The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian
And I kept trying to find the little pieces of joy in my life. That's the only way I managed to make it through all of that death and change. (24.72)
I'm fourteen years old and I've been to forty-two funerals.
That's really the biggest difference between Indians and white people.
A few of my white classmates have been to a grandparent's funeral. And a few have lost an uncle or aunt. And one guy's brother died of leukemia when he was in third grade.
But there's nobody who has been to more than five funerals.
All my white friends can count their deaths on one hand.
I can count my fingers, toes, arms, legs, eyes, ears, nose, penis, butt cheeks, and nipples, and still not get close to my deaths.
And you know what the worst part is? The unhappy part? About 90 percent of the deaths have been because of alcohol. (27.4-27.10)
"They had a party," my father said. "And your sister and her husband passed out in the back bedroom. And somebody tried to cook some soup on a hot plate. And they forgot about it and left. And a curtain drifted in on the wind and caught the hot plate, and the trailer burned down quick."
I swear to you that I could hear my sister screaming.
"The police say your sister never even woke up," my father said. "She was way too drunk."
My dad was trying to comfort me. But it's not too comforting to learn that your sister was TOO FREAKING DRUNK to feel any pain when she BURNED TO DEATH! (27.85-27.88)