White Paper, Red Ink

Inspired by true stories...

He drops the money on the government overseer’s desk like he’s setting down a cup of coffee. Five crisp dollars—one, two, three, four, five—neatly placed between them. The overseer doesn’t even pretend to hesitate. He stops writing mid-stroke, the red ink of his fountain pen bleeding a crescent onto the form. Then he looks up, and he smiles.

The man, Reverend Thomas Ellison Jr., sits across from him, beside where I am forced to stand. He sits expectantly, as if sure of the overseer’s decision before it is rendered and simply smiles back.

This is the moment I know I will lose my land—my father’s land—the land of his father and his father before him. It’s been my family’s land since before Oklahoma was even a word; before the white man whose name they do not even remember to pronounce correctly anymore, ever set foot on a boat; before he ever drew breath.

The white man is tall, his hair a light golden straw, brushed back neat beneath a black felt hat. His suit fits him like it was made for someone richer, but clean. Expensive boots. Pale skin. Blue eyes like sky after ice.

The overseer stamps a paper and slides it across to a federal witness who dutifully scrawls his name on the white paper, making the decision official. Final. The Reverend folds it in half without reading it and tucks it into his coat. He stands, having never addressed me even once in our dispute. He tips his hat to the clerk, then turns and walks away— Nearly bumping into my son Joseph as he lasciviously looks over the brown, young skin of my daughter Esther’s legs, and then out into the bright morning air.