Borderline
by
Catherine J.S.
Lee
So
here I am, the
June before my
senior year, and
we've got it all
mapped out, Scooter
Marantz and Bimbo
Dexter and I,
ready to run my
practically-antique
'66 VW microbus
up and down the
coast from Ventura
to Oceanside,
almost three months
of seeking that
perfect wave.
It's going to
be a totally bitchin
summer, the last
one before the
real world crashes
in, and we are
going to live
every second of
it.
Or
so I think, until
the parents tell
me they're going
to Italy to celebrate
their twenty-fifth
wedding anniversary.
I can't hang with
my tech-head big
bro, Kurt, because
he's off to Hawaii,
the lucky dog,
to upgrade some
tourist bureau's
web servers, and
he absolutely
will not take
me with him. What
I'd give to ride
that big Hawaiian
surf! So all of
a sudden my plans
are in ashes,
cold as yesterday's
barbeque, and
I'm this close
to being packed
off to the farmstands
and orange groves
of Bakersfield
when Gram Nesbitt
breaks her hip.
Don't
get me wrong,
I'm not glad Gram
broke her hip.
But things do
start looking
up again when
my Harlow grandparents
in Boston agree
to take me to
their summer place
on a Maine island
called East Haven.
I hear that Maine
has, like, twenty-five
hundred miles
of coastline,
so excuse me for
thinking there
must be surfable
waves there somewhere.
*
* *
Buddy
Dexter, Bimbo's
dad, is the one
who taught us
to surf. We were
twelve then, wound-up
little grommets,
but Buddy always
had that Zen thing
going, patient
as Buddha himself.
When he was young
and first rode
a longboard, the
concept of soul
surfing didn't
exist. Being one
with the wave
was how everyone
used to look at
it.
Scooter
and Bimbo dissed
Buddy behind his
back for his clean
devotion to the
waves. They wanted
to be Kelly Slater,
loved dreaming
about money and
babes and video
games with their
own names on them.
I just wanted
to be like Buddy
Dexter, in a pure
zone, feeling
that ocean magic.
Four
years later, Buddy
is diagnosed with
MS and has to
hang up his wettie.
I inherit his
Hobie longboard,
and don't think
it doesn't immediately
become my prized
possession. Scooter
and Bimbo are
hotdogging with
the shortboard
riders, getting
air like the skate-punks
do, but for me,
surfing is still
a dance with several
tons of peaking
water. Carving
a line across
the face of the
wave, catching
the lightning.
*
* *
Nonnie
and Papa meet
my flight from
LAX, and even
though they never
do that my-haven't-you-grown-up
schtick, we still
have to give each
other the once
over. I'm always
afraid, since
I usually only
see them at Christmas,
that they'll have
gotten old on
me, but they haven't
yet. Papa's still
got a head full
of wavy silver
hair and the only
pencil-thin mustache
I've ever seen
in real life.
Nonnie has that
debutante thing
going even though
she's crowding
seventy, perfect
posture and tinted
blonde hair and
a whole wristful
of gold chains
and diamond tennis
bracelets. My
carrot-red mane
is down to my
shoulders, and
Nonnie pushes
it back from my
face to kiss my
cheek.
I
stow my suitcases
in the trunk of
their red Saab
convertible and
stretch out in
the backseat.
As we wind on
up the coast,
the towns get
smaller and smaller,
poorer and poorer.
I get more and
more alarmed because
there isn't a
real beach in
sight. Plenty
of rocky shores
and looming, jutting
ledges, so many
pebbles they must've
rained down from
Heaven, but not
one decent beach
with sugar sand.
Finally,
two steps from
forever, we turn
off the main highway.
Before long, spanning
a stretch of choppy
green water is
the old-fashioned
iron bridge to
East Haven. I
can't get over
how far out the
tide goes here,
like someone pulled
a bathtub plug
in the freaking
ocean. When all
this water comes
rushing back in,
then we should
have some surf.
I
say, "How
cold's the ocean?"
Papa
glances at me
over his shoulder.
"About fifty-two
degrees in the
summer. And no
surf, if that's
what you're asking."
In
two days the freight
people will be
arriving with
my board, and
there's no surf.
I scope out East
Haven's main drag,
five blocks of
red brick three-stories,
the street hugging
the shore. Then
I see two dudes
with skateboards
under their arms,
and I think, Sometimes,
you have to ride
'em like you find
'em. Kurt doesn't
leave for Hawaii
for another week,
so I make a mental
note to have him
overnight me the
old skateboard
that was everything
to me before Buddy
Dexter taught
me to surf.
Past
downtown, we come
into a neighborhood
of grand late-Victorian
summer cottages.
Papa turns into
one built in the
shingle style
– I know
this because I'm
planning to be
an architect –
all gables and
dormers and deep
verandahs. Out
the back door,
the wide yard
goes right down
to the ocean.
Tall, white-blooming
hedges run down
both sides, and
everywhere are
flower beds blooming
in white and complementary
peaches and purples.
My room's huge
and airy with
a view of the
bay, and I tell
myself I've definitely
seen worse digs
despite the lack
of surf.
