The

True
Absolutely
Diary
Part-
of a

Time
Indian
10th Anniversary Edition
by Sherman Alexie
Art by Ellen Forney
Foreword by Jacqueline Woodson

Little, Brown and Company

New York • Boston

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 This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Sherman Alexie
Illustrations copyright © 2007 by Ellen Forney
Photographs copyright © 2017 by Sherman Alexie unless otherwise indicated
The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian early chapter copyright © 2017 by Sherman Alexie
Rowdy, Rowdy, Rowdy excerpt copyright © 2017 by Sherman Alexie
Foreword copyright © 2017 by Jacqueline Woodson
Letter from an Educator copyright © 2017 by Anna Baldwin
Interview with Sherman Alexie copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Interview with Ellen Forney copyright © 2009 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Discussion Guide prepared by Beverly Slapin, Oyate
Cover design by David Caplan
Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose
of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the
author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other
than for review purposes), please contact [email protected].
Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104
Visit us at LBYR.com
Originally published in hardcover and ebook by Little, Brown and Company in September 2007
First Tenth-Anniversary Edition: September 2017
Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name
and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the original edition as follows:
Alexie, Sherman, 1966–
The absolutely true diary of a part-time Indian / by Sherman Alexie ; art by Ellen Forney.
p. cm.
Summary: Budding cartoonist Junior leaves his troubled school on the Spokane Indian Reservation
to attend an all-white farm town school where the only other Indian is the school mascot.
HC ISBN 978-0-316-01368-0 / PB ISBN 978-0-316-01369-7
1. Spokane Indians—Juvenile fiction. [1. Spokane Indians—Fiction. 2. Indians of North America—
Washington (State)—Fiction. 3. Indian reservations—Fiction. 4. Race relations—Fiction. 5.
Diaries—Fiction.] I. Forney, Ellen, ill. II. Title.
PZ7.A382Ab 2007
[Fic]—dc22
2007022799

ISBNs: 978-0-316-50404-1 (tenth anniversary), 978-0-316-43988-6 (large print),

978-0-316-21930-3 (ebook)
Printed in the United States of America
LSC-C
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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 Here’s one of me:

I draw all the time.

I draw cartoons of my mother and father; my sister and
grandmother; my best friend, Rowdy; and everybody else on
the rez.
I draw because words are too unpredictable.
I draw because words are too limited.
If you speak and write in English, or Spanish, or Chinese,
or any other language, then only a certain percentage of hu-
man beings will get your meaning.
But when you draw a picture, everybody can understand it.
If I draw a cartoon of a flower, then every man, woman,
and child in the world can look at it and say, “That’s a
flower.”

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 So I draw because I want to talk to the world. And I want
the world to pay attention to me.
I feel important with a pen in my hand. I feel like I might
grow up to be somebody important. An artist. Maybe a famous
artist. Maybe a rich artist.
That’s the only way I can become rich and famous.
Just take a look at the world. Almost all of the rich and fa-
mous brown people are artists. They’re singers and actors and
writers and dancers and directors and poets.
So I draw because I feel like it might be my only real
chance to escape the reservation.
I think the world is a series of broken dams and floods, and
my cartoons are tiny little lifeboats.

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 Do you know the worst thing about being poor? Oh,
maybe you’ve done the math in your head and you figure:

Poverty = empty refrigerator + empty stomach

And sure, sometimes, my family misses a meal, and sleep is

the only thing we have for dinner, but I know that, sooner or
later, my parents will come bursting through the door with a
bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Original Recipe.
And hey, in a weird way, being hungry makes food taste
better. There is nothing better than a chicken leg when you
haven’t eaten for (approximately) eighteen-and-a-half hours.
And believe me, a good piece of chicken can make anybody
believe in the existence of God.

So hunger is not the worst thing about being poor.

R

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 I was excited. But I was getting hypothermic, too.
The Spokane Powwow is wicked hot during the day and
freezing cold at night.
“I should have worn my coat,” I said.
“Toughen up,” Rowdy said.
“Let’s go watch the chicken dancers,” I said.
I think the chicken dancers are cool because, well, they
dance like chickens. And you already know how much I love
chicken.

“This crap is boring,” Rowdy said.

“We’ll just watch for a little while,” I said. “And then we’ll
go gamble or something.”

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 Rowdy isn’t a fast reader, but he’s persistent. And he’ll just
laugh and laugh at the dumb jokes, no matter how many times
he’s read the same comic.

I like the sound of Rowdy’s laughter. I don’t hear it very

often, but it’s always sort of this avalanche of ha-ha and ho-ho
and hee-hee.
I like to make him laugh. He loves my cartoons.
He’s a big, goofy dreamer, too, just like me. He likes to
pretend he lives inside the comic books. I guess a fake life in-
side a cartoon is a lot better than his real life.
So I draw cartoons to make him happy, to give him other
worlds to live inside.
I draw his dreams.
And he only talks about his dreams with me. And I only
talk about my dreams with him.

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 1
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 Let me repeat that: MR. P SOMETIMES FORGETS TO
COME TO SCHOOL!
Yep, we have to send a kid down to the teachers’ housing
compound behind the school to wake Mr. P, who is always
conking out in front of his TV.
That’s right. Mr. P sometimes teaches class in his pajamas.
He is a weird old coot, but most of the kids dig him be-
cause he doesn’t ask too much of us. I mean, how can you ex-
pect your students to work hard if you show up in your pajamas
and slippers?
And yeah, I know it’s weird, but the tribe actually houses
all of the teachers in one-bedroom cottages and musty, old
trailer houses behind the school. You can’t teach at our school
if you don’t live in the compound. It was like some kind of

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 My grandmother just sat in her rocking chair and cried
and cried.
I was ashamed. I’d never really been in trouble before.
A week into my suspension, I was sitting on our front porch,
thinking about stuff, contemplating, when old Mr. P walked
up our driveway. He had a big bandage on his face.
“I’m sorry about your face,” I said.
“I’m sorry they suspended you,” he said. “I hope you know
that wasn’t my idea.”
After I smashed him in the face, I figured Mr. P wanted to
hire a hit man. Well, maybe that’s taking it too far. Mr. P didn’t
want me dead, but I don’t think he would have minded if I’d
been the only survivor of a plane that crashed into the Pacific
Ocean.

At the very least, I thought they were going to send me to jail.

“Can I sit down with you?” Mr. P asked.
“You bet,” I said. I was nervous. Why was he being so
friendly? Was he planning a sneak attack on me? Maybe he
was going to smash me in the nose with a calculus book.
But the old guy just sat in peaceful silence for a long time.

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 “Romance novels,” I said. “Those things are just sort of
silly, aren’t they?”
“Lots of people — mostly women — love them,” Mr. P
said. “They buy millions of them. There are lots of writers who
make millions by writing romance novels.”
“What kind of romances?” I asked.
“She never really said, but she did like to read the Indian
ones. You know the ones I’m talking about?”
Yes, I did know. Those romances always featured a love
affair between a virginal white schoolteacher or preacher’s wife
and a half-breed Indian warrior. The covers were hilarious:

“You know,” I said, “I don’t think I ever saw my sister

reading one of those things.”
R “She kept them hidden,” Mr. P said.

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 “Who has
“Who has the
the most
most hope?”
hope?” II asked.
asked.
Mom and Dad looked at each other.
Mom and Dad looked at each other. They
They studied
studiedeach
each
other’s eyes, you know, like they had antennas andwere
other’s eyes, you know, like they had antennas and weresend-
send-
ing radio
ing radio signals
signals toto each
each other.
other. And
And then
then they
they both
both looked
looked
back at me.
back at me.
“Come on,”
“Come on,” II said.
said. “Who
“Who has has the
the most
mosthope?”
hope?”
“White people,” my parents said at thesame
“White people,” my parents said at the sametime.
time.
That’s exactly
That’s exactly what
what II thought
thought they
they were
weregoing
goingtotosay,
say,so
soII
said the
said the most
most surprising
surprising thing
thing they’d
they’d ever
everheard
heardfrom
fromme.
me.
“I want to transfer schools,” I said.
“I want to transfer schools,” I said.
“You want to go to Hunters?” Mom said.
“You want to go to Hunters?” Mom said.
It’s another school on the west end of the reservation,
It’s another school on the west end of the reservation,
filled with poor Indians and poorer white kids. Yes, there is a
filled with poor Indians and poorer white kids. Yes, there is a
place in the world where the white people are poorer than the
place in the world where the white people are poorer than the
Indians.
Indians.
“No,” I said.
“No,” I said.
“You want to go to Springdale?” Dad asked.
“You want to go to Springdale?” Dad asked.
It’s a school on the reservation border filled with the poor-
It’s a school on the reservation border filled with the poor-
est Indians and poorer-than-poorest white kids. Yes, there is a
est Indians and poorer-than-poorest white kids. Yes, there is a
place in the world where the white people are even poorer
place in the world where the white people are even poorer
than you ever thought possible.
than you ever thought possible.
“I want to go to Reardan,” I said.
“I want to go to Reardan,” I said.
Reardan is the rich, white farm town that sits in the wheat
Reardan is the rich, white farm town that sits in the wheat
fields exactly twenty-two miles away from the rez. And it’s a
fields exactly twenty-two miles away from the rez. And it’s a

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 “It’s going to be hard to get you to Reardan,” Dad said.
“We can’t afford to move there. And there ain’t no school bus
going to come out here.”
“You’ll be the first one to ever leave the rez this way,”
Mom said. “The Indians around here are going to be angry
with you.”
Shoot, I figure that my fellow tribal members are going to
torture me.

