The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian
"You've been fighting since you were born," he said. "You fought off that brain surgery. You fought off those seizures. You fought off all the drunks and drug addicts. You kept your hope. And now, you have to take your hope and go somewhere where other people have hope."
I was starting to understand. He was a math teacher. I had to add my hope to somebody else's hope. I had to multiply my hope.
"Where is hope?" I asked. "Who has hope?"
"Son," Mr. P said. "You're going to find more and more hope the farther and farther you walk away from this sad, sad, sad reservation." (5.163-5.168)
They stared at me, the Indian boy with the black eye and swollen nose, my going-away gifts from Rowdy. Those white kids couldn't believe their eyes. They stared at me like I was Bigfoot or a UFO. What was I doing at Reardan, whose mascot was an Indian, thereby making me the only other Indian in town? (8.27)
And then I felt smaller because the teacher was taking roll and he called out my name name.
"Arnold Spirit," the teacher said.
No, he yelled it.
He was so big and muscular that his whisper was probably a scream.
"Here," I said as quietly as possible. My whisper was only a whisper.
"Speak up," the teacher said.
"Here," I said.
"My name is Mr. Grant," he said.
"I'm here, Mr. Grant." (8.60-8.68)