“Ten Indians” by Ernest Hemingway was a strange little story, one with which I firmly believe just about everyone can relate. I first opened it eagerly, my brain unwittingly but continuously drawing up images of Agatha Christie’s “And Then There Were None,” knowing that the book was originally subtitled “Ten Little Indians.”
I’m not sure I could have ever been more wrong, except for that one time when my one and only girlfriend came to a party that I was attending with my boyfriend. When I stiffened, he asked who she was and I instantly was vacillating between the two conversational options of “Who, her?” or “I have to pee,” and what came out was “I have to pee on her.” The relationship ended soon after that, and looking back I’m not surprised.
In this same vein is Hemingway’s story. A boy, suffering the blow of heartbreak in the initial blush of romance, struck down by a girl that didn’t feel anything for him. It was interesting to read through the lens of my own failed relationships – what were the red flags? Would I have seen the signs? Looking back they seem so obvious, but then again it’s also obvious that – no matter how many times I said I was – what I was feeling wasn’t love.
The reader knows that Nick isn’t in love, he just thinks he is; his mind is overcrowded by hormonal emotions and teenage angst. Everything is cause for the most extreme end of the spectrum; if the girl he “loves” hangs out with some other boy and she’s happy, clearly she’s being unfaithful and his heart is forever broken. Adolescent apathy and doubt rule Nick’s psychology, something the mature reader is all too familiar with.
The last scene in particular stuck with me. As Nick wakes up there is a long moment when he looks out at the weather and the scenery, and it takes him a few minutes before he realizes he’s brokenhearted. True heartbreak permeates all aspects of your life. You try burning a plastic cereal receptor because it reminds you of the other person. You go to sleep crying, wake up refreshed and then the reality of your situation hits you all over again and you’re bawling into your pillow like a soap opera actress chewing the scenery.
It really can be argued that the narrator isn’t Nick, but rather Nick’s objectivity – all Nick’s energy is focused on feeling. It’s necessary to feel as much as one feels as a teenager; it allows you to view emotions and events through a broader psychological lens. The thing is, however, Hemingway’s story is juxtaposed against the racism felt towards Native Americans at the time of publication.
I could instantly find something to relate to with the parallel of interracial relationships with same-sex relationships. It was an almost inevitable fact that if I were in a relationship, someone would take issue – either with my existence or the fact that I was happy, if only for a brief moment. I was always a target, always the scapegoat. Nick’s parents are attempting to understand, and so too did my parents try to understand what I was going through, but it’s one thing to view from a window and another to be behind the glass.
That brings me to my final point: Nick’s father was aloof in his description of the tryst. This brings up doubt in the mind of the reader – was he telling the truth, or was he lying because he didn’t approve of the relationship? I knew my parents would never do such a thing but I knew my parents weren’t everybody. Other parents of gay kids have sent them to Escuela Caribe or some other hellhole. I knew it was a distinct possibility that Nick’s father just didn’t want him and Prudie to be together. The thought chilled me to the bone.
Reading “Ten Indians” opened my eyes to the possibility of what could be as well as viewing what once was with a more discerning eye. I have been wondering for a long time now how I will bring up my child – because I will have a child, mind you, one way or the other. I can only hope that I will show the tact, the sensitivity, and the grace my parents showed me, and recognize the molehills while treating them like the mountains they are in my child’s psyche.
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