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 I don’t know if hope is white. But I do know that hope for
I don’t know if hope is white. But I do know that hope for
me is like some mythical creature:
me is like some mythical creature:

Man,
Man, I was
I wasscared
scared of those
of thoseReardan
Reardankids,kids,
andand
maybemaybe I wasI was
scared
scaredof of
hope,
hope, too,too,
butbutRowdy
Rowdy absolutely hated
absolutely all ofallit.of it.
hated
“Rowdy,”
“Rowdy,” I said. “I am
I said. “I amgoing to Reardan
going to Reardantomorrow.”
tomorrow.”
For the fi rst time he saw that I was serious,
For the first time he saw that I was serious, but but
he didn’t
he didn’t
want me to be serious.
want me to be serious.
“You’ll never
“You’ll neverdo doit,”it,”
he he
said. “You’re
said. too too
“You’re scared.”
scared.”
“I’m going,” I said.
“I’m going,” I said.
“No way,
“No way,you’re a wuss.”
you’re a wuss.”
“I’m doing it.”
“I’m doing it.”
“You’re
“You’rea pussy.”
a pussy.”
“I’m going to Reardan tomorrow.”
“I’m going to Reardan tomorrow.”
“You’re really serious?”
“You’re really serious?”
“Rowdy,” I said. “I’m as serious as a tumor.”
“Rowdy,” I said. “I’m as serious as a tumor.”

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 I stayed on the ground for a long time after Rowdy walked
away. I stupidly hoped that time would stand still if I stayed
still. But I had to stand eventually, and when I did, I knew that
my best friend had become my worst enemy.

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 punch. No, I had a purple, blue, yellow, and black eye. It
looked like modern art.
Then the white kids began arriving for school. They sur-
rounded me. Those kids weren’t just white. They were trans-
lucent. I could see the blue veins running through their skin
like rivers.
Most of the kids were my size or smaller, but there were
ten or twelve monster dudes. Giant white guys. They looked
like men, not boys. They had to be seniors. Some of them
looked like they had to shave two or three times a day.
They stared at me, the Indian boy with the black eye and
swollen nose, my going-away gifts from Rowdy. Those white
kids couldn’t believe their eyes. They stared at me like I was
Bigfoot or a UFO. What was I doing at Reardan, whose mas-
cot was an Indian, thereby making me the only other Indian
in town?

So what was I doing in racist Reardan, where more than half

of every graduating class went to college? Nobody in my fam-
ily had ever gone near a college.
Reardan was the opposite of the rez. It was the opposite
of my family. It was the opposite of me. I didn’t deserve to
be there. I knew it; all of those kids knew it. Indians don’t de-
R serve shit.

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 They stared hard.
Like I was bad weather.
“Take your seat,” the teacher said. He was a muscular guy.
He had to be a football coach.
I walked down the aisle and sat in the back row and tried
to ignore all the stares and whispers, until a blond girl leaned
over toward me.
Penelope!

Yes, there are places left in the world where people are
named Penelope!
I was emotionally erect.
“What’s your name?” Penelope asked.
“Junior,” I said.
She laughed and told her girlfriend at the next desk that

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 Indian in the history of the world who ever lost a fight
with himself.
Okay, so now that you know about the rules, then I can
tell you that I went from being a small target in Wellpinit to
being a larger target in Reardan.
Well, let’s get something straight. All of those pretty,
pretty, pretty, pretty white girls ignored me. But that was
okay. Indian girls ignored me, too, so I was used to it.
And let’s face it, most of the white boys ignored me, too.
But there were a few of those Reardan boys, the big jocks,
who paid special attention to me. None of those guys punched
me or got violent. After all, I was a reservation Indian, and
no matter how geeky and weak I appeared to be, I was still
a potential killer. So mostly they called me names. Lots of
names.

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 page 69

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 I suppose we looked dangerous.
“Man,” he said. “There’s a lot of white people here.”
“Yeah.”
“You doing all right with them?”
“I don’t know. I guess.”
“It’s pretty cool, you doing this,” he said.
“You think?”

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 the wood. They, uh, kind of melt the wood and the glue that
holds the wood together. And then the minerals sort of take
the place of the wood and the glue. I mean, the minerals keep
the same shape as the wood. Like, if the minerals took all the
wood and glue out of a, uh, tree, then the tree would still be a
tree, sort of, but it would be a tree made out of minerals. So,
uh, you see, the wood has not turned into rocks. The rocks
have replaced the wood.”
Dodge stared hard at me. He was dangerously angry:

“Okay, Arnold,” Dodge said. “Where did you learn this fact?
On the reservation? Yes, we all know there’s so much amazing
science on the reservation.”
My classmates snickered. They pointed their fingers at me
and giggled. Except for one. Gordy, the class genius. He raised
his hand.
“Gordy,” Dodge said, all happy and relieved and stuff.
“I’m sure you can tell us the truth.”

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t

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 Well, a lot scared.
She was trying to live out her dream. We should have all
been delirious that she’d moved out of the basement. We’d
been trying to get her out of there for years. Of course, my
mother and father would have been happy if she’d just gotten
a part-time job at the post office or trading post, and maybe
just moved into an upstairs bedroom in our house.
But I just kept thinking that my sister’s spirit hadn’t been
killed. She hadn’t given up. This reservation had tried to suf-
focate her, had kept her trapped in a basement, and now she
was out roaming the huge grassy fields of Montana.
How cool!
I felt inspired.
Of course, my parents and grandmother were in shock.
They thought my sister and I were going absolutely crazy.
But I thought we were being warriors, you know?
And a warrior isn’t afraid of confrontation.
So I went to school the next day and walked right up to
Gordy the Genius White Boy.

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R

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 “Hey, Dad,” I said. “What do Indians have to be so thank-
ful for?”
“We should give thanks that they didn’t kill all of us.”
We laughed like crazy. It was a good day. Dad was sober.
Mom was getting ready to nap. Grandma was already napping.
But I missed Rowdy. I kept looking at the door. For the
last ten years, he’d always come over to the house to have a
pumpkin-pie eating contest with me.
I missed him.
So I drew a cartoon of Rowdy and me like we used to be:

Then I put on my coat and shoes, walked over to Rowdy’s

house, and knocked on the door.
R Rowdy’s dad, drunk as usual, opened the door.

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ar

g.
n’t

m.
sk

n’t
as

h-

on
of
d.
on

all

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 So I say to Penelope what I always say to Dad when he’s
drunk and depressed and ready to give up on the world.
“Hey, Penelope,” I say. “Don’t give up.”
Okay, so it’s not the wisest advice in the world. It’s actually
kind of obvious and corny.
But Penelope starts crying, talking about how lonely she
is, and how everybody thinks her life is perfect because she’s
pretty and smart and popular, but that she’s scared all the
time, but nobody will let her be scared because she’s pretty
and smart and popular.
You notice that she mentioned her beauty, intelligence,
and popularity twice in one sentence?
The girl has an ego.
But that’s sexy, too.

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 How is it that a bulimic girl with vomit on her breath can
suddenly be so sexy? Love and lust can make you go crazy.
I suddenly understand how my big sister, Mary, could
have met a guy and married him five minutes later. I’m not so
mad at her for leaving us and moving to Montana.
Over the next few weeks, Penelope and I become the hot
item at Reardan High School. Well, okay, we’re not exactly a
romantic couple. We’re more like friends with potential. But
that’s still cool.
Everybody is absolutely shocked that Penelope chose me
to be her new friend. I’m not some ugly, mutated beast. But I
am an absolute stranger at the school.
And I am an Indian.
And Penelope’s father, Earl, is a racist.
The first time I meet him, he said, “Kid, you better keep
your hands out of my daughter’s panties. She’s only dating you
because she knows it will piss me off. So I ain’t going to get
pissed. And if I ain’t pissed then she’ll stop dating you. In the
meantime, you just keep your trouser snake in your trousers
and I won’t have to punch you in the stomach.”
And then you know what he said to me after that?
“Kid, if you get my daughter pregnant, if you make some
charcoal babies, I’m going to disown her. I’m going to kick her
out of my house and you’ll have to bring her home to your

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 “I want to go to Stanford and study architecture.”
“Wow, that’s cool,” I said. “But why architecture?”
“Because I want to build something beautiful. Because I
want to be remembered.”
And I couldn’t make fun of her for that dream. It was my
dream, too. And Indian boys weren’t supposed to dream like
that. And white girls from small towns weren’t supposed to
dream big, either.
We were supposed to be happy with our limitations. But
there was no way Penelope and I were going to sit still. Nope,
we both wanted to fly:

“You know,” I said. “I think it’s way cool that you want to
travel the world. But you won’t even make it halfway if you
don’t eat enough.”
She was in pain and I loved her, sort of loved her, I guess,
R so I kind of had to love her pain, too.

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 Mostly I loved to look at her. I guess that’s what boys do,
right? And men. We look at girls and women. We stare at
them. And this is what I saw when I stared at Penelope:

Was it wrong to stare so much? Was it romantic at all? I don’t

know. But I couldn’t help myself.
Maybe I don’t know anything about romance, but I know
a little bit about beauty.
And, man, Penelope was crazy beautiful.
Can you blame me for staring at her all day long?