*
* *
Next
morning, while
Nonnie and Papa
are doing their
geezer version
of tai chi among
the flower gardens,
I ambulate on
downtown. I'm
starting to think
that even in Bakersfield
I'd've had my
microbus and could've
made it to the
beach at least
a few times. I
check out a pocket-sized
park with a brick
path through the
middle and stairs
with grindable
iron railings
leading down to
the pink granite
seawall. Then
I see the sign:
"No skateboards,
skates, or scooters
allowed."
I'm
on my way home
when I meet a
kid carrying a
board. He's thirteen,
fourteen max,
trying way too
hard with stick-on
tattoos and hair
twisted into stiff
points all over
his head. He tells
me the scene's
in Gleason, a
bitch for all
the skate-rats
too young to drive.
I
ask if it's any
good, and he tells
me not bad, a
nice fast half-pipe
and a couple of
ramps, not fancy
but better than
nothing.
When
I get back to
Nonnie and Papa's,
I ask where Gleason
is.
"North
near the turnoff
to Moose Island."
Papa picks up
a stamp with a
pair of tweezers,
looks at it through
a magnifying glass,
and adds it to
one of the piles
in front of him.
Maybe that's the
kind of hobby
to have. I mean,
what are the chances
I'll still be
able to surf fifty
years from now?
I
explain about
the skate park,
and ask if I can
borrow the Saab,
but Papa says
no.
Nonnie
says, "He
could take the
beach wagon."
The
beach wagon. That
sounds intriguing.
Papa
examines another
stamp. "If
he promises not
to speed."
"It
doesn't go fast
anyway,"
Nonnie says with
a little flip
of her hand, and
I have one of
those oh-oh moments,
because, as any
dude can tell
you, by your wheels
you are known.
*
* *
The
beach wagon's
actually pretty
tubular, a robin's-egg
blue 1953 Ford
station wagon,
which Nonnie and
Papa bought with
the house and
use for tailgate
picnics and rides
on summer evenings.
It's cherry, 4,723
actual miles,
and I just know
it'll go faster
than they think
it will.
After
Fed Ex delivers
my skateboard,
I follow Papa's
directions for
the ten or so
miles to Gleason.
Just before the
turn to Moose
Island, I see
the half-pipe
and a couple of
ramps, surrounded
on three sides
by evergreens.
Two
girls sit on the
hood of a rusted-out
Camaro, and even
though they hide
it when I park
a dozen feet away,
I'm pretty sure
they're smoking
a joint. One girl
is small, with
pulled-back hair
dyed even redder
than mine naturally
is, and a tank
top that enhances
the kind of chestal
area my buddy
Bimbo admires.
The other is tall,
slender but strong-looking,
with thick, purple-streaked
black hair past
her waist.
"Ain't
seen you around
here before,"
says the redhead
when I walk by,
"or your
funky car, either."
The tall girl
just looks at
me, and I eyeball
her from behind
my ultra-dark
shades.
"I'm
visiting. Just
got here a couple
days ago."
"You
gonna do some
tricks for us?"
I
don't answer,
I just saunter
over to the half-pipe.
It's got a good,
fast pitch, and
I fly back and
forth a few times,
then nosestall,
hanging on the
pipe's lip. As
long as I keep
it simple, I probably
won't embarrass
myself too badly,
so I roll up the
other side and
get enough air
for a three-sixty
with a frontside
grab. It's all
coming back to
me now, my old
moves still there
in muscle memory,
and I pull off
my entire repertoire
of spins, stalls,
flips, and grabs.
The girls are
looking at me
as though I just
beamed in from
Planet Zork.
The
redhead shouts,
"Come here,"
so I walk over
to the car. She's
taking a joint
out of an Altoids
tin, and well,
I don't mind if
I do, because
I haven't had
any doobage since
I left California.
The
girls move apart
and I sit between
them, all of us
leaning back against
the windshield.
The redhead's
Lainie, the quiet
one, Kat. The
breeze is just
strong enough
to make it hard
to light the joint,
but at last Lainie
gets it going
and passes it
to me. I take
a hit and hand
it to Kat. Our
fingers brush,
and as I look
into her eyes,
big and deep and
grey as the ocean
on a cloudy day,
I'm immediately
caught in the
undertow.
"Is
Kat short for
Kathleen?"
I say.
"No."
She reaches across
me and gives the
joint to her friend.
"Lainie's
the only one calls
me Kat. My name's
Kateri. Kateri
Dellis."
"That's
a great name,"
I say. "Different.
With rhythm."
"It's
Passamaquoddy,"
Lainie says. She
looks at me as
though she's waiting
for a reaction.
Kateri studies
the sky.
I'm
confused. "Passa.
. . what? What's
that?"
"Pas-sa-ma-quod-dy,"
Lainie says. "Native
American. Indian."
"Don't
say Indian,"
Kateri tells her.
"Kat
wants to learn
to skateboard,"
Lainie says. "None
of the bozos around
here will teach
a girl."
"Why
don't you say
it the way they
say it?"
There's enough
vinegar in Kateri's
voice for a vat
of sour pickles.
"They won't
teach a squawgirl."
Lainie
lets this pass,
so I do, too.
"You need
sneakers,"
I tell her.
"I'll
go barefoot. Please?"
She's already
untying her lace-up
boots.
I
set the board
down. She stands
on it goofy-footed,
right foot forward,
but I don't try
to correct her.
Everyone has a
natural stance.
Arms out at her
sides, she starts
off easy, rolling
down the ramp,
barely wobbling.
