Mother Tongue

Mother Tongue D. K. Lawhorn (bio) Keywords D.K. Lawhorn, prose writers, fiction, Indigenous authors, Indian school, nuns ________ CAUGHT BETWEEN Sister Eustace’s fingers, my ear is close to ripping off as she drags me through the schoolhouse and toward the steps that lead to the Mother Superior’s room. This is the only part of the morning that hasn’t gone to plan. I focus on the comforting weight of the silver dinner knife tucked into the waistband of my skirt. Its cold length digs against my hip bone and reassures me. My trip upstairs won’t end like the others. All those girls who have gone before me. I will come back down. I will slay the monster waiting up there. I will kill the Mother Superior, ear or no ear. Normally, Sister Eustace hauls us girls along by our hair, straight black strands wrapped around her hand for the best grip. Because all of mine was shorn off earlier in the week for refusing to use silverware as I ate, Sister Eustace makes do with my ear. I’d hoped for something along the lines of a bone-grinding wrist grip, but here we are. For two days, my scalp bled from the ravages of the dull knife she used to strip away my honor in front of all the younger girls trapped in this boarding school with me. As Sister Eustace chopped and hacked, she told me, with a smug smile on her face and loud enough for the whole schoolhouse to hear, that this was a light punishment for being such an uncouth Indian. She said that I should be grateful for her deep mercy, which she was showing only because it was my birthday. I smiled through the runnels of blood streaking my face. This further enraged Sister Eustace and gained me a bare-bottom paddling that lasted until Sister Francis burst into the room and pulled me from the dining hall, away from Sister Eustace. Even with Sister Francis’s intervention, I haven’t been able to sit down comfortably since. The clacks of little feet in hard-soled shoes follow us toward the staircase. At its base, Sister Eustace spins, jerking me around with her. I bite off a yelp of pain and pull in a shuddering breath through flared nostrils to keep tears from welling. Sister Eustace sweeps her dull gray gaze over the group of girls trailing us. They are all dressed in the foolish black and white uniforms the Sisters force us to wear, little choking bows tight around their necks. Their beautiful black hair is cut short to rest on their narrow shoulders, as if each of them are in mourning. [End Page 120] Even though the full heat of Sister Eustace’s fiery fury is on them, none of the girls back away. Twelve sets of brown eyes, all shimmering with held-back cries, are stuck on me. I’m the oldest girl in the boarding school by four years. Even before I turned thirteen, the others looked to me as the mother of our fractured little Monacan Nation inside these stark white walls. My chest tightens. It grows hard for me to breathe as I look at each of their pretty, round faces. They’ll be devastated if I meet the same fate as every other girl who has been brought to the Mother Superior’s room. But disappearing is not part of my plan. “Get back to the classroom this instant.” Sister Eustace’s voice crashes down the hallway toward the girls. They turn and run from it. Ever since the third girl went missing and I put together the fact that anyone who’s taken to see the Mother Superior never comes back, I’ve been trying to teach the girls how to make it through this hell we’ve been forced into. My chest loosens just a little to see a lesson well learned. I get no time to be proud of these smart girls because Sister Eustace is yanking at my ear again. A tear opens between my earlobe and cheek, sudden enough to pull a whimper from me. A warm...