Evan Tlesla Adams

scattered across the judge's desk, were pictures of Janice, naked,
lying on a table—photographs from her autopsy that he had left
out.

The coroner later explained that the bullet had passed
through both her lungs and tipped her heart, she didn't have a
chance, He ruled her death accidental.

A few days later, it was Christmas. Everyone was trying to
be bright and happy for a change. I was so excited. Even my mom
had a nice little smile on. We all sat around the tree, opening our
presents. We open our presents in order. I was the last one. I was
so excited—my present was big and square and HEAVY. Finally, it
was my turn! I tore it open, and inside was a great, big... dictionary.
[pause] I started to cry. I didn't want to... My father was so dis-
gusted with me, he wouldn't even look at me. But my mother
leaned in close and said, “Evan, you're a smart boy. You can get out
of this place.”

It's been twenty years since that Christmas, and my family
hasn't talked about it one bit. But maybe this year, we will. Maybe
we'll have a little memorial ceremony for Janice out in the yard,
like we should have done. Maybe we'll get to remember her brief
life instead of her horrible death. But I have to ask, what does a
child's death at Christmas mean? And I'll finally get to ask my sis-
ters, and my mother and my father, “Do you really think she's sit-
ting in the arms of Jesus?”

[Author's note: the telling of this story was not to make the audi-
ence aware of my personal tragedy as a First Nations person.
Rather it is told as an affirmation to all those people—especially
other First Nations people—who carry loss and tragedy into the
celebration of events like Jesus’ birth—a man, in whose name,
many of us have been persecuted, punished, stolen—even mur-
dered.]

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