Grief

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  At Springdale, Randy played with white boys who weren’t good. Ha! Randy and I became friendly again over the years, mostly because of basketball. In all-star high school tournaments. And then in all-Indian tournaments after high school. I remember when I hit two clutch free throws to beat his team in an all-Indian tournament in Springdale. He was so mad at losing but so happy that I’d hit the game winner. Laughing, he picked me up, slung me over his shoulder, and ran me around the gym. Then he carried me outside, through the gym doors, and threw me into a snowbank. I saw him only once or twice when we were in college. One night, during my last semester at Washington State University, I boozed my way to the reservation, to Wellpinit. I was depressed. And struggling with my bipolar mental illness. I didn’t know I was bipolar. I wouldn’t be officially diagnosed for twenty more years. I was getting drunk every weekend. I was falling apart. I don’t remember how Randy and I ended up together that night. But we drove drunk around the reservation for hours and crashed five or six or eight parties. It’s all a blur. At some point, in somebody’s house on the rez, I stood and started reciting my poems from memory. In those early days, I could recite all of my poems by heart. So there I was, drunkenly reciting my poems about life on the reservation while standing in a house on my reservation. I would publish my first book, The Business of Fancydancing , eighteen months later. And my future wife, the love of my life, would attend my first reading of that book in Spokane a few weeks after that. I also got sober in March 2001 and have been sober ever since. But I was almost blind drunk on that blurred night on my rez. And I recited poetry! That was so goofy and arrogant! Maybe some of you were there. I remember that some Indians tried to heckle me. But Randy, ever my protector, silenced them with a mean stare. And then he, ever the listener, sat in front of me, a one-person audience. I don’t know how long I recited poetry, but I do know that Randy paid attention. And I remember that I wept that night and told Randy how afraid I was of being trapped again. I was afraid of becoming a reservation drunk. I told him I wanted to become a professional poet, a real writer, and there was no way it would ever happen. I told Randy that I was doomed to fail. But Randy stood and grabbed my shoulders. He was nearly as drunk as I was. He was young and strong, so it hurt when he grabbed me. He wasn’t my best friend anymore. We’d stopped being best friends when I left the reservation school. When I left Wellpinit.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  In this form it accompanied the Levitical priesthood and the Davidic dynasty down to the Babylonish captivity, survived this catastrophe, and directed the return of the people and the rebuilding of the temple; interpreting and applying the law, reproving abuses in church and state, predicting the terrible judgments and the redeeming grace of God, warning and punishing, comforting and encouraging, with an ever plainer reference to the coming Messiah, who should redeem Israel and the world from sin and misery, and establish a kingdom of peace and righteousness on earth. The victorious reign of David and the peaceful reign of Solomon furnish, for Isaiah and his successors, the historical and typical ground for a prophetic picture of a far more glorious future, which, unless thus attached to living memories and present circumstances, could not have been understood. The subsequent catastrophe and the sufferings of the captivity served to develop the idea of a Messiah atoning for the sins of the people and entering through suffering into glory. The prophetic was an extraordinary office, serving partly to complete, partly to correct the regular, hereditary priesthood, to prevent it from stiffening into monotonous formality, and keep it in living flow. The prophets were, so to speak, the Protestants of the ancient covenant, the ministers of the spirit and of immediate communion with God, in distinction from the ministers of the letter and of traditional and ceremonial mediation. The flourishing period of our canonical prophecy began with the eighth century before Christ, some seven centuries after Moses, when Israel was suffering under Assyrian oppression. In this period before the captivity, Isaiah ("the salvation of God"), who appeared in the last years of king Uzziah, about ten years before the founding of Rome, is the leading figure; and around him Micah, Joel, and Obadiah in the kingdom of Judah, and Hosea, Amos, and Jonah in the kingdom of Israel, are grouped. Isaiah reached the highest elevation of prophecy, and unfolds feature by feature a picture of the Messiah—springing from the house of David, preaching the glad tidings to the poor, healing the broken-hearted, opening the eyes to the blind, setting at liberty the captives, offering himself as a lamb to the slaughter, bearing the sins of the people, dying the just for the unjust, triumphing over death and ruling as king of peace over all nations—a picture which came to its complete fulfilment in one person, and one only, Jesus of Nazareth. He makes the nearest approach to the cross, and his book is the Gospel of the Old Testament. In the period of the Babylonian exile, Jeremiah (i.e. "the Lord casts down") stands chief. He is the prophet of sorrow, and yet of the new covenant of the Spirit. In his denunciations of priests and false prophets, his lamentations over Jerusalem, his holy grief, his bitter persecution he resembles the mission and life of Christ.