Fifth grade. I guess you could say I was average, although, like everyone else, I wished I was above average. Most days though, I often felt less than average feeling inadequate as I compared my short frame to the other kids in my class that loomed and towered over me. My long white-blonde hair was sensitive and rather than torture myself with pony-pails or other hair styles, my long hair often fell loose and ratty around my pudgy face. I hadn’t thought much of it before, but now that my sister Sunshine was a middle schooler, she often informed me on how un-cool I actually was. My sister liked to prove this by quickly pointing out my lack of friends. I didn’t understand how my one best friend, Cassie, was not enough. I began to question myself and what I was supposed to look like and be like.
I often talked of these new concerns with Cassie, but she would always reassure me by telling me Sunshine was just trying to be mean to me. Cassie was the oldest child in her family and she told me how she would say similar things to her younger sister. I thought Cassie knew it all; she always seemed to know what to say and had an answer for everything. Cassie and I had known each other since second grade, and that’s like forever. We were both excited that we were in the same class this year and spent every second we could together. Although Cassie and I had a lot in common, she had a hard time with the fact that I hated to read. She would often give me books and tell me to read them, but I felt that was a waste of time. I would much rather be outside on my roller blades or riding my bike. Cassie didn’t like sports and she often tried to convince me of the travelling possibilities that a book offered. Whatever. Despite this disagreement, we were still BFF (Best Friends Forever)!
I was an okay student. I did pretty well actually, well except for spelling and reading. I knew how to read, and read well, but apparently I just wasn’t reading enough. My teacher was disappointed that I did not read although I could read advanced books and understand their meanings. My teacher would often pull me aside and try and point out books she thought I would like, but I was never interested. In fact, I actually got upset that people were trying to shove all of these books down my throat. Apparently I wasn’t the only student with this dislike of books, and my teacher, Mrs. Wooldridge, said she was not going to give up on me or anyone else in the class.
It was about half way through the year when Mrs. Wooldridge announced that since we had finished our math unit, we would now have an implemented reading time; and yes, I groaned at this. She surprised us by saying that instead of us reading, she would read a book to us. I guess that would be okay; after all, being read to is better that having to fill out math problems. Mrs. Wooldridge continued to say that she would be reading Naya Nuki (Naya what)? It was at this point that a huge smile crossed her worn, aged face as she announced that after we have read the book, the author himself would come and speak to us. A buzz began to roll over the room. I had never met an author before. I was pretty excited, authors are famous aren’t they? I have never met anyone famous before. I guess this whole designated reading time wouldn’t be too bad after all.
At first reading time bored me. The book was about some Indian girl picking berries or something with her friend Sacagawea. I had heard the name before, but it didn’t mean much. In fact most of the time I just watched my teacher read. I thought it amusing how her lips would curl over certain words. Her eyebrows moved like caterpillars dancing whenever she got excited about what she was reading. The wrinkles on her face lifted and sagged with each new expression. To me that was way more interesting than picking berries. I began to think about where I would ride my bike that afternoon when I heard Mrs. Wooldridge voice get louder and louder as she talked of an Indian attacking the girls picking berries and how they were pulled by their hair from their hiding spots and placed in front of their captors on their saddle.
I sat mesmerized as she talked of abuse, pilfering, and murder. My heart thumped as she told the tale of the brave Naya Nuki, a girl my age, who bore this captivity and punishment. I was upset when my teacher stopped so that we could go get lunch. Something had happened that had never happened before. I wanted her to keep reading. I wanted to know if Naya Nuki would be able to escape the way she had been planning. For the first time in my life, I cared about a character in a book as if she were my friend; as if she was me. My mind raced around the story wondering if I would be able to get out of a camp in which I am being held captive. Would I have been able to have stolen and hid the knife as well as Naya Nuki had?
I walked home imagining I was Naya Nuki and that I must hurry for the imaginary captor behind me might decide I was traveling too slow and leave me for dead among the wilderness; known to me as the empty playground. I did my bathroom chore scrubbing and sweating as I cleaned the bathtub and toilet and thought of the torture I must endure before I too could plan and execute my escape. I slept in my warm bed and thought what it must be like sleeping in a warm buffalo hide. I went to sleep quickly dreaming out my adventures as an Indian princess.
Before class started I talked with Cassie about the book and how wonderful the adventure was. Although Cassie didn’t seem to appreciate the book nearly as much as I did, she was still excited to hear that I liked the book. We talked about our wishes to be little Indian girls out among the thickets picking barriers and being captured by an enemy tribe. We began to pick out the boys in our class who were mean to us and labeled them as our evil captors. I had trouble focusing on school work that day as I waited, like Naya Nuki, to be reunited to the things I love. Although Naya Nuki tried to get home, I waited as patiently as I could to continue on this new adventure with her.
Finally, it was reading time again. I ran to the blue plastic chair we sat around while Mrs. Wooldridge read and waited to begin my adventure again. As Mrs. Wooldridge’s voice began, slow and raspy at first, but rising and growing with the story as it began. I returned to the wilderness of Montana as Naya Nuki climbs the tree to escape the dangerous black bear that had smelled the food she was carrying. I sit stiff as if I too might fall from the tree. My heart pounds like the sound of the drums that welcome the adventurous traveler back into their folds, honoring with the name Naya Nuki: girl who ran.
I sat mystified. I was Naya Nuki. I had made that travel with her and felt honored to have finished the book in one piece. The long ratty blonde hair of mine in my eyes turned to the silky black hair of the Indian princess I was becoming. My chubby short frame I knew would help hide and survive the long nights without food. All of the sudden, the things that had been bothering me seemed to make me who I was. I was an Indian princess and enjoyed the way I looked. Cassie was my Sacagawea, honest and true in all that she was.
Now that we had finished the book, I looked forward to our meeting with the author. I was told that if we bought the book he would even autograph it for us. I was looking forward to getting an autograph, but I was more excited about owning a copy of the book.
I was ecstatic when the day came to meet Kenneth Thommasa. I walked excitedly to the library, where we were to meet him. I hoped that he would notice how much like Naya Nuki I was, or felt I was. We sat Indian-style on the floor as we listened to him tell us a little about the story I already knew so well. He then said he was going to give a free book to the girl who looked most like Naya Nuki. I felt sure I was going to get it, after all I was an Indian, who had survived all Naya Nuki had, or at least I felt that I was capable to do all that she had. I waved my hand furiously with all the girls around me, begging that he chose me.
Needless to say I was devastated when he picked Christina. I was angry. Christina has a beautiful light brown skin, with long flowing black-brown hair and chocolate brown eyes. She was already beautiful enough; she didn’t need a free book too. I was sadly brought back to reality. I realized my pale skin and yellow hair were not the adornments of a beautiful Indian girl. Despite this sad reality, no one could take away my experience. I had used my babysitting money and bought the book that had changed me. After buying the book, I walked timidly across the library and up to the author and watched as he signed my book: To Cherish, Kenneth Thommasa.
Mrs. Wooldridge didn’t give up on me. She noticed my interest and found books that fit my liking. I read Island of the Blue Dolphins, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIHM, the whole Laura Ingles series, chocolate Fever, and many more. I became an avid reader, reading everything I could get my hands on. My favorite books were one of brave Indian girls, but I learned to appreciate most literature.
Every time I walk into my library of a meager 500 plus books I can’t help but look at my signed copy of Naya Nuki and remember the adventure that changed my life.
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