Tree Girl by Ben Mikaelsen Chapter 3

1. Highlight 5 vocabulary words that you do not know and write the definition in the margin.  Label each with a (V).

2.  Ask 5 questions in the margins.  Label each with a (?)


3.  React to 5 events in the text.  Label each reaction with a (*).


4.  Make 5 connections to the text, text-to-self · text-to-text · text-to-world.  Label each with a ©

It was late when the soldiers arrived, and very few women and children remained at the celebration. Already Mami had taken Alicia, Lidia, and Julia back home to bed. The soldiers came toward us, most of them as young as Jorge, grouped together and holding their rifles pointed from their waists as if they might need them. Their uniforms made them more threatening. They waved their rifles at us and the comandante shouted, “Which one of you is Adolfo Silvan?”

We all looked at one another. That wasn’t a name we recognized, and Papi stepped forward. “We don’t know anybody named Adolfo Silvan. Who is this man you are looking for?"

"He's a traitor who helps the enemy," the comandante growled. "Which one of you is Adolfo?"

Jorge stepped angrily toward the comandante. "There's nobody in this canton named Adolfo. We're celebrating my sister's quinceañera, and, you have no business here."

I rushed to Jorge's side and tried to quiet him. "It's okay,'' I whispered, afraid the boj made Jorge bolder than he should be.

Papi also stepped in, and he placed a hand on Jorge's shoulder. "My son means no disrespect," he said to the comandante. "This is a special day for my daughter. My son tells the truth-there's nobody named Adolfo in this canton. If you would like, there's still some tortillas and pig left. Let tis offer you something to eat."

The comandante turned to me and pointed. "Are you the little whore this party is being held for?

Jorge lunged to hit the comandante, and instantly all the soldiers surrounded Jorge and clubbed him to the ground with their rifles. His mouth bled as he looked up at the soldiers and the rifles aimed in his face. He raised his hands. "Everything's okay. I meant you no harm," he stammered.

"Everything's not okay,'' growled the comandante. "You attacked me." He turned to the soldiers. "Bring him with us."

"Please, that's not necessary," Papi, pleaded, approaching the angry comandante. "My son meant no harm." The comandante pulled a pistol from his belt. "One more word and we'll take you, too."

We all stood there stunned as Jorge was led away into the darkness. "What will they do to him?" I whispered to Papi as the uniformed soldiers disappeared. The happiness and merriment of the moment before had been replaced by a sudden quiet fear.

Papi shook his head, his face strained with worry. "I don't know what they'll do."

"Who is Adolfo Silvan?" I asked.

Again Papi shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe he's one of those trying to start the co-op."

Papi had told me about the co-op men, ordinary farmers like himself who were banding together with a common voice to get a good price for their crops. As it was, the Indios from the cantons had to carry their crops for three or four hours to market. That far from home, they were often forced to sell their crops for any price that the rich Latino buyers wished to pay. If they didn't sell their crops cheaply, they were threatened.

I went to Papi's side and asked, "They won't hurt Jorge, will they?"

Papi bit at his lower lip. He gave me a hug. "Finish celebrating your quinceañera. I need to go and talk to your mother. I'll come back."

"I've celebrated enough," said. "I'll go home with you."

Those who remained with us nodded their heads in agreement. We had all lost our taste for celebrating.

As we walked toward our home that night, my brother Lester moved up beside Papi in the dark. "Papi, I want to join the guerrillas. They're fighting for the rights of the Indios. The soldiers shouldn't be able to take somebody away like this."

I knew my parents already distrusted the Latinos, the government, and the soldiers, but I didn't know for sure how Papi' felt about the guerrillas. We all paused when Papi stopped in front of our home and turned to Lester "Change is difficult," Papi' said. "After so many years of being treated like dogs, many of the Indios still believe they are less deserving of respect and hope than the Latinos with their Spanish blood." Papi spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. "Respect and hope are worth fighting for."

