Throughout the story, the author uses narrative techniques such as point of view, foreshadowing, and the main plot in order to convey the meaning of the short story that includes; love, pride and shame. It was not any fear that made me so dumb when out upon such a happy errand; nor was it that I wished to withhold the invitation, for it was all I could do to observe this very proper silence. By daylight and lamplight, I spun with reeds and thistles, until my hands were tired from their weaving, the magic design which promised me the white man's respect. The large trees among the houses gave the place a cool, refreshing shade, and the grass a deeper green. I grew sober with awe, and was alert to hear a long-drawn-out whistle rise from the roots of it.
As the day of competition approached, it did not seem possible that the event was so near at hand, but it came. Long she held her outstretched fingers toward the settler's lodge, as if an invisible power passed from them to the evil at which she aimed. With a light straw hat in one hand, and the right hand extended for greeting, he smiled kindly upon me. Talking about the story, it is the account of the young Zitkala- Sa, a Native American, referred to here as Red Indian, who was brought to the Carlisle Indian School, a boarding house, among others of her own tribe. Near her, I sat upon my feet, eating my dried meat with unleavened bread, and drinking strong black coffee. She left with her an influential theory of Indian resistance and a crucial model for reform.
The Yahi-Yani tribe of California. I want to go to my aunt! She tried to console me. Suddenly I heard some one turn our door-knob from without. For the white man's papers I had given up my faith in the Great Spirit. I recalled all I had ever heard about Wiyaka-Napbina; and I tried to assure myself that though he might pass near by, he would not come to our wigwam because there was no little girl around our grounds. Marr including: photographs, transcripts, journal entries, and government documents. Among these hills I rode in a light conveyance, with a trusty driver, whose unkempt flaxen hair hung shaggy about his ears and his leather neck of reddish tan.
All out of breath, I told my mother almost the exact words of the answers to my invitation. At the top was a quiet hall, dimly lighted. They planted their moccasined feet firmly upon my shadow to stay it, and I arose. She hated the turnips and their smell so she smashed them in their jar to a pulp. Before I went to bed I begged the Great Spirit to make my mother willing I should go with the missionaries. The hinges squeaked as the door was slowly, very slowly pushed inward.
He was under the belief that an evil spirit was haunting his steps. I looked hard at the Indian girls, who seemed not to care that they were even more immodestly dressed than I, in their tightly fitting clothes. This thought made her crying aloud. Even during this time, Zitkala-Sa shares the experience of childhood envy in regards to the artist products of the beadwork of her friends. But the cutting off her hair only made her stronger and prepared for anything. The man ceased his mutterings, and then a third bell was tapped.
I fell asleep, heaving deep, tired sobs. I was nettled by this sly cunning of the workmen who hookwinked the Indian's pale Father at Washington. My long travel and the bewildering sights had exhausted me. Wearing a foreigner's dress, I walked, a stranger, into my father's village. The Indian cannot complain to the Great Father in Washington without suffering outrage for it here. The ice on the river was floating in huge pieces. Under a sky of rosy apples we dreamt of roaming as freely and happily as we had chased the cloud shadows on the Dakota plains.
I turned with the curve in the road and disappeared. She described both the deep misery of having her heritage stripped away when she was forced to pray as a Quaker and cut her traditionally long hair. I was panic I rushed over towards my dad and tied my tie for me. On opposite sides of the kitchen stove, which stood in the centre of the small house, my mother and her guest were seated in straight-backed chairs. In the autumn of the tenth year I was sent back to my tribe to preach Christianity to them. When I became a little familiar with designing and the various pleasing combinations of color, a harder lesson was given me. My head revolved as on a hidden pivot.
My body trembled more from fear than from the snow I trod upon. After he turned to go, I listened to his step until it grew faint and was lost in the distance. It was a new way of solving the problem of my inner self. Large men, with heavy bundles in their hands, halted near by, and riveted their glassy blue eyes upon us. The School Days of an Indian Girl. The high platform was carpeted, and gayly festooned with college colors. Young mothers had their children by the hand, and half pulled them along in their haste.
After my concluding words, I heard the same applause that the others had called out. There, before that vast ocean of eyes, some college rowdies threw out a large white flag, with a drawing of a most forlorn Indian girl on it. He looked exactly like the picture I had seen of him in the white man's papers. In them lay sleeping brown faces, which peeped just out of the coverings. Lastly, it is also not always clear where a photo was taken, why, and by whom. It was a treatise on her personal spiritual beliefs. The rest of the night I sat in an armchair and gazed into the crackling fire.