They rounded us all up.  Our entire family.  And gave all of us ten minutes to gather up as much of our belongings as we thought we could fit into our two small wagons.  I looked at the shape our two old oxen were in and decided that I didn’t need to bring anything.  I was 10 years old at the time.  I didn’t think any of my things were important enough because I had heard from the elders that the march to our new land was going to be very, very long and I didn’t want to carry all that, so I left it all behind.

My sisters on the other hand were not thinking like I was.  They immediately began crying and ran off to get as many of their things as they could fit into their sacks.  My father had to tell them that they had to leave most of their stuff behind as it would be too arduous to carry along for the whole trip.   I asked my father how long it was going to take to get to your new home and his response was vague, saying it would be months.  What, I thought, three months?  Six months?  I had no idea what to expect.

I had many other questions as well.  How many of use were going?  All of us?  The younger families who might have a better chance making it?  I quickly found out I wasn’t the only one asking these same questions.  Turned out my father was too.  That’s when I got scared because no one seemed to have any answers except the white men and they weren’t saying anything.

Until now.  All of the families had gathered all their belongings they could in those ten minutes and now were actually formed into a line leading out of the fenced-off area we were currently living.  At frequent intervals the white men in their blue uniforms would ride up and down the length of our line and would shout out to keep up a steady pace.  Luckily for everyone this only lasted our first day and I think that the soldiers themselves got tired of hearing their own voices.  I remember thinking to myself that the first day wasn’t that bad—other than getting kicked out of our homeland and the crying and wailing and anguish on everyone’s faces, of course—and that if the remaining days were like this, then our journey to our new homeland would actually be okay and we could make our new home seem like our old one.

After the fourth day, I knew we were in trouble. Some of the elders started complaining, which they never did and four of them actually did, fell right off the back of the wagon. I knew now that this was going to be a terrible experience. I checked the family rations and saw that we were doing good, but knew that other less fortunate families were not and figured that none of us we’re in for a good journey.

About a month into the trip, my father and the other men of the tribe decided that the only way to survive the ordeal and make the trip bareable for everyone involved was to run off during the day and hunt upon the land we were walking through. At the end of each day they would come back with various animals strung up on their backs. I knew that shortly I would be able to join them and on many days it was the only thing that got me through the day, knowing that I’d be able to leave the trail for a bit.

I never knew that riding a wagon through nature as beautiful as what we witnessed would be such a tortuous event, but this event recurred every single day for the six months it took us to get there. I’m not sure the exact count, but I know a lot of my people died on the journey and I know that I will never forget it. Luckily I did make it and I’ve lived the entire rest of my life remembering that day and trying to improve not only my life and others around me too, given the circumstances.