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  Well, I have, and that’s why I hate cantaloupe. So, I woke up from this dream, this nightmare, just as my dad drove the car up to our house. “We’re here,” he said. “My sister is dead,” I said. “Yes.” “I was hoping I dreamed that,” I said. “Me, too.” “I dreamed about that time I got stung by the wasp,” I said. “I remember that,” Dad said. “We had to take you to the hospital.” “I thought I was going to die.” “We were scared, too.” My dad started to cry. Not big tears. Just little ones. He breathed deep and tried to stop them. I guess he wanted to be strong in front of his son. But it didn’t work. He kept crying. I didn’t cry. I reached out, wiped the tears off my father’s face, and tasted them. Salty. “I love you,” he said. Wow. He hardly ever said that to me. “I love you, too,” I said. I never said that to him. We walked into the house. My mom was curled into a ball on the couch. There were, like, twenty-five or thirty cousins there, eating all of our food. Somebody dies and people eat your food. Funny how that works. “Mom,” I said. “Oh, Junior,” she said and pulled me onto the couch with her. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry.” “Don’t leave me,” she said. “Don’t ever leave me.” She was freaking out. But who could blame her? She’d lost her mother and her daughter in just a few months. Who ever recovers from a thing like that? Who ever gets better? I knew that my mother was now broken and that she’d always be broken. “Don’t you ever drink,” my mother said to me. She slapped me. Once, twice, three times. She slapped me HARD. “Promise me you’ll never drink.” “Okay, okay, I promise,” I said. I couldn’t believe it. My sister killed herself with booze and I was the one getting slapped. Where was Leo Tolstoy when I needed him? I kept wishing he’d show up so my mother could slap him instead. Well, my mother quit slapping me, thank God, but she held on to me for hours. Held on to me like I was a baby. And she kept crying. So many tears. My clothes and hair were soaked with her tears. It was, like, my mother had given me a grief shower, you know? Like she’d baptized me with her pain. Of course, it was way too weird to watch. So all of my cousins left. My dad went in his bedroom. It was just my mother and me. Just her tears and me. But I didn’t cry. I just hugged my mother back and wanted all of it to be over. I wanted to fall asleep again and dream about killer wasps. Yeah, I figured any nightmare would be better than my reality. And then it was over. My mother fell asleep and let me go.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  She thought I’d been murdered. “I’m okay,” I said. “Just a little dizzy.” “But your hydrocephalus,” she said. “Your brain is already damaged enough.” “Gee, thanks, Mom,” I said. Of course, I was worried that I’d further damaged my already damaged brain; the doctors said I was fine. Mostly fine. Later that night, Coach talked his way past the nurses and into my room. My mother and father and grandma were asleep in their chairs, but I was awake. “Hey, kid,” Coach said, keeping his voice low so he wouldn’t wake my family. “Hey, Coach,” I said. “Sorry about that game,” he said. “It’s not your fault.” “I shouldn’t have played you. I should have canceled the whole game. It’s my fault.” “I wanted to play. I wanted to win.” “It’s just a game,” he said. “It’s not worth all this.” But he was lying. He was just saying what he thought he was supposed to say. Of course, it was not just a game. Every game is important. Every game is serious. “Coach,” I said. “I would walk out of this hospital and walk all the way back to Wellpinit to play them right now if I could.” Coach smiled. “Vince Lombardi used to say something I like,” he said. “It’s not whether you win or lose,” I said. “It’s how you play the game.” “No, but I like that one,” Coach said. “But Lombardi didn’t mean it. Of course, it’s better to win.” We laughed. “No, I like this other one more,” Coach said. “The quality of a man’s life is in direct proportion to his commitment to excellence, regardless of his chosen field of endeavor.” “That’s a good one.” “It’s perfect for you. I’ve never met anybody as committed as you.” “Thanks, Coach.” “You’re welcome. Okay, kid, you take care of your head. I’m going to get out of here so you can sleep.” “Oh, I’m not supposed to sleep. They want to keep me awake to monitor my head. Make sure I don’t have some hidden damage or something.” “Oh, okay,” Coach said. “Well, how about I stay and keep you company, then?” “Wow, that would be great.” So Coach and I sat awake all night. We told each other many stories. But I never repeat those stories. That night belongs to just me and my coach. Because Russian Guys Are Not Always Geniuses After my grandmother died, I felt like crawling into the coffin with her. After my dad’s best friend got shot in the face, I wondered if I was destined to get shot in the face, too. Considering how many young Spokanes have died in car wrecks, I’m pretty sure it’s my destiny to die in a wreck, too. Jeez, I’ve been to so many funerals in my short life. I’m fourteen years old and I’ve been to forty-two funerals. That’s really the biggest difference between Indians and white people. A few of my white classmates have been to a grandparent’s funeral.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  For the first time he saw that I was serious, but he didn’t want me to be serious. “You’ll never do it,” he said. “You’re too scared.” “I’m going,” I said. “No way, you’re a wuss.” “I’m doing it.” “You’re a pussy.” “I’m going to Reardan tomorrow.” “You’re really serious?” “Rowdy,” I said. “I’m as serious as a tumor.” He coughed and turned away from me. I touched his shoulder. Why did I touch his shoulder? I don’t know. I was stupid. Rowdy spun around and shoved me. “Don’t touch me, you retarded fag!” he yelled. My heart broke into fourteen pieces, one for each year that Rowdy and I had been best friends. I started crying. That wasn’t surprising at all, but Rowdy started crying, too, and he hated that. He wiped his eyes, stared at his wet hand, and screamed. I’m sure that everybody on the rez heard that scream. It was the worst thing I’d ever heard. It was pain, pure pain. “Rowdy, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry.” He kept screaming. “You can still come with me,” I said. “You’re still my best friend.” Rowdy stopped screaming with his mouth but he kept screaming with his eyes. “You always thought you were better than me,” he yelled. “No, no, I don’t think I’m better than anybody. I think I’m worse than everybody else.” “Why are you leaving?” “I have to go. I’m going to die if I don’t leave.” I touched his shoulder again and Rowdy flinched. Yes, I touched him again. What kind of idiot was I? I was the kind of idiot that