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"My traditional Native American art career began and ended with my very first portrait: Stick Indian Taking a Piss in My Backyard.

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Adjective to Describe the Author's Voice

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Adjective to Describe the Author's Voice

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Descriptive:
"My hair was too short and my US government glasses were horn-rimmed and ugly"(105).
Relatable:
"I missed my first shot

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Belive me, everything looks like a noose if you stare at it long enough

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The little warrior in me roared to life that day and knocked Frenchy to
the ground, held his head against the snow, and punched him so hard that my knuckles and the snow made symmetrical bruises on his face."

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"They stole my glasses and threw them over my head, around my out-
stretched hands, just beyond my reach, until someone tripped me and sent me. falling again, facedown in the snow. "

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And I chanted It's a good day to die, it's a good day to die, all the way down to the principal's office.

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But the little warrior in me roared to life that day and knocked Frenchy to the ground, held his head against the snow, and punched him so hard that my knuckles and the snow made symmetrical bruises on his face.

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I picked up a basketball for the first time and made my first shot. No. I
missed my first shot, missed the basket completely, and the ball landed in the dirt and sawdust, sat there just like I had sat there only minutes before.

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"Tell me you're sorry," she said.
"Sorry for what?" I asked.
"Everything," she said and made me stand straight for fifteen minutes,
eagle-armed with books in each hand. One was a math book; the other was English. But all I learned was that gravity can be painful.

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"Give me your lunch if you're just going to throw it up," I said to one of
those girls once. I sat back and watched them grow skinny from self-pity.

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"my hair was too short and my US government glasses were horn-rimmed ugly

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"But he wasn't the warrior. I was. And I chanted It's a good day to die, it's a good day to die, all the way down to the principal's office. "

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"Once she gave the class a spelling test but she set me aside and gave me a test designed for junior high students"

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Once, it was Cries-Like-aWhite-Boy, even though none of us had seen a white boy cry.

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But the little warrior in me roared to life that day and knocked Frenchy to the ground, held his head against the snow, and punched him so hard that my knuckles and the snow made symmetrical bruises on his face. He almost looked like he was wearing war paint.

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Just Indians being Indians, someone must have said somewhere and they were wrong.