Lauren TinerUnit Plan – 5/17Teaching WritingDr. Meg Petersen

Unit Title: Our Environments & Ourselves - Writing to Uncover Connections between Character Behavior and Societal Standards

Intended Audience: Our Environments & Ourselves targets high school juniors and seniors who opt to take a themed writing class. I would imagine that such a specified writing class at a high school level would also serve as an elective. The content of this class would best be served in 90 minute blocks throughout the unit, allowing for reading, writing, and response during class time.

Introduction/Rationale: I would hope that students would learn the core elements of a story and craft of fiction writing by reading related texts, viewing a film, and by producing their own character sketches and eventually the final product: a short story demonstrating this awareness of environment. Students should also understand the concept of environmental conflicts such as man vs. society and nurture vs. nature and develop on awareness of the connection between character behaviors and apply this connection to their own fictional writing, and also to the present world we live within.

Materials: Materials would include writing exercises from What if? Writing Exercises for Fiction Writers by Anne Bernays and Pamela Painter, The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven (short story collection) by Sherman Alexie, The Lottery by Shirley Jackson, Smoke Signals (film) produced by Sherman Alexie and Chris Eyre, character description worksheets, peer response/peer editing worksheets, sheets on key elements of a story, hand-outs on editing vs. revising, hand-outs on the concept of man vs. society, hand-outs on questions of assigned readings, a portfolio outline and reflections worksheet, and computers with internet access.

Essential Questions: How does our social and cultural community shape who we are? In what ways are we shaped by the place in which we grew up? How do we, in turn, impact our societies that we learn to identify ourselves by? How can writing help us understand other points of view? What is environment, and how do we come to view our own environments as different

than others? How is the concept of nature vs. nurture indistinguishable from the other? Are characters lives and outcomes predetermined by their fictional environment, and how

can this concept be illustrated in a short story?

Learning Goals:

Students will be able to discuss the implications of culture and society within assigned texts including The Lottery and The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven (list above).

Students will be able to decipher the role of environment within the text, understand how it shapes a character, and apply this understanding to their own writing, and discuss how environment can shape a character.

Students will be able to reflect on the writing process and apply the key elements of a story to their own writing.

Students will compose a short fiction story, demonstrating the core theme within this particular course.

Students will produce a final portfolio and be able to reflect on their final short story and theme of the course.

Standards: Write narratives to develop real or imagined experiences or events using effective

technique, well-chosen details, and well-structured event sequences. Engage and orient the reader by setting out a problem, situation, or observation and its

significance, establishing one or multiple point(s) of view, and introducing a narrator and/or characters; create a smooth progression of experiences or events.

Use narrative techniques, such as dialogue, pacing, description, reflection, and multiple plot lines, to develop experiences, events, and/or characters.

Use a variety of techniques to sequence events so that they build on one another to create a coherent whole and build toward a particular tone and outcome (e.g., a sense of mystery, suspense, growth, or resolution).

Use precise words and phrases, telling details, and sensory language to convey a vivid picture of the experiences, events, setting, and/or characters.

Develop and strengthen writing as needed by planning, revising, editing, rewriting, or trying a new approach, focusing on addressing what is most significant for a specific purpose and audience.

Write routinely over extended time frames (time for research, reflection, and revision) and shorter time frames (a single sitting or a day or two) for a range of tasks, purposes.

Unit Overview:Day 1: o Introduction to the class theme, “Our Environment’s and Ourselves,” and to the texts

listed above, as well as class expectations. Conduct a brief writing prompt based on theme, and collect at the end of class.

Day 2:o Hand back writing prompts with comments. Introduce the elements of a story and

theme. Ask students to think about the theme of the class, and to brainstorm ideas for their own fictional short stories to share next class. Assign first reading for The Lottery (due Friday).

Day 3:o Conduct group discussions on brainstorming lists, and then story introduction

exercises and examples. Continue assigned Lottery reading, with class theme in mind. First paragraphs due tomorrow.

Day 4:o Peer response workshop. Brief introduction to development of character and setting

within a story. Collect first paragraphs, check off, and hand back Monday with comments.

Day 5:o Analysis hand-out and discussion of today’s assigned reading, The Lottery.

Character development exercises in class. Character description hand-out due Monday, plus Sherman Alexie short story, Every Little Hurricane.

Day 6:o Discussion on assigned reading and brief bio of Sherman Alexie. Share a few

(student) character description examples in class. Work on second short story assignment – two to four pages – in computer lab for remainder of class time.

Day 7:o Meet in classroom to lay out remainder of week’s schedule and address

concerns/questions students may have. Spend remainder of time at computer lab working on stories. Conduct one on one teacher conferences during this block.

Day 8: o Conduct writing exercise on dialogue at beginning of class. Complete teacher

conferences during remainder of computer lab time. Day 9: o Play clips of film, Smoke Signals with pauses for discussion. Two – four pages due

on Friday. Remind students of expectations for each assignment. Day 10: o Collect second short story assignment and return Monday with comments (ask for

two hard copies). Peer editing workshop. Reading assignment Indian Education due on Monday. Discuss final portfolio expectations due next Friday and present hand-outs.

Day 11:o Hand back story assignment (copies with comments). Use for today’s revision

exercises. Discuss previous reading. Watch remainder of clips from Smoke Signals and end with free write.

Day 12:o Work on conclusions of stories in class. Conduct an exercise which aims to conclude

a story’s “final meaning.” First draft of final short story due tomorrow. Day 13:o Collect first draft of final short story – have back tomorrow with final comments on

conclusion. Review the essential elements of a short story, and any grammar that may need to be addressed. Conduct an optional conference with students or their peers.

Day 14: o Remind students of all elements due in the final portfolio tomorrow. Give students

time work on final portfolio in computer lab, and offer guidance. Day 15:o Final Portfolio due, including a fictional, themed short story, and a reflections essay.

Allow students to share excerpts of work out loud during class time. Collect

materials, and conclude class with a discussion of each students experience with the writing process and experience in this unit.

Pre-assessment: Assign writing samples at the beginning of the unit as a form of pre-assessment.

Assessment: Participation:

o Peer revision/peer response along with editing, revision, and character development exercises. Strike meaningful discussions or pose relevant questions on the multiple readings/films assigned in class, as well as discussion on key elements of a story. Be prepared to answer questions about reading assignments in class.