When she feels
comfortable with
that, she wants
to try the half-pipe.
I'm dubious, but
she shoves off
anyway, rolling
back and forth
a little higher
each time, looking
pretty steady.
"Hey,"
she says from
two-thirds up
one side, "this
is really great,"
and that momentary
break in concentration
is all it takes.
It's a hard wipeout,
and she sits with
her eyes closed
and her teeth
clamped over her
bottom lip. Lainie
runs to her, and
so do I. Tears
are dripping off
Kateri's chin
onto her purple
lace top, but
she doesn't make
a sound.
There's
a map of ramp
rash down the
side of her left
leg from shorts
to ankle. After
carefully straightening
out her knee,
she wipes her
cheeks with a
handful of hair.
We help her up,
and she limps
to the Camaro.
Lainie tells me
to follow them,
so I do, driving
across a string
of tiny islands
and short causeways
to Moose Island,
a fishing village
with an air of
general decrepitude,
very different
from East Haven.
We
end up at Lainie's,
a small house
nowhere near the
ocean. No one's
home. In the bathroom,
Kateri pours a
quarter-bottle
of peroxide over
her leg, while
I admire her perfect
toes with their
accent of pale
blue nail polish.
Lainie gets tweezers
and tries to pick
splinters out
of Kateri's palm
without much success.
"Let Zach
try," Kateri
says, and I'm
determined to
do a good job.
Otherwise the
hand-holding part
will be over way
too soon.
*
* *
Scooter's
the one who gets
the girls. Bimbo's
immature and not
too bright, isn't
above saying,
"Nice lungs,"
or some other
dumb anatomical
comment. Scooter's
da man, a smooth
talker, has that
tanned blonde
surfer-dude thing
down pat, turns
on the charm and
they're his until
he moves on, which
he does whenever
he thinks one's
getting serious.
Bimbo's there
to pick up the
leftovers, and
I'm always on
the sidelines,
the philosopher
rumored to be
celibate, but
that's not by
choice, it's because
I couldn't get
laid even at a
swinger's convention.
The beach chicks
just don't dig
me – I'm
too tall, too
skinny, I have
bright red hair
and the ghost
complexion that
goes with it.
And I'm a soul
surfer, which
is so far from
cool it's not
even on the map.
Just
once, Scooter
tried to hook
me up. He didn't
like to hurt anyone's
feelings, so he'd
always introduce
his about-to-be-cast-off
girls to Bimbo.
I don't remember
one ever refusing
the switch –
until Ramona,
who rolled her
eyes and said,
"I've had
some of that,
and it wasn't
so great."
Bimbo
was speechless.
Scooter, intent
on hooking up
with Julie, nudged
Ramona in my direction
and said, "This
is Zen-master
Zach. Why don't
you take him for
a ride?"
I
guess Ramona figured
there was no need
to be coy. She
peeled off my
baggies right
there in the back
of the microbus
and gave me my
first handjob.
I managed to keep
it together for
that, but I was
so excited about
finally getting
to do the wild
thing that I came
just before I
entered the golden
gates. Let me
tell you, a girl
puts max effort
into the prelim
and then doesn't
get the main event,
unhappy doesn't
even begin to
describe her.
As for a guy's
reputation with
the ladies, well,
let's just say
word travels that
network like a
chaparral brushfire.
*
* *
Thursday,
two days later,
I'm up early doing
tai chi with Nonnie
and Papa in the
backyard. There's
nothing here to
stay up late for,
no movie theater,
no parties, so
I'm getting in
the groove of
going to bed at
midnight and waking
up at seven. The
tai chi thing
is good, not like
surfing, but I
like the discipline
of it all, the
paradox of controlled
movements that
free the mind.
So
I'm following
Nonnie and Papa's
moves, breathing
in the smell of
ocean and old-fashioned
roses and French
lilacs, the sun
climbing over
the angled roofs
of the house,
sunrise peach
and amethyst already
bleached from
the powder-blue
sky. Spirea, bridal
wreath –
Nonnie's teaching
me about gardens,
says an architect
needs to make
the acquaintance
of green and growing
things –
has turned the
hedges to six-foot-high
summer snowdrifts,
making this yard
so private that
only boaters or
Moose Islanders
with telescopes
could ever see
us.
Wind
chimes –
big bamboo temple
ones, small tinkly
brass ones, and
all sizes and
pitches in between
– swing
from the branches
of the two old
oaks, the purple
and white lilacs,
the white flowering
crabs. If I close
my eyes and get
in that meditative
state, the smells
and sounds and
the cool breeze
could almost convince
me I'm in some
secret Zen garden.
It's the closest
I've felt to nirvana
since my last
ride on Buddy
Dexter's longboard,
now over a week
ago.
I'm
totally in the
zone when I hear
a voice say, "Zach?"
I open my eyes,
and standing there
on the path that
comes down the
north side of
the house are
Kateri and Lainie.
I can't tell if
the slightly-pinched
look on Kateri's
face is embarrassment
or nervousness,
but she lets Lainie
lead the way into
the backyard.
The three of us
stand there, suddenly
clueless about
what to say to
each other. Nonnie
and Papa watch,
and I know Nonnie
would be over
here in a second
if Papa wasn't
holding her elbow.
