The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian
"Can I ask you something big?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"Are you poor?"
I couldn't lie to her anymore.
"Yes," I said. "I'm poor." (17.109-17.115)
I picked up the other boot and dug inside. Man, that thing smelled like booze and fear and failure.
I found a wrinkled and damp five dollar bill.
"Merry Christmas," he said.
And then I realized something.
I realized that my team, the Reardan Indians, was Goliath.
I mean, jeez, all of the seniors on our team were going to college. All of the guys on our team had their own cars. All of the guys on our team had iPods and cell phones and PSPs and three pairs of blue jeans and ten shirts and mother and fathers who went to church and had good jobs.
Ok, so maybe my white teammates had problems, serious problems, but none of their problems was life threatening.
But I looked over at the Wellpinit Redskins, at Rowdy.
I knew that two or three of those Indians might not have eaten breakfast that morning.
No food in the house.
I knew that seven or eight of those Indians lived with drunken mothers and fathers.
I knew that one of those Indians had a father who dealt crack and meth.
I knew two of those Indians and fathers in prison.
I knew that none of them was going to college. Not one of them.
And I knew that Rowdy's father was probably going to beat the crap out of him for losing this game. (25.248-25.259)