Do you know the saying “Turn the other Cheek”? To hell with that. I’m a fighter, plain and simple, always have been and always will be. Backing down isn’t a thought that can cross my mind. Literally. My father calls it our curse. We can only win or lose, beat or be beaten. Of course this mentality can only serve to get you into trouble when you live on the rez. So obviously, I am always, ALWAYS, in trouble.
Walking home that day, I was engrossed in my mind. Normally I walk home at least semi zoned out, I have to in order to avoid paying attention to the starving dogs, the ramshackle homes, and the mad, nightmarish eyes of those who have no choice but to live here. But this time, I was out, way out. The gears in my head were reeling with possibilities. So many options, and ideas, and the poor methodical part of my brain could barely sort them before a new one popped in. So I walked and thought without a clue about my surroundings. Although a car, screeching to a stop a few inches away from me, almost running me over, one would think that’d snap me out of it. Especially when four guys hop out with expressions that would cook and egg in its shell, they looked tough to, not the slim almost lanky build you generally see with Native kids. These guys were puffy and swollen in a way that just screams of gym mentality, and steroid abuse. However they were impressively color coordinated, three of them dressed in baggy black gym pants, and hoodies, with a red bandanna on the left arm and a green on e on the right. Then one of them, who I could only assume was the leader, was practically a Christmas tree. All green, green pants, green shirt, green baseball cap, with red bandannas on his legs, arms, head, he had some tucked into hi back pockets. I barely kept from making a face in mockery of his get up. As they piled out and arranged themselves in some sort of formation, I started scanning where I was. I mentally logged all I could in the short amount of time I had. The dingy houses, with paint peeling and shattered windows. The various bits of plywood lying askew where they fell off some truck, as it passed through. The starving dogs panting in the summer heat, bellies swollen with pups. The colorful gentlemen are close now, and their body language conveys violence. I start to backup preparing to escape down an alley to my left when I recognize Mr. Christmas tree. His face was that of a kid a grade older than me. Suddenly I started to sweat; I knew why he was here. This was not going to be good. They stopped almost touching me, staring at me in the face, trying to get me to back down. I steadied my breathing, trying to collect my thoughts; I knew he wouldn’t want to say much.
“Her? You know she’s mine.” He growled.
I laughed, “Not anymore” And socked him square in the jaw. My fist mashed against his face, I felt something give and he fell flat on his back. As the three other guys grunted in surprise and reached for something in their pockets. Oh no. They brought knives. For the first time in my life I was scared. There was no way I could handle three guys with knives, when I had nothing but my fists. I turned, bolting for the alley I had picked out. Too late, I realized what it was they had actually been reaching for. Too late, I realized I didn’t have nearly enough time to escape. All I heard was a short, loud, band.