I always had to be the sheriff in these games, which was not as much fun as running around the garden in a feathered headdress making holololololo war cries, hand patting mouth, but my brother did a sterling job of it. It is true to say that Ash and I became firm fans of native tribes because of a Ladybird book I’d found in the library. In the fortnight we had access to this book we had pored over page eleven for hours, transfixed at the illustration of the young Cherokee boy, a woeful expression on his face and tied to a wooden post by two strings that appeared to originate at his nipples. And through each of these pierced nipples were two small stakes of wood. I’d reread the short paragraphs detailing the Sundance repeatedly to Ash, to myself, and it never failed to fascinate no matter how many times we read about this strange ritual. The boy will dance and fast for many nights and many days. No matter the weather, he must endure and overcome any pain during this sacrificial ritual, and, in this way, he will prove his loyalty and strength.
So, while Ash was in his little wigwam playing with his toy cars, my parents and I would attack the waist-high weeds and mighty Pampas grass that circled the garden like guards, tall, thick, and slicing any hands that came too close. ‘We’ll get there slowly,’ Mum would say to Dad as he cursed and nursed another wound in his leg or arm. It was relentless work, hot and painful, but I endured. This was my first test, my Sundance, and I wanted to prove my loyalty to my tribe.
J March 