got punched hard in the face by his best friend. Bang! Rowdy punched me. Bang! I hit the ground. Bang! My nose bled like a firework. I stayed on the ground for a long time after Rowdy walked away. I stupidly hoped that time would stand still if I stayed still. But I had to stand eventually, and when I did, I knew that my best friend had become my worst enemy. [image "The illustration depicts a person with spiky hair, standing amidst several speech bubbles that read ‘I HATE YOU’, ‘YOU SUCK’, and ‘YOU WHITE LOVER’." file=image_rsrc4S4.jpg] How to Fight Monsters [image file=image_rsrc4RJ.jpg] The next morning, Dad drove me the twenty-two miles to Reardan. “I’m scared,” I said. “I’m scared, too,” Dad said. He hugged me close. His breath smelled like mouthwash and lime vodka. “You don’t have to do this,” he said. “You can always go back to the rez school.” “No,” I said. “I have to do this.” Can you imagine what would have happened to me if I’d turned around and gone back to the rez school? I would have been pummeled. Mutilated. Crucified. You can’t just betray your tribe and then change your mind ten minutes later. I was on a one-way bridge. There was no way to turn around, even if I wanted to.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  It all made me cry for my sister. It made me cry for myself. But I was crying for my tribe, too. I was crying because I knew five or ten or fifteen more Spokanes would die during the next year, and that most of them would die because of booze. I cried because so many of my fellow tribal members were slowly killing themselves and I wanted them to live. I wanted them to get strong and get sober and get the hell off the rez. It’s a weird thing. Reservations were meant to be prisons, you know? Indians were supposed to move onto reservations and die. We were supposed to disappear. But somehow or another, Indians have forgotten that reservations were meant to be death camps. I wept because I was the only one who was brave and crazy enough to leave the rez. I was the only one with enough arrogance. I wept and wept and wept because I knew that I was never going to drink and because I was never going to kill myself and because I was going to have a better life out in the white world. I realized that I might be a lonely Indian boy, but I was not alone in my loneliness. There were millions of other Americans who had left their birthplaces in search of a dream. I realized that, sure, I was a Spokane Indian. I belonged to that tribe. But I also belonged to the tribe of American immigrants. And to the tribe of basketball players. And to the tribe of bookworms. And the tribe of cartoonists. And the tribe of chronic masturbators. And the tribe of teenage boys. And the tribe of small-town kids. And the tribe of Pacific Northwesterners. And the tribe of tortilla chips-and-salsa lovers. And the tribe of poverty. And the tribe of funeral-goers. And the tribe of beloved sons. And the tribe of boys who really missed their best friends. It was a huge realization. And that’s when I knew that I was going to be okay. But it also reminded me of the people who were not going to be okay. It made me think of Rowdy. I missed him so much. I wanted to find him and hug him and beg him to forgive me for leaving. Talking About Turtles The reservation is beautiful. I mean it. Take a look. There are pine trees everywhere. Thousands of ponderosa pine trees. Millions. I guess maybe you can take pine trees for granted. They’re just pine trees. But they’re tall and thin and green and brown and big. Some of the pines are ninety feet tall and more than three hundred years old. Older than the United States. Some of them were alive when Abraham Lincoln was president. Some of them were alive when George Washington was president. Some of them were alive when Benjamin Franklin was born. I’m talking old.

• From Fields of Blood: Religion and the History of Violence (2014)

  This hijrah (“migration”) from Mecca was an extraordinary step. In Arabia, where the tribe was the most sacred value, to abandon one’s kinsfolk and accept the permanent protection of strangers was tantamount to blasphemy. The very word hijrah suggests painful severance: HJR has been translated as “he cut himself off from friendly or loving communication … he ceased … to associate with them.”14 Henceforth Meccan Muslims would be called the Muhajirun (“Emigrants”), this traumatic dislocation becoming central to their identity. In taking in these foreigners, with whom they had no blood relationship, the Arabs of Medina who had converted to Islam, the Ansar (“Helpers”), had also embarked on an audacious experiment. Medina was not a unified city but a series of fortified hamlets, each occupied by a different tribal group. There were two large Arab tribes—the Aws and the Khasraj—and twenty Jewish tribes, and they all fought one another constantly.15 Muhammad, as a neutral outsider, became an arbitrator and crafted an agreement that united Helpers and Emigrants in a supertribe—“one community to the exclusion of all men”—that would fight all enemies as one.16 This is how Medina became a primitive “state” and how it found, almost immediately, that despite the ideology of hilm, it had no option but to engage in warfare. [image file=image_rsrcDZA.jpg] The Emigrants were a drain on the community’s resources. They were merchants and bankers, but there was little opportunity for trade in Medina; they had no experience of farming, and in any case there was no available land. It was essential to find an independent source of income, and the ghazu, the accepted way of making ends meet in times of scarcity, was the obvious solution. In 624, therefore, Muhammad began to dispatch raiding parties to attack the Meccan caravans, a step that was controversial only in that the Muslims attacked their own tribe. But because the Quraysh had abjured warfare long ago, the Emigrants were inexperienced ghazis, and their first raids failed. When they finally got the hang of it, the raiders broke two Arabian cardinal rules by accidentally killing a Meccan merchant and fighting during one of the Sacred Months, when violence was prohibited throughout the peninsula.17 Muslims could now expect reprisals from Mecca. Three months later Muhammad himself led a ghazu to attack the most important Meccan caravan of the year. When they heard about it, the Quraysh immediately sent their army to defend it, but in a pitched battle at the well of Badr, the Muslims achieved a stunning victory. The Quraysh responded the following year by attacking Medina and defeating the Muslims at the Battle of Uhud, but in 627, when they attacked Medina again, the Muslims trounced the Quraysh at the Battle of the Trench, so called because Muhammad dug a defensive ditch around the settlement.