Short Story:o The first paragraph, the first two to four pages and then the conclusion of the short

story will be due in increments. These writing pieces should demonstrate the elements of a story, including the beginning, middle, and ends scenes.

o The beginning scenes should present a deciding character, their governing characteristics, and include a problem, a suggested solution, minor characters, causative situation, and point of view.

o The middle scenes should present interference, a second suggested solution, other interferences, and a final solution.

o The end scenes should present the result of the final solution and tie up looses ends of the story.

o These scenes, also illustrating a character’s particular setting/environment, must possess a certain time, place, mood, (character’s) purpose, point of view, and the use of detail and the six senses including visuals, smell, hearing, touch, and taste.

o Characters must also be fully developed within scenes, and within their particular environment being represented, from physical descriptions, to age (hair, eyes, complexion, etc.) family/friends/relationships, job, birthplace, typical choice of clothing socio-economic background, and general philosophy on life.

Post-Assessment: Final Portfolio:

o The assessment at the end of the fiction unit must encompass a final draft of a short story demonstrating the themes of class, proper grammar, and an understanding of key elements of a story as stated above, along with a reflections essay on the course theme and the students experience as a writer within the course. Criteria and assessment follows.

Lesson Plan --

Day 1: Introduction to Our Environments and Ourselves

Objectiveso Students will be able to demonstrate class expectations within their first writing

assignments.o Students will begin to grapple the elements of fiction, a short story, and how

environment and societal implications in a story impact characters.o Students will be able to articulate their thoughts on the theme through a writing

prompt, and come to a better understanding through the act of writing.

Key Questionso Are the students clear on class expectations and on working within the class

theme?o What are the key elements of a story?o How can writing help us understand other societies/cultures?o What is environment, and how can this be represented in a fictional story?

Procedureo I will explain the theme of the class to the students, and what I will expect from

the students during this class. o Students will be introduced to Writing Exercises for Fiction Writers, (a teacher’s

reference) Sherman Alexie’s anthology The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven, the concept of the Alexie’s co-produced film Smoke Signals, and Shirley’s Jackson’s short story The Lottery.

o Students will be made aware of a final portfolio due at the end of the unit.o I will put writing prompts on the board, and collect the free-writes at the end of

class. o The prompt may go as follows: How does our social and cultural community

shape who we are? Where have you seen evidence of the class theme with fictional stories?

Day 2: The Elements of a Fiction Story

Objectives:o Students will be able to identify and define the key elements of a story.o Students will be able to articulate their interpretation of the class theme.o By brainstorming and discussing story ideas with peers, students will take

ownership of their own writing process and production of their short story.

Key Questions:o What are the elements of a short story?o What constitutes a good story?

o How is the pre-writing process going so far for students? Procedure:

o I will hand back writing prompts with my comments at the beginning of class. The class will then focus on the introduction of elements in a story, and expected elements in all three short story assignments leading up to the final draft in the portfolio.

o I will hand out a worksheet focused on the key elements of a story, the key elements on theme, and also a hand out on the elements of a good story, and we will review these key elements.

o Students will participate in a writing exercise to get the juices going, focused on the writing exercise “What If?” Students will the share their ideas with others.

o For the next class, students must conjure up and print out a brain storm list for story ideas loosely based off the class theme.

o I will also hand out copies of The Lottery and asked students to read the story (due Friday) with the class theme, the elements of a story, and their own future story in mind.

Day 3: Brainstorming

Objectives:o Students will be able to brainstorm and articulate original story ideas.o Students will be able to identify and demonstrate a strong story beginning, which

lends itself to a larger story.o Students will be able to connect the class theme to The Lottery.

Key Questions:o How are students doing with the brainstorming process?o Can students identify strong story introductions in example works?o What are the key elements to creating the beginning of a story?

Procedure:o Students will share their brainstorming lists with other students, give feedback,

and jot down several more ideas.o I will discuss story introductions with students and hand out strong examples of

first sentences and first paragraphs within a story.o I will then ask students to participate in a writing exercise from Writing Exercises

for Fiction Writers, based on the key elements of starting a story and getting the brain juices flowing.

o Students will continue to read The Lottery outside of class with the theme in mind. I will then remind students that their first paragraphs are due tomorrow. Students should also bring extra hard copies to class.

Day 4: Peer Response

Objectives:

o Students will be able to apply constructive criticism to peer papers.o Students will be able to point out strengths and weaknesses of peer work with tact

and thoughtfulness in mind.o Students will be able to identify and apply the key elements of character

development and setting in a story.

Key Questions:o How did the experience of responding to their peers work go?o Is peer response helpful to the students as writers? How could it be more helpful?o What constitutes a good, fully rounded character in a story?o How can a writer develop setting in a story?

Procedure:o I will hand out peer response sheets during a workshop, and ask students to pass

out multiple copies of the first paragraph assignment for peer review. Students will go by the sheet, and respond to their peers paragraphs in writing.

o We will then review the key elements of developing character and setting within a story, in hopes that students will apply this to their own stories.

o I will answer any questions students may have so far and collect first paragraphs to hand back with comments for Monday.

Day 5: Character Development and Reading Discussions

Objectives:o Students will be able to discuss the themes of social implications, setting, and

environment with The Lottery.o Students will be able to explain how this impacts character development and the

behavior of the main characters.o Students will take ownership of their own characters within their developing

stories.

Key Questions:o In what ways were the characters within The Lottery shaped by the place they

grew up in/live in?o How are the characters developed within The Lottery?o What are the struggles with developing an original character?o What is the importance of the character’s background, home town, social status,

job, family, friends, attitude and more within a story?

Procedure:o I will hand out a brief analysis of The Lottery to go over with students, to help

enhance their understanding of the story.o We will the discussed our assigned reading in relation to the class theme, and

transition into character development within the story.

o I will hand out a character development exercise to work on and share in class, and hand out another character description worksheet to be completed for Monday.

o Students will also read Sherman Alexie’s story Every Little Hurricane for Monday, and be able to discuss the story on Monday. Note: students could be subject to pop quizzes after every reading, based on participation in class.

Day 6: Character Description and Hurricane

Objectives:o Students will be able to discuss Every Little Hurricane, and identify key elements

of a story, scene, and character development within the text.o Students will be able to distinguish the different between strong and weak

character description examples based on anonymous student samples.o Students will be able to guide themselves through the brink of the writing process.

Key Questions:o How does Every Little Hurricane draw on the class theme? Describe the main

characters?o What distinguishes strong/weak character description within the story, and within

peer work?

Procedure:o I will hand out a brief biography of Sherman Alexie and discuss Hurricane, with

theme in mind. o After a group discussion, students will be encouraged to share a few examples

from their character description worksheets.o The remainder of the block will be spent working on the second short story

assignment – two to four pages – in the computer lab.

Day 7: Story Development

Objectives: o Students will continue to work at, and come to identify their own writing process

through various assignments, which lead to a final assessment.

Key Questions:o What will help the student continue on to the next short story assignment?

Procedure:o We will meet in class briefly to discuss the remainder of the week’s schedule and

address any questions/concerns. o Students will spend the remainder of the block at the computer lab.o I will begin one-on-one teacher conferences with each student, based on their

current writing pieces.