"Good," Lester said. "I'm thirteen now and soon I'll be able to fight."

Papi shook his head. "No number of years makes a man ready to fight. Many guerrilla commanders aren't even from Guatemala. What do they care about you or me, or our, small Mayan canton? The guerrillas and the soldiers just use us to get food and information. I don't think they truly fight for us."

"But maybe the guerrillas can bring change," Lester kept arguing.

"They're dividing us. Both sides threaten us, and we don't know who to trust. Soon neighbors will fight against each other. Before this war is over, you'll see brothers fight against brothers, and sons against fathers." Papi shook his head in the darkness.

That night I heard Papi and Mami speaking in hushed and troubled voices. Purposely I woke early and went to a tree at the edge of the canton to watch the breaking of dawn. The first splash of red sunrise touched the sky as I climbed up.

I loved morning because nothing ever changed its coming. It seemed that no amount of soldiers and guerrillas could stop our canton from waking each morning like some playful and lazy creature, yawning and smiling, content from slumber and welcoming the day with barking dogs, crowing roosters, mothers singing to their babies, and neighbors waving to neighbors.

But the morning after Jorge was taken, things were different. Our canton rose tired and on edge. Mothers remained silent, and everyone exchanged guarded stares. We were fearful of what would happen next.

I wasn't certain what to think of Jorge's being taken. What possible reason did the soldiers have for holding him? Maybe Papi would have to go to the headquarters and pay some small fine. We shouldn't worry too much, I told myself, but still I worried.

That first day, each of us dealt with Jorge's sudden absence in a different way. Lester blamed what happened on everything except the chickens. He swore at the soldiers and kept threatening to join the guerrillas. Mami and Papi tried to hide their fear by telling us not to worry. They insisted that I continue attending school. Julia cried, and Antonio grew quiet, standing around with his hands in his pockets as if waiting for somebody to come along and solve the situation.

The children, Lidia and Alicia, played their games, making whistles from eucalyptus seeds and searching under Encino trees for the seeds that looked like cups and saucers. With these they played their games, pretending to be rich Latinos or wealthy tourists, like those we sometimes saw at market.

I couldn't avoid my fears with simple games. I blamed myself for what happened. My quinceañera celebration had attracted the soldiers. Nothing would have happened if Jorge hadn't tried to defend me. "I'm not going to school today," I told Papi.

"Go to school, Gabriela," Papi told me. "Ignorance won't bring Jorge home. He'll be okay."

Reluctantly, I agreed. I didn't really want to miss school. Two months before my quinceañera, Manuel had asked me to be his helper. Because was his oldest student, each day he let me help teach the younger children their· lessons. He called them my students, and with each passing week the children began considering me their teacher. They made me feel needed.

I purposely walked fast to school so I could arrive early. I wanted to talk to Manuel. Maybe he would have some idea of how we could find Jorge. I didn't know if I could trust my regular path any longer, so I walked on trails hidden by the trees, away from the open fields. Though I walked fast, it took me more than an hour to arrive at the school, which rested down in the valley near the river. Manuel met me. "What brings you to the schoolhouse so early after the night of your quinceañera?" he asked "I thought you might miss school today.''

"The soldiers came to my party after you left," (38) I said, explaining how Jorge had been taken away. "He'll be okay, won't he?'' I asked.

Manuel bit at his lip in thought. "Asking a soldier for kindness is like asking a cat to bark. Maybe you'll find him, but maybe . . ." He never finished his sentence.

"Will you help me to look for him?" I asked.

"Of course," Manuel said. "We'll go after school to the military posts and look for him. But first we have students to teach.''

That day twenty students came for classes. l tried to concentrate, but my mind thought only of Jorge. Finally the school day ended and Manuel went with me to a small military post three kilometers downriver from the schoolhouse.

Politely we questioned the soldiers at the military post. "We know nothing," they insisted. "Perhaps it was the guerrillas. No soldier would have done something like that.”

