The people of the town scooped up their children and ran to their doors, scrambled and hid them behind cabinets and closets, they knew what day it was and so very many families didn’t want to lose their children. But the document published had marked them as tameable savages and their program successful, so now there's more of these schools. They hardly had rights before and now their very culture is being forcefully striped from them.
The social service had some targets today and knew where to go, he pridefully walked to the houses and demanded for children, in families deemed unfit for parenthood for living in a household too large. Even though they are fully aware that is tradition.
A young boy, the age of six, quietly handed over for fear that their other children will be taken. And off to this new native american boarding school they went, to never see their parents again, to lose their language and be taught english, to be forced to be ashamed of their culture. To teach these savages “culture” but more importantly to wipe them off the earth by destroying their youth.
“Your name… is Bryan now.”
The man looped the string tag around the boy, who held the tag in his hand and gazed down at it. Then he looked back up with confused puppy eyes and an uneased face. He sat small in the chair and stayed quiet, trying not to look suspicious as his eyes searched around the room. A familiar face would have helped, but of the two there he didn’t see any, not since he got on the bus.
“You understand me correct?”
“...yes”
“Good. Now let us get you fitted into your room with the others.”
The instructor grabbed his hand without waiting for a response, and pulled him down the wood and stone corridors, Feather’s small feet stumbling to keep up, past the classrooms and into the boys dorms.
“19B, now you need to remember this number as you will be sleeping here every night.”
He threw the boy’s stuff onto an empty bed and then pulled him out and back down the hallway.
“Where are we going?”
“To get that long hair hair of yours cut off.”
“Why??”
The man mumbled to himself about stupid indians not knowing how to present themselves. The boy pulled back and tried not to walk to where he was being guided to.
“I like my hair!”
The man’s piercing eyes shoot down at him and he yanked the boy whether or not he followed willingly didn’t matter.
“Behave.”
He was sat down in a chair and felt the cold metal against the back of his head and the weight disappear from his head, his hands balled up and so did his eyes, his mouth tasted of salt.
“Don’t cut off my strength!”
“Please…”
After eating dinner for the night he found his way to 19B. His roommate was changing, he sharply turned around and finished pulling down his shirt, but it was too late, he had already seen the many bruises and marks that lined his back. Mee’ne collapsed to his knees where he stood and cried.
“You ok!”
The eight year old pulled him close and hugged him, the two of them huddled on the stone floor.
“They… they hurt you, didn’t they...”
“I know.”
“It’s ok.”
“No it's not.”
“...i know.”
He cried too. And his grip tightened.
“So… what’s your name?”
“Bryan?”
He looked down to the tag and sniffled, his face still muddy and red.
“No your real name.”
His little head shot up, hope shining in his eyes.
“I’m Mee’ne of Cheyenne (Feather)!”
“Well Mee’ne, we’re going to need our sleep tonight, so you try to rest.”
“Okay, … can I sleep with you?”
“N-no”
“Why?”
“No reason.”
The boy jumped under the covers and faced his back to Feather.
“Okay…”
The next morning he was given a uniform, it was a military style. The older boy guided him to the sink and taught him to brush. He struggled to put on the uniform and was helped by the boy too. Then he guided him to breakfast.
“So.. what's your name?”
“Hm. Oh! It’s Caua of Choctaw (hawk).”
“Thank you Caua.”
The boy smiled.
Mee’ne walked into his class, three seats were open, he picked the middlemost. The teacher in front began to teach them english, with the abc’s, but they were already halfway through learning it…
Walking back to the cafeteria, late for lunch after getting extra lessons. He noticed Caua talking to one of the teachers. Caua’s head faced the stone floors. A hand landed on his shoulder, his eyes dulled. The hand slid down his lower back and guided him around the corner. They went the opposite way of the cafeteria and Mee’ne thought it best not to interfere. After getting his own plate, Mee’ne coughed on his food. He rubbed his eyes, it seemed class took the energy out of him. Next was math, which he arrived late to. He was beaten with a wooden paddle for tardiness. The burning stings made him slow as he wrote as best as he could, the words and numbers he didn’t understand. He also needed extra lessons for math. He missed dinner, he wasn’t hungry anyway.
Sluggishly and half aware he rubbed snot with his arm, getting it all over the uniform, and he made his way back to his room. He didn’t change and immediately passed out on top of his bed. Caua came back into the room with a toothbrush hanging out his mouth, and he threw a blanket over him.
Days pass, the same thing every day. Mee’ne slowly understanding more, Caua always as kind but distant and randomly disappearing during the day. Mee’ne kept getting beaten more, he just couldn’t get to class on time even though he keeps getting out of them earlier. He started skipping lunch to get to class, not that he could eat anyway. His feet and body couldn’t align with his mind, he stumbled everywhere, clung to the walls to stand. He was beaten for touching them and not walking properly. Caua wasn’t there to see it or help him, but he did know he was sick.
“You know,”
“If you were here still, you wouldn’t remember your parents either would you?”
“...A few months ago I learned what your name meant, there's such irony in how things turned out.”
The large shouldered man laid a small white feather under the cold stone plate.
“We’ve lost our strength, you especially.”
“Perhaps another life will fit you better.”
“Not that if you were still here things would have gotten better for all of us.”
“There’d still be winter and war, heck, they say this will be the war to end them all.”
“I can only hope.”
The man flipped a cap on and stood up, his coat flapping in the winter wind, the feather caught up and flew off. He turned to the right gazing at the other small broken gravestones. A few other unsoiled and new objects placed to the sides of the stones that were abandoned and clearly untouched for years, in them, small memories and sparks of joy.
“I’m probably too old to change things now.”
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