I
do the introductions,
and when I introduce
Kateri, I want
in the worst way
to take her hand,
touch her shoulder,
do something to
show Nonnie and
Papa that we already
have a connection.
But I don't.
Kateri
pulls off her
space-age shades,
and as she and
Nonnie look at
each other, it's
obvious they're
connecting, incredible
as that sounds.
"Let me get
some lemonade,"
Nonnie says, and
Kateri says, "I'll
help you,"
and they climb
the back porch
steps together.
Papa keeps eye
contact with me
as we chat with
Lainie, which
I figure is his
way of not looking
at the perky nipples
pushing through
her tight suntop.
Over
lemonade, Kateri
tells Nonnie how
much she likes
the house, and
the yard, and
the view, and
the antique wicker
furniture on the
back verandah,
and the old glass
lemonade pitcher,
and the chewy
macaroons on blue-and-white
clipper-ship plates.
The girl I think
I'm getting to
know would never
notice or talk
about stuff like
this, but Kateri's
studying everything,
like a traveler
from another time
or a parallel
universe.
"You
met Zach at that
skate park?"
Papa asks, and
Kateri and Lainie
nod.
"Zach's
going to teach
me," Kateri
tells him. "Aren't
you, Zach?"
My tongue sticks
to the roof of
my mouth, and
all I can do is
nod.
*
* *
When
we leave the house
in Lainie's car,
we drive half
an hour north
to the big salvage
store in Calais,
where Kateri buys
a way cool pair
of purple suede
Airwalks. Then
we hit the park,
and man, what
she lacks in skill
she more than
makes up for in
guts. No matter
how many times
she bails and
gets bumped, banged,
and bruised, the
warrior girl gets
right back up
to do it again.
For
two weeks we meet
at the park to
ride and hang
out. At first,
Lainie's right
there with us
every minute,
but one day Kateri's
alone, and after
that we see Lainie
less and less.
Nonnie
and Papa invite
Kateri to lunch,
and it's scary
how well they
all get along,
as though she's
a proper Boston
preppie instead
of a purple-haired
dudette. For me,
there's quite
a disconnect between
Kateri's punked-up
appearance and
everything else
I know about her,
the special school
she goes to for
gifted science
students, her
plans to be a
geneticist, her
love of early
Bob Dylan and
J.D. Salinger
and ice hockey.
Some people might
say Kateri's a
poseur, like a
hodad aping the
surfer look and
cool but never
going near the
ocean. I don't
think this is
anywhere near
that simple.
The
one thing I can't
figure out is
what's up with
her family. She
never mentions
them, and she
never lets me
pick her up at
her house, always
meeting me at
the park or at
Lainie's. I know
she lives on the
reservation on
the road to Moose
Island, and I'm
curious what it's
like there, trying
to figure out
how to invite
myself over without
being a total
jerk. If Lainie
hadn't told me
that first day,
I wouldn't even
know Kateri was
anything other
than an exotic-looking
downeast girl
dreaming of her
small-town escape.
I've
known Kateri about
a month when,
one rainy day
while we sit in
my room playing
chess and stopping
to make out every
time one of us
loses a man, she
says, "My
parents have invited
you to dinner
tomorrow night."
Which is great,
though I would've
liked it better
if she'd invited
me herself.
*
* *
More
nervous than I
expected, I turn
the beach wagon
off the road to
Moose Island into
Champlain Point
Reservation, called
by the tribe "Sipayik."
I wind my way
towards the water,
where the Dellises
live in a house
surrounded by
evergreens on
a ledge above
a pebbly beach.
All I know about
Kateri's parents
is that her father
is the tribe's
lieutenant governor
and her mother
teaches sixth
grade at the reservation
school.
The
front door opens
while I'm parking
the car and Kateri
comes out, followed
by her ten-year-old
sister, Anna.
We stand there
looking at each
other, suddenly
shy, until Anna
grabs our hands
and says, "Come
on. Moose steaks
on the barbeque,"
and pulls us towards
the house. There's
a sweet, resinous
smell inside,
green and spicy,
and just breathing
it in puts me
at ease. In the
living room, the
walls are covered
in birchbark and
hung with both
black-and-white
and colored photographs
of people in tribal
dress. Ancestors
and elders, Anna
tells me, who
guide the family
and the tribe.
Kateri stares
out the window
while I look at
the photos.
Kateri's
mother is hulling
strawberries in
the kitchen, humming
as she works.
She's tall and
serious-looking,
the front of her
long straight
hair held back
from her narrow
face with an elaborate
beaded clip.
"Mom,
this is Zachary,"
Kateri says.
Her
mother bows her
head and says,
"Welcome,
Zachary,"
and almost smiles,
but not quite.
Her porcupine-quill
earrings swing
back and forth.
I
can't think of
a single intelligent
sentence, so I
dip my head like
she did and say,
"Thank you."
"Daddy's
outdoors,"
Anna says. I can
tell from her
tone that she's
her father's girl.
We
walk across the
deck that overlooks
the ocean, which
tonight is flat-calm
to the not-so-distant
Canadian shore.
Kateri's father
is at the grill,
spraying a squirt
water bottle to
cool the coals.
His hair's almost
as long as Kateri's,
onyx-black, pulled
back and woven
into narrow braids.
One of the braids
wraps the rest
into a bundle
as thick as my
wrist.