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  And a few have lost an uncle or aunt. And one guy’s brother died of leukemia when he was in third grade. But there’s nobody who has been to more than five funerals. All my white friends can count their deaths on one hand. I can count my fingers, toes, arms, legs, eyes, ears, nose, penis, butt cheeks, and nipples, and still not get close to my deaths. And you know what the worst part is? The unhappy part? About 90 percent of the deaths have been because of alcohol. Gordy gave me this book by a Russian dude named Tolstoy, who wrote: “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” Well, I hate to argue with a Russian genius, but Tolstoy didn’t know Indians. And he didn’t know that all Indian families are unhappy for the same exact reason: the fricking booze. Yep, so let me pour a drink for Tolstoy and let him think hard about the true definition of unhappy families. So, okay, you’re probably thinking I’m being extra bitter. And I would have to agree with you. I am being extra bitter. So let me tell you why. Today, around nine a.m., as I sat in chemistry, there was a knock on the door, and Miss Warren, the guidance counselor, stepped into the room. Dr. Noble, the chemistry teacher, hates being interrupted. So he gave the old stink eye to Miss Warren. “Can I help you, Miss Warren?” Dr. Noble asked. Except he made it sound like an insult. “Yes,” she said. “May I speak to Arnold in private?” “Can this wait? We are going to have a quiz in a few moments.” “I need to speak with him now. Please.” “Fine. Arnold, please go with Miss Warren.” I gathered up my books and followed Miss Warren out into the hallway. I was a little worried. I wondered if I’d done something wrong. I couldn’t think of anything I’d done that would merit punishment. But I was still worried. I didn’t want to get into any kind of trouble. “What’s going on, Miss Warren?” I asked. She suddenly started crying. Weeping. Just these big old whooping tears. I thought she was going to fall over on the floor and start screaming and kicking like a two-year-old. “Jeez, Miss Warren, what is it? What’s wrong?” She hugged me hard. And I have to admit that it felt pretty dang good. Miss Warren was, like, fifty years old, but she was still pretty hot. She was all skinny and muscular because she jogged all the time. So I sort of, er, physically reacted to her hug. And the thing is, Miss Warren was hugging me so tight that I was pretty sure she could feel my, er, physical reaction.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  The high school misfit is a familiar young-adult-story template, but Alexie makes it fresh because this particular misfit is one who doesn’t often appear in print.” —LOS ANGELES TIMES “Excellent in every way, poignant and really funny and heartwarming and honest and wise and smart.... I have no doubt that in a year or so it’ll both be winning awards and being banned.” —Bestselling author Neil Gaiman *“A Native American equivalent of ANGELA’S ASHES, a coming-of-age story so well observed that its very rootedness in one specific culture is also what lends it universality, and so emotionally honest that the humor almost always proves painful.... Jazzy syntax and [Ellen] Forney’s witty cartoons... transmute despair into dark humor; Alexie’s no-holds-barred jokes have the effect of throwing the seriousness of his themes into high relief.” —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY (starred review) *“The many characters, on and off the rez, with whom [Junior] has dealings are portrayed with compassion and verve, particularly the adults in his extended family. Forney’s simple pencil cartoons fit perfectly within the story and reflect the burgeoning artist within Junior.” —SCHOOL LIBRARY JOURNAL (starred review) “Emotionally spring-loaded, linguistically gymnastic, and devastatingly funny in turns... Alexie nails the ups and downs of a young artist learning to navigate by his own radar. Ellen Forney’s inspired illustrations channel Junior’s manic, tell-it-like-it-is sensibility.” —SAN FRANCISCO BAY GUARDIAN *“Alexie nimbly blends sharp wit with unapologetic emotion.... Junior’s keen cartoons sprinkle the pages as his fluid narration deftly mingles raw feeling with funny, sardonic insight.” —KIRKUS (starred review) *“Breathtakingly honest, funny, profane, sad... Alexie has a unique story to tell, and he tells it with raw emotion leavened with humor.” —KLIATT (starred review) “Sherman Alexie brings us a singular, true voice that’s heart-breaking, honest, and stubbornly memorable.” —Deb Caletti, author of HONEY, BABY, SWEETHEART *“Alexie’s portrayal of reservation life, with the help of a great lineup of supporting characters, is realistic and fantastical and funny and tragic—all at the same time. Forney’s drawings, appearing throughout the book, enhance the story and could nearly stand alone.” —VOYA (starred review) *“The line between dramatic monologue, verse novel, and standup comedy gets unequivocally—and hilariously and triumphantly—bent in this novel about coming of age on the rez.... Junior’s narration is intensely alive and rat-a-tat-tat with short paragraphs and one-liners.... The dominant mode of the novel is comic, even though there’s plenty of sadness.” —HORN BOOK (starred review) “I know Sherman Alexie is on his game when I’m reading his book, laughing my ass off while my heart is breaking. THE ABSOLUTELY TRUE DIARY OF A PART-TIME INDIAN captivates absolutely.” —Chris Crutcher, author of DEADLINE *“What emerges most strongly is Junior’s uncompromising determination to press on while leaving nothing important behind.” —BCCB (starred review) “The most delightful tale of adolescence I’ve read in a long time.

