baby. They say they are going to press rape charges. Please
care for her. She’s not safe with me.” There was no signature and
no way to track the mother. My great-great grandmother was 49 years
old.
    By the time my grandfather returned from
war, he no longer remembered his high school girlfriend or the baby
they created. My grandfather was probably destined for the shaman
path. Sadly, the war took his soul instead. He found solace in
drugs and alcohol. I never met my grandfather. He died when my
mother was 8 or 9 years old.
    My mother and great-great grandmother were
so alike in looks and attitude, it’s hard to believe they weren’t
mother and daughter. My mother was slightly taller and, in my
estimation, more beautiful. She was courted by every man in Las
Vegas, New Mexico. Everyone was surprised when she picked my
father, a plain Tewa with a good heart. They’d known each other all
their lives. Together they had six children. I was their last,
their “miracle” baby. My mother was the ancient age of 31 years old
when I was born on my great-great grandmother’s birthday. She
turned 80 years old that year.
    Every year, we’d celebrated our birthdays
together with cake and ice cream. There’s one photo where we were
around the same height. That was a fun year. After