Anna
says, "Daddy.
The boyfriend's
here."
As
he turns, I see
a profile that
should be on money:
hooded eyes, a
proud nose, cheekbones
so sharp they
could cut paper.
"Welcome,
Zachary,"
he says in a deep,
slow voice. Like
his wife, he does
not look me in
the eye, which
is fine because
Kateri has already
told me that this
is the Native
way. Eye contact
is a challenge,
it shows lack
of respect. "You
like musuwok?"
he asks. "Moose
meat?"
"I've
never had it."
"A
new experience,
then." He
spears a steak
and flips it over.
"Daughters,
show our guest
where his people
first landed."
Anna
takes us across
the yard and down
a footpath between
two walls of ledge.
Over small beach
pebbles worn smooth
as eggs, we crunch
towards a point
that curves out
into the ocean,
bordered by evergreens
and topped by
a grassy clearing.
Anna says, "Champlain
landed here. In
1604, before they
went upriver to
Saint Croix Island,
they spent a week
right where our
house is. History
books don't mention
it, but it's been
handed down."
History's
big with the Dellis
family, with everyone
but Kateri. Before
the evening's
over, I've been
introduced to
all the pictured
ancestors, seen
hundred-year-old
beaded moccasins
and birchbark
bracelets and
ancient baskets
made of ash and
sweetgrass. I've
marveled at history
kept for centuries
in spite of no
written-down language
until forty or
fifty years ago.
I've learned how
it was before
the Europeans,
who took the land
from the People
of the Dawn and
forced them onto
the reservation
named after the
first white man
here, condemned
to poverty and
hopelessness until
the 1970's land
claims settlement
with the state
of Maine. History
in school was
always just a
set of facts and
dates, but this
is different,
and I'm already
attracted to the
Passamaquoddy
philosophy: Take
care of the earth
and respect all
beings above,
on, and below
it.
At
some point during
this presentation,
I look up from
a scrapbook kept
by one of Kateri's
grandmothers,
and realize that
Kateri's vanished.
I look around
the room, puzzled,
and Anna says,
"She's on
the phone. She
doesn't like this
stuff."
"She
doesn't?"
"No,"
Anna says, and
then leans close
and whispers to
me like we're
conspirators.
"She doesn't
want to be Native.
She wants to go
somewhere where
people will think
she's Euro, like
you."
Later,
Kateri and I walk
on the beach and
kiss under the
stars. I like
her better than
any other girl
I've ever met,
but now it's not
just her. It's
the different
world she lives
in, a world I
can't wait to
explore, even
though I know
she has no interest
in it.
*
* *
The
first time I successfully
caught a wave,
I felt like I'd
been handed the
keys to the universe.
That day, as usual,
we'd paddled out,
Buddy and Scooter
and Bimbo and
I, and sat, rocking
on the ocean swells
with our boards
pointed towards
shore, Buddy looking
back over his
shoulder, gauging
the waves. We'd
all farmed it
more times than
I could count,
though sometimes
we did get a few
feet's ride before
the wave showed
us who was boss
out there. But
this one morning
a set built up
and Buddy said,
"Try this
one, Zach,"
and I paddled
hard and then
was on my feet,
slicing across
the face of the
wave.
For
the first time,
I wasn't thinking
about whether
or not I could
do it. Everything
was suddenly perfect,
everything I'd
been taught fitting
together smoothly,
my feet adjusting
themselves almost
instinctively
as the wave collapsed
behind me. All
I could think
was to do it again.
And again and
again and again,
because I wasn't
going to get any
closer to Heaven
in this life,
and nothing would
ever be the same
again.
*
* *
By
the end of July,
Kateri's got the
skateboard basics
down, ollies and
manuals and flips
and grabs. She's
coordinated and
athletic, but
still hasn't gotten
big air off the
half-pipe and
pulled a combo.
I'm wishing we
had more elements
here, a bowl,
maybe, not so
high as the half-pipe,
or a rail or two
to grind, boxes
to ollie over.
Then one day we
meet a dude who
tells us there's
an awesome park
with more elements
in Machias, an
hour to the south.
It lightbulbs
on me that Kateri
could practice
some slightly
more advanced
stuff there before
she's ready for
the half-pipe.
The
night before we
plan to scope
it out, she calls
and says she can't
make it. "There's
a thing going
on in Saint Andrews,
up in Canada.
I can't get out
of it."
"What
kind of thing?"
"Oh,
some Native thing,"
she says. "I
don't know, exactly.
Something that
happened a long
time ago. I wish
everyone would
just get over
it."
"What
do you mean?"
"Everyone's
so caught up in
ancient history.
The Euros stole
our land, and
our culture, put
us on the reservation,
all that stuff.
I say, forget
what you can't
change. Get an
education and
get out of here,
live a normal
life, and then
none of this will
matter any more.
Otherwise it just
drags you down."
Okay,
so she doesn't
have that activist
instinct. It's
nothing against
her. "We
can go to Machias
some other time,"
I tell her. "It's
cool, it's okay.
No worries."
"Do
you like what
you are?"
she asks, and
for a moment,
I don't say anything,
just thinking.
She says, "Did
you ever wish
you were someone
else?"
"Not
really,"
I tell her. Bimbo
went through a
rapper phase a
year or so ago,
baggy clothes
and a do-rag and
flashy bling,
a regular hiphop
hodad trying to
be a brother,
but I never felt
anything like
that.
