Ink of Ages Fiction Prize

I was twelve when my own self was stripped from me.

The severance was forewarned by murmurs of words foreign to my Lakota tongue, syllables I could not define but recognized as something sinister: Assimilation. Residential. Mahkah and I held each other tightly in those final days, awaiting the change we sensed approaching the northern plains of our home. When the uniformed white men came upon our tribe, demanding the children, we were seized from the grasp of our iná and até. Don’t! Mahkah sobbed as they handled her. Don’t take me! 

We were packed into horse-drawn carriages like cargo, earmarked for a destination a dozen lifetimes away. The journey that followed was a stomach-churning blur of snaking rivers and rolling prairies. At its culmination, the pair of us sisters were taken before a large schoolhouse. The reality that I would not see my home for a long, long time sank in, and my anxious heart sank with it. 

Beside me, Mahkah shivered. Our hands remained interlaced as we plodded along the path, the boarding school looming before us. In the distance far beyond, children tended to the fields. They had our straight dark hair and tawny skin, but with one notable difference. Their faces looked worn and tired, aged with the stress of something I could not yet decode. I’m going to run, Mahkah whispered to me, breathless.

Don’t, I urged. We don’t know what they’ll do. 

Upon arrival, we were materially transformed. First, it was our hair. When Mahkah saw the scissors, she burst into tears. I too longed to protest, but a cautionary glare from a nun silenced my petulant tongue. The women in charge—sisters, we were to call them—wasted no time, and our waist-length tresses were trimmed to just below the chin.

That was the first fragment of self that I lost. Over the coming months, piece by piece, I would lose it all.

* * *

Here at the school, they taught us to forget. We were to forget our customs, our traditions, our tribe, and our native language. We tended to the crops and

animals; we scrubbed the floorboards until our hands were raw; we polished window panes until they glistened. Day in and day out, we were to forget our former lives and dedicate our energy to the school.

Mahkah did not adjust easily, frequently reverting to Lakota words and refusing to do chores. The nuns never hesitated to beat her after the slightest misstep, sparing no pity for her agonized howls. Over time, with every violent chastisement, I felt her flame flickering, the tenacity of her spirit wavering. 

One day, out in the fields, Mahkah was stung by an insect that left a furious red rash along her arm. The initial discomfort turned to intolerable dizziness and pounding headaches. I begged the nuns to help her, but no one paid any heed to Mahkah’s suffering. She needed immediate assistance, and I couldn’t wait any longer.

That night, as I struggled to sleep comfortably atop the rigid bed frame, I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. The nuns had forgotten to lock one of the windows in the dormitory; I could feel the gentle nighttime breeze bristling the hairs on my forearms, tempting me towards freedom. I knew that if I could get out there, I wouldn’t have to forget anymore. But more importantly, I could get help for Mahkah.

I looked at my sleeping sister on the cot beside me. This is not goodbye, I whispered. I will come back for you.

Soundlessly, I tiptoed to the window. Heedful of every stray noise, I heaved myself over the edge; my body collided with the wooden patio, and, in that instant, I took off and didn’t look back. I ran across the sprawling fields of barley. I ran into the forest, tripping over invisible roots. I ran alongside streams and creeks. I ran, and I didn’t stop.

It occurred to me, in the high of the escape, that the school had not taken everything from me, for I had not forgotten how to run.

* * *

It had been a long time since I’d last felt the fury of the Arizona heat. The bruises had long since faded from my exterior, and my hair had grown past my

waist once again. After fleeing, I’d spent many weeks alone in the forest with no idea where I was. Surviving wasn’t difficult—I knew which berries were safe

and which roots were edible. But I couldn’t live that way forever, and eventually I came upon the Arapaho people. Their chief, in an act of kindness that may have saved my life, took me on horseback back to the Great Plains, where my people resided in the Black Hills. Upon reunion with my iná and até, I had no choice but to break the terrible news. It had been nearly two months since my escape, and by then, I knew it was too late to save Mahkah.

Now, two decades have passed since those days. It had taken me just as long to muster the courage to return to the school. And when I did, I hadn’t come without purpose.

Upon arrival, I hurried past the schoolhouse and wandered through the pastures. My heart leapt to my throat when I saw it. In the furthest corner of the property was a small cluster of cracked headstones peeking out of the soil. My eyes glazed over engravings of Mary and John and Bridget, until I finally settled on one particular stone. Hastily carved on its face was the English name they had given to Mahkah. The negligence of the nuns had killed her—and countless others. And even after death, they were plastered with an identity that wasn’t theirs.

They had tried to force us to forget ourselves, our names, our homelands—and in a thousand years perhaps the world would forget us altogether. But I was Lakota. I had not forgotten myself, and nothing and nobody could ever make me forget my sister.