Day 8: Developing Dialogue

Objectives:o Students will learn the elements of dialogue through reading and various

exercises.o Students will apply effective, natural sounding dialogue to their own stories.o Student will develop as self-sufficient, organized writers.

Key Questions:o How is dialogue useful and effective in both Lottery and Hurricane?o How does dialogue lend itself to the characters and setting?o Where is the student in the writing process?

Procedure:o I will hand out a dialogue exercise for students to complete at the beginning of

class.o We will discuss the importance of dialogue within stories, in regards to tone and

the hints that dialogue can send the reader about a character.o Students will spend the remainder of the block on the computer lab, where I will

finish up conferences.

Day 9: Film Viewing

Objectives:o Students will be able to make connections between the film Smoke Signals and

Sherman Alexie short stories read in class. o Students will be able to articulate and re-cap clips of the film during a class

discussion. o Students will be able to distinguish the elements of story with the film, and how

this differs from the elements of a story.

Key Questions:o How does the film Smoke Signals differ from the short stories reading in class?o Is the character/setting betrayed differently?o Does the film ultimately have the same meaning as related meanings?o How could this film/Alexie’s short stories connected to Shirley Jackson’s The

Lottery?

Procedure:o I will begin class with a brief overview/background of the film before playing

clips of Smoke Signals. o During the end of relevant scenes, I will stop the film to ask for student reactions,

and at the end of the class, ask students to draw connections to the texts read in class.

o At the end of class, I will remind students that their second short story assignment, two – four pages, is due tomorrow, and remind them of expectations.

o Ask students to bring in multiple hard copies of story assignment for an exercise tomorrow.

Day 10: Peer Editing vs. Revising

Objectives:o Students will be able to distinguish the difference between editing and revising

through a peer workshop.o Students will be able to respond to the work of their peers with thoughtful

relevant comments and constructive criticism.

Key Questions:o How do the students feel about their second short story assignments? How did

this experience differ from their first paragraph assignment?o Is there a difference between editing and revising? What is the proper way to

respond to a peer’s paper?o Does the class understand the upcoming portfolio assignment (next Friday)?

Procedure:o At the beginning of class, collect a clean hard copy of each student writing assignment,

and get responses from the students on their frustrations or enlightened with the progress of their stories.

o Hand out a peer editing worksheet, discuss and complete the exercise. If students finish early, ask them to draw from a pile or switch copies with another finished student.

o Prompt a brief discussion on the difference between editing vs. revising. o Hand out Indian Education reading assignment due Monday.o Hand out and explain portfolio hand out final assignment, due next Friday (final day of

unit).

Day 11: Invisible Revision

Objectives:o Students will learn to revise papers by through exercises, rather than editing.o Students will be able to articulate/re-cap Indian Education and make connections

to the texts in the class, and also draw on the theme during their explanations.o Students will come to understand the film through a free-write/reflection at the

end of class.

Key Questions:o What is revision, and how was revision completed through class exercises?o What are the essential themes in Indian Education, how do they apply to the class

theme, and how can they be applied to the students own stories?

o What conclusions did the student come to after completing a free write in class in response to the film/reading assignment?

Procedure:o Hand back story assignments in class with teacher comments. o Conduct a revision exercise by oral instruction.

o Finish viewing of Smoke Signals and ask students to do a free write. Specify that you will collect, but not grade a free write, to get a better perspective of everyone’s understanding in the class.

Day 12: Final Meaning

Objectives:o Students will be able to draw an essential meaning from their own stories.o Students will be able to create a story conclusion that reinforces or creates

meaning.

Key Questions:o What is the meaning of your story? Can you detect meaning through your theme?o How do you conclude a story?o What are the key elements of the ending scene of a story?

Procedure:o After conducting an exercise which aims to conclude a story’s final meaning at

the beginning of class, students will workshop their own conclusions.o Students will be reminded that the first draft of the short story, including

conclusion, is due tomorrow.

Day 13: Conclusions

Objectives:o Students will come to understand the final elements of a story.

Key Questions:o What are the essential elements of a story?o Any questions or clarifications on the final portfolio assignment? o Any grammar issues that need to be addressed?o Do students need more one-on-one feedback on stories?

Procedure: o At the beginning of class, collect the first draft of final short stories and hand back

tomorrow with comments.o Do a brief review on the board on the essential elements of a story, and any mini

grammar lessons needed.

o For the remainder of class, hold an optional one-on-one conference with students.

Day 14:

Procedure:o At beginning of class, remind students of all elements due in portfolio tomorrow. o Give students time to work on stories and reflections for portfolio in computer

lab.o Offer guidance to students with questions, or who seem off track.

Day 15: Final Day of Unit – Portfolios Due

Procedure:o Final portfolio due today including fictional, themed short story and a reflections

essay.o Before collecting portfolios, ask students to share an excerpt out loud from their

work. o Collect materials and conclude class with a discussion of each students experience

with the writing process and in this unit.

Unit Plan Appendix:

What Makes a Good Story?

Good writers often break rules—but they know they’re doing it! Here are some good rules to know.

Theme

A theme is something important the story tries to tell us—something that might help us in our own lives. Not every story has a theme, but it’s best if it does.

Don’t get too preachy. Let the theme grow out of the story, so readers feel they’ve learned it for themselves. You shouldn’t have to say what the moral is.

Plot

Plot is most often about a conflict or struggle that the main character goes through. The conflict can be with another character, or with the way things are, or with something inside the character, like needs or feelings.

The main character should win or lose at least partly on their own, and not just be rescued by someone or something else. Most often, the character learns or grows as they try to solve their problem. What the character learns is the theme.

The conflict should get more and more tense or exciting. The tension should reach a high point or “climax” near the end of the story, then ease off.

The basic steps of a plot are: conflict begins, things go right, things go WRONG, final victory (or defeat), and wrap-up. The right-wrong steps can repeat.

A novel can have several conflicts, but a short story should have only one.

Story Structure

At the beginning, jump right into the action. At the end, wind up the story quickly.

Decide about writing the story either in “first person” or in “third person.” Third-person pronouns are “he,” “she,” and “it”—so writing in third person means telling a story as if it’s all about other people. The first-person pronoun is “I”—so writing in first person means telling a story as if it happened to you.

Even if you write in third person, try to tell the story through the eyes of just one character—most likely the main character. Don’t tell anything that the character wouldn’t know. This is called “point of view.” If you must tell something else, create a whole separate section with the point of view of another character.

Decide about writing either in “present tense” or in “past tense.” Writing in past tense means writing as if the story already happened. That is how most stories are written. Writing in present tense means writing as if the story is happening right now. Stick to one tense or the other!

Characters

Before you start writing, know your characters well.

Your main character should be someone readers can feel something in common with, or at least care about.