"Well,
you're lucky.
But you don't
get put down for
being a white
guy, do you? No
one calls you
nasty names and
says all your
people are a bunch
of lazy sneaking
drunks and thinks
you deserve to
live on a crappy
reservation instead
of in a regular
town like everyone
else."
She
sounds angry,
and that's new.
I blunder into
the minefield
by saying, "People
who say stuff
like that are
ignorant. Look,
in LA, you hear
it, too, just
substitute the
projects or the
barrio for the
reservation. Not
to say it's the
same thing."
"You
don't get it,"
she says. "You
just don't get
it."
"I'm
trying,"
I tell her, but
she says, "I
have to go,"
and hangs up.
I stand there
looking at the
phone and wondering
if we've just
had our first
fight.
*
* *
Half
an hour later
the phone rings,
and I race down
the hall, hoping
it's Kateri. The
caller ID says
it's her number,
but what I hear
is her father's
deep, slow voice.
"Would you
be interested
in spending tomorrow
with us?"
he says.
"Well,
sure," I
say. "What's
going on, anyway?"
"Qonasqamkuk,"
he says. "Our
capital and sacred
burial ground
before the English
stole it and forced
us out. Tomorrow,
we go and protest,
reclaim for a
day what is ours."
"There
are Passamaquoddies
in Canada, too?"
"The
land on both sides
of the river and
the bay was skijn
once," he
says. "We
were free to roam.
Then we were forced
into settlement
camps, pushed
farther and farther
until Sipayik
is all we have
left. The English
did not sign a
treaty with us,
did not pay us
for our land.
Now they want
to put up condominiums,
violate the ground
where our ancestors
rest. Join us,
Zachary, and see
these things for
yourself."
"Even
though I'm not
Passamaquoddy?"
"Many
Euro friends come
to support us.
Maybe they and
you will be heard
where we will
not be,"
he tells me, so
I agree to go.
*
* *
St.
Andrews looks
as if it had been
teleported to
New Brunswick
straight from
the coast of England.
Every house has
big flower gardens,
and quaint little
shop after quaint
little shop lines
a main street
that eventually
loops into a big
flat open space
overlooking the
bay: Qonasqamkuk.
Kinap, Kateri's
little cousin,
runs off as soon
as we get out
of the van, and
I see by the back
of his jacket
that he belongs
to a children's
drumming group.
There
must be a hundred
or so Natives
milling about
at this camper
park, plus the
tourists whose
Winnebagos and
Airstreams are
parked at some
of the hookups.
I'm just taking
in the scene when
Kateri says, "Look,"
and points past
the picnic area.
I see a skate
park, well-equipped.
A couple half-pipes,
some quarter pipes,
verts, rails,
ramps, pools,
bowls, and boxes.
"Let's go,"
she says.
We
don't have my
board, but I can
see that's not
going to matter.
I start to follow
her, then stop
and look back.
The tribe's gathering
in a circle for
some kind of ceremony,
and much as I
want to be with
Kateri, I want
to be part of
that, too. She
runs ahead, and
I'm standing there
trying to figure
out what to do
when I see her
father walking
towards me.
"Where's
Kateri?"
he asks, and I
swing my arm towards
the skate park.
He watches for
a moment, nodding
slowly, as a dude
in a neon-blue
shirt airs off
the half-pipe
in a three-sixty.
"This is
what you do?"
he says. "What
you are teaching
my daughter?"
I
nod. "But
not today. Today's
different."
"Not
to my daughter,"
he says softly,
and even though
his dark eyes
are shuttered,
his face a mask,
I have a pretty
good idea what
he's feeling right
now. "She
will escape us,
her family, her
tribe," he
says. "She
will make her
own way."
"You
want me to go
get her?"
He
puts his hand
on my shoulder
and looks at the
ground. "Let
her be. Her spirit
is not at this
gathering. You
join our circle
or join Kateri.
It is completely
your choice."
This
is not how I planned
on today going.
Beyond the picnic
tables, Kateri's
talking to a couple
of dudes, the
one in the blue
shirt and another
as tall and skinny
as I am. The guy
in the blue shirt
hands over his
board and she
manuals, then
kickflips and
ollies over a
box. Like all
that matters is
the board under
her feet and the
obstacle ahead
of her, not this
gathering, not
her family, not
me.
I
walk back to the
circle with Kateri's
father, and Anna
and her mother
unclasp their
hands and take
us in.
*
* *
At
the welcome ceremony,
there's drumming
by Kinap's group.
Kateri's mother
tells me the drum
is sacred, a living
object that sends
messages to the
spirit world.
Concentrating
on the voices
of those drums,
I feel the vibrations
in my blood more
than I hear them
in my head. A
smudging ceremony
follows, sage
burned in an abalone-shell
bowl, the smoke
fanned with an
eagle feather
over each participant.
I recognize that
strong, resinous
scent from Kateri's
house, and I feel
calm and open
as the sage smoke
drifts over me.
After a couple
of elders speak
about the old
ways, good and
bad, some of the
Natives from Maine
and New Brunswick
talk about how
to work together
to reclaim their
land, while others
spread out and
share information
about the tribe
and Qonasqamcook
with the tourists
and local gawkers.