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t

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 “What “What
do youdo yousay, say,
Arnie?”
Arnie?”Roger Rogerasked.asked.
“You“You wantwantto to
come carbo-load
come withwith
carbo-load us?”us?”
“What do you
“What do want
you want to do,to Penelope?”
do, Penelope?” I asked.
I asked.
“Oh,“Oh,I want to go,
I want to Igo,
want to go,”
I want she said.
to go,” “Let“Let
she said. me go meask go ask
Daddy.”
Daddy.”
Oh, Oh,man,man,
I saw my only
I saw my onlyescape. I could
escape. onlyonly
I could hopehope that that
EarlEarl
wouldn’t let her
wouldn’t let go.
herOnly EarlEarl
go. Only could savesave
could me now.
me now.
I wasI counting
was counting on Earl! That’s
on Earl! howhow
That’s bad bad
my life
my was
life at
was that
at that
particular moment!
particular moment!
Penelope skipped
Penelope overover
skipped towardtowardher father’s car. car.
her father’s
“Hey, Penultimate,”
“Hey, Penultimate,” Roger said.said.
Roger “I’ll “I’ll
go with you.you.
go with I’ll tell
I’ll tell
EarlEarl
you guys are riding
you guys withwith
are riding me. And
me. AndI’ll drive you guys
I’ll drive home.”
you guys home.”
Roger’s nickname
Roger’s nickname for Penelope
for Penelope was was
Penultimate.
Penultimate. It wasIt was
maybe the biggest
maybe the biggestwordword he knew.
he knew. I hated that that
I hated he had a nick-
he had a nick-
name for her.
name AndAnd
for her. as they walked
as they together
walked toward
together Earl,Earl,
toward I real-
I real-
ized ized
that that
Roger and and
Roger Penelope
Penelope lookedlookedgoodgoodtogether.
together.TheyThey
looked natural.
looked TheyThey
natural. looked like they
looked should
like they be abe
should couple.
a couple.
AndAnd afterafter
theythey
all found
all foundout outI was a poor-ass
I was a poor-assIndian, I I
Indian,
knewknew
theythey
would be abe
would couple.
a couple.
Come Comeon, Earl! Come
on, Earl! Come on, Earl!
on, Earl!Break youryour
Break daughter’s
daughter’s
heart!
heart!
But But
EarlEarl
lovedloved
Roger. Every
Roger. dad dad
Every lovedloved
Roger. He was
Roger. He the
was the
best best
football player
football they’d
player everever
they’d seen.seen.
Of course
Of coursetheytheylovedloved
him.him.
It would
It wouldhavehave
beenbeen un-American
un-American not not
to love the best
to love the best
football player.
football player.
R R

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The Absolutely
True Diary
True Diary
of a Part-Time
of a Part-Time
IndianIndian

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 What
Whatdo
doyou
youthink?
think?

Tell
Telleverybody
everybodyIIlove
lovethem
themand
andmiss
missthem!
them!

Love,
Love,
your
yourBig
BigSis!
Sis!

P.S.
P.S.
And
Andwe wemoved
movedinto
intoaanew
newhouse.
house.
It’s
It’sthe
themost
mostgorgeous
gorgeousplace
placein
inthe
theworld!
world!

RR

The
TheAbsolutely
AbsolutelyTrue
TrueDiary
Diaryof
ofaaPart-Time
Part-TimeIndian
Indian

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 Forty kids IMMEDIATELY stopped bouncing and shoot-
ing and talking. We were silent, SNAP, just like that.
“I want to thank you all for coming out today,” Coach said.

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 “There are forty of you. But we only have room for twelve on
the varsity and twelve on the junior varsity.”
I knew I wouldn’t make those teams. I was C squad mate-
rial, for sure.
“In other years, we’ve also had a twelve-man C squad,”
Coach said. “But we don’t have the budget for it this year.
That means I’m going to have to cut sixteen players today.”
Twenty boys puffed up their chests. They knew they were
good enough to make either the varsity or the junior varsity.
The other twenty shook their heads. We knew we were
cuttable.
“I really hate to do this,” Coach said. “If it were up to me,
I’d keep everybody. But it’s not up to me. So we’re just going
to have to do our best here, okay? You play with dignity and
respect, and I’ll treat you with dignity and respect, no matter
what happens, okay?”
We all agreed to that.
“Okay, let’s get started,” Coach said.
The first drill was a marathon. Well, not exactly a mara-
thon. We had to run one hundred laps around the gym. So
forty of us ran.
And thirty-six of us finished.
After fifty laps, one guy quit, and since quitting is conta-
gious, three other boys caught the disease and walked off the

R R

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 And
Andthat’s
that’swhen
when II knew
knew I was
was going
goingtotomake
makethe theteam.
team.
Heck,
Heck,IIended
ended up up on
on the varsity.
varsity. As
As aa freshman.
freshman.Coach Coach
said
saidI Iwas
wasthethebest
best shooter
shooter who’d ever played
who’d ever playedfor forhim.
him.And AndI I
wasgoing
was going toto be
be his
his secret
secret weapon.
weapon. II waswas going
goingtotobebehishis
Weapon of Mass Destruction.
Weapon of Mass Destruction.
Coachsure
Coach sureloved
loved those
those military
military metaphors.
metaphors.
Two weeks later, we traveled up theroad
Two weeks later, we traveled up the roadfor forour
ourfifi
rst
rstgame
game
of the season. And our fi rst game was against
of the season. And our first game was against Wellpinit High Wellpinit High
School.
School.
Yep.
Yep.
It was like something out of Shakespeare.
It was like something out of Shakespeare.
The morning of the game, I’d woken up in my rez house,
The morning of the game, I’d woken up in my rez house,
so my dad could drive me the twenty-two miles to Reardan,
so my dad could drive me the twenty-two miles to Reardan,
so I could get on the team bus for the ride back to the
soreservation.
I could get on the team bus for the ride back to the
reservation.
Crazy.
Crazy.
Do I have to tell you that I was absolutely sick with fear?
R Do I have to
I vomited fourtelltimes
you that I was absolutely sick with fear?
that day.
R I vomited four times that day.

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 people in the world? Scientists didn’t believe in the mountain
gorilla for hundreds of years. And now look. So if scientists can
be wrong, then all of us can be wrong. I mean, what if all of
those invisible people ARE scientists? Think about that one.”
So I thought about that one:

After I decided to go to Reardan, I felt like an invisible moun-

tain gorilla scientist. My grandmother was the only one who
thought it was a 100 percent good idea.
“Think of all the new people you’re going to meet,” she
said. “That’s the whole point of life, you know? To meet new
people. I wish I could go with you. It’s such an exciting idea.”
Of course, my grandmother had met thousands, tens of
thousands, of other Indians at powwows all over the country.
Every powwow Indian knew her.
Yep, my grandmother was powwow-famous.
R Everybody loved her; she loved everybody.

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 And
Andafter
afterthat,
that,they
theystopped
stopped hassling
hassling me me whenever
whenever theythey saw
saw
memeononthetherez.
rez.I Imean,
mean,IIstill
stilllived
lived on
on the
the rez, right?
right? And
And IIhadhad
to go get the mail and get milk
to go get the mail and get milk from the from the trading post and just
post and just
hangout,
hang out,right?
right?So SoIIwas
wasstill
stillaapart
part of
of the rez.
Peoplehad
People hadeither
either ignored
ignored me me oror called me me names
names or or
pushed
pushed me. me.
Butthey
But theystopped
stoppedafter
aftermymygrandmother
grandmother died.died.
I guess they realized that I was in enough pain
I guess they realized that I was in enough pain already.
already.Or Or
maybe they realized they’d been
maybe they realized they’d been cruel jerks. cruel jerks.
I wasn’tsuddenly
I wasn’t suddenlypopular,
popular,of of course.
course. But
But II wasn’t
wasn’t aa villain
villain
anymore.
anymore.
No matter what else happened between my tribe and me,
No matter what else happened between my tribe and me,
I would always love them for giving me peace on the day of my
I would always love them for giving me peace on the day of my
grandmother’s funeral.
grandmother’s funeral.
Even Rowdy just stood far away.
Even Rowdy just stood far away.
R
R

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 We all were excited to hear this guy’s story. And so what
did he have to say?

We all groaned.
We’d expected this white guy to be original. But he was
yet another white guy who showed up on the rez because he
loved Indian people SOOOOOOOO much.
Do you know how many white strangers show up on In-
dian reservations every year and start telling Indians how
much they love them?
Thousands.
It’s sickening.
R And boring.

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R

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3:54:32
 When Bobby was sober enough to realize what he’d done,
he could only call Eugene’s name over and over, as if that
would somehow bring him back.
A few weeks later, in jail, Bobby hung himself with a bed-
sheet.
We didn’t even have enough time to forgive him.
He punished himself for his sins.
My father went on a legendary drinking binge.
My mother went to church every single day.
It was all booze and God, booze and God, booze and God.
We’d lost my grandmother and Eugene. How much loss
were we supposed to endure?
I felt helpless and stupid.
I needed books.
I wanted books.
And I drew and drew and drew cartoons.
I was mad at God; I was mad at Jesus. They were mocking
me, so I mocked them:

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 I hoped I could find more cartoons that would help me. And I
I hoped I could find more cartoons that would help me. And I
hoped I could find stories that would help me.
hoped I could find stories that would help me.
SoSoI Ilooked up the word “grief ” in the dictionary.
looked up the word “grief ” in the dictionary.
I Iwanted
wantedtoto fifind
nd out
out everything
everything II could
could about grief. II
about grief.
wanted to know why my family had been given
wanted to know why my family had been given so much to so much to
grieve
grieveabout.
about.
And
AndthenthenI Idiscovered
discoveredthe
theanswer:
answer:

Okay, so it was Gordy who showed me a book written by the

Okay, so it was Gordy who showed me a book written by the
guy who knew the answer.
guy who knew the answer.
It was Euripides, this Greek writer from the fifth cen-
It was Euripides, this Greek writer from the fifth cen-
tury BC.
tury BC.
A way-old dude.
A way-old dude.
R
R

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 We were all boys desperate to be men, and this game
would be a huge moment in our transition.
“Okay, everybody, let’s go over the game plan,” Coach said.
We all walked over to the chalkboard area and sat on fold-
ing chairs.
“Okay, guys,” Coach said. “We know what these guys can
do. They’re averaging eighty points a game. They want to run
and run and run. And when they’re done running and gun-
ning, they’re going to run and gun some more.”
Man, that wasn’t much of a pep talk. It sounded like Coach
was sure we were going to lose.
“And I have to be honest, guys,” Coach said. “We can’t
beat these guys with our talent. We just aren’t good enough.
But I think we have bigger hearts. And I think we have a secret
weapon.”
I wondered if Coach had maybe hired some Mafia dude to
take out Rowdy.

