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“Our women disappear,” she says, her voice wavering but fierce, “and no one cares. No one searches. No one says their names, but I say her name.
You cannot strip us of everything. You cannot steal the prophecies that light our way.”
“The prophecies foretell a generation rising up to defend, to fight, to recover what was lost,” she says, the tears continuing in a single stream from each eye. “I am that generation.”
My mother was murdered? Taken? Stolen? Gone.
One of those “unseen” women, an unheard voice, whose disappearance wasn’t shouted about on the news or fretted over by the world. And I’ll never get over it. Not ever.
There are days when I go a few hours without thinking about it—without wondering what happened to the beautiful woman who gave so much of herself to me and everyone around her. Yeah, there are those days, but not many. Mostly there are a thousand things every d...
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I dropped her hand, broke that connection, but it doesn’t seem to matter.
She’s left her mark on me. And it’s shaped like a star.
“The politicians, the corporations, the government—they take and take and take. They promise and they lie and they trick and betray, but they never pay for crimes against us. We never get our due.”
Four in five American Indian women have experienced violence, and more than one in two have experienced sexual violence.
Grief is its own kind of intimacy, a bond of sorts between you and the one you lost.
“Ask me how many times I’ve thought about you since that protest.”
“Maybe as many times as I’ve thought of you.”
“Do they escalate in desperation?” I ask hopefully. “They do a little, yeah.” “Then I’m saving them.”
“I want it, too. I’m a girl who knows what she wants.” “I thought you were the girl who chases stars.” “What do you think I’m doing right now?”
“I hope it won’t change your mind, but some guys are weird about this kind of thing.” “I’m not some guys, and I can’t imagine there’s anything you could say that will change my mind about spending tonight with you.”
“Damn colonizers,”
There are few things more affirming than someone seeing you exactly as you aspire to be—for them to say I see that in you.
“No, I’m not that arrogant.” His lips twist in a show of self-mockery. “Okay, I am actually pretty arrogant, but no.
“He did!” She holds the screen for us to see, her face triumphant. “Two missed calls. God, that man loves me.”
“So you’re off to save the planet.” “And don’t forget I want to make a lot of money.”
“There’s only one world, Nix,” he says. A harsh laugh burns my lips, acidic and cynical. “God, you are a fool if you believe that. Every statistic, every news story, every broken promise and dead girl tells me we don’t live in the same world and we have different battles to fight. You go fight yours and leave me to fight mine.”
“She said she doesn’t help rich white boys.” He grimaces, and I laugh. “That sounds like Nix.”
“You can have her expertise.” I toss back another much-needed swig of my bourbon. “I want everything else.”
“What do you want?” “The same thing I wanted ten years ago.” I soften my tone. “A chance with you.” “Why?” “Because no one else has done what you did for me. Not before you and not since. I want to see if what we had, what we should have had, is still there.” “It’s not.” “Liar.”
“Your arrogance is truly astounding.” “Thank you for that.” “Not a compliment.”
“In what world could you possibly think I would belong to you?” “In the one we make together.”
“What does a man like me, used to getting anything he wants, do when the woman he wants more than anything won’t forgive him for a mistake when he was too stupid and too young to know better?”
“You’re being really intense right now, Doc.” “I thought you knew I’m pretty intense when it comes to you.”