• From Going Clear (2013)

  It would have been operable if she had come to them sooner, the doctors said. Desperate to get Gillham the auditing she still thought she needed, Taylor went to the financial banking officer and begged her for the funds to send her friend to Flag. “ If she wants to go to Flag, she can take the fucking Greyhound,” the officer responded. “You’re Yvonne’s assassin!” Taylor shouted. When Hubbard found out Yvonne Gillham was dying, he sent her a telex asking if she wanted to keep her body or move on to the next cycle. She decided it would be quicker just to let go, but she still wanted the auditing. Hubbard agreed to let her travel to Clearwater, to do an “end of cycle on her hats”—meaning that she would brief her successor at the Celebrity Centre before she died. Hana Eltringham was stationed at Flag, and she was shocked at the sight of her dear friend. Yvonne was dizzy and frequently lost her balance, and her thoughts trailed away. She refused to take pain medication because it would interfere with her auditing. She tearfully blamed herself for the terrible “overt” of dying and deserting Hubbard. She was desperate to see her children, to say good-bye, but they were kept away. Hubbard designated Catherine Harrington, one of Yvonne’s closest friends, to talk to her about the celebrities in her care—who was a reliable speaker, who was good at recruiting other celebrities. Yvonne talked about various people—some television actors, a Mexican pop singer, the producer Don Simpson, Karen Black, Chick Corea, and Paul Haggis, among others—but she was particularly worried about Travolta. “ Please help him. He’s especially sensitive,” she said. She advised Harrington to deal with the celebrities the same way she treated Hubbard—very delicately, and with an open mind. Gillham died in January 1978. For her impertinence in complaining about Gillham’s treatment, Taylor was sentenced to RPF. Her new baby daughter, Vanessa, was taken away and placed in the Child Care Org, the Scientology nursery. There were thirty infants crammed into a small apartment with wall-to-wall cribs, with one nanny for every twelve children. It was dark and dank and the children were rarely, if ever, taken outside. When she got the news, Taylor cried, “ You can’t do that now !” She was thinking of Travolta. He had just called her the day before, saying that he was arriving on an Air France flight after his appearance at a film festival in Deauville, where he was promoting Saturday Night Fever . Despite his triumph, Travolta appeared depressed and withdrawn. During the filming of Saturday Night Fever his girlfriend, Diana Hyland, had died in his arms. She was two decades older than he—she played his mother in a made-for-TV movie, The Boy in the Plastic Bubble —and had already had a double mastectomy when they met. Their romance was doomed when her cancer recurred.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  I stood and walked into the kitchen. I was way hungry but my cousins had eaten most of our food. So all I had for dinner were saltine crackers and water. Like I was in jail. Man. Two days later, we buried my sister in the Catholic graveyard down near the powwow ground. I barely remember the wake. I barely remember the funeral service. I barely remember the burial. I was in this weird fog. No. It was more like I was in this small room, the smallest room in the world. I could reach out and touch the walls, which were made out of greasy glass. I could see shadows but I couldn’t see details, you know? And I was cold. Just freezing. Like there was a snowstorm blowing inside of my chest. But all of that fog and greasy glass and snow disappeared when they lowered my sister’s coffin into the grave. And let me tell you, it had taken them forever to dig that grave in the frozen ground. As the coffin settled into the dirt, it made this noise, almost like a breath, you know? Like a sigh. Like the coffin was settling down for a long, long nap, for a forever nap. That was it. I had to get out of there. I turned and ran out of the graveyard and into the woods across the road. I planned on running deep into the woods. So deep that I’d never be found. But guess what? I ran full-speed into Rowdy and sent us both sprawling. Yep, Rowdy had been hiding in the woods while he watched the burial. Wow. Rowdy sat up. I sat up, too. We sat there together. Rowdy was crying. His face was shiny with tears. “Rowdy,” I said. “You’re crying.” “I ain’t crying,” he said. “You’re crying.” I touched my face. It was dry. No tears yet. “I can’t remember how to cry,” I said. That made Rowdy sort of choke. He gasped a little. And more tears rolled down his face. “You’re crying,” I said. “No, I’m not.” “It’s okay; I miss my sister, too. I love her.” “I said I’m not crying.” “It’s okay.” I reached out and touched Rowdy’s shoulder. Big mistake. He punched me. Well, he almost punched me. He threw a punch but he MISSED! ROWDY MISSED A PUNCH! His fist went sailing over my head. “Wow,” I said. “You missed.” “I missed on purpose.” “No, you didn’t. You missed because your eyes are FILLED WITH TEARS!” That made me laugh. Yep, I started laughing like a crazy man again. I rolled around on the cold, frozen ground and laughed and laughed and laughed. I didn’t want to laugh. I wanted to stop laughing. I wanted to grab Rowdy and hang on to him. He was my best friend and I needed him. But I couldn’t stop laughing. I looked at Rowdy and he was crying hard now.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  That’s really the biggest difference between Indians and white people. A few of my white classmates have been to a grandparent’s funeral. And a few have lost an uncle or aunt. And one guy’s brother died of leukemia when he was in third grade. But there’s nobody who has been to more than five funerals. All my white friends can count their deaths on one hand. I can count my fingers, toes, arms, legs, eyes, ears, nose, penis, butt cheeks, and nipples, and still not get close to my deaths. And you know what the worst part is? The unhappy part? About 90 percent of the deaths have been because of alcohol. Gordy gave me this book by a Russian dude named Tolstoy, who wrote: “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” Well, I hate to argue with a Russian genius, but Tolstoy didn’t know Indians. And he didn’t know that all Indian families are unhappy for the same exact reason: the fricking booze. Yep, so let me pour a drink for Tolstoy and let him think hard about the true definition of unhappy families. So, okay, you’re probably thinking I’m being extra bitter. And I would have to agree with you. I am being extra bitter. So let me tell you why. Today, around nine a.m., as I sat in chemistry, there was a knock on the door, and Miss Warren, the guidance counselor, stepped into the room. Dr. Noble, the chemistry teacher, hates being interrupted. So he gave the old stink eye to Miss Warren. “Can I help you, Miss Warren?” Dr. Noble asked. Except he made it sound like an insult. “Yes,” she said. “May I speak to Arnold in private?” “Can this wait? We are going to have a quiz in a few moments.” “I need to speak with him now. Please.” “Fine. Arnold, please go with Miss Warren.” I gathered up my books and followed Miss Warren out into the hallway. I was a little worried. I wondered if I’d done something wrong. I couldn’t think of anything I’d done that would merit punishment. But I was still worried. I didn’t want to get into any kind of trouble. “What’s going on, Miss Warren?” I asked. She suddenly started crying. Weeping. Just these big old whooping tears. I thought she was going to fall over on the floor and start screaming and kicking like a two-year-old. “Jeez, Miss Warren, what is it? What’s wrong?” She hugged me hard. And I have to admit that it felt pretty dang good. Miss Warren was, like, fifty years old, but she was still pretty hot. She was all skinny and muscular because she jogged all the time.