Sometimes, when I see these men, I am filled with such rage, I want to do something to them—but I’m just the strange teacher with the wooden foot who couldn’t get hired anywhere else. They laugh at me, call me names behind my back. I thought the children would do this, but it turns out that it’s the adults who are the cruel ones.
The food is not parceled out equally and some children do not get enough to eat. I try to help, to sneak them some, to soothe, but even if they don’t mock me, they do recoil from my touch—they recoil from all of us who truly want to help them. But maybe they can’t tell the difference between us and the evil ones; maybe we look the same to them. I try to teach these children, I even try to make them smile with songs and games, but they are sullen and sad. Rows and rows of brown eyes in brown faces, eyes that are dull, that are lost, that are missing their families, their homes, their culture. They look out of place in our clothes. They look as out of place here as I feel, myself.
I do think we share this, this feeling of being outside what is called “civilized” society, but that society isn’t so civilized, after all. I have seen that firsthand, now. Still, I have what they call a “pale face,” and blond hair, so they distrust me, and rightly so given how other pale faces have treated them. My wooden boot is a source of curiosity, but if I thought it would bind me to these miserable children, make me one of their tribe, I was mistaken. As much as I have suffered, those eyes tell me I haven’t suffered like them. I still think that teaching them how to live in society is a noble idea; what future will they have if they revert back to their old tribal ways? The country isn’t wild any longer. But this is not the way to do it, I know that now. And I can’t save them, nor can they save me.
I think I will leave this place soon. For where, I do not yet know.
I hope this letter finds you well, Raina. I know that whatever you do, you will succeed.
I can only trust that this is the correct address for you now, in Lincoln. And if it isn’t, someone will forward it to you.
Your loving sister,
Gerda
Dear Raina,
So you are in Chicago now! The big city! You are so much braver than I am. Is it everything you hoped it would be? I trust that by now—it has been so many years, what is it, seven, since we parted?—you have a good husband, children, a loving home. You did not mention these things, but I know you, dear sister. You might be trying to spare my feelings by not revealing your own contentment. Please don’t do that! Your happiness will be my own.
But why do I hope that you are married with a family? It’s not the only happiness for a woman, but it is the one we are taught to believe in, the ending of the fairy tale. It’s what Mama and Papa would want for you, I know that.
I wonder what they want for me? I wonder if they think of me every day? I’m sure Mama does. I don’t know about Papa, I disappointed him so.
I am still in Montana; your letter was forwarded to me from the Indian school. Montana is such a vast place, there is room to wander and wander. You would be surprised to know how I live now, Raina. I live in a tent. By a river, near a mining camp. I take in washing for the men, and I teach those who want to learn, too. You should see my classes—such a mixture of misfits from many different places, all come to Montana to make their fortune in silver. But most of the mining is now being done by large corporations, so there aren’t many mining camps left for the men who use a pickax. Still, there are enough for me to make my living. I don’t require much, after all.
During the winter months, which are hard here, I go into the town of Butte, where I board. That is where your letter was forwarded to me, so it took a long while to find me out here in the camps. I don’t have many friends, just one or two other souls who are adrift, as I am. I don’t ask them why, and they don’t ask me, and that’s why we are companionable.
Sometimes I think of going to live with the Indians on a reservation. Why, I don’t know—is it to teach them? Even after my experience at that school? I still think an education is a worthwhile thing and will only help them, but they need to be with their families. They need to be taught the things their ancestors knew, as well as the things that will help them in the future. But I don’t know if they would let me in. After all, I look like the enemy to them, like the people who took their land and killed their ancestors. What they don’t understand is that I am just as sorrowful as they are. But perhaps it’s not up to them to understand me. Or help me.