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 please
pleasedon’t don’tkillkillmy
mydaddy.
daddy.Please,
Please,God,God,please
pleasedon’t
don’tkill
killmymy
daddy.”
daddy.”
Ten,
Ten,fifteen,
fifteen,twenty,
twenty,thirtythirtyminutes
minuteswent wentby. by.I Iwas
wasfreez-
freez-
ing.
ing.My Myhands
handsand andfeet
feetwerewerebigbigblocks
blocksofofice.ice.Snot
Snotranrandown
down
mymyface.
face.My Myearsearswere
wereburning
burningcold.
cold.
“Oh,
“Oh,Daddy,
Daddy,please,
please,oh, oh,Daddy,
Daddy,please,
please,oh,oh,Daddy,
Daddy,please.”
please.”
Oh,
Oh,man, man,I Iwas wasabsolutely
absolutelyconvinced
convincedthat thatmy myfather
fatherwas was
dead,
dead,too. too.ItIthadhadbeen
beentoo toolong.
long.He’d
He’ddriven
drivenhis hiscar
caroff
offa acliff
cliff
and
andhad haddrowned
drownedininthe theSpokane
SpokaneRiver.
River.Or Orhe’d
he’dlost
lostcontrol,
control,
slid
slidacross
acrossthe thecenterline,
centerline,and andspun
spunright
rightinto
intothethepath
pathofofa alog-
log-
ging
gingtruck.
truck.
“Daddy,
“Daddy,Daddy, Daddy,Daddy,Daddy,Daddy.”
Daddy.”
And
Andjust justwhen
whenI IthoughtthoughtI’d I’dstart
startscreaming,
screaming,and andrun run
around
aroundlike likea acrazy
crazyman,man,my myfather
fatherdrove
droveup. up.
I Istarted
startedlaughing.
laughing.I Iwas wassosorelieved,
relieved,sosohappy,
happy,that thatI I
LAUGHED.
LAUGHED.And AndI Icouldn’t
couldn’tstop stoplaughing.
laughing.
I Iran
randowndownthe thehill,
hill,jumped
jumpedinto intothe
thecar,
car,and
andhugged
huggedmy my
dad.
dad.I Ilaughed
laughedand andlaughed
laughedand andlaughed
laughedand andlaughed.
laughed.
“Junior,”
“Junior,”hehesaid. said.“What’s
“What’swrong
wrongwithwithyou?”
you?”
“You’re
“You’realive!”alive!”I Ishouted.
shouted.“You’re
“You’realive!”
alive!”
“But
“Butyour yoursister
sister—,”—,”hehesaid.
said.
“I“Iknow,
know,I Iknow,”know,”I Isaid. said.“She’s
“She’sdead.
dead.But Butyou’re
you’realive.
alive.
You’re
You’restill stillalive.”
alive.”
I Ilaughed
laughedand andlaughed.
laughed.I Icouldn’t
couldn’tstopstoplaughing.
laughing.I Ifelt
feltlike
like
I Imight
mightdie dieofoflaughing.
laughing.

The
The
Absolutely
Absolutely
True
True
Diary
Diary
ofof
a Part-Time
a Part-Time
Indian
Indian

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 My Final
Freshman
Year
Report Card

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 I wanted to find him and hug him and beg him to forgive
me forI leaving.
wanted to find him and hug him and beg him to forgive
me for leaving.

R
R
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 ue Diary of a Part-Time Indian • The Absolutely Tr

ue Diary of a Part-Time Indian •

10th
ANNIVERSARY
EDITION
BONUS
CONTENT

The Absolutely Tr

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 Contents
A NOTE FROM SHERMAN ALEXIE

PERSONAL PHOTOS FROM SHERMAN

ROWDY, ROWDY, ROWDY

A LETTER FROM AN EDUCATOR

FAN ARTWORK

WATER ON THE BRAIN

INTERVIEW WITH ELLEN FORNEY

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 A Note from Sherman Alexie

Okay, so you just finished reading The Absolutely True Diary of

a Part-Time Indian. Maybe it’s the first time you’ve read it.
Maybe it’s the hundredth. In any case, thank you for paying at-
tention to my story. Thanks to all of you who’ve paid attention to
this book over the last ten years. This novel is a decade old! That
seems impossible, right? Time is a trickster.
So I guess this Tenth Anniversary Edition of True Diary is
like a birthday celebration. And this afterword is like a birthday
song. That’s cool. But it should be something bigger than that, as
well. I think I should use this afterword to tell you something
new about True Diary and some of the people and places and
events and ideas that inspired me to write it.

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 Okay? So here we go.
The hero of this book is Arnold Spirit Jr. The other hero of
this book is Rowdy.
I didn’t write Rowdy as a hero. I never intended him to be
heroic. But he was not supposed to be a villain, either. He was
meant to be a messy and contradictory human: bitter and funny,
loyal and angry, loving and vindictive. He was Arnold’s best
friend, but he was also going to become Arnold’s worst enemy.
And yes, there would be reconciliation, but it would be com-
plicated and competitive. Is there such a thing as antagonistic
forgiveness? I don’t know if that happens in real life, but I tried
to write it into this novel.
After all, if you turn back to the first page and read this book
again, then you will discover that Rowdy never really stops being
a jerk. How did this jerk become so lovable?
I had never thought of Rowdy as being lovable. I never even
gave him a last name. At least, I don’t think I gave him a last
name. I haven’t read True Diary in a while. I am sure that I have
forgotten certain details. There’s also another thing: I had sur-
gery to remove a benign brain tumor in December 2015, and
that successful operation also removed some of my long-term
memories.
In any case, what kind of character doesn’t get a last name?
What kind of character is given a violent name? A violent dude!
How could I have predicted that a violent character would be-
come the subject of fascination and affection?
“Is Rowdy real?” readers have asked me thousands of times
in the decade since True Diary was published. It is often the first
question in any classroom, bookstore, or university lecture hall.
Reporters ask me if Rowdy is based on a real person. I have re-
ceived hundreds of letters from fans begging me to confirm that
Rowdy is real.

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 And the answer is “Yes, Rowdy is real.”
Rowdy is indeed based on my childhood best friend on the
Spokane Indian Reservation. But I completely disguised the con-
nection between the fictional character and the real person. How
thorough was that disguise? Rowdy’s real name is Randy.
Randy J. Peone.
So, okay, “Rowdy” and “Randy” are almost synonyms. But
Rowdy and Randy differ in significant ways. Unlike Rowdy,
Randy is not a single child. He has, like, eighteen thousand
brothers and sisters, all of them ridiculously attractive. Unlike
Rowdy’s angry father, Randy has a mother and father who are
loving and supportive. For many years, Randy has lived in a
house only five minutes away from his parents. Unlike Rowdy,
Randy liked school. He studied science in college and has worked
for our tribal fish hatchery for as long as I can remember.
However, our dear Randy has always had a mean temper,
like Rowdy. He has always liked to fight, physically and verbally.
He has struggled with depression and anger issues. Sometimes
he drinks too much. Sometimes he is cruel to his family and
friends. So, yeah, Rowdy and Randy also have a lot in common.
Don’t worry. Randy read this book before it was published,
and he signed a release letter that stated he was cool with his
fictional avatar.
“Junior,” he said to me during a phone call, “the book is good.
But I didn’t punch you in the face when you left Wellpinit.”
“Yes, you did,” I said.
“Nope,” he said.
We argued about that point for a while. We, as they say,
agreed to disagree. And then, a few months later, on a publicity
visit in Miami, I dreamed of the day when Randy had punched
me and sent me to my new school, to Reardan, with a fresh black
eye. Except in my dream, a different kid slugged me.

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 I woke from that dream and realized Randy wasn’t the one
who’d punched me. It was a different Indian boy, one of my
damned bullies. I thought about calling up Randy to apologize.
But then I remembered that he had definitely punched me in the
nose after a Little League baseball game. Well, I had punched
him first, but that was only because he’d been picking on me, just
like one of my eternal bullies. Randy was supposed to be my best
friend. He was supposed to be my protector. So I punched him
in the face for betraying me. And then he punched me back. But
he punched me harder. I think he broke my nose. I never went
to the doctor. I let it heal on its own. And my nose has been a
little flatter ever since.
So, okay, Randy did not punch me when I left him for Rear-
dan. But he had slugged me one year earlier. I think the fictional
and real punches had very similar emotional content.
And I think Randy would probably agree with me. Or maybe
he would argue with me. Maybe he’d be right to argue. After all,
as I think about our Little League two-punch fight, I think I
might have overreacted to Randy’s teasing. But, hey, I had been
chronically bullied. I did have the grade school PTSD of a bat-
tered kid. So maybe I had been reflexively conditioned to meet
any aggression, however mild, moderate, or wild, with my own
aggression.
I don’t know for sure.
I will never know for sure.
Because on December 8, 2016, Randy J. Peone died in a car
wreck on a narrow two-lane highway north of Spokane, Washing-
ton. He was not intoxicated. The roads were clean and clear. The
sky was blue. Visibility was good. Rowdy was alone in his car, so
nobody knows for sure why he drifted across the center line and
struck a car in the opposite lane. One of his brothers suspects
that Randy might have been distracted by his phone. He liked to
text and drive. The other drivers were hospitalized for their inju-

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 ries but survived. There were also three children in the other
cars, but they were not injured.
Randy sustained massive head and internal injuries and died
that night without ever regaining consciousness.
He had not been wearing his seat belt.
In 2016, what kind of foolish, impulsive, and risk-embracing
idiot refuses to wear his seat belt?
Come on, Randy! What were you thinking?
I did not receive the news about Randy’s death until the next
morning. I had been writing and, as usual, ignoring my cell
phone. But then my sister called my home landline at the same
moment Randy’s sister-in-law sent an urgent e-mail.
I immediately called Randy’s sister-in-law, and she told me
the terrible news. I had not spoken to Randy in many years. I had
not seen him in an even longer period. But I was instantly trans-
ported back in time, and I wept and wailed like a twelve-year-old
boy whose best friend had just died.
I was Sherman Alexie Jr., mourning the sudden death of
Randy Peone. And I was Arnold Spirit Jr., mourning the sudden
death of Rowdy. My real and fictional lives blended in torturous
ways.
“Oh my God,” I said to his sister-in-law. “I loved him. I loved
him. I loved him.”
Five days later, I stood beside his open coffin in the funeral
home. I kissed Randy on the forehead. I put my hand on his
chest. Randy had always been short, only five four as an adult,
but he’d always been built like a wolverine. Thick and muscular.
But in his coffin, Randy looked skinny. In my memory, Randy
was a vibrant teenager, a fullback, point guard, and fastball
pitcher. And now, in the present, he was a forty-nine-year-old
man — killed in a car wreck — who’d dealt with the typical and
atypical health problems of a middle-aged Native American. Age
had turned him smaller and darker. He’d always been hand-