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  That was the best thing she could have said. In the middle of a crazy and drunk life, you have to hang on to the good and sober moments tightly. I was happy. But I still missed my sister, and no amount of love and trust was going to make that better. I love her. I will always love her. I mean, she was amazing. It was courageous of her to leave the basement and move to Montana. She went searching for her dreams, and she didn’t find them, but she made the attempt. And I was making the attempt, too. And maybe it would kill me, too, but I knew that staying on the rez would have killed me, too. It all made me cry for my sister. It made me cry for myself. But I was crying for my tribe, too. I was crying because I knew five or ten or fifteen more Spokanes would die during the next year, and that most of them would die because of booze. I cried because so many of my fellow tribal members were slowly killing themselves and I wanted them to live. I wanted them to get strong and get sober and get the hell off the rez. It’s a weird thing. Reservations were meant to be prisons, you know? Indians were supposed to move onto reservations and die. We were supposed to disappear. But somehow or another, Indians have forgotten that reservations were meant to be death camps. I wept because I was the only one who was brave and crazy enough to leave the rez. I was the only one with enough arrogance. I wept and wept and wept because I knew that I was never going to drink and because I was never going to kill myself and because I was going to have a better life out in the white world. I realized that I might be a lonely Indian boy, but I was not alone in my loneliness. There were millions of other Americans who had left their birthplaces in search of a dream. I realized that, sure, I was a Spokane Indian. I belonged to that tribe. But I also belonged to the tribe of American immigrants. And to the tribe of basketball players. And to the tribe of bookworms. And the tribe of cartoonists. And the tribe of chronic masturbators. And the tribe of teenage boys. And the tribe of small-town kids. And the tribe of Pacific Northwesterners. And the tribe of tortilla chips-and-salsa lovers. And the tribe of poverty. And the tribe of funeral-goers. And the tribe of beloved sons. And the tribe of boys who really missed their best friends. It was a huge realization. And that’s when I knew that I was going to be okay.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  So I fled my house and went to school. I walked through the snow for a few miles until a white BIA worker picked me up and delivered me to the front door. I walked inside, into the crowded hallways, and all sorts of boys and girls, and teachers, came up and hugged me and slapped my shoulder and gave me little punches in the belly. They were worried for me. They wanted to help me with my pain. I was important to them. I mattered. Wow. All of these white kids and teachers, who were so suspicious of me when I first arrived, had learned to care about me. Maybe some of them even loved me. And I’d been so suspicious of them. And now I care about a lot of them. And loved a few of them. Penelope came up to me last. She was WEEPING. Snot ran down her face and it was still sort of sexy. “I’m so sorry about your sister,” she said. I didn’t know what to say to her. What do you say to people when they ask you how it feels to lose everything? When every planet in your solar system has exploded? My Final Freshman Year Report Card Remembering Today my mother, father, and I went to the cemetery and cleaned graves. We took care of Grandmother Spirit, Eugene, and Mary. Mom had packed a picnic and Dad had brought his saxophone, so we made a whole day of it. We Indians know how to celebrate with our dead. And I felt okay. My mother and father held hands and kissed each other. “You can’t make out in a graveyard,” I said. “Love and death,” my father said. “It’s all love and death.” “You’re crazy,” I said. “I’m crazy about you,” he said. And he hugged me. And he hugged my mother. And she had tears in her eyes. And she held my face in her hands. “Junior,” she said. “I’m so proud of you.” That was the best thing she could have said. In the middle of a crazy and drunk life, you have to hang on to the good and sober moments tightly. I was happy. But I still missed my sister, and no amount of love and trust was going to make that better. I love her. I will always love her. I mean, she was amazing. It was courageous of her to leave the basement and move to Montana. She went searching for her dreams, and she didn’t find them, but she made the attempt. And I was making the attempt, too. And maybe it would kill me, too, but I knew that staying on the rez would have killed me, too.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  Come on, Randy! What were you thinking? I did not receive the news about Randy’s death until the next morning. I had been writing and, as usual, ignoring my cell phone. But then my sister called my home landline at the same moment Randy’s sister-in-law sent an urgent e-mail. I immediately called Randy’s sister-in-law, and she told me the terrible news. I had not spoken to Randy in many years. I had not seen him in an even longer period. But I was instantly transported back in time, and I wept and wailed like a twelve-year-old boy whose best friend had just died. I was Sherman Alexie Jr., mourning the sudden death of Randy Peone. And I was Arnold Spirit Jr., mourning the sudden death of Rowdy. My real and fictional lives blended in torturous ways. “Oh my God,” I said to his sister-in-law. “I loved him. I loved him. I loved him.” Five days later, I stood beside his open coffin in the funeral home. I kissed Randy on the forehead. I put my hand on his chest. Randy had always been short, only five four as an adult, but he’d always been built like a wolverine. Thick and muscular. But in his coffin, Randy looked skinny. In my memory, Randy was a vibrant teenager, a fullback, point guard, and fastball pitcher. And now, in the present, he was a forty-nine-year-old man—killed in a car wreck—who’d dealt with the typical and atypical health problems of a middle-aged Native American. Age had turned him smaller and darker. He’d always been handsome—a blue-eyed Indian—and he was still handsome, dressed in a white shirt and Indian-design vest, as he rested in his coffin. I turned away from Randy so I could address the gathered mourners. So I could memorialize him. I saw dozens of Indians I had known for my whole life, and I saw their children, who I didn’t know at all. I’d been in kindergarten with some of those Indians. One of those Indians had been my favorite babysitter. I saw Randy’s brothers and sisters, and his mother and father, and his children. I saw my brothers and sisters sitting in the back row of seats. And then I spoke. I hadn’t written anything down. I hadn’t prepared. I spoke directly from the heart, partly as the reservation boy I used to be, the skinny and unknown Indian kid named Junior. And partly as the urban Indian named Sherman, who’d somehow become an unskinny and famous writer. I felt unreal. Like I had been transported into one of my own books. But the characters in books live forever. And real people die.