The Daughter of the Sun by Carolyn Dunn
I could read her mind, sitting here across the room from her, her back turned to me, shutting me apart from her life and the blood that flows within. God, I love this woman, I'm thinking. If I sit next to her long enough I pale in her shadow, become less human in her light.
Or her darkness. She's that dusky maiden, that child of darkness they insist we all are, that near–extinct noble savage living in tipis and hunting buffalo. Carlisle Emmanuel, a real life Cherokee princess. Living with a Muskogee half–blood, me, Wesley Harjo Jr.
The dominant culture resents us Indians for still living. The only good Indian is a dead Indian, General Sheridan once said. "Holocaust never happened here," Mrs. Heller told me in 11th grade history class. "There was no such thing as genocide against American Indians. I should know. I'm an historian."
"Well, Mrs. Heller," I said, "I'm an Indian. It did happen." Needless to say, I didn't pass U.S. History in 11th grade.
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