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 some — a blue-eyed Indian — and he was still handsome, dressed
in a white shirt and Indian-design vest, as he rested in his coffin.
I turned away from Randy so I could address the gathered
mourners. So I could memorialize him.
I saw dozens of Indians I had known for my whole life, and I
saw their children, who I didn’t know at all. I’d been in kinder-
garten with some of those Indians. One of those Indians had
been my favorite babysitter. I saw Randy’s brothers and sisters,
and his mother and father, and his children.
I saw my brothers and sisters sitting in the back row of seats.
And then I spoke.
I hadn’t written anything down.
I hadn’t prepared.
I spoke directly from the heart, partly as the reservation boy
I used to be, the skinny and unknown Indian kid named Junior.
And partly as the urban Indian named Sherman, who’d somehow
become an unskinny and famous writer.
I felt unreal. Like I had been transported into one of my own
books. But the characters in books live forever. And real people
die.
I closed my eyes, inhaled, exhaled, opened my eyes, and
spoke. And this, to the best of my compromised memory, is what
I said:

When I heard about Randy’s death, I instantly thought about the

movie Stand by Me, based on the novella The Body, by Stephen
King. I thought about the end of that movie, when we learn that
Chris Chambers, played as a kid by River Phoenix, became a
lawyer. And we also learn that he was stabbed to death while
trying to break up a fight in a fast-food restaurant. A tragic, un-
predictable death. I have seen that movie a hundred times, at
least, but I still cry every time. And I really cry when Gordie
Lachance, played by Richard Dreyfuss as an adult, types those

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 amazing, amazing words: I never had any friends later on like the
ones I had when I was twelve. Jesus, does anyone?
So I thought about being twelve years old in Wellpinit, and I
thought about Randy, who was my best friend back then. I
thought about his tragic, unpredictable death. And I realized that
I’ve never again had a friend like him. I have never really had a
friend as important to me, as necessary, as Randy.
You all remember me when I was twelve. And when I was
younger. Skinny and sickly and smart and smart-ass and wearing
those government glasses that weighed about thirty pounds.
A lot of kids bullied me. Some of you in this room, some of
you bullied me. You know who you are. I certainly remember
you.
Ha! Yeah, it’s good to laugh. It’s good to tease. We’re Indi-
ans. So we know that teasing can be an act of love.
But you old bullies shouldn’t worry too much about how
mean you used to be. I forgive you. A little bit. But I really won-
der how many of you remember hurting me? And maybe I hurt
some of you, too, and I don’t remember it. If I ever hurt you,
then I am sorry. We were all young and foolish. We were reser-
vation Indian kids, and that was difficult for all of us.
I like to joke and tell people that I’m not one of those Indians
who believe in magic, but I believe in interpreting coincidence
exactly the way I want to.
I don’t know if it was a coincidence that Randy came to Well-
pinit in sixth grade. He lived only fifteen miles away from my
house. But he went to school in Springdale. And I had never met
him. The world was a different place back then. It was bigger and
smaller at the same time. You could belong to the same tribe, and
live on the same reservation only fifteen miles apart, and be the
same age, but you could still be strangers to each other.
So I didn’t know Randy on his first day of school in Wellpinit.
He was small. But he looked mean and tough. Like he was a

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 fighter. You all remember how much we used to punch one an-
other? Boys fighting boys. Girls fighting girls. Girls fighting boys.
And almost everybody beating me up. It seemed like that, any-
way. I know a lot of you were good kids. I know a lot of you were
just as scared and hurting as I was. But you don’t notice that stuff
when you’re a kid. Your own life feels so huge that it’s hard to see
anybody else’s life.
So Randy walks into the classroom. He struts on his little
Peone legs. He looks like he will fight anybody. Like he will fight
the weather. And I think, “Oh, great, somebody else to bully
me.”
So I avoid him all day. I even hide in the speech therapy
room so I don’t have to go outside at recess and maybe get
punched.
But it turns out that Randy was getting bullied, instead of the
other way around. And Stevie was the worst. You all remember
how mean Stevie could be? He went after Randy, the new kid,
the new Indian. So Stevie pushes and pushes and pushes Randy,
and then Randy pushes back and says, “We’re fighting after
school.”
So, after school, everybody runs up to the old playground to
watch the fight. But I run home because I know somebody will
get all pumped up by the first fight and will get me into the sec-
ond fight. I can see the old playground from my front window, so
I sit there and watch it all happen.
Everybody stands in a circle around Stevie and Randy.
And I can see Stevie talking. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but
I know he’s probably telling Randy to throw the first punch. Re-
member how we did that? We’d always tell the other person to
throw the first punch. Why did we do that? If you’re going to
fight, then you should want to throw the first punch, right? Any-
way, Stevie says, “Throw the first punch,” and Randy doesn’t
even hesitate. He says, “Okay,” and punches Stevie in the face

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 and knocks him out. Knocks him unconscious. What twelve-year-
old kid has knockout power like that? Only Randy.
At first, I was excited because Randy had just defeated the
meanest bully. And then I got depressed because that meant
Randy was meaner than the meanest bully. There was proof. And
that meant I was in big trouble.
So I was terrified to go to school the next day. But I did. And
everybody was talking about Randy’s punch, even the high
schoolers. I sat at my desk and shook with fear. And then Randy
walked into the classroom and sat beside me.
He said, “What’s your name?”
I wanted to run. I knew he’d make fun of my speech imped-
iments — of my lisp and stutter. I knew he’d make fun of my big
hydrocephalic head and my government glasses. I knew he’d
make fun of how easily I cried, and then he would make fun of
my crying.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Junior,” I said.
“I’m Randy J. Peone,” he said, and smiled.
And then it happened. We all know about falling in love at
first sight. Most of us have probably fallen in love at first sight
with somebody. Hopefully, with the person you’re married to
right now. Love at first sight is always romantic, right? But have
you ever heard about people becoming best friends at first sight?
Have you ever heard of two Indian boys becoming instant best
friends? Becoming best friends the first time they ever talk to
each other? After they’ve only said maybe ten words to each
other?
Well, that happened to Randy and me. I don’t know how to
explain it. But Randy and I were suddenly best friends. We never
talked about it. We never acknowledged it. We just knew. Both
of us knew. And that’s just how it was always going to be.
And let me tell you, after Randy became my best friend, I

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 didn’t get bullied all that much anymore. Randy became my
bodyguard.
He was the one who made me a good basketball player. Re-
member, I was the sick kid. The weak kid. The kid with seizures.
But Randy got me on the basketball court and assumed that I
would be good. He absolutely believed that I was good. He had
so much confidence in himself that it made me confident in
myself.
And so, because of Randy, I was a good basketball player
overnight. It was magical. And he and I led our sixth-grade team
to an undefeated season and the VFW championship. But we
didn’t even really need the other players. I think Randy and I
could have won that league playing two-on-five.
In practice one day, Randy and I played our seven teammates
in a short game and beat them 21–6. Some of those teammates
are here. I bet you’re still mad about losing to a two-man team.
Ha!
Yeah, it’s good to laugh at funerals. It’s good to be happy and
sad at the same time.
But you all know Randy was a great athlete. I couldn’t believe
how many trophies he’d won. The first time I went to his house, I
had to pick up and study every trophy. He was great at everything.
Football, baseball, track, wrestling, boxing. I didn’t even play any
of those sports. And he was better at basketball. At first.
And I hate to say this at Randy’s funeral, with him right there
in his coffin, unable to talk trash back to me, but I eventually ended
up being a better basketball player than he was. I think he knew it,
too. But he never admitted it. Randy would never admit to some-
thing like that. We played against each other only twice. In eighth
grade. When I was at Reardan and he was still at Wellpinit.
Randy won that first game in Wellpinit, when Billy Shawn
and Marty Andrews were the refs. They weren’t even real

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 refs. They were high school kids. And they fouled me out in
the third quarter.
But back in Reardan, when we had real refs, we swamped
Wellpinit. We won the game by thirty points. And I guarded
Randy and held him to two points. It would have been zero
points, but my own teammate tripped me on the last play of the
game, and Randy broke free and got a layup. They’d lost the
game by thirty points, but Randy still talked trash at me because
he’d scored that last hoop.
He talked trash about that for years.
“Remember that time when I faked you out and you fell
down and I drove for that layup?” he’d say.
“I got tripped,” I’d say. “And that was your only basket of
the game.”
“I don’t remember that,” he’d say.
“And we beat you by thirty.”
“Don’t remember that, either.”
Randy and I never stopped being competitive. But basketball
wasn’t the best thing that we shared.
You see, Randy was the first person who really listened to
me. I’d stay the night at his house. He’d sleep on the bottom
bunk, and I’d be on the top bunk. And I would do most of the
talking. Wherever I’ve gone in my life, I’ve usually done most of
the talking. Talk, talk, talk, that’s me. So Randy and I would stay
awake all night, and I would talk about the girls I loved.
Some of you girls are in this room. You’re women now, and
I’m still a little bit in love with some of you.
Ha!
No, I’m not going to say who.
But, hey, none of you loved me back. Not as a boyfriend. So
my heart was always broken. I would talk about you, the girls I
loved who did not love me back, and I would cry. I would cry

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 hard. Randy never made fun of me for crying. He would listen
and listen and listen, and he would tell me that you girls didn’t
deserve my love. He’d tell me the love of my life was somewhere
else in the world and that she and I would find each other. Randy
was only twelve years old, and he was saying that smart and ro-
mantic stuff.
But he would also give me advice. He’d challenge me. This
one time, he said, “Junior, you fall in love too easy.”
And, oh man, he was right about that.
The thing is, whether we were talking about basketball or
girls or school or anything else, Randy was the first person who
always, always, always made me feel loved. Made me feel appre-
ciated. Made me feel understood.
And yeah, in the meantime he was fighting and arguing with
almost everybody else. With kids and adults.
But he was always good to me.
And so I started to believe that I was good. I started to be-
lieve I was great. More than that, I started to believe that a little
Indian boy like me could compete against white people.
Do you remember how it felt to be so Indian and so poor and
so powerless? And it felt like you would lose to white people?
That you’d always lose to white people?
Well, Randy didn’t believe that. And he wouldn’t let me be-
lieve it, either. He wouldn’t let me believe I was inferior to white
people. Or to other Indians.
Randy had so much faith in me. It was amazing.
And it feels weird to say this. It sounds hurtful, maybe. But I
think Randy’s faith in me gave me the faith to leave the reserva-
tion school and transfer to Reardan.
I think about my older son. He was really sick when he was
born, and he needed a lot of speech therapy and physical therapy
as he grew older. For a few years, he did hippotherapy.
I know that sounds like he rode hippos. Ha!