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  She told me I was vulnerable. My big sister was dead. Of course I was vulnerable. I was a reservation Indian attending an all-white school and my sister had just died some horrible death. I was the most vulnerable kid in the United States. Miss Warren was obviously trying to win the Captain Obvious Award. “I’m waiting outside,” I said. “I’ll wait with you,” she said. “Kiss my ass,” I said and ran. Miss Warren tried to run after me. But she was wearing heels and she was crying and she was absolutely freaked out by my reaction to the bad news. By my cursing. She was nice. Too nice to deal with death. So she just ran a few feet before she stopped and slumped against the wall. I ran by my locker, grabbed my coat, and headed out-side. There was maybe a foot of snow on the ground already. It was going to be a big storm. I suddenly worried that my father was going to wreck his car on the icy roads. Oh, man, wouldn’t that just be perfect? Yep, how Indian would that be? Imagine the stories I could tell. “Yeah, when I was a kid, just after I learned that my big sister died, I also found out that my father died in a car wreck on the way to pick me up from school.” So I was absolutely terrified as I waited. I prayed to God that my father would come driving up in his old car. “Please, God, please don’t kill my daddy. Please, God, please don’t kill my daddy. Please, God, please don’t kill my daddy.” Ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes went by. I was freezing. My hands and feet were big blocks of ice. Snot ran down my face. My ears were burning cold. “Oh, Daddy, please, oh, Daddy, please, oh, Daddy, please.” Oh, man, I was absolutely convinced that my father was dead, too. It had been too long. He’d driven his car off a cliff and had drowned in the Spokane River. Or he’d lost control, slid across the centerline, and spun right into the path of a logging truck. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.” And just when I thought I’d start screaming, and run around like a crazy man, my father drove up. I started laughing. I was so relieved, so happy, that I LAUGHED. And I couldn’t stop laughing. I ran down the hill, jumped into the car, and hugged my dad. I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. “Junior,” he said. “What’s wrong with you?” “You’re alive!” I shouted. “You’re alive!” “But your sister—,” he said. “I know, I know,” I said. “She’s dead. But you’re alive. You’re still alive.” I laughed and laughed. I couldn’t stop laughing. I felt like I might die of laughing.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  My maiden name was Frances Hill. I was born at a small village near Liverpool, in Lancashire, of parents extremely poor, and, I piously believe, extremely honest. My father, who had received a maim on his limbs, that disabled him from following the more laborious branches of country drudgery, got, by making nets, a scanty subsistence, which was not much enlarged by my mother’s keeping a little day-school for the girls in her neighborhood. They had had several children; but none lived to any age except myself, who had received from nature a constitution perfectly healthy. My education, till past fourteen, was no better than very vulgar: reading, or rather spelling, an illegible scrawl, and a little ordinary plain work, composed the whole system of it; and then all my foundation in virtue was no other than a total ignorance of vice, and the shy timidity general to our sex, in the tender age of life, when objects alarm or frighten more by their novelty than anything else. But then, this is a fear too often cured at the expense of innocence, when Miss, by degrees, begins no longer to look on a man as a creature of prey that will eat her. My poor mother had divided her time so entirely between her scholars and her little domestic cares, that she had spared very little to my instruction, having, from her own innocence from all ill, no hint or thought of guarding me against any. I was now entering on my fifteenth year, when the worst of ills befell me in the loss of my fond, tender parents, who were both carried off by the small-pox, within a few days of each other; my father dying first, and thereby by hastening the death of my mother: so that I was now left an unhappy friendless orphan (for my father’s coming to settle there, was accidental, he being originally a Kentisrman).

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  I walked inside, into the crowded hallways, and all sorts of boys and girls, and teachers, came up and hugged me and slapped my shoulder and gave me little punches in the belly. They were worried for me. They wanted to help me with my pain. I was important to them. I mattered. Wow. All of these white kids and teachers, who were so suspicious of me when I first arrived, had learned to care about me. Maybe some of them even loved me. And I’d been so suspicious of them. And now I care about a lot of them. And loved a few of them. Penelope came up to me last. She was WEEPING. Snot ran down her face and it was still sort of sexy. “I’m so sorry about your sister,” she said. I didn’t know what to say to her. What do you say to people when they ask you how it feels to lose everything? When every planet in your solar system has exploded? Talking About Turtles The reservation is beautiful. I mean it. Take a look. There are pine trees everywhere. Thousands of ponderosa pine trees. Millions. I guess maybe you can take pine trees for granted. They’re just pine trees. But they’re tall and thin and green and brown and big. Some of the pines are ninety feet tall and more than three hundred years old. Older than the United States. Some of them were alive when Abraham Lincoln was president. Some of them were alive when George Washington was president. Some of them were alive when Benjamin Franklin was born. I’m talking old. I’ve probably climbed, like, one hundred different trees in my lifetime. There are twelve in my backyard. Another fifty or sixty in the small stand of woods across the field. And another twenty or thirty around our little town. And a few way out in the deep woods. And that tall monster that sits beside the highway to West End, past Turtle Lake. That one is way over one hundred feet tall. It might be one hundred and fifty feet tall. You could build a house using just the wood from that tree. When we were little, like ten years old, Rowdy and I climbed that sucker. It was probably stupid. Yeah, okay, it was stupid. It’s not like we were lumberjacks or anything. It’s not like we used anything except our hands, feet, and dumb luck. But we weren’t afraid of falling that day. Other days, yeah, I’m terrified of falling. No matter how old I get, I think I’m always going to be scared of falling. But I wasn’t scared of gravity on that day. Heck, gravity didn’t even exist. It was July. Crazy hot and dry. It hadn’t rained in, like, sixty days. Drought hot. Scorpion hot.

