Son Who Returns Read online

  I immediately went back into planning mode. Actually, it was more like questioning mode. What would I take to California with me? What would I leave behind? When could I get my board from Chuck? When would I be able to get together with those guys? Did Nana have a spare room I could sleep in? So many details to think about.

  That night I tried to find the guys via IM. I had to let them know it was a go. No one seemed to be around, though. So, Facebook was my next stop. “Its official,” I posted. “I’ll be back in the Cali sun this summer! Somebody tell my surfboard.”

  Within a few minutes, the guys had all commented.

  “Sick,” Chuck replied. “Let the hammer down, dude!”

  “Dope,” Michael’s message said. “Peace on the beach.”

  “Epic,” Daniel typed. “That’s freakin’ awesome!”

  On Sunday, Dad said I needed to call Nana to thank her and to start reconnecting with her. After dinner I made the call. It was seven o’clock at night in Texas, so that meant it was five o’clock in California.

  “I’m so glad you’re coming out here,” Nana said on the phone. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you.”

  “Are you sure you have room for me?” I asked. “I know it’s pretty crowded at your house.”

  “We added two rooms to the back of the house since you were here last,” she assured me. “You’ll have your own room.”

  “Awesome!” I replied.

  “You can get reacquainted with your relatives here. And meet some you didn’t even know you had.”

  We talked a little while longer, and then I told Nana I had to do homework. On the phone I was all upbeat and positive. But I secretly had some worries about the whole deal.

  Would I be just as bored there as I was here? Would I have access to the Internet so I could connect with my San Diego friends? And what else was there for a fifteen-year-old to do on the Chumash Reservation in the middle of the California backcountry?

  Chapter 3

  Westward Ho!

  The closer the time came for me to escape from Texas, the less sure I was about the move. The worries I had grew bigger in my own mind. And the positive reasons for going ahead with my plan seemed to shrink. What had I gotten myself into?

  Dad decided that I should stay with him at least until the fourth of July. By that time of year, it’s so hot and humid in Dallas that you just don’t want to go outside. It was better not to leave your air-conditioned house, unless you were headed for a swimming pool.

  The day after the picnic and fireworks were over, I began packing for the trip. There was a lot of stuff I needed to take—too much for the luggage that would fly with me on the plane. So Dad boxed up some of my things and shipped them to Nana’s house. They would show up a couple of days later by truck.

  Departure day arrived. Eleanor stood at the doorway of our house and waved goodbye. Dad drove me to the airport and filled out special papers that were needed for a minor to fly alone on the plane.

  “I’m getting myself a computer in the next couple of days,” Dad said before I went through the security checkpoint. “Maybe you and I can communicate the same way you do with your friends.”

  “I’d like that,” I said as I hugged him. “You’d better come out and see me, though.” A tear formed in the corner of my eye, but I quickly wiped it away so no one else in the terminal would see.

  “I will,” Dad replied as we finished the hug. “Now you listen to your Nana, okay? You have to follow her rules.”

  I agreed, gave Dad one last hug, and then walked down the jetway toward the new phase of my life.

  On the other end of the boring flight, Nana and my Aunt Dolores were waiting for me at the Santa Barbara airport. They both looked the same as I had remembered them. Nana had a long braid of gray hair and wore a long flowing dress. Aunt Dolores had short brown hair and a fringed leather purse with Native beadwork.

  Of course, they carried on about how much I’d grown and what a handsome young man I was. They hugged me and patted me on the back. Typical grandma and auntie stuff.

  We loaded my luggage in the back of Nana’s red four-wheel-drive Jeep Wrangler and headed for the reservation. To get there, we had to drive up a winding mountain road and over what they called “the Pass,” which was the only way to get to the other side of the mountain range.

  Along the way Aunt Dolores pointed to a green sign on the side of that road that read “Chumash Highway.”

  “That’s cool,” I said, “having a highway named after the tribe.”

  “For thousands of years, the Chumash people traveled on foot back and forth over this same mountain pass,” my aunt said. “Of course, it was just a trail in those days. The State of California decided to recognize that we were here first.”

  I watched the beautiful countryside go by as we drove. It hadn’t changed since I’d seen it last. The mountains, oak trees, vineyards, ranches and orchards were still there. And the river. The river reminded me of the ocean and the beaches and the surfing.

  “Take it all in, grandson,” Nana said. “Part of you is from here. Part of you belongs in this place.”

  I thought about Nana’s words for a fraction of a second. Then I launched into my tale of woe concerning my long lost surfing buddies and my lonely surfboard.

  “So it would be really great if we could figure out a way to get me down to San Diego,” I said as I came to the end of my story. “Or if there’s a way for my friends to come up here for visit. As soon as possible.”

  Nana looked at Aunt Dolores for a minute. I think she might have winked at her.

  “San Diego is a long way off,” Nana said. “We never go down there, do we?”

  “No, we never do,” my aunt agreed. “I don’t know how we’ll ever get Mark together with his surfing buddies.”

  “We’ll keep our eyes open,” Nana finally said. “Maybe an opportunity to go to San Diego will present itself sometime soon.”

  None of it sounded too promising. I sat quietly in the backseat for a while.