I'm
having a great
time, the sun
on my face, the
sea breeze refreshing,
everyone accepting
me. "People
will see you here
with us,"
Kateri's uncle
told me during
the drive, "you
and our other
Euro friends,
and they will
see this is not
a race issue.
Good, thoughtful
members of their
own society are
standing with
us for justice."
When
Kateri comes back,
I'm listening
to a couple of
elders tell stories
about the old
days while we
eat lunch, burgers
cooked on the
barbeques some
tribe members
brought, potato
salad, corn on
the cob, lemonade
and iced tea.
Kateri's carrying
a board, and after
she helps herself
to food and sits
down beside me,
I say, "Where'd
you get that?"
"Some
hardware store
up in town. Glenn
and Dickie picked
it out. Only forty
dollars U.S."
Sweet.
Glenn and Dickie,
friends already.
I examine the
board. It's actually
pretty good for
an off-the-shelf
model, and she'll
probably never
get to the level
where she needs
a custom job anyway.
"I
did a one-eighty
off the half-pipe,"
she says.
"Well,"
I say. "Great.
Congratulations."
"I
can't believe
you'd rather stay
here." She
picks at her potato
salad. "This
is so boring.
If my mother had
grown up on the
rez, she wouldn't
be so caught up
in all this stuff.
I mean, you want
to change things,
then do something.
Don't just dance
around smelling
smoke and beating
a drum. It's so
pointless and
passive. No wonder
the Euros stole
our land."
"I
don't think it's
boring,"
I say.
"All
I know is, I'm
going to get off
the rez,"
she says, "get
out of the whole
state of Maine,
have a normal
life. I'm going
to accomplish
things, not waste
my time worrying
about how unfair
I've been treated
because I'm Native."
Kateri spins a
wheel on her new
board. "No
one will ever
call me 'squawgirl'
again, or ask
me if I live in
a tepee, or tell
me it's not fair
we get land claims
checks every year.
Because no one
will know I'm
any different
from them."
I
suppose I could
spout any number
of sermonly chichés,
but there's no
point. "I
want you to be
happy," I
say.
"I
want you to be
happy, too."
Her smile is warm,
and we sit there
for a while, staring
across the dry
grass and pebbly
beach to the dark,
flat, surfless
ocean and the
American mainland
bulked against
the horizon. I
think about boundaries,
what keeps us
in, what keeps
us out. How Kateri's
ancestors and
family are completely
different from
mine. How Scooter
and Bimbo look
down on my kind
of surfing, and
Buddy Dexter and
I shake our heads
over theirs. But
that's just too
much heaviosity,
so I let it all
go.
Anna
comes to tell
us it's time for
the pipe ceremony.
Kateri says, "I
ignored you today,
didn't I? I can
stay with you
for the pipe,
if you want."
"I
do," I say,
and she sits beside
me as a pipe carrier
from the Owl clan
performs the ceremony
of assembling
the pipe. It passes
from hand to hand,
and when it comes
to me I suck in
just a taste,
the sacred tobacco
rough and pungent
against my tongue,
not at all like
the cigarette
I once tried that
made me green
with nausea.
On
the hour-long
drive home, Kateri
leans quietly
against my side,
her head on my
shoulder, her
new board between
her knees. I try
to imagine what
it's like to want
to deny and escape
everything you've
ever known, but
I can't get to
that place at
all.
The
van pulls up in
front of my grandparents'
house. I smooch
Kateri good night,
slide open the
door, and get
out. "Zachary,"
her father says
as I start up
the walk. I turn
back. "I
watched you today,"
he says, leaning
out the window.
"For the
government, being
Native is about
percentages. But
for us, it's not
about the Blood,
it's about the
Way. You adopt
our path, you
can be one of
us." He nods
and smiles his
slow smile, and
almost meets my
eyes.
I
nod and smile
too, and go up
the walk to the
house.
*
* *
Nonnie
and Papa want
to know all about
the day, and I
try to tell them,
but getting the
nuances right
is like trying
to grasp a handful
of water. How
can I explain
how I felt when
the abalone bowl
of burning sage
and the feather
were put into
my hands and I
smudged myself
with the sweet,
tangy smoke, felt
purified, swept
clean, fanned
by the wings of
an eagle? How
can I describe
the way the drums
spoke to my heart,
my blood? It's
easer to just
describe the ceremonies,
so I do that,
and when I'm done,
Nonnie says they'd
like to meet the
rest of Kateri's
family, they'd
like to invite
them to dinner.
My
grandparents have
always known how
to throw a party
– we spend
Christmas with
them on Beacon
Hill, and let
me tell you, that's
a scene straight
out of Charles
Dickens. So I'm
not surprised
when things kick
into high gear,
and pretty soon
a couple of girls
from Moose Island
come to clean
the house top
to bottom. The
day before the
dinner party,
Nantucket baskets
filled with dried
flower arrangements
appear, and a
humongous glass-topped
wicker table is
brought down from
the attic, put
on the back verandah,
and set with straw
placemats and
colorful Fiestaware.
I'm
so glad this isn't
the formal dining
room, crystal
and china and
three sterling
forks. Don't think
I underestimate
Nonnie and Papa's
sensitivity, because
I don't; I know
they'd never play
those see-what-we-have
or can-we-intimidate-you
games. Still,
when the van pulls
into the driveway,
I'm a little bit
wound up about
how it's all going
to go. Actually,
I'm less concerned
with what my grandparents
will think of
the Dellises,
than I am of what
the Dellises will
think of us.