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 But actually he rode horses as a way to build up his muscles
and his confidence.
And one day as he was riding, the horse trainer said that my
son was “borrowing the strength of the horse until he could find
his own.”
So I’m not calling Randy a horse here, but I think that I bor-
rowed his strength. I think I absolutely needed to borrow his
strength in Wellpinit, on the reservation, until I found my own
strength off the reservation.
And you guys mostly know what happened in high school. I
became a basketball star in Reardan. Eventually, Randy left
Wellpinit a couple years after I did. He went back to school in
Springdale and became a basketball star, too. We never played
each other in high school, though, because his teams were terri-
ble and my teams were good.
Ha! I had to talk trash one more time.
You see, at Reardan, I played with white boys who were good
at basketball. At Springdale, Randy played with white boys who
weren’t good.
Ha!
Randy and I became friendly again over the years, mostly
because of basketball. In all-star high school tournaments. And
then in all-Indian tournaments after high school.
I remember when I hit two clutch free throws to beat his
team in an all-Indian tournament in Springdale. He was so mad
at losing but so happy that I’d hit the game winner. Laughing, he
picked me up, slung me over his shoulder, and ran me around
the gym. Then he carried me outside, through the gym doors,
and threw me into a snowbank.
I saw him only once or twice when we were in college. One
night, during my last semester at Washington State University, I
boozed my way to the reservation, to Wellpinit. I was depressed.
And struggling with my bipolar mental illness. I didn’t know I

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 was bipolar. I wouldn’t be officially diagnosed for twenty more
years. I was getting drunk every weekend. I was falling apart.
I don’t remember how Randy and I ended up together that
night. But we drove drunk around the reservation for hours and
crashed five or six or eight parties.
It’s all a blur.
At some point, in somebody’s house on the rez, I stood and
started reciting my poems from memory. In those early days, I
could recite all of my poems by heart.
So there I was, drunkenly reciting my poems about life on
the reservation while standing in a house on my reservation. I
would publish my first book, The Business of Fancydancing,
eighteen months later. And my future wife, the love of my life,
would attend my first reading of that book in Spokane a few
weeks after that.
I also got sober in March 2001 and have been sober ever
since.
But I was almost blind drunk on that blurred night on my rez.
And I recited poetry! That was so goofy and arrogant! Maybe
some of you were there. I remember that some Indians tried to
heckle me. But Randy, ever my protector, silenced them with a
mean stare. And then he, ever the listener, sat in front of me, a
one-person audience. I don’t know how long I recited poetry, but
I do know that Randy paid attention.
And I remember that I wept that night and told Randy how
afraid I was of being trapped again. I was afraid of becoming a
reservation drunk. I told him I wanted to become a professional
poet, a real writer, and there was no way it would ever happen. I
told Randy that I was doomed to fail.
But Randy stood and grabbed my shoulders. He was nearly
as drunk as I was. He was young and strong, so it hurt when he
grabbed me. He wasn’t my best friend anymore. We’d stopped

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 being best friends when I left the reservation school. When I left
Wellpinit.
Let me be real honest here. When I left Wellpinit, I also left
my best friend. And that’s like a betrayal, right? No, it isn’t like a
betrayal. It is betrayal. In leaving, I betrayed my best friend. In
leaving, I betrayed my tribe. But sometimes you have to do that.
I have lived an amazing life. I think I have changed the whole
world for the better. At least a little bit. And I know my books,
my stories, have helped a lot of people. A lot of other Indians.
And none of that would’ve happened if I hadn’t left Wellpinit.
Great things have happened to me because I left. But it has also
caused me so much pain. And I know it caused all of you pain,
too. I know some of you are still mad at me for leaving. That’s
okay. I understand.
But you have to understand that I didn’t leave because I
wanted to hurt any of you. I left because I wanted to save myself.
I am happy I left the reservation. My life has been magical. But I
know I gave up so much. I know I lost so much beauty when I
left.
But, hey, most of you don’t know this. All of it almost fell
apart. I almost fell apart. I ended up drunk on the reservation
that night, reciting my poetry, and I was ready to give up. I had
given up.
But Randy, my handsome, blue-eyed Indian, stared hard at
me, and he said, “Junior, those poems are amazing. You’re going
to be famous.”
“No,” I said. “That’s not me.”
“You’re going to travel the whole world reading your poems,”
he said.
“But what about you?” I asked.
“I’m always going to be here,” he said. “And you’ll always be
somewhere else. Somewhere bigger.”

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 “That’s not fair,” I said. “It’s not fair to you.”
“You just have to send me postcards,” he said. “You have to
be a postcard Indian. You have to send me postcards from every-
where in the world.”
Well, I don’t think I ever sent one postcard to Randy J.
Peone. But I wrote a novel about him. And I’ve discovered that
millions of people love the fictional version of Randy.
Randy, I don’t know if you knew how important Rowdy has
become to people. And I never told you how important you have
always been to me. We didn’t talk about things like that. We
didn’t talk about us.
But I do know some good things.
I am a storyteller because you listened to me.
I am alive because you lived.
And, like I said earlier, I don’t believe in magic. I don’t be-
lieve in God, either. But I thank God anyway for you. I thank
God you stepped into that sixth-grade classroom and asked me
my name.
Dear Randy J. Peone, dear Rowdy, I love you so much. And
I will miss you forever.

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 Personal Photos
from Sherman

Arnold, my big brother; my younger sisters, twins Kim and

Arlene; and me piling on my father, Sherman Alexie Sr. It
was taken by my mother in 1971 in our nineteenth-century
house on the Spokane Indian Reservation. At this point, we
lived in our one-bedroom house with our big sister, Mary;
my father’s grandmother Lizzie and his great-uncle Stubby;
and five adult cousins, Johnny, Tinker, Bill, Eugene, and Sam.

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 Me, my big brother, and my father pretending to be
Bruce Lee. It was taken by my mother in 1975 in our
house constructed by the Department of Housing and
Urban Development. My father had just returned from
a ten-day drinking binge, and we were happy to have
him home.

Personal Photos from Sherman

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 This is me, six feet two inches and 145 pounds, hitting a
jumper against Harrington High School during my senior
year. We were an undersized and underdog team that
year but won our district playoffs by defeating Ritzville
and Davenport, who finished second and third in the Class
B state tournament. We lost our two games in the state
tourney, and I still have nightmares about those losses.
Reardan High School Annual, 1985

page 253

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 The late Randy J. Peone, my childhood best friend and the
inspiration for Rowdy. I will miss him forever.

Springdale High School Annual, 1985

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 This is the day of my graduation from Reardan High School
with my best friends, Rick Williams, Tom Beitey, Doug Fiess,
and Gordon Tyus. We all graduated from high school and
college with academic honors. You could say I was best
friends with four white boy geniuses. Tom died in 1991, but
the other three are doing well. I don’t have much contact
with them, but I remember them with love and respect.

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 A never-before-seen, unedited
excerpt from an unfinished and
unpublished sequel to The Absolutely
True Diary of a Part-Time Indian,
from Rowdy’s point of view.

Rowdy, Rowdy, Rowdy

by Sherman Alexie

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 SEPTEMBER 5
Everybody loves a meteor, but hardly anybody cares about a
meteorite.

Rowdy, Rowdy, Rowdy

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 SEPTEMBER 6
A meteor is called a shooting star, an amazing name, but it’s only
space junk set afire as it enters our atmosphere and burns to
nothing. During meteor showers, people gather in large num-
bers and “ooh” and “aah” and talk about God’s fireworks and the
last time they saw something so beautiful and the world is an
amazing place and I love you and let’s be happy forever and blah,
blah, frigging blah. And the nightly news sends a reporter into
the foothills to let viewers know when and where to see the pret-
tiest part of a meteor shower. And people, actually believing in
the news for the first time, put on their shoes and coats and rush
out to watch.
So, yeah, big butt cheers for the meteor.
As for the meteorite? That’s a piece of space junk that made
it through the flames and survived the impact with the earth. It
can be a piece of dust or a house-sized boulder. But big or small,
there are no television reports and no celebrations and no big
crowds to celebrate a meteorite. Imagine walking up to a crowd
circling a baseball-sized meteorite.
“Hey, what’s going on?” you’d ask the friendliest-looking
dude.
“We’re celebrating,” he’d say, and point with his lips at the
space baseball.
“You’re celebrating a rock?”
“It’s a meteorite.”
“You mean a shooting star?”

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 “Sort of. This is a shooting star that survived. It’s amazing.”
“It’s a rock.”
“It’s a survivor.”
“It’s a small rock.”
“It was burning at three thousand degrees Fahrenheit when
it passed through the earth’s atmosphere.”
“Okay, it’s a hot small rock.”
“It’s a testament to the awesome power of the universe.”
“It looks like a baseball.”

