But I try to stay positive. I try to focus on the people I have, rather than those who are missing. I try to focus on the future ahead of us, rather than the past.
I grab the small, wrapped box for Mom, plus the handmade card to go along with it. And I hope—with every ounce of love in my heart—that she will be proud of what I made for her.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to check the message.
Roger: Tell your mom I say happy b-day! And good luck with the surprise presentation ☺
I text back, Thanks! Fingers crossed.
As I head back outside, Mom greets me with a wide grin. “Well, what do we have here?”
Serenity pipes up. “Open it and find out, Mrs. Green!”
Mom chuckles. “All right. The card goes first.”
I plop back down in my chair and watch as she holds the front cover up for everyone to see. It’s simple cursive, and reads, Happy Birthday, Mom! I love you.
“Very nice, Edie,” Dad says, nodding his approval.
Mom turns the card around to face her again, and she gasps as she opens it.
“Oh, honey. It’s amazing. I love it.”
She holds the card open and shows the interior pages. It’s a portrait-landscape drawing, featuring everyone around this table: Mom, Dad, Uncle Phil, Serenity, and me. In the drawing, we’re standing together along the edge of the water, in front of the Indianola cabin. I colored the background in pretty shades of blue and green. And I really have gotten better at illustrating people. Everyone is clearly recognizable.
“I want my own version of that drawing,” Uncle Phil declares. “I want an exact copy, so that I can hang it up beside my painting of William.”
“We’ll be sure to get you one,” Mom promises.
As she turns her attention to her gift, Dad catches my gaze with a sly grin. Serenity gives my shoulder a nudge, and we exchange secret smiles, too. They both know what’s inside the box. They’re probably just as excited for her reaction as I am.
Mom opens the wrapping paper with a clean rip.
The box is tiny enough to fit in her palm. It has no labels, no markings to hint at what’s inside. It looks to be about the size of a jewelry gift box.
She lifts the lid. Her eyes widen as she removes the little rectangular piece of paper.
Uncle Phil squints. “What is it, Lisa?”
She blinks. Gives a small, breathy laugh. Turns the paper around for him to see. “It’s a movie ticket,” she says. “To an exclusive preview of their short film. Tonight.”
Serenity and I both start giggling, out of nerves and excitement.
“I thought you said you weren’t finished yet!” Mom cries. “The film festival is two days away, and you had me convinced!”
“The girls finished their work last week,” Dad tells her. “And I finalized my video editing duties yesterday. We wanted to surprise you.”
“It certainly worked. And it says here, the screening will happen ‘immediately after cake’?”
“That’s right,” I say.
Mom flashes another grin. “Why wait? Let’s eat our cake and watch the film, too.”
Serenity and I erupt in cheers. My heart beats fast, a little frantic. I wonder what she’ll think of it.
We each bring our slices of cake and scoops of ice cream inside. I sit on the couch, sandwiched between my parents. Uncle Phil takes the rocking chair in the corner. Serenity sits cross-legged on the floor in front of me.
Dad already has everything all set up. He exported the video onto a DVD, so all we need to do is turn the TV on, switch to HDMI-3, and hit play.
The film begins with the title in crisp white letters, over a black screen:
Bruno Goes Home
A short film by Edie Green and Serenity Jones
The title screen fades away.
Serenity’s voice says, “Once upon a time, there was a little dog named Bruno.”
As she speaks, my animation fades into focus. Bruno sits on his haunches, in the middle of a blurry, pencil-sketched marketplace. But despite the bustling crowd and Bruno’s wagging tail, it’s clear the dog is alone. No one comes to give Bruno pets or belly rubs. No one walks over to say hello.
“One day, Bruno lost his family in the middle of a crowded marketplace. He wandered around, in search of the people he belonged to. But they were nowhere to be found.”
Her narration stops for a moment, as the story focuses on the drawings. Bruno walks around the marketplace with hopeful eyes and drooping ears. His movements are choppy, never smooth, but I still think I did a good job animating him.
“Bruno searched the city streets, and the tall buildings . . .”
