Stan and I started attending church with my parents. Stan took to the hard preaching and lively music right away, and I was reassured to note that my mom and dad appeared to like him. Even before I said anything to my parents I told a couple I’d been baby-sitting for, Frank and Deana Thomas, that I was considering marriage. The Thomases endeavoured to talk me out of it, but one Sunday night after service, I told my father we were planning to wed and he seemed relieved. He suggested we talk to our minister, so I did.
A few days later Stan and I made an appointment to see Pastor Foster. We sat in his study in the Pentecostal church in Geary and I outlined our plans. Stan sat beside me without uttering a word.
The pastor looked at Stan, then me. “Have you considered what this marriage might be like for any children you have?” he asked, speaking patiently, deliberately. His searching eyes never left my face until I bowed my head. Stan continued sitting in silence, hands on his lap.
“Well, yes,” I finally mumbled. “What difference could it make? It’s not like we’re black and white.”
“No, but there are bound to be problems. People can be cruel. And then there’s the difference in customs, traditions, things like that.”
“But Stan never even lived on the reserve,” I said. “He lived beside it.”
“A culture is a culture, Eva,” the minister said. But I wasn’t listening. I didn’t care what prefabricated words the pastor tossed at me. My mind was already made up. Even if he was right, what major problems could possibly arise just because two different cultures had decided to unite?
Mom didn’t say much about my forthcoming union with Stan, but she did grow more excited as she helped me plan the wedding. Nobody ever suggested I might be too young, even though I was just seventeen. My parents were probably happy and appeased that I’d finally accepted my predestined role in life. Both my parents firmly believed no one should interfere in a marriage no matter what might be going on. Whatever happened was between the man and woman.
As the novelty of the wedding plans wore off, I began to have real doubts about this particular calling. I did care about Stan, but I couldn’t picture spending the next ten years with him, and certainly not a lifetime. I began to doubt my motives for this union. I wasn’t really sure I wanted to give up dating other guys. When I talked to my mother about the way I felt, she reminded me reassuringly. “All brides-to-be have those feelings.” But I was worried my doubts might be more severe than most. I kept quiet about my lingering attraction to other men. I thought about Ray Stewart all the time. That would have doomed me for sure.
On March 31, 1967, I drove in my dad’s car to the Geary church where I was to be married. There was a chill in the air that settled in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t get warm, as if a frost had seeped inside and coated my veins.
As my father walked me down the aisle, the small Pentecostal church in Geary, the same one where my parents had first converted to Christianity, was packed with family, other church members, and a few of my friends like Donna and Beryl Photos of that exercise resembled a funeral procession. Neither of us smiled. Stan was the only one who appeared genuinely happy. My smile was nervous and strained.
The tears in my eyes weren’t tears of happiness but of trepidation. I figured it was too late to run. We exchanged vows and rings, and Stan kissed me before accompanying me back down the aisle. The entire ceremony was shrouded in a dreamlike quality. Nothing felt real.
Outside, after the ceremony, wet snow pasted confetti to my short satin wedding gown. Flecks of confetti were still stuck to the dress when I stuffed it in a garbage bag a few years later and put it out with the trash.
LITTLE BURNT SQUAW
I became more dissatisfied than ever with my white epidermis. So I spent that summer trying to bake, broil, and fry myself in the blazing hot sun. I simply had to have dark skin in order to fit into the place I assumed I belonged. The darker I became, the better.
I spent practically every sunny morning at my favourite spot in the woods, lying on large sheets of tinfoil, dripping baby oil, while praying for rays like a hungry sun worshipper. I was slippery all over, covered in sweat and oil, eyes clamped shut beneath the fiery, oppressive ball of fire in the sky. It was an endurance test. Me against my body. My body against what I really wanted to be. And, yes, hallelujah, I did manage to turn a bit darker. I was delighted, despite the fact that I spent a fortune on jars of Noxzema to heal the peeling skin and blisters.
At one point I became so badly burnt that I was forced to visit the hospital. I waited in the emergency room, tenderly shifting in my seat, trying not to let my scarlet-pink skin stick to the vinyl. When my turn came, the doctor informed me that what I had managed to get for all my trouble was second-degree burns.
The doctor was curious to know what I had been doing to suffer such injury. Had I fallen asleep in the sun? Was I too close to a heat lamp? Reluctantly I explained about the tin foil and baby oil.
“Are you crazy?” the doctor asked, exasperated. “You could actually fry a fish like that.”
Later that night I lay in bed with chills, shivering, sick to my stomach with heat stroke, my tender skin stinging, burning a hot electric-pink.
MY FIRSTBORN
When I was eight years old, my dog Pal was hit by a truck. I’d sat heartbroken in the arms of my apple tree, mourning the death of the small black furry spaniel that had been my solitary friend for more than a year. Tearfully I asked God to let me grow up so I could have children to love and who would love me in return. My perfect children would be cherished, adored. They would be given everything they desired. They would be treated gently. I wouldn’t force anything down their throats. We would have an understanding between us. I don’t think I even asked about a husband—what would I need one of those for?—but I knew I wanted to have at least four children. That way I’d never feel lonely again, and my babies would be treated right, everything would be made better.
As soon as our marriage vows were exchanged, I set my mind and body on becoming a mother. The first year with Stan was the honeymoon. We were happy most of the time, and I loved taking care of the tiny house we rented on Smith Road in Geary three miles away from where my parents lived. My old school friend Donna lived less than a mile away, and Beryl, my longtime childhood friend who I had lost touch with during my courtship with Stan, lived closer still. We got together for coffee from time to time, gossiping and trading news. Life seemed good, even though Stan and I had started drinking a little too much. We drank every weekend and we stopped attending church. Often there would be parties at our home.
One Saturday night Stan got drunk and picked a fight with his army buddy, Ron, from the base. Stan accused him of trying to hit on me when I asked Ron if he wanted a fresh beer from the fridge. I tried to intervene, but Stan was wild. He threw me against the living-room wall. All of the ten or so people present suddenly went quiet.
“Get out of here!” he snarled through clenched teeth. The look in his eyes hit me harder than the shove. I ran outside and hid, crouching behind a lilac bush. As the tears ran down my cheeks, I watched the fray through the window and heard the men’s voices trying to calm Stan. I was wondering what I’d done to make my husband angry.
A few minutes later everything settled down and the party began to break up. The next morning Stan cleaned the entire house and made me breakfast in bed. After that the gatherings at our house were confined to Saturday-night card games with close friends.
Within weeks of the wedding I discovered I was pregnant with my first child. I felt nauseated whenever I saw food. I never thought of pregnancy I suspected I had an ulcer and decided I better see my doctor. He could tell as soon as he examined me. An in-office pregnancy test proved him right. I burst into tears right there in my doctor’s office. I was overjoyed. I had my heart set on having a regular, loving family.
Stan