You don’t have to describe a character completely. It’s enough to say one or two things about how a character looks or moves or speaks.

A main character should have at least one flaw or weakness. Perfect characters are not very interesting. They’re also harder to feel something in common with or care about. And they don’t have anything to learn. In the same way, there should be at least one thing good about a “bad guy.”

Setting

Set your story in a place and time that will be interesting or familiar.

Style and Tone

Use language that feels right for your story.

Wherever you can, use actions and speech to let readers know what’s happening. Show, don’t tell.

Give speech in direct quotes like “Go away!” instead of indirect quotes like “She told him to go away.”

You don’t have to write fancy to write well. It almost never hurts to use simple words and simple sentences. That way, your writing is easy to read and understand.

Always use the best possible word—the one that is closest to your meaning, sounds best, and creates the clearest image. If you can’t think of the right one, use a thesaurus.

Carefully check each word, phrase, sentence, and paragraph. Is it the best you can write? Is it in the right place? Do you need it at all? If not, take it out!

Your Name: Student Reviewed:

PEER REVIEW WORKSHEET

Writing (circle one in each category)

Spelling There are no spelling errors. There are a few spelling errors. There are many spelling errors. Grammar There are no grammatical errors. There are a few grammatical errors. There are many grammatical errors. Sentence structure All sentences are complete. There are a few incomplete sentences. There are many incomplete sentences.

Story (circle one in each category)

Details Details are used to make the story interesting to the reader. Some details are used, but a few more would help make it more

interesting. Not enough details are used. The reader wants to know more than is provided. Focus on topic The story relates to questions and the assignment. The story relates to questions and the assignment most of the time. The story doesn’t always relate to the questionsand the assignment.

What are some questions you have for the author after reading the personal narrative?

What is one of the strongest parts of this essay?

What would you like to learn more about?

What do you think the author should change or add?

Copyright 2005 IRA/NCTE. All rights reserved.

Short Story Peer Review Workshop - Overall Review (PQP)

Directions: Make comments directly on a copy of the author’s story as they read it to you. Be sure to provide comments for each category. Write as many comments as you can.

Praise: What do you like about my story? What works well? What are some specific examples of things that you thought were done well?

Question: What are some things that you did not understand in my story? Are there questions that you have about why I wrote the story the way that I did? What are some parts of my story that you felt were left unfinished or not fully explored?

Polish: What could I do specifically to make this a better story? What parts would you change and how?

Short Story Peer Review Workshop - Focused Review

Directions: In essay form, write a critique of the story. Provide an introduction paragraph that restates the main points of the PQP review, body paragraphs that address each of the sections below, and a conclusion paragraph that contains a summary of the body and a final encouragement for the author.

NARRATION: Was it 1st Person, 3rd Person Limited, or 3rd Person Omniscient? How effective was the narrator? What would the story be like with a different narrator? Provide examples.

CHARACTER: Who is the protagonist? Antagonist? Were the characters realistic? Were they complex or one-dimensional? Did their dialog seem natural? Realistic? Did you have an emotional investment in what happens to the characters? What can the author do to create better characters? Be specific and provide examples.

PLOT: Is the story “believable?” Does the sequence make sense? Are there any “holes” in the plot? Is there sufficient exposition to set-up the story line? What simple additions could make the story start out better? What should be added or taken out to improve the storyline? Is the climax or turning point clear? If not, what could help make it clear? If so, what are some other approaches that could also be successful? Is the resolution acceptable? Does it leave the reader satisfied? If not, how could it be changed? What are some other possible endings? Be specific and provide examples.

SETTING: Did the author provide details about setting? Did they match the plot of the story? Was there a second, alternate setting introduced to reflect the direction the plot was taking? If so, how was it effective? If not, what second setting could help support the plot? Also, what could be done to liven up the setting overall? What different settings could have been successful in addition to the ones chosen by the author? Does the setting adequately set the mood in each part of the story? Be specific and provide examples.

THEME: What was the theme, or main message, presented in the story? Was it well supported by

the plot, characterization, and setting? If so, how was it supported? If not, what could the author change or add to make it clear and well supported? If the theme was unclear, what are some possible themes that the story could support with a revision of the story? Be specific and provide examples.

STYLE COMMENTS: How was the word choice in the stories? Did it add to the dramatic feel of the plot and the storyline? What are some words or phrases that seem bland or dull that the author could change to “liven” up the writing? Add anything else you’d like the author to know about the way the story was written. Be specific and provide examples.

The Lottery by Shirley Jackson

The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o'clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 2th, but in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o'clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.

The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play, and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and

reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix-- the villagers pronounced this name "Dellacroy"--eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at the boys, and the very small children rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.

Soon the men began to gather, surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother's grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother.

The lottery was conducted--as were the square dances, the teen club, the Halloween program--by Mr. Summers, who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him, because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called. "Little late today, folks." The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three- legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool, and when Mr. Summers said, "Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?" there was a hesitation before two men, Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.

The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything's being done. The black box grew shabbier each year: by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained.

Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued, had been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into the black box. The night

before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers' coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put way, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves's barn and another year underfoot in the post office, and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left there.

There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were the lists to make up--of heads of families, heads of households in each family, members of each household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time, some people remembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory. tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago this part of the ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching.

Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue jeans, with one hand resting carelessly on the black box. He seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins.

Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. "Clean forgot what day it was," she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. "Thought my old man was out back stacking wood," Mrs. Hutchinson went on. "And then I looked out the window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty-seventh and came a-running." She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, "You're in time, though. They're still talking away up there."

Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her through: two or three people said in voices just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, "Here comes your, Missus, Hutchinson," and "Bill, she made it after all." Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully. "Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie." Mrs. Hutchinson said grinning, "Wouldn't have me leave m'dishes in the sink, now, would you, Joe?" and soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson's arrival.

"Well, now." Mr. Summers said soberly, "guess we better get started, get this over with, so's we can go back to work. Anybody ain't here?"

"Dunbar," several people said. "Dunbar. Dunbar."

Mr. Summers consulted his list. "Clyde Dunbar." he said. "That's right. He's broke his leg, hasn't he? Who's drawing for him?"

"Me. I guess," a woman said, and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. "Wife draws for her husband." Mr. Summers said. "Don't you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?" Although Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered.

"Horace's not but sixteen vet." Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. "Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this year."

"Right." Sr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked, "Watson boy drawing this year?"

A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. "Here," he said. "I m drawing for my mother and me." He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said things like "Good fellow, lack." and "Glad to see your mother's got a man to do it."

"Well," Mr. Summers said, "guess that's everyone. Old Man Warner make it?"

"Here," a voice said, and Mr. Summers nodded.

A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. "All ready?" he called. "Now, I'll read the names--heads of families first--and the men come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?"

