The definition of animosity is, “a strong feeling of hostility or anger.” This word appears to have been designed for the continuous state of confrontation most adolescents find themselves in. I, too, found myself in this sorry state in the summer of 1609. My tribe of Mohicans and I resided beside the translucent waters of the Hudson River. It was the summer of my fifteenth year; however, it was my first year of living. It was the first summer where I had no need of dreaming at night, because my life was better. It was a warm, windy, and summer day when my life was foreshadowed by an old shaman. Our tribe’s shaman called me to his tent, which took me two days to reach. The dusty old tent had a shaky foundation; but there it stood, frozen in time. I pushed the leather flap out of the way, and the nauseating scent of burning incense filled my lungs. The shaman passed me an oddly wrapped package, then dismissed me.

Nothing more. No instructions. It took me two days to get back to camp in the mud, for a package and a nod. On the way back, my long dark hair clung to my neck, sweat falling from my face. When it was time to stop, I sat on a rock and dangled my feet idly in the water. The package suddenly felt hard in my hand, and I decided to open it. I cringed when I saw what lay inside. An otter totem fell out of the package and into my hand. It was tied onto a leather cord. On the bottom there were hand carved markings that read the following:

To Serai,

A totem meant

To defend
I ran my fingers over the carefully carved words. I held in my hand the age-old curse of our tribe.

There was a myth that one day the otter would bite the heel of the bear. The bear was our chief’s totem, which had been passed down from father to son for generations. In a futile attempt, I tried to calm my shaky breath. I did not want this. I was not the one to lead a rebellion, I could not even talk to the chief without throwing up. I had to hide this. My mother would be so disappointed if she found out. I put the necklace on and hid it under my clothes. If anyone found this, the consequences would be catastrophic. Dusting myself off, I climbed off the rock and walked back home. My little sister, Sadie, ran up to me waving her arms. I picked her up, and she began to prattle, as most infants do.
“Mommy said you would be back hours ago.”
“Well, the shaman kept me a while” I lied.
“What did he say?”
“Just wondering how our family is doing, nothing important.”
“Okay! Wanna see the new corn husk doll I made?”
“Maybe a little later,” I replied. She jumped off of me and held my hand as we ran back to camp.

Signaling for me to be quiet, she led me to the center of camp. The chief was standing in the center, and Sadie and I sat next to our family. I looked around and realized some women were crying. I tuned in and heard,
“It has come to my attention that some news has been heard about our brother tribe, the Wappingers. They have been attacked. In three days time, the attackers, who are white men, will be here. I have looked over our numbers and have decided that we will surrender and ask for peace.”
I was horrified. Adrenaline and hatred pumping through my veins, I stood up and spoke, “So, no fight, no nothing. Just giving up? That’s a great speech from our very esteemed leader.”
The whole tribe fell silent, looking at me. I cupped my hand over my mouth as our chief motioned me forward; there was a stern look in his eyes. He bid me as parents do to rebellious children. I stood in front of him, and he looked me over, sizing me up. His eyes stopped when he saw the totem poking out of my shirt. Handing it to him, I waited for the blow. He smirked and handed it back to me. I was astonished. His totem was worn proudly around his neck, and here I was, hiding mine in my clothes. He sent me back to my parents. My mother held me and made me swear to never do anything challenging like that ever again.

The white men arrived exactly in three days. All of the women and children in our tribe were put into our safe house for good measure. As I was sitting and braiding Sadie’s hair, we heard the first sounds of marching. I ran through the door of the house in the woods and sprinted to camp. I hid behind a rock and watched the white men marching towards us, from some distance away. Heaving hard breaths, I went to the chief to warn him. He was in his tent, going over maps. I knocked on the wood post above his tent, and he beckoned me in.
I warned him, “Sir, they are only a few miles away.”
“Okay, you are dismissed.”
I felt my face grow hot with embarrassment, but I continued, “Well, what are you going to do?”
He put down his maps and looked up at me. He studied me for a little, then sneered, “Why don’t you do something little girl, instead of looking to me to do the work of your totem.”
I wanted to cry. However, that was what he wanted. He wanted me to prove right then and there how much of a weak child I was. I turned away and started for the door. He did not stop me. I wanted so badly to do something. The place we had resided in for generations and generations was about to be taken. To be placed on a reservation was a death sentence. Fights broke out among the packed tribes on the small land all the time. Women and children would be taken, fathers and husbands murdered; I could not let that happen.
I strode over to the center of camp and tried to work out a plan. A group of men walked by and questioningly glanced at me. I was supposed to be in the safe house, but they made no protest. Closing my eyes, I envisioned my life. Playing with the otters in the river, braiding Sadie’s hair, painting faces. All of this had taken place here, because this was home. Homes needed to be protected. The chief could not be counted on. I had to be the one to make this work. The otter totem still hung out of my shirt, and I held it in my hand. This was my defining moment. I clutched the totem and followed the group of men. Heart pounding and head throbbing, I called to them, “Fathers?”
They turned around and looked as confused as I felt, but I persevered, “Fathers, we have to fight to save our home.”
One of the bigger ones answered me, “Fight? Our chief has decided not to. Are we to disobey him for the sake of a plain fifteen year old girl?”
That remark wounded me, but this plan had to work. I answered, “What if you knew that my position was greater than the chief’s?”

“We would not believe you.”
Suddenly gaining confidence, I pulled out the totem and told the tale of the otter biting the bear’s heel. They knew the myth well, and their eyes widened, as I could see them processing it all.

Collecting their peers together, they listened to my strategies, and we planned the battle. With my otter totem, I said shoot and they shot. They carried out orders so effectively that the white men surrendered quickly. There was no fight. One look at the six feet tall and well-muscled Indians with war paint was intimidating enough. No brazen white men were left, only pale and cowardly men. Our enemies wroteout the following on a piece of papayrus:
We, with full understanding of this commitment and with God as our witness, promise with all sincerity to never inflict war upon this establishment. This treaty was created on the twenty first of July, year 1609.
Our chief was exiled to the forest after we won. He went down in history as a coward, and I as a hero. The shaman came to my ceremony. I was made chief of the tribe, at fifteen years old, just like the kings of ancient times. Under my ruling, I secured safety for the tribe and land for us to prosper within. The otter had bitten the bear’s heel, and the otter’s size was insignificant to its determination.