asks.
Amiq laughs. “It means your uncle is a good man,
Bunna.”
Kids are crowding around to read the story about the Eskimo revolt, but not me. I’ve gone back to thinking about my letter, the one sitting in my pocket with my name on it, 96
my name is n ot easy final text_.indd Sec1:96
18/07/2011 8:25 PM
B U R N T O F F E R I N G S / L u k e
unread. Th
e one I’m afraid to take out of my pocket. But right now that letter is the only story I’m interested in reading.
We have to wait a long time to read it, though, me and Bunna. We wait until after dinner, when we’re all alone in our room, after all them other guys are in the showers.
When we realize it’s a letter from our little brother Isaac, we hardly dare breathe for fear somebody’s gonna catch us before we get a chance to fi nish it.
DEAR BROTHER,
MY NEW HOUSE HAS A TREE. I KNOW
HOW TO CLIMB MY TREE. DAD IS
GOING TO BUILD A TREE HOUSE. IT
IS HOT HERE AND WE GO SWIMMING.
SINCERELY,
ISAAC
PS HOW COME YOU NEVER ANSWER MY
LETTERS?
Th
ose last words make me clench my fi sts up tight.
Th
e letter has no return address, and I never got no other letters, so how could I answer them? But there’s a postmark on it. I study it close, trying to fi gure out what it means. It’s a circle with a date in the center—AUG 15, 1961—and the word TEX at the bottom. Th
at means Texas, I’m sure. Th
ere a
97
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M Y N A M E I S N O T E A S Y
city name on the top, but I can’t read it because it’s smudged.
Part of it says DA.
When I slip that letter back into its envelope, the sight of that knife-cut edge along the top makes me boxing mad .
“Your opponent will always have a weak spot,” Father Mullen says. “Don’t ever forget that.”
When I think about Isaac swimming in some hot place, I feel cold and my chest gets tight, because swimming is like a weak spot for us. Us Eskimos are not swimmers. If we fall into the ocean back home, we don’t swim. We get pulled out quick before the cold kills us.
At least Isaac is okay, though. You could tell he’s okay by the way he makes his letters, real neat, forming the words as smooth as leaves falling.
How’d Isaac learn how to climb a tree, anyhow?
“What are we going to do with the letter?” Bunna whispers.
For some reason, I think of Abraham getting ready to burn his son Isaac.
“We gotta burn it,” I say, imagining what Father Mullen would do if he found out we took it.
“How come?”
“Never mind,” I whisper.
Father Mullen is teaching us boys to be boxers all right, and that’s okay by us, too. We will always stay two moves ahead of our opponent, and we will always look for his weak spot. And we will not throw any punches until we have a clear shot, no matter how long it takes. Father didn’t 98
my name is n ot easy final text_.indd Sec1:98
18/07/2011 8:25 PM
B U R N T O F F E R I N G S / L u k e
have to teach us that one; we already knew because we’re hunters.
“But how we gonna burn that letter when we don’t even got matches?” Bunna says.
Never mind. We’ll fi nd a way. We will always fi nd a way.
99
my name is n ot easy final text_.indd Sec1:99
18/07/2011 8:25 PM
Military Trash
MARCH 1962
CHICKIE
—
It’s snowing outside, making everything in the whole world seem bright and quiet, and I have a new diary. Swede sent it to me, and I’m trying to write in it, trying to record things, which is just about impossible, bouncing down this frozen road in our beat-up old bus. We are returning from a trip to Fairbanks, where our basketball team beat the team at the Catholic school there. We won because Sonny is tough and Amiq is fast and Michael O’Shay, that new boy, is just plain tall.
“Dear Diary,” I write, but the “a” and “i” get turned around and it says, “Dear Dairy.” Which makes me mad because I’ve written it in ink, and there is no turning back. I’m writing to a
Amiq laughs. “It means your uncle is a good man,
Bunna.”
Kids are crowding around to read the story about the Eskimo revolt, but not me. I’ve gone back to thinking about my letter, the one sitting in my pocket with my name on it, 96
my name is n ot easy final text_.indd Sec1:96
18/07/2011 8:25 PM
B U R N T O F F E R I N G S / L u k e
unread. Th
e one I’m afraid to take out of my pocket. But right now that letter is the only story I’m interested in reading.
We have to wait a long time to read it, though, me and Bunna. We wait until after dinner, when we’re all alone in our room, after all them other guys are in the showers.
When we realize it’s a letter from our little brother Isaac, we hardly dare breathe for fear somebody’s gonna catch us before we get a chance to fi nish it.
DEAR BROTHER,
MY NEW HOUSE HAS A TREE. I KNOW
HOW TO CLIMB MY TREE. DAD IS
GOING TO BUILD A TREE HOUSE. IT
IS HOT HERE AND WE GO SWIMMING.
SINCERELY,
ISAAC
PS HOW COME YOU NEVER ANSWER MY
LETTERS?
Th
ose last words make me clench my fi sts up tight.
Th
e letter has no return address, and I never got no other letters, so how could I answer them? But there’s a postmark on it. I study it close, trying to fi gure out what it means. It’s a circle with a date in the center—AUG 15, 1961—and the word TEX at the bottom. Th
at means Texas, I’m sure. Th
ere a
97
my name is n ot easy final text_.indd Sec1:97
18/07/2011 8:25 PM
M Y N A M E I S N O T E A S Y
city name on the top, but I can’t read it because it’s smudged.
Part of it says DA.
When I slip that letter back into its envelope, the sight of that knife-cut edge along the top makes me boxing mad .
“Your opponent will always have a weak spot,” Father Mullen says. “Don’t ever forget that.”
When I think about Isaac swimming in some hot place, I feel cold and my chest gets tight, because swimming is like a weak spot for us. Us Eskimos are not swimmers. If we fall into the ocean back home, we don’t swim. We get pulled out quick before the cold kills us.
At least Isaac is okay, though. You could tell he’s okay by the way he makes his letters, real neat, forming the words as smooth as leaves falling.
How’d Isaac learn how to climb a tree, anyhow?
“What are we going to do with the letter?” Bunna whispers.
For some reason, I think of Abraham getting ready to burn his son Isaac.
“We gotta burn it,” I say, imagining what Father Mullen would do if he found out we took it.
“How come?”
“Never mind,” I whisper.
Father Mullen is teaching us boys to be boxers all right, and that’s okay by us, too. We will always stay two moves ahead of our opponent, and we will always look for his weak spot. And we will not throw any punches until we have a clear shot, no matter how long it takes. Father didn’t 98
my name is n ot easy final text_.indd Sec1:98
18/07/2011 8:25 PM
B U R N T O F F E R I N G S / L u k e
have to teach us that one; we already knew because we’re hunters.
“But how we gonna burn that letter when we don’t even got matches?” Bunna says.
Never mind. We’ll fi nd a way. We will always fi nd a way.
99
my name is n ot easy final text_.indd Sec1:99
18/07/2011 8:25 PM
Military Trash
MARCH 1962
CHICKIE
—
It’s snowing outside, making everything in the whole world seem bright and quiet, and I have a new diary. Swede sent it to me, and I’m trying to write in it, trying to record things, which is just about impossible, bouncing down this frozen road in our beat-up old bus. We are returning from a trip to Fairbanks, where our basketball team beat the team at the Catholic school there. We won because Sonny is tough and Amiq is fast and Michael O’Shay, that new boy, is just plain tall.
“Dear Diary,” I write, but the “a” and “i” get turned around and it says, “Dear Dairy.” Which makes me mad because I’ve written it in ink, and there is no turning back. I’m writing to a
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