  After about half an hour, we came to a sign that pointed left and read “Chumash Reservation.” Nana made that turn, which took us toward the little town of Santa Ynez. I remembered going into town with Nana when I was younger. The buildings all looked like they were built in the late 1800s or so; they were very Wild West–style.

  And then we passed by a very large building that I didn’t remember seeing before. Its parking lot was filled with cars.

  “What’s that?” I asked from the back seat.

  “That’s the tribe’s casino and hotel,” Aunt Dolores said. “That’s right. It was just a small building the last time you were here. It has really grown.”

  We went down a little road that ran behind the casino complex and into the reservation neighborhood. Now we were on familiar-looking turf.

  Nana’s house was on what they called the “lower rez.” This part of the reservation was located along a slow-moving creek. Other people lived up on a hill overlooking the creek in the part called the “upper rez.” That’s where the tribe’s offices and health clinic were located.

  We rounded a corner and arrived at Nana’s house. I looked it over as I got out of the car. It was in better shape than I remembered.

  “We had quite a bit of work done on the place,” Nana said. “It needed a lot of repairs and a new coat of paint. After the casino expanded, we got enough money to fix it. We also added on the two extra rooms.”

  An elderly man came out of the house and walked toward us.

  “This is my husband, Pablo,” Nana said. “I was alone for many years after your grandpa died, but now I have Pablo.”

  As he got closer to us, Nana asked me, “Do you speak any Spanish?”

  “I had Spanish in eighth grade, but I barely passed it,” I answered.

  Pablo reached the car. He put out his hand and shook mine.

  “Buenos dias, Marcos,” he said. “Como estás?”

  I think he said, “Good day, Mark.
How are you?”

  “Pablo doesn’t speak much English,” Nana explained.

  I tried to remember enough of my Spanish lessons to answer him.

  “Muy bien, y tu?” I said to Pablo. I think I said, “Very well, and you?”

  Pablo’s eyes lit up. He let loose with a string of Spanish words that came so fast I had no idea what he said. When everyone saw the surprised and panicked look on my face, they immediately knew I was in over my head. We all broke out laughing.

  Nana said something to him in Spanish that I didn’t understand. Then Pablo, grinning from ear to ear, shook my hand very hard, saying, “Haku, haku!”

  Thankfully, I remembered what that meant. Pablo must have learned a little Chumash.

  “That’s ‘hello’ in the Chumash language,” I said confidently.

  “Good for you,” Nana said.

  “I guess that means you have to speak three languages around here,” I observed.

  “Pretty much,” Aunt Dolores agreed. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it. Your Nana and I are just learning to speak a little Chumash ourselves. Weekly classes.”

  Grabbing my luggage from the back of the SUV, Pablo, Nana, and Dolores headed for the front door. I followed. Inside the house, I was surprised the find the living room full of people. A banner hung across the back wall that read “Haku, Mark!”

  “Some of your extended family wanted to greet you when you arrived,” Aunt Dolores said. “And here they are.”

  This gathering was pretty cool, even if it was a little overwhelming. I sort of felt like a celebrity surrounded by adoring fans. This move to the rez could turn out all right after all.

  I mingled with the crowd and got introduced to a lot of my relatives, from young kids to older adults. There were aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, great-aunts—you name it. Many of them looked vaguely familiar from my summer visits. But I knew I wouldn’t remember most of their names.

  The great thing was that everyone looked pretty much like me—I blended right in.

  They all hung out for a couple of hours. Then, one-by-one, they drifted away. The only ones left were me, Nana, Pablo, and Adrian.

  I sort of remembered Adrian from my summer visits here. He was introduced to me back then as an older cousin. It surprised me today to find out he was really my half-brother. My mom was his mom, but he had a different dad. He had a different last name than me because he took our mom’s last name, Blackwolf. That’s the name she had before marrying my father.

  “Your mother was briefly with Adrian’s father before she met your dad,” Nana explained when we were alone in my room. “When your mother was pregnant with Adrian, the father left. He said he wasn’t ready to be a dad. He never came back, and Adrian has never met the man.”

  “That’s sad,” I said as I unpacked my clothes.

  “He stayed with me, and I raised him,” Nana continued. “Your mother was young then. I wanted her to be able to go to college. That way she could get a good job and have a good life.”

  “That’s where she met my dad, right?”

  “That’s right,” Nana said.

  “So he lives here with you?”

  “Right down the hall from you,” she confirmed. “You two will be able to get to know each other better.”

  I finished unpacking and putting my clothes away. Then I went down the hall to Adrian’s room. I could hear Native American drumming and singing coming from inside. The door was closed so I knocked. In a few seconds, he opened the door.

  “Come on in, bro,” he said with a smile. He opened the door wide and returned to a workbench he had in one corner of the room. The drumming continued. It came from a speaker sitting on the workbench.

  As I stepped into his room, I felt like I was stepping into another world. His walls were covered with posters and photos of powwow dancers, Native American clothing, beaded feathers, drums, and baskets. It looked like a museum.

  I moved closer to Adrian’s workbench and peeked at what he was doing.