I knew they were lying-guerrillas didn't wear uniforms and carry brand-new rifles but I held my tongue. As we hiked to another outpost, Manuel (39) explained to me that the soldiers' new rifles were provided by the United States of America, and that the comandante were trained in the United States.

"Does the United States know what the soldiers are doing?" I asked.

Manuel kicked at a rock on the shore of the river where we walked. "The United States government isn't blind, Gabriela."

We did not find Jorge that day, or the next, or the next. Still, we kept searching until dark each day. All week Manuel helped me to look. The hours of talking gave me a chance to talk with him more than I ever could have at school around the other students; I had always known Manuel to be relaxed and full of laughter, joking and teasing. Now he spoke seriously. "Would you like to help me teach the older children also?" he asked.

I was honored, but Manuel's question caught me by surprise. "Of course," I said. "But why me?"

"The older children respect you just as the younger ones do, and you know the lesson material as well as I."

Maybe what Manuel said was true, but his request troubled me. “Are you in danger?" I asked.

He bit at his lip. "I'm a teacher, and you and many of my other students have learned Spanish. That puts all of us in danger."

I didn't understand Manuel's concern. Our Mayan people spoke many languages. Manuel had taught us Spanish because the cantons indifferent regions couldn't understand one another. Each canton needed someone who spoke Spanish to communicate for trade and barter. This gave everyone a common language, a lingua franca.

"Gabriela," Manuel said. "War has come to our country, and Spanish is the language the cantons will

use to communicate when they need to fight their enemies. The soldiers know this, and already. They’re killing Indios who can speak Spanish. You and I are among those they wish to kill. Knowing Spanish places us in great danger."

"Would they really kill us?" I asked.

Manuel snapped his fingers. "That fast," he said. "You must be watchful and careful to not speak. (41) Spanish after you leave school each day. Do you understand?

"Yes," I said, nodding. I had never seen Manuel so serious. His thoughts were troubled, and he spoke urgently, as if what he had to say couldn't wait.

Manuel turned to me and held my shoulders. "Gabriela, your Mayan past is not a solitary wind that blows alone in the sky. The skies share many winds. Your future is shared with many cultures. Your beliefs and customs are inseparable mixtures of your Mayan past and the Spanish present that surrounds you. To succeed you needed to know Spanish and understand other cultures."

I nodded. It was as if Manuel were apologizing for having taught me Spanish. "Yes, I understand," I said. "My Spanish isn't your fault. It was part of my learning."

Manuel sighed. "Learning that now puts you in great danger." ·

We wandered the shore of the river for some distance without speaking. Maybe Manuel still felt guilty for having taught, me Spanish. "Manuel, I needed to (42) know Spanish," I insisted. "You've taught me many things to prepare me for the future."

"Knowing Spanish, and knowing this or that, doesn't prepare you for the future. Your future is found in· discovering the right questions and having the courage to ask them. Good questions are always more · important than good answers, but it takes courage to ask. You may understand how you live, Gabriela, but do you understand why you live?"

I wasn't sure I understood what Manuel was trying to tell me. Sometimes he frustrated me. He seldom told

me anything directly. He danced around with his words, making me find my own answers. "I'm afraid of all that's happening," I said, as we walked beside the water. "Is there anything we can do about it?"

Manuel shrugged. "Some questions have no answers." He paused_. "But I do know this. We, the Indio, we used to have very beautiful names, like Lu, Shuan, Posh, Chep, Tey, and Catoch. Now we have very different names, because the Catholic Church came many years ago and made us change our names. They didn't like the names of our ancestors. They told (43) us our names were pagan, ungodly."

"Was that right or wrong?" I asked, knowing even as I asked the question that Manuel would never tell me.

"Right is whatever wind you choose beneath your wings," he said. "No longer do all our customs and names come from our Mayan ancestors. Now they come from many winds. It's up to you to decide which wind should carry you. You need to decide for yourself if it was wrong for the church to change our names.

