The Seed Keeper by Diane Wilson

Author:Diane Wilson [Wilson, Diane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

Tommy’s second-grade teacher, Mrs. Gunderson, was an older woman a few years from retirement, who was loved as a grandmother by her young students. While Tommy colored at his desk, we sat in two small chairs facing her.

“Tommy is a very bright student,” she said, beaming at us. “The only assignment he had trouble with was drawing a picture of his family. When I asked him about his grandparents, he said he didn’t have any. Is that true?”

“Yes, it’s true,” John responded. “My folks both passed away before Tommy was born. And Rosalie—well, she can tell you about her family.” He looked at me with his eyebrows raised, clearly inviting me to share my story. I kept my mouth shut. An awkward pause bloomed between us.

“I see,” Mrs. Gunderson said. “I told Tommy that we could just write their names if they’re no longer living. But he never brought the names to school with him.”

“Oh. Most likely the assignment was misplaced,” John said, glancing at me. “My folks were Harlan Meister and Edna Horst.”

“Of course, I knew their families,” Mrs. Gunderson said as she carefully wrote down the names. “And Rosalie, who were your parents?”

It seemed that she turned to me with more than casual interest.

“My father was Ray Iron Wing. And my mother was Agnes Kills Deer.”

I waited as Mrs. Gunderson’s pen did not move.

“So, it’s true, then, that your son is … part Indian. I wondered, you know, because he looks so … like you … and, of course, other children can sometimes be unkind.”

“Unkind?” I asked, with a rising edge in my voice.

“You know how kids are. They like to tease, call each other names.”

“What names?”

“Like ‘Chief’ or ‘Crazy Horse’ or ‘Redskin,’ things like that. ‘Savage.’”

“And you allow it?”

“Oh no. No, no, no. More than one boy has found himself in the principal’s office for calling names. I just don’t always hear them. And your son is not one to tell tales.”

I felt the heat rising in my body, a dangerous sign. I could still hear voices from high school singing out—squaw, Pocahontas—as I walked down the hall. I felt an old familiar rage prickling the skin on my arms and across my chest. Stinging nettles.

“Mrs. Gunderson,” I said, and she turned to me with a smile that faltered just a bit as she met my eyes. “I want to talk to the parents of these children.”

“I’m afraid I can’t …” she started to say, until I slammed my hand down on the desk hard enough to scatter Tommy’s papers.

“I want to talk to the parents of these children!” My voice had grown louder, as if that would help her understand what I was saying.

“Rosie, I think you’ve said enough. Let’s go,” John said, grabbing my arm and gesturing for Tommy to get up. I was hustled out of the room as if I was about to start making threats. Mrs. Gunderson stared after us, her hand pressed over her heart.

John kept shaking his head as we strode back to the car.

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