The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions: most of them were quiet, wetting their lips, not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, "Adams." A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. "Hi. Steve." Mr. Summers said. And Mr. Adams said. "Hi. Joe." They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in the crowd, where he stood a little apart from his family, not looking down at his hand.

"Allen." Mr. Summers said. "Anderson.... Bentham."

"Seems like there's no time at all between lotteries anymore." Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the back row.

"Seems like we got through with the last one only last week."

"Time sure goes fast-- Mrs. Graves said.

"Clark.... Delacroix"

"There goes my old man." Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went forward.

"Dunbar," Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said. "Go on. Janey," and another said, "There she goes."

"We're next." Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd there were men holding the small folded papers in their large hand, turning them over and over nervously Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper.

"Harburt.... Hutchinson."

"Get up there, Bill," Mrs. Hutchinson said, and the people near her laughed.

"Jones."

"They do say," Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, "that over in the north village they're talking of giving up the lottery."

Old Man Warner snorted. "Pack of crazy fools," he said. "Listening to the young folks, nothing's good enough for them. Next thing you know, they'll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work anymore, live that way for a while. Used to be a saying about 'Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.' First thing you know, we'd all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns. There's always been a lottery," he added petulantly. "Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with everybody."

"Some places have already quit lotteries." Mrs. Adams said.

"Nothing but trouble in that," Old Man Warner said stoutly. "Pack of young fools."

"Martin." And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. "Overdyke.... Percy."

"I wish they'd hurry," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. "I wish they'd hurry."

"They're almost through," her son said.

"You get ready to run tell Dad," Mrs. Dunbar said.

Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box. Then he called, "Warner."

"Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery," Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd. "Seventy-seventh time."

"Watson" The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, "Don't be nervous, Jack," and Mr. Summers said, "Take your time, son."

"Zanini."

After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers, holding his slip of paper in the air, said, "All right, fellows." For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened. Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saving. "Who is it?" "Who's got it?" "Is it the Dunbars?" "Is it the Watsons?" Then the voices began to say, "It's Hutchinson. It's Bill," "Bill Hutchinson's got it."

"Go tell your father," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.

People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand. Suddenly, Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers. "You didn't give him time enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn't fair!"

"Be a good sport, Tessie." Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, "All of us took the same chance."

"Shut up, Tessie," Bill Hutchinson said.

"Well, everyone," Mr. Summers said, "that was done pretty fast, and now we've got to be hurrying a little more to get done in time." He consulted his next list. "Bill," he said, "you draw for the Hutchinson family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?"

"There's Don and Eva," Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. "Make them take their chance!"

"Daughters draw with their husbands' families, Tessie," Mr. Summers said gently. "You know that as well as anyone else."

"It wasn't fair," Tessie said.

"I guess not, Joe." Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. "My daughter draws with her husband's family; that's only fair. And I've got no other family except the kids."

"Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it's you," Mr. Summers said in explanation, "and as far as drawing for households is concerned, that's you, too. Right?"

"Right," Bill Hutchinson said.

"How many kids, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked formally.

"Three," Bill Hutchinson said.

"There's Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me."

"All right, then," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you got their tickets back?"

Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. "Put them in the box, then," Mr. Summers directed. "Take Bill's and put it in."

"I think we ought to start over," Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. "I tell you it wasn't fair. You didn't give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that."

Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box, and he dropped all the papers but those onto the ground, where the breeze caught them and lifted them off.

"Listen, everybody," Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her.

"Ready, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked, and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and children nodded.

"Remember," Mr. Summers said. "Take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one. Harry, you help little Dave." Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him up to the box. "Take a paper out of the box, Davy." Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. "Take just one paper." Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you hold it for him." Mr. Graves took the child's hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him wonderingly.

"Nancy next," Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went forward switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box "Bill, Jr.," Mr. Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet overlarge, near knocked the box over as he got a paper out. "Tessie," Mr. Summers said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around defiantly, and then set her lips and went up to the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her.

"Bill," Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand out at last with the slip of paper in it.

The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, "I hope it's not Nancy," and the sound of the whisper reached the edges of the crowd.

"It's not the way it used to be." Old Man Warner said clearly. "People ain't the way they used to be."

"All right," Mr. Summers said. "Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave's."

Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill Jr. opened theirs at the same time, and both beamed and laughed, turning around to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads.

"Tessie," Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank.

"It's Tessie," Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. "Show us her paper. Bill."

Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal company office. Bill Hutchinson held it up and there was a stir in the crowd.

"All right, folks." Mr. Summers said. "Let's finish quickly."

Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. "Come on," she said. "Hurry up."

Mr. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said, gasping for breath. "I can't run at all. You'll have to go ahead and I'll catch up with you."

The children had stones already. And someone gave little Davy Hutchinson few pebbles.

Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as the villagers moved in on her. "It isn't fair," she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head. Old Man Warner was saying, "Come on, come on, everyone." Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him.

"It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.

 

Every Little Hurricane By Sherman Alexie

Although it was winter, the nearest ocean four hundred miles away, and the Tribal

Weatherman asleep because of-boredom, a hurricane dropped from the sky in 1976 and fell so

hard on the Spokane Indian Reservation that it knocked Victor from bed and his latest nightmare.

It was January and Victor was nine years old. He was sleeping in his bedroom in the

basement of the HUD house when it happened. His mother and father were upstairs, hosting the

largest New Year's Eve party in tribal. history, when the winds increased and the first tree fell.

"Goddamn it," one Indian yelled at another as the argument began. "You ain't shit, you fucking

apple."

The two Indians raged across the room at each other. One was tall and heavy, the other

was short, muscular. High, pressure and low pressure fronts.

The music was so loud that Victor could barely hear the voices as the two Indians escalated the

argument into a fistfight. Soon there were no voices to be heard, only guttural noises that could

have been curses or wood breaking. Then the music stopped so suddenly that the silence

frightened Victor.

"What the fuck's going on?" Victor's father yelled, his voice coming quickly and with

force. It shook the walls of the house.

"Adolph and Arnold are fighting again," Victor's mother said. Adolph and Arnold were

her brothers, Victor's uncles. They always fought. Had been fighting since the very beginning.

"Well, tell them to get their goddamn asses out of my house,"" Victor's father yelled

again, his decibel level rising to meet the tension in the house.

"They already left," Victor's mother said. "They're fighting out in the yard."

Victor heard this and ran to his window. He could see his uncles slugging each other with

such force that they had to be in love. Strangers would never want to hurt each other that badly.

But it was strangely quiet, like Victor was watching a television show with the volume turned all

the way down. He could hear the party upstairs move to the windows, step onto the front porch to

watch the battle.

During other hurricanes broadcast on the news, Victor had seen crazy people tie

themselves to trees on the beach. Those people wanted to feel the force of the hurricane firsthand,

wanted it to be like an amusement ride, but the thin ropes were broken and the people were

broken. Sometimes the trees themselves were pulled from the ground and both the trees and the

people tied to the trees were carried away.

