by say

I remember.
I remember there were American Indians down in the Floridian swamps and up in the breezy peaks of New York. And then there weren’t. I remember the cursory Trail of Tears

a trail that was, in fact, a horrific death march

as a footnote on the page of post-colonial expansion, an aside from the accomplishments of Andrew Jackson at his zenith. He simply wanted to civilize the deep deep south. He was a good man.
I recall wondering why they would go so willingly. I recall squirming when their survival rates were mentioned.

Perhaps I seem a little bitter about this. Allow me to explain myself.
We learned the ‘heavy-duty’ version of United States History in sixth grade, sixth period, downstairs, third room to the left. Mrs. S. She was the teacher. She knew best.
Wrong! My mother has always, and always will, know best. [I lucked out, I would follow her blindly into oblivion but she happens to be a genuinely intelligent human being.] So naturally, when Mrs. S challenged what my mother had already told me, I raised my hand.
“Mrs. S.?”
“Yes Sarah.”
“Um, I’m not so sure about this, but, uh, I think that’s wrong.”
“Well how do YOU think it goes?”
I proceeded to tell her [as my palms welded themselves to my desk] how the trail of tears involved the forcible removal of people who had just as much right to the land in the southeast of the United States [and made no complaints about illegal immigrants] as those desperately trying to clear their personal frontier to make it more… frontier-y?

Truth be told, the American Indians were clogging up land that was better suited for the brave and righteous new Americans. So they were shipped out in a robotic, orderly way,
utterly devoid of compassion.
The teacher said that that was a bit harsh, and that I was putting silly ideas in the heads of my classmates. I disagreed. Sure, some of them went willingly, but they would have been treated like dogs and ultimately killed had they stayed. Some leaders of the Choctaw nation decided that they would pick up and leave rather than continually have their land reduced to nothing and their people come in season like ambling deer in a meadow.

Ah, but it wasn’t like the government was completely heartless. They were given a guide [to the barren wasteland they would be exiled to, a place they evidently belonged] and rations.
Yes, Mrs. S, but their rations weren’t enough to feed a sparrow and their trail was a muddy path on the banks of a tempestuous river and their guide was a ninny.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes I do!”
“I need to see you outside.”
I had never been to the principal’s before. I was sort of jittery, but in a weird way I felt like I could have leapt up to embrace the moon.
It seemed like a focused bit of information for a sixth grader to know.
I told Dr. W. that I did know what I was talking about. The students called him a big, hairy gorilla, so I had not really bothered to look into his face before. He had a soft nose and dark, quiet eyes that listened when I told him that my mother’s mother’s mother was a Choctaw Indian, and it was one of our stories. I knew it by heart. Then he said that he knew how I felt and that I could have handled it differently. He told me his own story.
When I emerged from his office, I noticed two things. First, I noticed that the air rushing in was very chilly. Then I noticed there were two people waiting for him, a lady with gray hair checked her watch and twitched the corner of her mouth up at me while lifting the brow on the same side of her face, as if there were some powerful updraft from her shoulder. Her expression said I must have been a naughty, naughty little girl. Probably tagging bathrooms and then having a smoke or three while cutting class and badmouthing the establishment to anyone who would listen. I remember

they cut the name in half. It was, originally, the trail of tears and death.

I remember this instance because I felt oddly like I could never repay my principal for how much he had given me, his [obviously valuable] time, as well as his unforgettable story. He had it far worse than I did. He had it far, far worse. Perhaps I will share his story one day, though I don’t know if it is mine to give. But I remember it.