Writing Exercise 5 - Lance

I am Katlian on the dark beaches outside of Sitka. The masts of their Mother Russia offend the shores of this land of my grandparents. I know the breaking point. We have passed that. They came here with their Aleut slaves and once they had settled in and made peace, they thought they could do the same. They thought our women were just a commodity, our land a righteous step in their conquest to scour the earth with their culture. Absorbed in the name of the civilized.

I am wiping my body with the vegetation that marks the high tide. I have soaked for four days and nights in the icy waters of the bay to prepare myself. The words of my Uncles’ have begun drifting in and out of my mind so much that all I know is what I must know, what I must do. My hammer is ready to execute justice. My helmet is ready to propel this ancient and lasting voice across these beaches, where my Grandfathers have, where my Grandmothers have, prepared a path for my teeth to clamp along and carry me through these moments.

They will not smell me. They will not see me. They will not know me. They will walk right over me as I hide beneath piles of seaweed. Their unified vision of victory, of taking everything that we have, shall be blotted out by the eclipse that is the arc of my hammer. I have seen them take and lie. I have seen them rape and humiliate. I have seen in their eyes that we are lesser beings. I have seen this and more and now I am seeing blood.

I will sit here and sharpen my teeth on hard-earned will and determined rage. My relatives have burned down their fort, and now the reinforcements will come. The boats hold scores and scores of them, these men who move through the world without women, packed into these giant vessels and slinging their iron into the sacred living creatures that once lived with a circulating respect and now feed on fear. I will sit here and rub the face of this weapon in my palms so that it falls true, and drops them like a strong breeze pushes along the dried leaves in late fall. I will let go of what I have learned of live and love and belonging and this world, and wash the beaches with their blood.

* * * *

The cops don’t believe me. The cops don’t care. This quivering mass of in my arms is just another dumb Native who drank too much, drinks too much, is too much and not enough. There will be an analysis of her blood content before a DNA test on the semen, and maybe I could take one more these stories. Maybe I could hear about one more time. Maybe I wouldn’t have to walk into a homicidal rage that keeps bubbling up, leaving me to walk with stiff knees, flexed quadriceps, and jaw muscles that clench like a pit bull in kill mode. Yeah, maybe one more time, maybe, if this wasn’t my baby sister.

There are rules around here. There are statuses that draw invisible lines and when she told me about that rich little fuck who did this, the one who wrecked his daddy’s Hummer and was so fucked up that all he knows is he drove to a party and woke up on his nice cozy Tempur-pedic bed with the matching sheet set and duvét. His friends carried him out of the wreckage, away from that bright yellow Hummer that was wrapped around a thick spruce, and caught a cab home. Everyone in town knew he had that truck, that he was so drunk he couldn’t say any three syllable words. And nothing happened. No questions, no punishments. Just a tow truck to haul the vehicle away and then keys to the BMW.

We live down at Indian River. Our houses all look the same, and none of them have house numbers. We’re down Kadashan Drive, fourth on one the left. If you drive past the smokehouse with the MIA/POW flag then you’ve gone too far. There is a grizzly bear who comes around every summer and can crack the most complex garbage can arrangement you can think of. Padlocks, sure. Snap tops and bungee cords, kid’s play. Plywood and nails, piece of cake. We call him “brown-dini” because he is the bear version of that magician. No one will shoot him. He has become one of us.

But there are differences outside of this place. In the face of this crime, I cannot risk being dehumanized. My baby sister. My baby sister. She walked into my room with her clothes torn into rags, bright red marks that are blackening into bruises around her neck, along the left side of her face. She was holding a clump of her hair that was wet with her slick blood. Her breathing was so shaky that I just figured it is a matter of moments before she passes out. Into my arms. These arms that are supposed to be of a warrior. These arms that are now powerless.

All she could do is whisper to me. I held her close and her words struggled out, like a mouse that had its back broken by a game-playing cat and seeks to only make it one step farther, dragging its crippled body along. The words met my ear and I heard his name, and I heard his name. I heard his name and her plea. When she drifts into a sleep, after I clean her body and give her back everything that I can, try to fill all of those ruptures with my love and comfort. After I send her strength in terms of shelter and safety, I will bathe myself in the waters and don my helmet. In the garage there is a vibration resistant hammer named Stanley, and I will enlist his services.

* * * *

I am standing on the cold beaches of morning. There is a plan. There is an army. But for this moment I am out here alone. The masts of their vessels have just emerged on the distance, sheltered by a low-lying fog. The face of my hammer is warm from my hand. My helmet is an inflated face of Raven, with long tufts of black hair and eyes that are ready to welcome those who have violated into a land where they may find their ancestors. We have moved beyond the time and talking, the time of listening.

I will conceal myself beneath a pile of drying seaweeds and bull kelp. It will be my outer shell as the Russians storm past, towards what they feel will be a certain victory. They have the numbers. They have the technology. All I have is time, patience, strength. I will decorate the beach with the slaves of their undoing.