A STORY
by Mattox Roesch
Mattox Roesch’s work has appeared in several literary reviews and is included in the 2007 Best American Nonrequired Reading anthology. A recipient of a grant from the Minnesota State Arts Board, he was also honored with a Loft Mentor Series Award. “All the Way Rider” is an excerpt from a novel entitled Sometimes We’re Always Real Same-Same. Roesch lives in Unalakleet, Alaska, with his wife.
THE SAME MONTH my brother Wicho went to prison, I met Go-boy for the first time. He’d won a trip to Disneyland for his whole family after making a home movie and entering it in a contest for Native Alaskan high school students: What Are the Most Important Issues Facing Rural Villages in the Twenty-first Century? I remember because it was the first time I had ever thought about Alaska and all the cousins we had there. Go-boy brought the tape along and showed it to us. Mom was silent the whole time, just watching. After a while, she asked Go’s dad—her brother—When did they build those snow fences? What happened to General Store? Go narrated the ten-minute video and ended it by saying, Unalakleet, like most Alaskan villages and other Native communities, will be a gauge for America’s priorities in the twenty-first century.
My brother had already been locked up for almost a year, in and out of trial, so we were used to him being gone. But it was that month, when Go-boy came to Disneyland, that Wicho was finally sentenced to life in prison, putting an end to months in limbo.
I remember everything that happened at that time, from Wicho’s arrest to his trial and his sentencing, clearer than anything else. Through all the waiting—through the string of trials and mistrials, the settlement offers, and then, the damning evidence—Mom had been busing to the courthouse for every meeting and hearing, always convinced of Wicho’s innocence, always on time, always optimistic. When the jury called him guilty and the guards hauled him away (and scolded Mom for trying to talk to him), she managed to stay composed. She led me out of the courtroom, silent, ignoring the PD and the victims’ families, not flinching, until one of the jurors found us in the hall and tried to apologize. “I’m sorry for your son,” he said, jumping in front of us. I told him to get the hell away, but it was too late. After a year of silent humiliation, Mom finally broke down. But when she did, when she walked off down the hall, her arms wrapped around herself, I wasn’t sure if she was crying for her son or for herself.
What happened was that Wicho gave his life for a gang. A year before any college or army could claim him, he shot two fifteen-year-old kids on a Wednesday afternoon. He shot members of his own gang—Mara Salvatrucha. They had tried to leave the clique, saying they had never represented anybody, but Wicho told me they’d been jumped in and everything, and one even had MS13 tattooed on his stomach, Old English style. He said they knew what they’d gotten themselves into, knew being jumped in meant forever.
To continue reading this piece, please log in...