But
once we settle
in on the front
verandah, Anna
and her father
and Nonnie on
the chain-swing
glider, and Papa
and Kateri's mother
in the white porch
rockers, it's
as though they've
all been friends
forever. As I
lay on the verandah
floor with my
head in Kateri's
lap, shadows lengthen
on the broad lawn
and sunset turns
the sky peach
and rose and every
color in between.
The
adults find common
ground quickly
in, of all places,
the Ivy League.
Nonnie and Papa
are Radcliffe
and Harvard, and
I find out Kateri's
parents met at
Dartmouth, which
still has a mission
to educate the
Natives. Her mother
was raised not
on the reservation,
but in Connecticut.
Kateri's grandfather,
like many Natives,
had left the reservation
for a good job
building airplane
engines at Pratt
and Whitney, and
never returned.
I see Kateri's
desire to escape
in a whole new
light, now that
I know one set
of her grandparents
also left to live
like Euros.
After
a while, we go
through the house
to the back verandah.
A first course
of crisp Caesar
salad and garlic
bread is followed
by one of Nonnie's
specialties, fresh
tuna steaks broiled
and then topped
with tomatoes
and green and
red peppers and
onions and black
olives and capers
and parsley, all
sautéed
together in olive
oil, and accompanied
by perfect risotto.
Dessert is Key
lime pie and hazelnut
coffee. Everything's
so different from
the simple food
Kateri's family
served, but I
let that thought
run out of my
brain just as
quick as it ran
in. I don't want
to think about
what divides anymore,
I don't want to
compare.
*
* *
The
second Friday
in August starts
Native American
Days, a three-day
celebration with
activities and
exhibits and a
big fireworks
finale. I want
to experience
everything, the
sunrise ceremonies,
the sweat lodge,
canoe races, storytelling,
intertribal drumming
and dancing and
singing. I'm honored
when one of the
sweat lodges invites
me to be the sacred
runner, the one
person who can
travel the path
to the fire and
carry the hot
stones. It's exhausting
but exhilarating,
and it makes me
feel that I really
do in some small
way belong. Kateri
goes shopping
for school clothes
with Lainie that
day. She says
if I'm getting
caught up in this
stuff, she'd rather
not see it.
On
Sunday, the last
night of the celebration,
everyone goes
to the fish pier
to watch the fireworks
and ground displays.
Kateri and I walk
instead to the
end of that crescent
of land where
the first Euros
landed, and lie
on a blanket on
the soft, grassy
ground next to
the beach. The
fireworks explode
above us, colorful
blossoms of light
drifting down,
extinguished in
the sea. Hard
to believe it's
almost the middle
of August, summer
going fast and
already a little
chill in the night
air. Everything
is starting to
feel like good-bye.
In
nine days, I'll
be heading home
to California.
I've been thinking
about it a lot
lately, wondering
if this has been
a summer romance,
or if Kateri and
I can manage a
long-distance
relationship.
Not that I'm going
to have anything
else going. But
Kateri will be
heading back up
north to the Maine
School of Science
and Mathematics
with gifted kids
from all over
the state. I can
see her showing
up with her skateboard
and guys who never
noticed her before
– if that's
possible –
suddenly finding
her fascinating.
It would totally
bite to have to
say final good-byes
to her and to
her family and
to this summer
world.
We
pull the blanket
around us and
cuddle close.
"It's almost
over," she
says.
I
nod, my cheek
against her hair.
"I know."
"Senior
year," she
says. "College
applications,
all that. It'll
be busy."
Does
she mean too busy
to stay in touch?
I can't ask that,
though. Instead
I say, "Do
you know where
you're going?"
"I
always planned
to go to MIT.
I really love
Boston."
She looks up at
me as a big bright
blast of fireworks
lights up the
sky. "But
I've been thinking
maybe I should
look at other
places, too. Maybe
Caltech. Or Stanford."
"Or
you might want
to stick with
MIT," I say.
"Harlow men
have been going
to Harvard since
1712, and I couldn't
escape it if I
wanted to."
She
opens my aloha
shirt and runs
her hands over
my skin. "Would
you like to make
love to me?"
she asks, and
it's so right
but so unexpected
that I don't know
what to say. For
a moment or two,
I remember the
Ramona fiasco,
and I promise
myself that's
not going to happen
again.
We
fumble around
at first, but
then we find our
rhythm, heart
to heart. When
I come this time,
I'm where I want
to be, where Kateri
wants me to be.
Afterwards,
we lie together
warm and naked,
wrapped in our
blanket. I think
about the future,
another summer,
then us together
in Cambridge,
and who knows
what after that.
Kateri will leave
the reservation
for good, and
the world will
open up for us,
and whether she
wants to or not,
she'll carry the
memory of what
she left behind.
And I will always
wonder what's
been lost.
But
right now we lie
here, breathing
in the tang of
tidal salt and
balsam and sweetgrass,
holding each other
easy and close.
In the east, over
the surfless ocean,
the moon is rising,
not quite full
yet, silver and
shadow, shining
across all the
borders of our
worlds.
©
2007 by Catherine
J.S. Lee
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