Liz's story is untitled. It may not be published elsewhere without her written permission.
It’s so dark. Sitting in the back of the car, I look out my window and see nothing, just blackness. The moon is dark, and we are miles away from the small town of
Going out late like this is not something I usually do. I don’t go out and party like a lot of teenagers do. But tonight is different. Our reason for being out late is different. Everyone is sober. Our elders tell us that alcohol on your breath is disrespectful in a sacred place. This place is not sacred, but what we are about to do is, in a way, sacred, as we go forth to protect and protest that which oppressed and oppresses our sacred ways of being. Being, that is, Pueblo Indian.
I am from Nambe and Ohkay Owingeh. When we eat, we remember to give food to our ancestors. I can see vividly my grandmother cooking and humming to herself, songs that mean nothing and everything. She stops to pick up a tiny piece of bread or meat and offers it, in our way, to our ancestors. Her brown hands are no longer clad with jewelry like mine are; hers are old and bare, wearing only their wrinkles.
She is old now. She couldn’t carry what I have to carry tonight. I unload the box with the heavy battery inside. In the darkness it takes me a few seconds to find the carrying handle. I am nervous, my heart pounding. The last thing I want is a criminal record. That could destroy everything I have worked for, leaving home to get an education at a school that prepares me to fight for our people.
Will pulls out a chainsaw and shuts the trunk. The sound of it slamming echoes out through the valley. All three of us flinch, the sound was too loud, but the empty darkness kills it slowly. Donald almost scolds him, but he knows better than to make any more noise. I stumble on the curb. It is so dark, I can’t see anything. But Will puts a hand on my shoulder and leads me toward the statue. Standing 12 feet high, Don Juan de Oñate is in full uniform and mounted on his horse. I wonder if that’s what he really looked like, or if they used some random model for the statue. Is this the face of a killer? A man who, because we refused to give him grain, ordered the enslavement of
Will feels around for Onate’s foot, finds it, and turns on the saw.
It is a small victory, but we live for these small victories. Not enough people care about the troubles of Indian country. If our little bit of vandalism makes the papers nationally, maybe a few people will learn who Onate was to us, and why his foot is significant. And pueblo people who pass the statue will feel the same victory we feel, and know why. We did this for the