Shhh

Shhh

A chill wind slaps her hair into her face. The strands are offensively straight, chopped off with the snip of the scissors. Shhh, the sound of it still echoes. With each strand cut loose, the sharp metal whispered to the hair to be quiet. Quiet the crying, quiet the stories you hold, quiet your ancestors, and quiet the generations to come. Hair is her lifeline, just as it was her parents’ and their parents’ before them. Generations dating back from before history was written grew into those strands of hair. Past, present, and future were entwined in a braid. It had draped down to the middle of her back, growing for thirteen years. Always growing, never cut, until she was forced to come to this place. Now it hangs just below her chin. Her past was severed, her present cut short, and her future is only these blunt ends. 

A familiar Shhh sound comes from the ground before her. This sound is rougher than the one before. There is also a metallic noise, that of something larger than simple scissors. What new thing were they taking from her?

The girl hardly had anything left. They had taken her family. The sound of her mother's anguished screams often kept her up at night. Shhh, quiet your bonds to your blood and your land. Her clothes of soft buckskin and colorful beads were replaced with a stiff, scratchy uniform. Shhh, quiet your vibrant outfits and customs. After the uniform came the haircut. A brutal hacking off of her legacy, the one she was given and the one she could never pass on. Shhh, don’t remember, and don’t remind us. Lastly, they took her language. They may as well have cut out her tongue. She couldn't even speak her name, but sometimes late at night when everyone else was asleep, she whispered it to herself. In the end, it all came down to the sound of Shhhh. 

 The girl could have wept over the things she's lost for an eternity, and it still wouldn’t have been long enough. When she first came to this place, she used to wish for a savior. No deity or kind-hearted person came to save her. Only more children came. They walked through the doors looking like her people, with long hair on their heads, soft clothes on their bodies, and rich language on their lips. They always ended up the same, though. Their hair was cut and their bodies were stripped of everything other. The only thing they couldn't remove was the skin, brown like the Earth. They would have if they could, they would happily have skinned them alive and replaced dark with pale. They would have if they could, and it would have sounded like Shhh.

 A storm cloud brews in the distance, dark gray against the midnight sky. The wind picks up around them. A strand of hair flies into her open eyes, but she can not blink or wipe it away. She can’t see what the two men are doing, but it sounds bad. Even hidden under the faraway rumble of thunder and the whoosh of the wind, the sound of what they are doing is awful. But she has gotten used to awful sounds. Unfamiliar words being spoken, a name that wasn't hers, prayers to a god she didn't know or understand. The click-clack of uncomfortable shoes on tile floors. A wooden ruler smacking on her desk, or her skin. Every noise in this place is horrible. Still, this sound of what they are doing is worst of all. What is it they are doing? A crunch, Shhh, a scoop, a plop playing on repeat. Beyond that, though, is the sound of the intent, the furrowing of brows and muttering of insults, the hatred pumping through their veins with every new round of noises. The girl, of course, cannot hear any of that, but it is there, the sound, whipping in the wind. 

The time for running is over. Any will to fight died out long ago. They are good at that—killing hope. Even if the girl screamed, the sound would be lost in the howling of the wind. And if it were silent, there is no one but the two men to hear her. The men wouldn’t care. They had been the ones to drag her out here. They had dragged her and the younger child outside. Finally they are free of the nightmare of a place they called a school. Yet it is no time for celebrating. It is the middle of the night. Nothing good ever happens in the middle of the night. 

The Shh sound and the metallic sound are almost drowned out in the building storm. When the noise stops, it leaves a void in its place. There is no relief or joy. There is only the next task, and this one already sounds worse than the first. A grunt and a sigh, a surrender to what must be done, go wailing into the wind.

The men are ready for her and her friends. Boots trudge on the ground as they approach the girl. “Indian,” One man mutters the word under his breath like a curse. He picks her up as easily as he would carry his trusty bible. She’s so thin and frail after being denied food for days on end. Then suddenly she is flying. For that one moment, she is free of this place. Then she lands with a thud. Strands of her hair fall in her face, and if she could have seen them, she would have hated the way they lay broken and butchered, just like her. 

Another small body flies above and then lands on top of her. A thud and a sickening snap of bones ring out in the small hole. Her eyes are facing up, a view that is part sky and part the other child on top of her. A dark cloud blotted out the moon, and then rain began dripping from the sky. Dirt is added on top of her and the other child. She can’t see  the child, but she doesn’t have to see to know. They too will have short hair, scratchy clothes, and a sadness on their face where their words used to play. She will never know their name; no one will. No one will know her name either. Even if she is found, even if that savior finally comes. Her family, her name, her hair, her clothes, and her language are lost.

The Shhhh and metallic clang noise resume, at a quick pace. A fat raindrop lands on the corner of her eye like a tear. It rolls down her cheek to the Earth below. The wind screams when she cannot. Then she is gone, lost like all the things she had come into this place with. No past, present, or future, her story only to be told in the whispers and screams of the wind. Shhh.