  “I’m repairing my choker,” He said. “I’ve got to get everything ready for this weekend’s powwow at Kumeyaay.”

  “What’s a choker?” I asked. “Is it part of your Indian costume?”

  He stopped what he was doing, turned down the volume on the music, and looked at me.

  “I can’t believe you just said that.” He seemed annoyed. “When an American Indian person puts on his traditional clothing, that’s not a costume. It’s called ‘regalia.’ Or you can call it an ‘outfit’ when it’s what a Native dancer wears.”

  “My bad,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

  “I don’t ever want to hear the word ‘costume’ come out of your mouth again,” he continued. “Unless you’re talking about someone getting ready for Halloween.”

  Adrian turned the music back up and continued to work quietly. I just watched for a minute. Then I decided to try again.

  “So what’s a choker? Is it part of your regalia?”

  “Better, dude,” he said with a smile. “Yeah. It’s worn tightly around your neck. That’s why it’s called a choker.”

  He held the choker up to his neck and showed me how it fit him. Then he went back to work.

  I looked at the photos around the room some more. I saw that it was Adrian in his dance costume—oops, regalia—in some of the photos. He was dancing in some pictures and getting awards in others.

  “Do you know anything about the powwow life?” he asked.

  “No,” I admitted. “It looks like hard work.”

  “I guess it is,” he replied. “But once you catch the powwow bug, you get hooked on it. It’s such a great way to connect with your own culture and be with other Native people.”

  “Is the powwow part of Chumash culture?” I asked.

  “No, it’s from the Plains Indian cultures,” he said. “But many tribes with different cultural backgrounds hold powwows now as a way of bringing Native people together. The Chumash powwow is always held in October.”

  “How did you get started with powwows?” I asked.

  Instead of answering me, Adrian got up and walked to his closet. From inside, he carefully removed a long wooden box. He set the box on his bed and opened it.

  Inside was a strange collection of things: a bird’s wing, a bird’s claw, a large single feather, and other objects.

  “These belonged to our Crow grandfather,” he said, pointing to himself and me.

  Adrian picked up the wing and handed it to me. I looked at it closely, turning it over in my hands. The wing was actually a sort of fan. It had a handle that was covered with leather and beadwork.

  “Grandpa told me the wing and the claw came from a golden eagle he found in Montana,” Adrian said. “Our grandfather was a powwow dancer, and I’m following in his footsteps.”

  “I never knew anything about this,” I said. This was like uncovering family secrets or something.

  “The great thing about you and me is that we’ve got both Chumash and Crow blood,” Adrian explained. “The Crow people are Plains Indians, and much of the powwow culture comes from those tribes.”

  “Isn’t it kind of confusing to be from two tribes?”

  “Not at all,” Adrian said, turning to face me. “It’s like having windows on two worlds. You can learn from them both. Take what you need from each. They’re both part of you.”

  He paused and looked at me. “What was Mom like?” he asked.

  “You didn’t know her, did you?” I asked.

  “No.”

  There was a little sadness in his voice. It reminded me of how much I missed her. I realized that it was better to have known her and lost her than not to have known her at all.

  “She was really great,” I replied cheerfully. “The best. You would’ve really liked her when you were my age.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he said, still with sadness.

  “After she died, Dad said she always knew what I was doing. She was watching from up there.”<
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  Adrian just listened.

  “And I know she’s been watching you, too.”

  He perked up a little.

  “I bet she’s seen every powwow you’ve ever danced in,” I added.

  “That’s what Nana told me, but I thought she was just saying it,” Adrian replied.

  “I don’t doubt it for one minute,” I said, looking him straight in the eye.

  He looked away, kind of letting our conversation soak in. Then I noticed a videocassette sitting in the bottom of the box. I picked it up and read its hand-written label: “Gathering of Nations, April 1996.”

  “You’ve got to see this,” Adrian said, taking the video from me. He inserted it in an old VHS video machine in the corner of his room. He pressed play, and a grainy image appeared on his TV. The beat of a drum came through loud and clear.

  The shaky camera panned across a large basketball court. The stadium seats were filled with Indians. The court was filled with powwow dancers. The camera zoomed in on one older man dancing. I recognized my grandfather from the pictures I’d seen of him.

  “Grandpa was a good dancer,” Adrian said. “And this is the year he won first place in the Men’s Traditional Golden Age category at one of America’s largest powwows.”

  “Wow!” I said.

  “No. PowWOW!” Adrian said with a laugh.

  “That’s funny,” I said.

  Just then Nana’s voice came ringing down the hallway.

  “Dinner’s ready! Come and get it!”

  Adrian turned off the tape and the light on his workbench. We went to the dining room and sat down to an unusual dinner that Nana had cooked for us.

  “Mark, these are foods from all of your cultural backgrounds,” she explained. She pointed to different dishes as she named them. “This bowl of noodles is pansit from your Filipino relatives. The fry bread is what your Crow ancestors ate in the early reservation days, and what we still eat. The trout, which the Chumash have always eaten, comes from right here in the Santa Ynez River. And I know you’re familiar with beans and tortillas from your Mexican ancestry. That’s actually the food of the Indians there, before the Spaniards came.”