On-screen, Bruno is pictured running down the rain-slick Seattle sidewalks. Pedestrians avoid Bruno, shielding their faces with their black umbrellas, stepping out of the way when he stops to shake the raindrops from his fur.
“Bruno searched the sandy beaches, and the public parks . . .”
On-screen, Bruno wanders through Golden Gardens. Bruno’s too-enthusiastic tail knocks a plastic pail over in the sand, and accidentally levels an entire sandcastle. This time, a crowd of people start shooing the poor dog away from the beach, gesturing angrily with their hands. Bruno scampers off with his tail tucked between his legs.
Mom sighs beside me, sympathetic.
“Bruno was bullied and ostracized, alone and afraid. The city was a large and unforgiving place. Especially for those who seemed different. Especially for those who had no family, no community.”
The graphite in the illustrations darkens to show that it’s nighttime. Bruno curls up beneath an abandoned bench.
Uncle Phil points at the TV with his spoon. “These drawings are incredible, Edie.”
I feel myself blush. “We haven’t even gotten to the colorful ones yet, Uncle Phil.”
“Doesn’t matter, kiddo. It’s absolutely unbelievable that a couple of twelve-year-olds made this. You and Serenity will get a grand prize for this. Mark my words.”
His words make me smile, even though prizes don’t mean much to me. Sure, it would be cool if my work is recognized. But at the end of the day, I don’t think I illustrated this short film to impress other people. More than anything, I just wanted my mom and my loved ones to see it.
And I want them to see how it ends. The ending is the part that matters most.
“Until one day,” Serenity’s voice narrates, “Bruno found a ferry.”
On-screen, Bruno’s surroundings brighten to signify the beginning of a new day. Bruno creeps out from underneath the bench, stretching his legs. He looks out at something in the distance with a cocked head.
The point of view switches to show the ferry, gliding across the bright blue water. In the distance beyond, the hills and mountains are visible.
The point of view turns back to Bruno, whose tail is wagging again.
“And Bruno thought, ‘Maybe if I take the ferry, I’ll find the people I’ve been looking for!’”
We watch as Bruno scurries down the winding road and boards the boat. The ferry begins its journey, and Bruno stretches up on his back legs, balancing his paws against the railing. His tongue lolls out the side of his mouth as the boat makes its way across the Puget Sound.
Except, instead of arriving in Kingston like it normally would, this one travels all the way to the historic site of Old Man House. Except, in this version of events, Old Man House was never destroyed. It never became a public park on the Agate Passage.
In our short film, Old Man House still exists. And Bruno has arrived, just in time for a huge potluck.
When Bruno joins the Suquamish and Duwamish families on the beach, the drawings finally shift to full color. The water becomes rich and blue, the trees turn green, the mountains in the distance are indigo. There are little kids and elders, people dressed in traditional regalia, and people dressed in sundresses and jeans and T-shirts.
My own family is there. Just like in Mom’s birthday card, our
presence is obvious.
“And that was how Bruno found his way home!”
The screen fades to black.
Everybody sets their cake slices aside to applaud as the screen fades to black, even though the film technically isn’t over. We still have the dedication left.
Within seconds, it appears:
This film was created in loving memory of
Edith Graham
(1952–1992)
Gone, but never forgotten
And that’s when the tears fill my eyes.
I can’t go back in time. I can’t undo the wrong things that were done. I can’t give her the roles she wanted. I can’t ever write her a letter. I can’t even let her know how proud I am to be named after her.
But I can give her this dedication. I can make this promise: that she might be gone, but she will never be forgotten.
Mom whispers, “That was beautiful, Edie.”
They all come to me, hugging me and embracing me. My parents, my uncle, my best friend.
And in this moment, I feel so full. So full and loved and sure of myself.
I finally know where I’m from. And I’ll carry this place and these people with me, wherever I go.
Author’s Note
As the daughter of a Native American Upper Skagit/Nooksack/Blackfeet/Nez Perce adoptee, I drew inspiration from my own life and my family’s history while writing this book. I also gathered information from a variety of other sources. There are several references to real-world events, people, and places within these pages.