Standing at his window, watching his uncles grow bloody and tired, Victor pulled the

strings of his pajama bottoms tighter. He squeezed his hands into fists and pressed his face

tightly against the glass.

"They're going to kill each other," somebody yelled from an upstairs window. Nobody

disagreed and nobody moved to change the situation. Witnesses. They were all witnesses and

nothing more. For hundreds of years, Indians were witnesses to crimes of an epic scale. Victor's

uncles were in the midst of a misdemeanor that would remain one even if somebody was to die.

One Indian killing another did not create a special kind of storm. This little kind of hurricane

was generic. It didn't even deserve a name.

Adolph soon had the best of Arnold, though, and was trying to drown him in the snow.

Victor watched as his uncle held his other uncle down, saw the look of hate and love on his

uncle's face and the terrified arms of his other uncle flailing uselessly.

Then it was over.

Adolph let Arnold loose, even pulled him to his feet, and they both stood, facing each

other. They started to yell again, unintelligible and unintelligent. The volume grew as other

voices from the party upstairs were added. Victor could almost smell the sweat and whiskey and

blood.

Everybody was assessing the damage, considering options. Would the fight continue?

Would it decrease in intensity until both uncles sat quietly in opposite corners, exhausted and

ashamed? Could the Indian Health Service doctors fix the bro, ken nose and sprained ankles?

But there was other pain. Victor knew that. He stood at his window and touched his

own body. His legs and back hurt from a day of sledding; his head was a little sore from where

he bumped into a door earlier in the week. One molar ached from cavity; his chest throbbed

with absence.

Victor had seen the news footage of cities after hurricanes had passed by. Houses were

flattened, their contents thrown in every direction. Memories not destroyed, but forever

changed and damaged. Which is worse? Victor wanted to know if memories of his personal

hurricanes would be better if he could change them. Or if he just forgot about all of it. Victor

had once seen a photograph of a car that a hurricane had picked up and carried for five miles

before it fell onto a house. Victor remembered everything exactly that way.

 

 

On Christmas Eve when he was five, Victor's father wept because he didn't have any

money for gifts. Oh, there was a tree trimmed with ornaments, a few bulbs 'from the Trading

Post, one string of lights, and photographs of the family with holes punched through the top,

threaded with dental floss, and hung from tiny branches. But there were no gifts. Not one.

"But we've got each other," Victor's mother said, but she knew it was just dry recitation

of the old Christmas movies they watched on television. It wasn't real. Victor watched his father

cry huge, gasping tears. Indian tears.

Victor imagined that his father's tears could have frozen solid in the severe reservation

winters and shattered when they hit the floor. Sent millions of icy knives through the air, each

specific and beautiful. Each dangerous and random.

Victor imagined that he held an empty box beneath his father's eyes and collected the

tears, held that box until it was full. Victor would wrap it in Sunday comics and give it to his

mother.

Just the week before, Victor had stood in the shadows of his father' s doorway and

watched as the man opened his wallet and shook his head. Empty. Victor watched his father put

the empty wallet back in his pocket for a moment, then pull it out and open it again. Still empty.

Victor watched his father repeat this ceremony again and again, as if the repetition itself could

guarantee change. But it was always empty.

During all these kinds of tiny storms, Victor's mother would rise with her medicine and

magic. She would pull air down from empty cupboards and make fry bread. She would shake

thick blankets free from old bandanas. She would comb Victor's braids into dreams.

            In those dreams, Victor and his parents would be sitting in Mother's Kitchen restaurant in

Spokane, waiting out a storm. Rain and lightning. Unemployment and poverty. Commodity food.

Flash floods.

            "Soup," Victor's father would always say. "I want a bowl of soup."

            Mother's Kitchen was always warm in those dreams. There was always a good song on

the jukebox, a song that Victor didn't really know but he knew it was good. And he knew it was a

song from his parents' youth. In those dreams, all was good.

Sometimes, though, the dream became a nightmare and Mother's Kitchen was out of

soup, the jukebox only played country music, and the roof leaked. Rain fell like drums into

buckets and pots and pans set out to catch whatever they could. In those nightmares, Victor sat in

his chair as rain fell, drop by drop, onto his head.

In those nightmares, Victor felt his stomach ache with hunger. In fact, he felt his whole

interior sway, nearly buckle, then fall. Gravity. Nothing for dinner except sleep. Gale and

unsteady barometer.

In other nightmares, in his everyday reality, Victor watched his father take a drink of

vodka on a completely empty stomach. Victor could hear that near poison fall, then hit, flesh

and blood, nerve and vein. Maybe it was like lightning tearing an old tree into halves. Maybe it

was like a wall of water, a reservation tsunami, crashing onto a small beach. Maybe it was like

Hiroshima or Nagasaki. Maybe it was like all that. Maybe. But after he drank, Victor's father

would breathe in deep and close his eyes, stretch, and straighten his neck and back. During those

long drinks, Victor's father wasn't shaped like a question mark. He looked more like an

exclamation point.

 

 

Some people liked the rain. But Victor hated it. Really hated it. The damp. Humidity.

Low clouds and lies. Weather, men. When it was raining, Victor would apologize to everyone he

talked to.

"Sorry about the weather," he would say.

Once, Victor's cousins made him climb a tall tree during a rainstorm. The bark was slick,

nearly impossible to hold on to, but Victor kept climbing. The branches kept most of the rain off

him, but there were always sudden funnels of water that broke through, startling enough to nearly

make Victor lose his grip. Sudden rain like promises, like treaties. But Victor held on.

There was so much that Victor feared, so much his in, tense imagination created. For

years, Victor feared that he was going to drown while it was raining, so that even when he

thrashed through the lake and opened his mouth to scream, he would taste even more water

falling from the sky. Sometimes he was sure that he would fall from the top of the slide or from a

swing and a whirlpool would suddenly appear beneath him and carry him down into the earth,

drown him at the core.

And of course, Victor dreamed of whiskey, vodka, tequila, those fluids swallowing him

just as easily as he swallowed them. When he was five years old, an old Indian man drowned in a

mud puddle at the powwow. Just passed out and fell facedown into the water collected in a tire

track. Even at five, Victor understood what that meant, how it defined nearly every, thing. Fronts.

Highs and lows. Thermals and undercurrents. Tragedy.

 

 

When the hurricane descended on the reservation in 1976, Victor was there to record it. If

the video camera had been available then, Victor might have filmed it, but his memory was much

more dependable.

His uncles, Arnold and Adolph, gave up the fight and walked back into the house, into

the New Year's Eve party, arms linked, forgiving each other. But the storm that had caused their

momentary anger had not died. Instead, it moved from Indian to Indian at the party, giving each a

specific, painful memory

.                       Victor's father remembered the time his own father was spit on as they waited for a bus in

Spokane.

