Page 9 - Brave Bird at Wounded Knee - I Am America

The days that Mom worked, Patsy could ride to school

with Dad or take her bike. If she got a ride, she had to take
the bus home. That added forty minutes to her day. She

looked out the window. A bright sun climbed a cloudless

sky. Snow covered the mountain peaks on the western

horizon, but the sidewalks in her Denver neighborhood
were clear.

“Nah, I’ll take my bike,” she said.

“Bundle up, then. Our winter hasn’t given up yet.”

Dad dropped his sandwich in a brown bag and grabbed
his thermos.

“Thečhíȟila,” he said on his way out the door. Patsy

didn’t know many phrases in Lakota, Dad’s native language.

But she did know that one—“I love you.”
Patsy pulled her bike out of the rack in front of her

apartment, then donned her gloves, hat, and earmuffs.

The two-mile ride to school was chilly. Sixth grade was in

the middle school building, not at the elementary school a
couple blocks from her house. Middle school had brought

some other changes for Patsy. Her parents had decided she

was old enough to ride her bike to school and stay home

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