In the Shade of the Rainbow Tree

“Why are you hurting me?”

“Because your mamma’s a nigger!” Those boys kicked me hard.

Years later, three teenagers crossed the country, summer of 1973, we stopped for gas in Oklahoma, windy tall grass prairie, miles from nowhere. As we pulled up to the pumps, a loaded shotgun muzzle came through the window. I heard the hammer cock and felt the gun metal pressed against my face.

The grizzled man hollered, “We don’t serve no Indians here. Just keep driving, or this squaw is gonna be real sorry, real dead, real soon.”

We almost ran out of gas. Before the next station, my traveling companions made me hide in the back of the truck, under blankets and camping gear. My dog Ruby leaned warm against my camouflaged body. It was hot and hard to breathe, the truck bed, hurt my bones. I thought it was my fault we were running out of gas. In my mind, I made it my fault, for being myself. W e could smell fumes, and my boyfriend was fuming, at me.

My white boyfriend and his buddy got gas and shot the shit with the owner. I held my pee. I felt like I would burst. Ruby whimpered so softly, only I could hear her. She was not complaining, her heart was breaking for me. I learned to hide, as women of color must. It was not the first I hid, not the last. Born of many races, I am forever homesick. I stay brown, like an ordinary bird.

“Mamma, what’s a nigger?” She beat me for asking. She taught me to never call people names for their color. I just wanted to know why, why boys kicked and punched me.

I am brown, like Ruby, the street dog I rescued. “Who names a brown dog Ruby?” my boyfriend had asked critically. In the back of the truck, only Ruby knew my trembling.

The following season, I birthed a daughter. Ruby guarded the doorway, keeping her eyes on me all night, My faithful mid-woof.

When I became a single mom, I wasn’t exactly alone with my baby, Ruby was a fine canine co-parent, she loved Isabel. Every day when the school bus dropped Isabel off at the corner, Ruby was waiting. I looked forward to watching them walk home together. As the years unfolded, I noticed my daughter slowing down, waiting for Ruby, whose gait was getting dawdling, she was aging, and some of her brown was going grey.

Christmas eve, 1987, dinner was simple for a broken family of three, just me, my child and Ruby girl. I baked the smallest turkey I could find. For Ruby I chopped the meat into tiny bits, so she would not need to chew much, with her few remaining teeth.

My daughter and I drove slowly out of the driveway, in the rearview mirror, I could see Ruby, watching us leave. “Stop Mom.” Isabel jumped out of the car and ran back, to hug her dog, “Merry Christmas Ruby.” I heard her shout over her shoulder as she got back into the car. “Do you think we should put her inside?” asked Isabel. “Naw,” she said to herself, “it’s warm out.” I nodded.

Midnight Mass was filled with friends and songs. "Angels we have heard on high...." After the final blessing Isabel grabbed my arm and dashed for the car, we both didn’t feel like socializing. I drove home a little too fast. As we turned the corner, by the moonlight we could see Ruby, collapsed in the driveway.

We carried her into the house and laid her on her bed, I used my nursing skills to attempt to revive her, but Ruby was gone.

I carried her out to the Rainbow Shower tree, Isabel brought the shovel. I felt blessed that the ground was soft. I dug in silence, I dug with all my heart. I flashed back to the pickup truck bed, in Oklahoma, trembling. My face was muddy with tears and dirt. Isabel went back in the house, and brought her baby quilt, she wrapped it around Ruby’s body, and we lowered her into the Earth. I t rained.

I sat in the shower weeping, Isabel moved the curtain and said, “Mom, I know why you buried Ruby under the Rainbow tree, where my placenta is buried… because Ruby always did love the shade.”