Third Wheel

To be frank, I just really hate my life, and that's all you need to know about me. Many people seem to think this isn't the case. I have a job, I made it out of that stinking small patch of hell I was born in, and I can pay the rent on time (every few months of so). My boss doesn't hate me, I'm better off than my ancestors, and I have a phone (that cost like thirteen dollars I think). Well, to be frank, life has been nothing other than one nasty surprise after the other. How so, you ask? Why, let me enlighten you. The main indicator I should mention is the fact that I was born on an Indian Reservation. Without launching into a long, generalized rant about Andrew Jackson and Catholic boarding schools and colonialism and the junk food tax on the Navajo Nation, I will say this. It sucks out there, okay. Some people make it out, some don't, there are good and bad souls interspersed, not every reservation is the same, and on occasion you'll catch a glimpse of hope towards the future. I've heard from friends that the Cherokee Nation is both better or worse. But overall, conditions are not favorable, and that part was neither my fault nor my choice (in short; history and colonizers are mainly to blame). I haven't seen my grandparents since I was nine, when my mom pretty much grabbed me and made a run for it. We then ended up in good old Oklahoma, and moved from town to town until we found ourselves in tiny old Brooksville, a small town that has historically had a majority black population. According to Mom, we also lost another kid, thanks to Native American child custody laws. Not exactly the best pathway to a happily ever after. But you know what, we tried. I mean, I got out of Brooksville and made my way to Oklahoma City. That was something. And when I did, I promised myself that I would never look back at any of the stuff that happened in Brooksville. Especially that asshole Jaime Santiago and his new arm candy, Valerie Callaghan.