Rowdy, Rowdy, Rowdy

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 SEPTEMBER 7
So, yeah, the question is: Do you want to be a meteor or a
meteorite?
Or maybe the question is: Do you want to be the Spokane
Indian guy who shot off the reservation like a star and made
white people fall in love with his brilliance? Or do you want to be
the Spokane Indian who survived the other guy’s flames and sits
alone and small and uncelebrated on the rez among all the other
space baseballs?
Or maybe the question should be: Do you want to be Arnold
Spirit Jr., the little asshole who was good at drawing cartoons,
playing basketball, doing math, writing English papers, making
people laugh, and every other thing but somehow always con-
vinced people that he lived a difficult life despite the fact that he
had two loving parents who let him leave our shitty Indian school
and go to the awesome white school on the reservation border?
Or do you want to be me, Rowdy Polatkin, who is not quite as
smart or funny or talented as Arnold Spirit Jr. and is trapped on
the reservation and gets beaten by his drunken father once or
twice a month while his drunken mother cries in the corner, too
afraid to do anything because she’ll get beaten even worse?
Pretty goddamn easy choice, don’t you think?

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 SEPTEMBER 8
And yeah, I know I just used three curse words in my last entry.
And in case you don’t remember them, let me repeat them in
order of appearance: asshole, shitty, goddamn.
And I know some of you (teachers and preachers) are of-
fended and scandalized, but I also know that most of you cuss
when you stub your toe on a table or run over a dog with your car
or grab an electric fence that you didn’t know was electrified.
So imagine that you are stubbing your toe, running over dogs,
and getting fence-shocked every asshole minute of every shitty
day of your goddamn life, and then you’ll realize that the only
words that can accurately tell the story are the curse words.
And if you still don’t understand me or agree with my writing
advice, then feel free to use the cut-and-paste button in your
head and change “asshole” to “awful,” “shitty” to “terrible,” and
“goddamn” to “damn.”

Rowdy, Rowdy, Rowdy

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 SEPTEMBER 9
Okay, so I went off on a detour yesterday. That’s okay. Real life
is a series of detours, shortcuts, and dead ends. And if you want
to tell a good story, then it better be about real life.
But in order to make a good story even better, you should
also come back and repeat the main point. You should make sure
that people “get it.” So let me return to my meteor-versus-
meteorite argument.
To remind you, the meteor is Arnold Spirit Jr., and I, Rowdy
Polatkin, am the meteorite.
Arnold used to be my best friend, but now he is my worst
enemy.
There is nobody you can hate as much as somebody you used
to love.

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 A Letter from an Educator

Dear Readers,

As a high school English teacher, I find that one of my most crit-

ical challenges is selecting reading material that both captivates
and instructs my students. I’m always reminding myself that
most of my students are not future English teachers; they won’t
all adore parsing literature because it’s a fun puzzle, or simply
love reading for reading’s sake. Many of them view English class
as an exercise in endurance—and for some, survival. Assigned
books are so often the lima beans of the high school experience,
to be suffered or dodged.
Sometimes, however, a novel comes along that flaunts the
label “selected text.” It instructs students while captivating them.

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 They cannot put it down. They come to class each morning ready
to talk about the “crazy stuff” that happened in the book last
night. They read too fast and finish before the due date. Sherman
Alexie’s The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian is this
book, the unicorn of assigned reading: a book every kid wants to
read.
Why? I asked a few students who recently read The Diary, as
we call it.
“It’s relatable to kids and stuff they’ve gone through.”
“It’s funny, so it keeps you reading. Even the sad parts are
funny.”
“It gives us a chance to talk about stereotypes.”
“It was so good — this is the only book I’ve ever read.”
That final comment is a reprise of a line I hear every year,
sometimes more than once per year. You may wonder, how do
students make it to high school without ever having read a book?
Despite the best intentions and efforts of all these students’ ele-
mentary, middle, and high school teachers, librarians, parents,
and others, these students have never found a love for reading.
They’ve not felt the connection to a character that compelled
them to reach for that book again. They haven’t found a story line
that warrants giving up outside time, or social time, or video-game
time for reading time. The Diary, by stark contrast, does all of
that and more: It opens an avenue for students to talk to each
other about literature and about heavy themes handled with a
light touch.
The savvy teacher elicits and unpacks these themes, never
skimming over the crucial features of the text that allow readers
to move past the surface comedy and spectatorship that propel
us through the plot. These themes — themes of adolescence,
racism, loss, family, redemption, friendship, and prejudice —
touch nearly every aspect of this text. The book opens up an
American experience with nuance, humanity, and honesty, one

A Letter from an Educator

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 about American Indians, who are nearly always invisible in con-
temporary American culture.
When I save The Diary for the end of the year, many stu-
dents lament that I didn’t assign them such good books all year
long. I agree, dear students: Sometimes in my desire to teach
important lessons, I select the classics, and these texts aren’t al-
ways as compelling as this delicious Alexie novel. My best re-
sponse is that if you eat your lima beans, you earn your dessert.
And now, dear readers, I hope you, too, enjoyed your dessert.

—Anna Baldwin
English teacher, Arlee High School
Arlee, Montana

page 267

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 A comic strip inspired by The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-
Time Indian, by Emilia Burkhart, student, age 11.

Fan Artwork — Comic Strip

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 page 269

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 The first chapter from an early draft
of The Absolutely True Diary of a
Part-Time Indian, originally
titled Water on the Brain

CHAPTER 1
Let me introduce you to the Spokane Indian Reservation.
First of all, the place is all pine trees, pine trees, pine trees.
And then, after you look past all of those pine trees, you can see
more pine trees. And after you walk past those trees, you run into
a few more. If you picked up a rock, closed your eyes, and tossed
the rock in any direction, you’d be a superhero surrounded by
gazillions of untossed pine trees.
I hate pine trees.
Yeah, sure, they’re beautiful, I guess, in a pine-tree sort of
way, all green and thin and tall, but there’s such a thing as too
much beauty. You can be suffocated by beauty just like you can
be suffocated by water.

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 And yes, there is too much water on my reservation.
There are gazillions of lakes and ponds, meaning there are
also gazillions upon gazillions of mosquitoes. I read somewhere
that an insect is born every time a human commits a sin, so that
means we Spokane Indians are very busy.
The Columbia River — one of the largest, most powerful, and
most radioactive rivers in the whole dang world — forms one bor-
der of our reservation, which is shaped like a clumsy, incomplete
triangle. The Spokane River forms the second border, and Tshimi-
kain Creek forms the third side. Now, geographically speaking, the
rez is not an island, but you still have to cross bridges to get to us.
And yes, we Indians have to cross those same bridges to get out, so
there’s definitely a whole lot of bridge-crossing on the rez.
I hate bridges.
But I hate mountains more. And I can’t stand canyons, ei-
ther. Fields of wildflowers make me sneeze. And don’t get me
started on starry, starry nights.
Cougars, bears, and moose have walked through the middle
of Wellpinit, the capital of the reservation. An elk once stood at
my bedroom window and stared at me. And, hey, you nature lov-
ers are probably excited about these animal encounters, but I’d
like to teach you a lesson about wildlife. And maybe you’ll pay
more attention to me because I live in the woods. I don’t like
cougars and bears because they eat people. And I don’t like elk
because they smell dead. And I absolutely hate moose because
they are the biggest, meanest jerks in the entire world. Moose
have bad tempers. Moose spit on you. Moose pee and poop on
you. Moose will chase you down and stomp you to death. Bears
and cougars are scared of moose. Heck, except for mating, moose
wander through the wilderness alone because they don’t even
like each other. There is nobody that hates moose more than
another moose. You draw a mustache on a moose and it will turn
into Saddam Hussein.

Water on the Brain

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 If you learn only one thing from my story, I hope it is this:
STAY AWAY FROM MOOSE!
I know that sensitive and kind people are supposed to go
dizzy over nature.
They’re supposed to get out guitars and drums, organize
themselves into sacred circles, and write terrible songs. Some
people look at a sunrise or a narrow ridge or a snow-covered field
or a moose and they cry. No, they weep with joy because they’re
so much more poetic than the rest of us.
Poets drool over golden wheat and impossible clouds and
birds in flight. But birds don’t fly because it’s romantic. They fly
because they have to. If they could figure out a faster way to
travel, I’m sure the birds would go for it. But they’re just birds.
Don’t get me wrong. I like most birds, and I think hummingbirds
are way cool, but I don’t get all misty-eyed about their wings.
Birds use flight like humans use hammers and nails. Do birds
write romantic poems about carpenters? Maybe if the carpenter
has built a kick-butt bird feeder.
I once read a poem where the poet dude talked about a tiger
like he wanted to marry it. What kind of guy wants to marry a ti-
ger? A goofy poet!
I hate poets.
Okay, so you’re probably wondering if I hate everything.
You’re probably thinking that I’m one of those angry kids who
only know how to complain. But that’s not true at all. In fact, I
don’t really hate pine trees or water. I just hate being poor, and
when you’re living in poverty in a place filled with pine trees and
water, you start blaming the trees and rivers for your poverty. It’s
easier to hate a pine tree than to hate the government. It’s easier
to cuss at a river than to cuss at the president.
And you must never, never, never, never, never blame your
parents for your poverty, no matter how many jobs they lose or
how much money they spend on beer and cigars and broken cars,

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 because your mother and father are like gravity and oxygen and
your world will EXPLODE without them.
But the number one bad thing about being poor is the feel-
ing that you somehow deserve to be poor. You start believing that
you’re poor because you are stupid and ugly. And then you start
believing that you’re stupid and ugly because you’re Indian. And
because you’re Indian you start believing you’re destined to be
poor. It’s an ugly circle, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Poverty doesn’t give you strength or teach you lessons about
perseverance. No, poverty only teaches you how to be poor.
And now you’re probably thinking, “Hey, buddy, if you’re so
aware of your problems, if you’re so freaking smart, then why
don’t you do something about them? Huh, buddy, huh? And, by
the way, I think moose are pretty cool.”
Well, I once read that human beings are hardwired like com-
puters. Sure, you can shove gigabytes of software into a com-
puter, but that doesn’t really change the hardware. The essence
of the computer will never change. And I don’t think human
beings change, no matter how many gigabytes of happy thoughts
and happier pills you shove down our throats.
What it comes down to is this: You don’t have many choices
when you’re poor, and choiceless people are unhappy people. I
think it is completely impossible to be poor and happy.
Oh, I know that a gazillion different politicians and philoso-
phers have said, “Money doesn’t solve all of your problems.” But
they’re lying. It’s been scientifically proven that money will solve
most of your problems and give you a fighting chance at the rest
of them.
Have you ever noticed that the only people who say that money
isn’t everything are the people who already have plenty of money?
And, okay, I know that sounds hateful, like I’m some commu-
nist rebel trying to stick it to THE MAN, but I don’t even know
who THE MAN is. Though I’ve got the sneaking suspicion that