Sacheen Littlefeather is one famous example. She was the first person to ever give a political speech at the Academy Awards, though many activists have followed her lead since then. In the documentary Reel Injun (2009), Sacheen candidly reflects on her experience at the Oscars, and the impact this speech had on her life and career.
The demonstrations at Wounded Knee and Fort Lawton—which Uncle Theo fictionally participated in—were also real. The goal of the siege of Fort Lawton was to establish an urban center for Seattle’s Native population, which had grown in the aftermath of Relocation and Termination policies in the 1950s. The Daybreak Star Indian Cultural Center exists today because of these efforts. The United Indians of All Tribes Foundation was granted a ninety-nine-year lease from the City of Seattle; hopefully this agreement will be renewed and supported for future generations.
The proposed Pebble mine at Bristol Bay is never directly addressed in this novel. However, through Edie’s conversations with Uncle Phil, his backstory as a commercial fisherman in Alaska, and the salmon motif within the text, it feels important to mention the fight to protect the Bristol Bay watershed. A coalition of Alaska Native communities, commercial fishermen, sport fishing and hunting organizations, chefs and restaurant owners, churches, environmentalists, etc. all stand together in opposition to the Pebble mine. To learn more about their collective actions throughout the 2010s, please visit: www.savebristolbay.org.
Furthermore, the tribal nations mentioned throughout this book all exist. Almost all of them belong to the Coast Salish region, and have lived and thrived in the Pacific Northwest since time immemorial. Some are federally recognized, while others have been stripped of that status, due to broken treaties and legal complications. If you live in the Seattle area, it’s possible you live in occupied Duwamish lands. To learn more and show your support for the People of the Inside, please visit: www.duwamishtribe.org. I would also recommend viewing the documentary films Princess Angeline (2010) and Promised Land (2016).
Old Man House was also a real place. Archaeological investigations support the deep histories of this site, as described and shared within Coast Salish societies. The longhouse was destroyed in 1870, and its residents were harshly displaced; Suquamish members rebuilt their village and lived there for a short while after the burning, but the government had other plans. The jurisdiction changed over the years—with allotments among Suquamish families in the late 1800s, to the US War Department in 1904, to private developers, and to the Washington Parks and Recreation Department. This land wasn’t formally returned to the Suquamish Tribe until August 12, 2004.
The procession of canoes in Chapter 34 was inspired by the Tribal Canoe Journeys, an annual tradition among Native Nations of the Pacific Northwest. The modern revival of these Canoe Journeys began in 1989, with the “Paddle to Seattle” in honor of the Washington State Centennial Accord. Each year, Native Nations from the coastal areas of Alaska, British Columbia, and Washington participate. The canoes travel to multiple locations throughout the region, before converging at a final host destination. In 2009, the Suquamish Tribe hosted the Canoe Journey in their House of Awakened Culture, where they welcomed over six thousand guests.
The Indian Child Welfare Act of 1978 is a vital piece of legislation. It helps to keep Native families and communities intact, after generations of forced removal. The goal of these coerced adoptions was to assimilate Native people into American society, at the expense of tribal nations. Almost all of the adoptees experienced the loss of their cultures, their identities, and the complex relationships that build the foundation of Native societies.
In the article “Native Americans Expose the Adoption Era and Repair Its Devastation,” which was written by Stephanie Woodard and published in Indian Country Today, the following was stated: “During the adoption era almost any issue—from minor to serious—could precipitate the loss of an Indian child. Two Native people interviewed . . . said they were separated from their families after hospital stays as young children, one for a rash, the other for tuberculosis. A third was seized at his babysitter’s home; when his mother tried to rescue him, she was jailed, he said. A fourth recalled that he was taken after his father died, though his mother did not want to give him up. A fifth described being snatched, along with siblings, because his grandfather was a medicine man who wouldn’t give up his traditional ways.” These real-life examples illustrate only a few of the reasons why Native children might have been transferred into adoptive homes or foster care.
It is my sincere hope that the ICWA will never be repealed.