"I think the names in our language, Quiche, are beautiful names," I said, "If our names weren't good enough for someone else, then maybe we weren't good enough either. I don't think you can respect someone but still want to change their religion, their customs, and even their names. Did the church teach the soldiers not to respect us?"

When Manuel didn't reply, l broke into tears. "Manuel, I’m so worried about Jorge. He's been gone a week now. I don't know, what to think of the soldiers and the guerrillas. They each say they're protecting us, and yet I'm scared of them both. They're coming more often to our canton. I don't think we would be so scared of them if they truly came to help us."

Manuel kneeled and wrapped his big arms around me and held me for a long time as I sobbed. "You need to be getting home to your family, Gabriela," he said. "We'll look for Jorge again tomorrow." Before he stopped hugging me, he whispered, "It's okay to be fearful and restless. Fear and restlessness bring change."

Manuel's words didn't comfort me that ay. When I returned home it was late afternoon. I wanted to go to the forest and climb a tree. It wasn't fair to everyone else, but I needed time to think. Quietly I dropped off my books at our home.

Mami called to me as I left the yard, "Gabi, would you please take Alicia with you?"

"Mami, I want to be alone," I answered strongly.

"I know you need your time alone, but so do I," Mami answered. "Your father is still out looking for 1orge this evening. You can't always run and hide in the trees."

Mami's words angered me. "I've been looking for Jorge also," I said. "You're the one who decided to send (45) me to school." I took Alicia roughly by the hand and pulled her toward the distant trees. Mami didn't under, stand that the forest was my sanctuary. I went there to see more than the dew shimmering on the leaves and the sun climbing into an empty sky. I looked for more in the forest than insects and lizards crawling along branches, more than woodpeckers landing to hammer at tree bark. I found trust among the trees. If I sat as still as the air, owls and eagles would fly past, close enough to be touched. I never reached for them, because I knew how that would betray the forest's trust in me, and now, more than ever, I needed a place where I could trust and be trusted.

"Don't pull so hard on me," little Alicia said, trying to free her hand.

I gripped her hand tighter, but then let it loose. "I'm sorry, Ali," I said. "This isn't your fault. All of us are scared."

"You should be nice to me," Alicia said in a loud voice.

Reluctantly I smiled. If I needed to be responsible for one of my brothers or sisters, I was glad it was (46) Alicia. often felt that Alicia heard voices the way I did. I watched her once in the front yard, her eyes closed and her arms spread wide like wings. She spun in circles with a quiet smile creasing her thin lips, her little body captivated and carried by a song no one else heard.

I took Alicia's hand gently and we walked farther into the forest to search for a small tree with friendly branches that ·were low and close together.

"Did I tell you about the dog when he chased the rooster and the cat this afternoon?" Alicia asked. "The cat got so mad, she turned and started chasing the dog, and then the rooster started chasing the dog, too."

"And so what did you do?'' I asked.

"I started chasing all of them, and then they got in a fight. They made so much noise, Mami came out."

"And what did Mami do?" I asked.

"She got mad and asked you to watch me."

As I smiled and lifted Alicia onto the low branch of a small tree, she wiggled with excitement. "Did I tell you about when-" she began.

I held a finger to her lips. "Shhhhh." (47)

Alicia squirmed with anticipation as I crawled onto the branch beside her. "Why can't I make noise?" she whispered.

"Noise makes the animals afraid of us."

Alicia nodded and giggled and started tossing leaves from the tree. I tried to ignore her, but endless energy bubbled from my little sister. Finally, after nearly an hour of trying to be quiet, Alicia looked at me and blurted aloud, "I think we should go home now. Mami needs help, and we're just sitting here."

Reluctantly, I crawled from the tree and lifted Alicia down. When we arrived home, Mami met me at the door. "Gabi, tomorrow I want you to miss school. We're going to the caves so that your father can pray and give thanks," she said.

"Give thanks for what?" I said, ignoring the hurt in Mami's eyes. (48)