• From Fields of Blood: Religion and the History of Violence (2014)

  Even though it is set in an earlier time, the epic probably reflects the period after Ashoka’s death in 232 BCE, when the Mauryan Empire began its decline and India entered a dark age of political instability that lasted until the rise of the Gupta dynasty in 320 CE. 105 There is, therefore, an implicit assumption that empire—or in the poem’s terms, “world rule”—is essential to peace. And while the poem is unsparing about the ferocity of empire, it poignantly recognizes that nonviolence in a violent world is not only impossible but can actually cause himsa (“harm”). Brahmin law insisted that the king’s chief duty was to prevent the fearful chaos that would ensue if monarchical authority failed, and for this, military coercion (danda) was indispensable. 106 Yet while Yudishthira is divinely destined to be king, he hates war. He explains to Krishna that even though he knows that it is his duty to regain the throne, warfare brings only misery. True, the Kauravas usurped his kingdom, but to kill his cousins and friends—many of them good and noble men—would be “a most evil thing.” 107 He knows that every Vedic class has its particular duty—“The shudra obeys, the vaishya lives by trade.... The Brahmin prefers the begging bowl”—but the Kshatriyas “live off killing,” and “any other way of life is forbidden to us.” The Kshatriya is therefore doomed to misery. If defeated, he will be reviled, but if he achieves victory by ruthless methods, he incurs the taint of the warrior, is “deprived of glory and reaps eternal infamy.” “For heroism is a powerful disease that eats up the heart, and peace is found only by giving it up or by serenity of mind,” Yudishthira tells Krishna. “On the other hand if final tranquillity were ignited by the total eradication of the enemy that would be even crueler.” 108 To win the war, the Pandavas have to kill four Kaurava leaders who are inflicting grave casualties on their army. One of them is the general Drona, whom the Pandavas love dearly because he was their teacher and initiated them in the art of warfare. In a council of war, Krishna argues that if the Pandavas want to save the world from total destruction by establishing their rule, they must cast virtue aside. A warrior is obliged to be absolutely truthful and keep his word, but Krishna tells Yudishthira that he can kill Drona only by lying to him. In the midst of the battle, he must tell him that his son Ashwatthaman has died so that, overcome with grief, Drona will lay down his weapons.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  On the day of his death he spoke with less difficulty. He fell peacefully asleep with the setting sun towards eight o’clock, and entered into the rest of his Lord. "I had just left him," says Beza, "a little before, and on receiving intimation from the servants, immediately hastened to him with one of the brethren. We found that he had already died, and so very calmly, without any convulsion of his feet or hands, that he did not even fetch a deeper sigh. He had remained perfectly sensible, and was not entirely deprived of utterance to his very last breath. Indeed, he looked much more like one sleeping than dead."1258 He had lived fifty-four years, ten months, and seventeen days. "Thus," continues Beza, his pupil and friend, "withdrew into heaven, at the same time with the setting sun, that most brilliant luminary, which was the lamp of the Church. On the following night and day there was immense grief and lamentation in the whole city; for the Republic had lost its wisest citizen, the Church its faithful shepherd, the Academy an incomparable teacher—all lamented the departure of their common father and best comforter, next to God. A multitude of citizens streamed to the death-chamber and could scarcely be separated from the corpse. Among them were several foreigners, as the distinguished Ambassador of the Queen of England to France, who had come to Geneva to make the acquaintance of the celebrated man, and now wished to see his remains. At first all were admitted; but as the curiosity became excessive and might have given occasion to calumnies of the enemies,1259 his friends deemed it best on the following morning, which was the Lord’s Day, to wrap his body in linen and to enclose it in a wooden coffin, according to custom. At two o’clock in the afternoon the remains were carried to the common cemetery on Plain Palais (Planum Palatium), followed by all the patricians, pastors, professors, and teachers, and nearly the whole city in sincere mourning."1260 Calvin had expressly forbidden all pomp at his funeral and the erection of any monument over his grave. He wished to be buried, like Moses, out of the reach of idolatry. This was consistent with his theology, which humbles man and exalts God. Beza, however, wrote a suitable epitaph in Latin and French, which he calls "Parentalia" (i.e. offering at the funeral of a father):— "Shall honored Calvin to the dust return, From whom e’en Virtue’s self might learn; Shall he—of falling Rome the greatest dread, By all the good bewailed, and now (tho’ dead) The terror of the vile—lie in so mean, So small a tomb, where not his name is seen? Sweet Modesty, who still by Calvin’s side Walked while he lived, here laid him when he died. O happy tomb with such a tenant graced! O envied marble o’er his ashes placed!"1261