MANKATO PIGSEYE MINNESOTA 1873

Your title was chanted, each day in your head. Born of the Ojibwe tribe, it was hard not to wonder about the difference of the people beyond treaty bordered woods. The trees whispered secrets to your curious ears as you worked by the river, their leaves dancing in the wind. The sun painted the sky in shades of orange and pink each evening and you often found yourself lost in the beauty of it all. But as you listened to your elders a heavy weight settled in your heart. They told stories, stories that made you shiver about the settlers who had come from far away—people with strange clothes and even stranger ways.

Your grandmother, who had seen many summers, would sit by the fire on chilly nights, her voice low and serious. “The white men come with their machines and loud voices” she would say, her eyes reflecting the flickering flames. “They take our land and neglect our way of life. They do not understand us and they do not care.” You listened closely, your mind scattered with images of these supposed settlers. You had imagined them as giants stomping over the earth uprooting the plants and animals she loved.

As you grew, your heart filled with both fear and curiosity. You often sat by the river, wondering what life might be like beyond the trees and hills you knew so well. The stories your grandmother told were harsh and filled with warnings. “Stay close to home ” your mother would remind you. “Trust only our people. ” You understood that these warnings came from a place of love but you also yearned to understand the world beyond your tribe.

One night, you waited for the earth to smell real again. For the forests to cool and exhale from the sun’s fervent heat. For the lull in the elders’ pacing. That was when the walls of your inheritance seemed softest, giving you a chance to breathe. That was when you could slip past the final tree marking sign of the treaty, crossing your small area of land and into the more fair fresher trees instead. Your tautly tied moccasins would whisper and scrape at the twigs and stones adorning the lush, feathery, grass.

The moon was half lit, casting enough glow to perfectly see your surroundings. Though you didn’t need it, you’ve passed this land more than you could count, almost perfectly memorizing each tree, each root of the ground, the bumps and slopes of uneven ground. Each rough anchor of soil bounding the roots of trees all came to you naturally, you knew exactly where to navigate. Your mind almost went on peaceful autopilot as you wandered further into the forest before abruptly ending as you bumped into a tall frame. The collision knocked you both off of your footing, you recovered rather earlier than him, catching a haste glimpse of his face. The moon’s now thankful light assisting your glance. His skin was pale, his eyes were light, and your breath caught in your throat along with your heart dropping in commitment to your careless lungs.

He was most certainly not one of your people.

His eyes—light, thoughtful—met yours, and for a moment the world seemed as if it tilted a little off its axis. He blinked once, maybe twice, then exhaled softly,

“I’m sorry, I didn’t startle you, did I?”