   Victor's mother remembered how the Indian Health Service doctor sterilized her moments after

Victor was born.

Adolph and Arnold were touched by memories of previous battles, storms that

continually haunted their lives. When children grow up together in poverty, a bond is formed that

is stronger than most anything. It's this same bond that causes so much pain. Adolph and Arnold

reminded each other of their childhood, how they hid crackers in their shared bedroom so they

would have something to eat.

"Did you hide the crackers?" Adolph asked his brother so many times that he still

whispered that question in his sleep.

Other Indians at the party remembered their own pain. This pain grew, expanded. One

person lost her temper when she accidentally brushed the skin of another. The forecast was not

good. Indians continued to drink, harder and harder, as if anticipating. There's a fifty percent

chance of torrential rain, blizzard like conditions, seismic activity. Then there's a sixty percent

chance, then seventy, eighty.

Victor was back in his bed, lying flat and stilI, watching the ceiling lower with each

step above. The ceiling lowered with the weight of each Indian's pain, until it was just inches

from. Victor's nose. He wanted to scream, wanted to pretend it was just a nightmare or a game

invented by his parents to help him sleep.

The voices upstairs continued to grow, take shape and fill space until Victor's room, the

entire house. was consumed by the party. Until Victor crawled from his bed and went to find his

parents.

            "Ya, hey, little nephew," Adolph said as Victor stood alone in a corner.

            "Hello, Uncle," Victor said and gave Adolph a hug, gagged at his smell. Alcohol and

sweat. Cigarettes and failure.

            "Where's my dad?" Victor asked.

            "Over there," Adolph said and waved his arm in the general direction of the kitchen. The

house was not very large, but there were so many people and so much emotion filling the spaces

between people that it was like a maze for little Victor. No matter which way he turned, he could

not find his father or mother.

"Where are they?" he asked his aunt Nezzy. "Who?" she asked.

"Mom and Dad," Victor said, and Nezzy pointed toward the bedroom. Victor made his

way through the crowd, hated his tears. He didn't hate the fear and pain that caused them. He

expected that. What he hated was the way they felt against his cheeks, his chin, his skin as they

made their way down his face. Victor cried until he found his parents, alone, passed out on their

bed in the back bedroom.

Victor climbed up on the bed and lay down between them. His mother and father

breathed deep, nearly choking alcoholic snores. They were sweating although the room was cold,

and Victor thought the alcohol seeping through their skin might get him drunk, might help him

sleep. He kissed his mother's neck, tasted the salt and whiskey. He kissed his father's forearm,

tasted the cheap beer and smoke.

Victor closed his eyes tightly. He said his prayers just in case his parents had been wrong about

God all those years. He listened for hours to every little hurricane spun from the larger hurricane

that battered the reservation.

During that night, his aunt Nezzy broke her arm when an unidentified Indian woman

pushed her down the stairs. Eugene Boyd broke a door playing indoor basketball. Lester Falls

Apart passed out on top of the stove and somebody turned the burners on high. James Many

Horses sat in the corner and told so many bad jokes that three or four Indians threw him out

the door into the snow.

           "How do you get one hundred Indians to yell Oh, shit?" James Many Horses asked as he

sat in a drift on the front lawn.

            "Say Bingo," James Many Horses answered himself when nobody from the party would.

James didn't spend very much time alone in-the snow. Soon Seymour and Lester were

there, too. Seymour was thrown out because he kept flirting with all the women. Lester was

there to cool off his burns. Soon everybody from the party was out on the lawn, dancing in the

snow, fucking in the snow, fighting in the snow.

Victor lay between his parents, his alcoholic and dream, less parents, his mother and

father. Victor licked his index finger and raised it into the air to test the wind.' Velocity.

Direction. Sleep approaching. The people outside seemed so far away, so strange and

imaginary. There was a downshift of emotion, tension seemed to wane. Victor put one hand

on his mother's stomach and placed the other on his father's. There was enough hunger in

both, enough movement, enough geography and history, enough of everything to destroy the

reservation and leave only random debris and broken furniture.

But it was over. Victor closed his eyes, fell asleep. It was over. The hurricane that fell

out of the sky in 1976 left before sunrise, and all the Indians, the eternal survivors, gathered to

count their losses

Indian Education By Sherman Alexie

Sherman Alexie, the son of a Coeur d’Alene Indian father and a Spokane Indian Mother, was born in 1966 and grew up on the Spokane Reservation in Wellpinit, Washington, home to some 1,100 Spokane tribal members. A precocious child who endured much teasing from his fellow classmates on the reservation and who realized as a teenager that his educational opportunities there were extremely limited, Alexie made the unusual decision to attend high school off the reservation in

nearby Reardon. While in college, he began publishing poetry; within a year of graduation, his first collection, The Business of Fancy dancing (1992), appeared. This was followed by The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven (1993), a short story collection, and the novels Reservation Blues (1995) and Indian Killer (1996), all of which have garnered numerous awards and honors. Alexie also wrote the screenplay for the highly acclaimed film Smoke Signals.

First Grade

My hair was too short and my U.S. Government glasses were horn-rimmed, ugly, and all that first winter in school, the other Indian boys chased me from one corner of the playground to the other. They pushed me down, buried me in the snow until I couldn’t breathe, thought I’d never breathe again.

They stole my glasses and threw them over my head, around my outstretched hands, just beyond my reach, until someone tripped me and sent me falling again, facedown in the snow.

I was always falling down; my Indian name was Junior Falls Down. Sometimes it was Bloody Nose or Steal-His-Lunch. Once it was Cries-Like-a-White-Boy, even though none of us had seen a white boy cry.

Then it was Friday morning recess and Frenchy SiJohn threw snowballs at me while the rest of the Indian boys tortured some other top-yogh-yaught kid, another weakling. But Frenchy was confident enough to torment me all by himself, and most days I would have let him.

But the little warrior in me roared to life that day and knocked Frenchy to the ground, held his head against the snow, and punched him so hard the my knuckles and the snow make symmetrical bruises on his face. He almost looked like he was wearing war paint.

But he wasn’t the warrior. I was. And I chanted It’s a good day to die, it’s a good day to die, all the way down to the principle’s office.

Second Grade

Betty Towle, missionary teacher, redheaded and so ugly that no one ever had a puppy crush on her, made me stay in for recess fourteen days straight.

“Tell me you’re sorry,” she said.

“Sorry for what?” I asked.

“Everything,” she said and made me stand straight for fifteen minutes, eagle-armed with books in each hand. One was a math book; the other was English. But all I learned was that gravity can be painful.

For Halloween I drew a picture of her riding a broom with a scrawny cat on the back. She said that her God would never forgive me for that.