Acknowledgments
Typing the word Acknowledgments in Microsoft Word is so surreal. I must apologize in advance for the excessive exclamation points. I’ll try to rein myself in, but I’m an extremely excitable and emotional person, so I can’t make any promises! (Hah!)
To Rosemary Brosnan: When Suzie told me you made an offer on my manuscript, I had to pinch myself. I’m still pinching myself. Thank you for seeing some potential in a newbie like me, and for believing in Edie’s story from the start. You make me feel like a braver and more capable writer. I’m so grateful for your kindness, your great laugh, and your brilliant mind. I’m learning from the best of the best!
And to everyone else at HarperCollins Children’s Books: a million thanks for the million things that happen in the publication process. Courtney Stevenson, you brighten my inbox. Ann Dye, Emma Meyer, and Olivia Russo, thank you for working so hard to help Edie find her audience. Patty Rosati and Rebecca McGuire, thank you for being fantastic brunch companions, and also for bringing my book into schools and libraries. Kristen Eckhardt, Laura Harshberger, and Gweneth Morton, thank you for overseeing the production process. Sarah Kaufman, your design work is truly visionary. Thank you for everything. Edie found an excellent home with all of you!
To Michaela Goade (Tlingit): Your cover art is a deeply cherished gift. I wrote an entire blog post about it, so you already know how much I love it. I raise my hands to you. Thank you!
To Suzie Townsend: I’m absolutely convinced that I have the best agent in the business. Thank you for championing my work, for celebrating every milestone, and for the wonderfully random topics we discuss sometimes. (Like the sheep in Iceland! And the stuff about Twilight!) You make my wildest dreams come true.
Additional thanks go to Suzie’s former assistant, Sara Stricker, who plucked my little manuscript out of the slush pile. And big, big thanks to everyon
e else at New Leaf Literary!
To my parents: Mom, thank you for encouraging me to write a story loosely based on our experiences. I couldn’t have done this without your permission and enthusiasm. Dad, thank you for always believing I’d make it as a published author. I might have dedicated this book to the mothers and grandmothers, but I hope you know this one’s for you, too. I love you both. Thank you for raising me and supporting me in everything I do.
To my sister: Like a pile. (Inside joke.) Love you, Jen!
To my husband: I love you so much, Mazen! Thank you for seeing me the way I want to be seen, and for keeping me sane and steady when I need a deep breath, or a cup of coffee. Every word I write is actually a love letter to you. Thank you for challenging me when I settle into my comfort zone for too long. Thank you for reminding me that life should be fun, when the stress starts to compound. Thank you for making me laugh, every single day. Thank you for agreeing to be my partner in everything.
To my in-laws: Mado, Elias, Christina, Josh, my nieces. I’m so lucky to have you guys in my life! Thank you for your warmth and love and unconditional support over the years.
To Dr. Luana Ross and Daniel Hart: I’m indebted to you both. Thank you for helping me reconnect with Native communities in really big, tangible ways. Thank you for mentoring me, and for presenting me with intellectual challenges and new ways of thinking. (Or new to me, at least!) And of course, for being the officiants at my wedding. You were brilliant.
To the University of Washington Department of American Indian Studies: I met so many wonderful folks in grad school. Special thanks to Dr. Christopher Teuton, Cynthia Updegrave, and Elissa Washuta for the field trip to the historic site of Old Man House. And to Ed Carriere, the Suquamish Elder who hosted us there. As I’m sure you can tell—given the contents of this book—that trip made a big impression on me. Thank you for teaching me to find ancient roots and sacredness in seemingly contemporary, colonized spaces. I would also like to thank Virginia Adams and Danielle Morsette, two Suquamish weavers who met with me when I was working on my thesis. I’m so grateful for your time, your generosity, and your wisdom. I also visited two weavers from the Squamish Nation, Skwetsimeltxw Willard “Buddy” Joseph and Chepximiya Siyam’ Chief Janice George. Thank you for welcoming me into your home, and sharing your words with me. Lastly, I would like to recognize my small but mighty cohort from the Native Voices program, Tara and Rafa.
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