A chill wind slaps her hair into her face. The strands are offensively straight, chopped off with a few snips of scissors. The sharp metal whispers to the hair, Shhh. Quiet the crying, quiet the stories you hold, quiet your ancestors, and generations to come. Hair is her lifeline, just as it was her parents and their parents before them. Generations dating back from before history was written grew into those strands of hair. Past, present, and future were entwined in a braid. It had draped down to the middle of her back, growing for thirteen years. Always growing, never cut. Until they forced her to come to this place. Now it hangs just below her chin. Her past is severed, her present cut short, and her future now only these blunt ends. 

The familiar Shhh sound comes from the ground. This sound is rougher than the one before. There is also a metallic sound, that of something larger than simple scissors. What new thing were they taking from her? The girl hardly had anything left. 

First, they took her family. The sound of her mother's anguished screams often kept her up at night. Shhh, quiet your bonds to your blood and your land. Her clothes came next. The soft buckskin and colorful beads hand-sewn on were replaced with a stiff, scratchy, bland uniform. Shhh, your vibrant outfits and customs. After the uniform came the haircut. A brutal hacking off of her legacy, the one passed down and the one she could never pass on. Shhh, don’t remember, and don’t remind us. Lastly, they took her language. They may as well have cut out her tongue. She couldn't even speak her name, but sometimes late at night when everyone else slept, she whispered it to herself. The girl could weep over the things she's lost for an eternity and it still wouldn’t be long enough. In the end, it all went away, replaced by Shhh. 

 When she first came to this place, she used to wish for a savior. Some deity or kind-hearted person coming to save her. Only more children came. They walked through the doors looking like her people, with long hair on their heads, soft clothes on their bodies, and rich language on their lips. They always ended up the same, though. Their hair cut and their bodies stripped of everything other. The only thing they can’t remove is their skin, brown like the Earth. They would have if they could, they would happily skin them alive. Replace dark with pale. They would have if they could. It would have sounded like Shhh.

 A storm cloud brews in the distance, dark gray against the midnight sky. The wind picks up around them. A strand of hair flies into her open eyes, but she can not blink or wipe it away. She couldn't see what the two men were doing, but it sounded bad. Even hidden under the faraway rumble of thunder and the whoosh of the wind, the sound of what they are doing is awful. But she had gotten used to awful sounds. Unfamiliar words being spoken, a name that wasn't hers, prayers to a god she didn't know or understand. The click-clack of uncomfortable shoes on tile floors. A wooden ruler smacking on her desk, or her skin. Every noise in this place was horrible. Still, the sound of what they were doing was worse of all. What was it they were doing? A crunch, Shhh, a scoop, a plop playing on repeat. Beyond that though is the sound of the intent, the furrowing of brows and muttering of insults, the hatred pumping through their veins with every new round of noises. The girl, of course, could not hear any of that, but it was there, thrashing in the wind. 

The time for running is over. Any will to fight had died out long ago, anyway. They were good at that—killing hope. If the girl had screamed, the sound would have been lost in the howling of the wind. And if it were silent, there was no one but the two men to hear her. The men wouldn’t have cared. They had been the ones to drag her out here. They snatched her and a younger child out of their beds and brought them outside. Finally, free of the nightmare of a place they called a school. Yet it was no time for celebrating. It is the middle of the night. Nothing good ever happens in the middle of the night. 

The Shh sound and the metallic sound are almost drowned out in the building storm. Yet when the noise stops, it leaves a void in its place. There is no relief or joy. There is only the next task, and this one already sounds worse than the first. A grunt and a sigh, a surrender to what must be done, go wailing into the wind. 

The men are ready for her and the other child. Boots trudge on the ground as they approach the girl. “Indian,” one man mutters the word under his breath like a curse. He picks her up as easily as he would carry his trusty bible. She’s so thin and frail after being denied food for days on end. Then suddenly she is flying. For that one moment, she is free of this place. Then she lands with a thud. She will never be free of this place. Strands of her hair fall in her face and if she could have seen them, she would have hated the way they lay broken and butchered, just like her. 

The other small body flies above and then lands on top of her. A thud and a sickening snap of bones ring out in the small hole she has found herself inside. Her eyes are facing the sky for a moment, only partially obstructed by the other child on top of her. A dark cloud blotted out the moon, and then rain wept from the sky. Dirt is added on top of her and the other child. She couldn’t see the child, but she wouldn’t have to see to know. They too had short hair, scratchy clothes, and a sadness on their face where their words used to play. She would never know their name, no one would. No one would know her name either. Even if she was found, even if her savior finally came. Her family, her name, her hair, her clothes, and her language are forever buried. 

The Shhhh and metallic clang noise resume at a quick pace. A fat raindrop lands on the corner of her eye like a tear. It rolls down her cheek to the Earth below. The wind screams when she can not. Then she is gone, lost like all the things she came with into this place. No past, present, or future. Her story only to be told in the whispers and screams of the wind. Shhh.