Once, she gave the class a spelling test but set me aside and gave me a test designed for junior high students. When I spelled all the words right, she crumpled up the paper and made me eat it.

“You’ll learn respect,” she said.

She sent a letter home with me that told my parents to either cut my braids or keep me home from class. My parents came in the next day and dragged their braids across Betty Towle’s desk.

“Indians, indians, indians.” She said it without capitalization. She called me “indian, indian, indian. “

And I said, Yes I am, I am Indian. Indian, I am.

Third Grade

My traditional Native American art career began and ended with my very first portrait: Stick Indian Taking a Piss in My Backyard.

As I circulated the original print around the classroom, Mrs. Schluter intercepted and confiscated my art.

Censorship, I might cry now. Freedom of expression, I would write in editorials to the tribal newspaper.

In the third grade, though, I stood alone in the corner, faced the wall, and waited for the punishment to end.

I’m still waiting.

Fourth Grade

“You should be a doctor when you grow up,” Mr. Schluter told me, even though his wife, the third grade teacher, thought I was crazy beyond my years. My eyes always looked like I had just hit-and-run someone.

“Guilty,” she said. “You always look guilty.”

“Why should I be a doctor?” I asked Mr. Schluter.

“So you can come back and help the tribe. So you can heal people.”

That was the year my father drank a gallon of vodka a day and the same year that my mother started two hundred quilts but never finished any. They sat in separate, dark places in our HUD house and wept savagely.

I ran home after school, heard their Indian tears, and looked in the mirror. Doctor Victor, I called myself, invented and education, talked to my reflection. Doctor Victor to the emergency room.

Fifth Grade

I picked up a basketball for the first time and made my first shot. No. I missed my first shot, missed the basket completely, and the ball landed in the dirt and sawdust, sat there just like I had sat there only minutes before.

But it felt good, that ball in my hands, all those possibilities and angles. It was mathematics, geometry. It was beautiful.

At that same moment, my cousin Steven Ford sniffed rubber cement from a paper bag and leaned back on the merry-go-round. His ears rang, his mouth was dry, and everyone seemed so far away.

But it felt good, that buzz in his head, all those colors and noises. It was chemistry, biology. It was beautiful.

Oh, do you remember those sweet, almost innocent choices that the Indian boys were forced to make?

Sixth Grade

Randy, the new Indian kid from the white town of Springdale, got into a fight an hour after he first walked into the reservation school.

Stevie Flett called him out, called him a squaw man, called him a pussy, and called him a punk.

Randy and Stevie, and the rest of the Indian boys, walked out into the playground.

“Throw the first punch,” Stevie said as they squared off.

“No,” Randy said.

“Throw the first punch,” Stevie said again.

“No,” Randy said again.

“Throw the first punch!” Stevie said for the third time, and Randy reared back and pitched a knuckle fastball that broke Stevie’s nose.

We all stood there in silence, in awe.

That was Randy, my soon-to-be first and best friend, who taught me the most valuable lesson about living in the white world: Always throw the first punch.

Seventh Grade

I leaned through the basement window of the HUD house and kissed the white girl who would later be raped by her foster-parent father, who was also white. They both lived on the reservation, though, and when the headlines and stories filled the papers later, not one word was made of their color.

Just Indians being Indians, someone must have said somewhere and they were wrong.

But on the day I leaned out through the basement window of the HUD house and kissed the white girl, I felt the good-byes I was saying to my entire tribe. I held my lips tight against her lips, a dry, clumsy, and ultimately stupid kiss.

But I was saying good-bye to my tribe, to all the Indian girls and women I might have loved, to all the Indian men who might have called me cousin, even brother,

I kissed that white girl and when I opened my eyes, I was gone from the reservation, living in a farm town where a beautiful white girl asked my name.

“Junior Polatkin,” I said, and she laughed.

After that, no one spoke to me for another five hundred years.

Eighth Grade

At the farm town junior high, in the boys’ bathroom, I could hear voices from the girls’ bathroom, nervous whispers of anorexia and bulimia. I could hear the white girls’ forced vomiting, a sound so familiar and natural to me after years of listening to my father’s hangovers.

“Give me your lunch if you’re just going to throw it up,” I said to one of those girls once.

I sat back and watched them grow skinny from self pity.

Back on the reservation, my mother stood in line to get us commodities. We carried them home, happy to have food, and opened the canned beef that even the dogs wouldn’t eat.

But we ate it day after day and grew skinny from self pity.

There is more than one way to starve.

Ninth Grade

At the farm town high school dance, after a basketball game in an overheated gym where I had scored twenty-seven points and pulled down thirteen rebounds, I passed out during a slow song.

As my white friends revived me and prepared to take me to the emergency room where doctors would later diagnose my diabetes, the Chicano teacher ran up to us.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s that boy been drinking? I know all about these Indian kids. They start drinking real young.”

Sharing dark skin doesn’t necessarily make two men brothers.

Tenth Grade

I passed the written test easily and nearly flunked the driving, but still received my Washington State driver’s license on the same day that Wally Jim killed himself by driving his car into a pine tree.

No traces of alcohol in his blood, good job, wife and two kids.

“Why’d he do it?” asked a white Washington State trooper.

All the Indians shrugged their shoulders, looked down at the ground.

“Don’t know,” we all said, but when we look in the mirror, see the history of our tribe in our eyes, taste failure in the tap water, and shake with old tears, we understand completely.

Believe me, everything looks like a noose if you stare at it long enough.

Eleventh Grade

Last night I missed two free throws which would have won the game against the best team in the state. The farm town high school I played for is nicknamed the “Indians,” and I’m probably the only actual Indian ever to play for a team with such a mascot.

This morning I pick up the sports page and read the headline: INDIANS LOSE AGAIN.

Go ahead and tell me none of this is supposed to hurt me very much.

Twelfth Grade

I walk down the aisle, valedictorian of this farm town high school, and my cap doesn’t fit because I’ve grown my hair longer than it’s ever been. Later, I stand as the school-board chairman recites my awards and accomplishments, and scholarships.

I try to remain stoic for the photographers as I look toward the future.

Back home on the reservation, my former classmates graduate: a few can’t read, one or two are just given attendance diplomas, most look forward to the parties, The bright students are shaken, frightened, because they don’t know what comes next.

They smile for the photographer as they look back toward tradition. The tribal newspaper runs my photograph and the photograph of my former classmates side by side.

Postscript: Class Reunion

Victor said, “Why should we organize a reservation high school reunion? My graduating class has a reunion every weekend at the Powwow Tavern.”

Other readwritethink.org sources:

Editing checklist for self – and peer editingCharacter description sheetsPeer Review/response/editing sheetsAND various writing exercises from Writing Exercises for Fiction Writers handbook(List still in progress)