Water on the Brain

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 THE MAN lives in a nice house with an intelligent wife and tal-
ented children and they all have enough food to eat, so I think I’d
rather be and eat like THE MAN than hate THE MAN.
Trust me, I’d rather love and be loved. I am not a hateful
person. I’m just a poor Indian kid who wants to have a better life.
A great life. An amazing life.
And I know you’re probably thinking, “How can a dirt-poor
reservation kid live an amazing life?” Well, to tell the truth, I
don’t have a clue where to begin. But I want the amazing; I want
it so bad, so maybe the wanting is the beginning. Maybe wanting
is the beginning of every story.
Think about it. Adam and Eve wanted to smooch. Hamlet
wanted to avenge his father. Harriet Tubman wanted freedom.
Luke Skywalker wanted to find his father.
But I’m getting carried away with all the hating and the want-
ing. I want you to like me, maybe even to love me. Heck, we all
want to be liked and loved. But you can’t jump around like a stray
dog and tell people that you want to be liked and loved. And past
the age of ten, you certainly can’t ask to be liked or loved. That’s
just desperate.
But, hey, wait a minute, I am desperate. So what can I do to
make you love me? Should I pull a rabbit out of a hat? Read po-
ems to you? Juggle chainsaws? Draw cartoons?

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 I drew a cartoon just for you. Does it make you happy? Or
sad? Or just plain confused? Well, let me make something clear.
I am happy and sad and confused all at the same time. I always
feel clumsy. No, I always feel awkward. “Awkward” is a better
word. “Awkward” is the perfect word for what I feel like. And I
always feel like I’m going to bump into something and break my
collarbone or my heart.
But there I go again, talking about my life like it’s a soap op-
era. And I hate soap operas.
So I must confess that my life on the rez is not so horrible.
It’s actually pretty decent. If I had to guess, I’d say my life is
about 52 percent good and 48 percent bad, and that’s a dang
good score in a world where approximately 90 percent of the
people are 90 percent sad. So I should probably stop whining.
After all, I am loved and I do love. And I’ll prove it, too. These
are the eight things that I love with all my heart and soul:

1. my grandmother
2. my mother and father (the parental units count as one)
3. my big sister
4. math (especially geometry)
5. my best friend
6. drawing cartoons
7. any sport involving a ball
8. the beautiful girl named X

Water on the Brain

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 Interview with Ellen Forney
How long have you been drawing comics?
I’ve drawn pictures from as far back as I can remember, but I didn’t
start drawing narrative comics until I was in high school. I drew a full-
page comic for a friend who had quit her job at the ice cream parlor
where we both worked — the piece was called “The Trials and Tribula-
tions of Tina-Beena,” and included a bunch of little stories about the
way South Philly girls pronounced “Oreos” and the time she argued
with a customer — stuff like that. She loved it and hung it up in her
kitchen under a piece of plastic wrap.

How did you and Sherman work together?

Sherman would give me a few chapters of his manuscript and ideas
for what I might draw, and I’d do thumbnail sketches using his list as a
bouncing-off point. Later, we’d go over what I’d come up with. About a
third of the graphics were Sherman’s ideas, a third were real collabora-
tions, and a third were my ideas that struck me as I read the text.

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 How was it getting into the head of Arnold Spirit? th
Intense. Sherman describes Arnold so well in the text that I felt I had ob
a good grip on who Arnold was. But to draw like him, to think of jokes he
that he might tell, I had to really immerse myself in being him, and it
wasn’t an easy place to be. W
wo
For instance, while drawing my last round of thumbnail sketches, I was M
working in a café, with manuscripts and sketches spread out all over the wo
table. I’d worked for hours, hadn’t eaten in a long time, and I drank too sto
much coffee. I was deep I’v
in Arnold’s head and felt an
like I had to keep going.
So much heavy stuff was Fo
happening in the story, Ar
that’s when I came up ing
with some of Arnold’s th
darkest humor, like the loo
comic about the last sip co
of wine and the Burn- m
ing Love book cover Al
cartoon when Arnold’s pe
sister died. lab

Then when
Th h I got to the
h end d off the
h manuscript,
i where Arnold and Row- W
dy play basketball, and as it was getting dark outside, I felt a tightening Iu
in my chest and I realized I was about to bawl. It felt like I was playing a an
bittersweet basketball game with Rowdy. I had a split second to decide If
whether or not I would cry in the café, and I put my head in my hands, Ar
sobbed once, and thought about something else. I had read that section sp
so many times, but until then I hadn’t been so deep in Arnold’s mind. m
ne
What was your biggest concern/objective when creating the art
for the book? Fi
My absolute biggest concern was to make Arnold’s comics look authen- loo
tic. I was afraid my work would look too polished and professional, or co
maybe too goofy, but I also didn’t want to dumb it down or stiffen it is
up. I briefly tried to draw like some of my teenage boy students, but ide
Interview with Ellen Forney

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 that didn’t work at all — you could tell I was trying too hard and it was
ad obvious that it wasn’t my style. So I talked about it with Sherman, and
es he thought it’d be fine if I just drew like me.
it
What’s the most difficult part of the process: sketching the art-
work or inking?
as My process for this book was different from usual. In most of my
he work, doing the thumbnails is hard (writing and drawing my brain-
oo storming ideas), sketching is easier (penciling and polishing up what
ep I’ve laid out in the thumbnails), and inking is easiest (I use a brush
elt and india ink).
ng.
as For this book, the thumbnails were hard because I had to stay in
ry, Arnold’s mindset, and I was interpreting someone else’s work. Sketch-
up ing was weird because I had to remember to keep the looseness of the
d’s thumbnails, and inking was REALLY HARD! The drawings needed to
he look like Arnold just sat down and drew them, boom. This may sound
sip counterintuitive, but it takes way more concentration and confidence to
n- make fast lines and swoops than my usual slow and deliberate inking.
er Also, Arnold wouldn’t use a brush in his sketchbook, so I used a felt-tip
d’s pen. So not only was I using an unfamiliar tool, I was trying to make
labored drawings look spontaneous. I got cramps in my hand a lot.

w- Why did you use so many different drawing styles?

ng I used three drawing styles. In my own sketchbooks (and scraps of paper
ga and backs of envelopes), I use different styles for different purposes, and
de I felt that Arnold would, too.
ds, Arnold’s artwork needed to
on span different situations and
. moods, so his drawing style
needed change as well.
art
First, the more scribbled-
n- looking illustrations and
or comics suggest that Arnold
it is jotting down his thoughts in an immediate way,
way like he’d just had an
ut idea and quickly wrote it down. Most of the artwork is like that.

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 Second, the slightly more tim
realistic cartoons, like the all
annotated portraits of his
family, suggest that he’s giv- On
ing more thought to what th
he’s doing. Certain ideas wa
would have been rumbling an
around his head and were tex
well-developed by the time fea
he put them on the page.
Ca
Third, the penciled portraits as
suggest two different types Ia
of intimate situations. De- ye
tailed, more realistic draw- to
ings can take a while, and sc
in that way describe a span ize
of time, so we know that th
Arnold was concentrating
and focusing on his artwork Th
and on whatever subject he m
was drawing. sc
m
The pencil sketches of his dy
friends suggest that he spent m
a lot of time with his friends Ar
looking at them intently we
and that they were comfort- pu
able with that intimacy. For pu
example, I imagined that th
Arnold
A ld sketched
k h d his
hi friend
f i d Gordy
G d as he h studied in the library, concen- th
trating on the weird way Gordy rested his face on his hand with his in-
tent facial expression and the curve of his shoulders. Arnold was using Ro
his sketchbook to love Gordy, in a way. flo
wa
Other pencil sketches, like the portrait of Eugene on a motorcycle, wa
suggest that he drew them from a photograph. He wanted to spend ing
Interview with Ellen Forney

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 re time with those people, but for some reason — logistically, or emotion-
he ally — couldn’t do it in person.
his
iv- One other detailed style was for the Penelope bird. When Arnold drew
hat that, he was thinking about how he loved Penelope and how they both
as wanted to fly away. I thought he might sit with that feeling for a while
ng and I imagined he was in the school library copying a bird out of a
re textbook. Arnold would sit and draw very meditatively in ink — all the
me feathers, using shading, crosshatching, and even little dots.

Can you explain how the portrait of Rowdy evolved from being
its a straight-on elegant sketch to one that was defaced?
es I actually did a similar thing in one of my own sketchbooks several
e- years ago. I was in a terrible mood, and was drawing a self-portrait
w- to get it out of my system. I was about half-done and I hated it, so I
nd scribbled a big “X” over my whole face. When I looked at it later, I real-
an ized that it reflected my mood much better than if I’d actually finished
hat the drawing.
ng
rk The drawing of Rowdy is
he meant to be a vignette, de-
scribing the particular inti-
macy in Arnold and Row-
his dy’s friendship. Rowdy was
nt much more defensive than
ds Arnold about how close they
tly were, and was constantly
rt- pulling Arnold to him and
or pushing him away, often at
hat the same time. I pictured
n- the scene like this:
n-
ng Rowdy was lying on the
floor in an unself-conscious
way. Arnold was sneakily drawing
i a portrait
i off him,
hi but
b when
h Arnold
A ld
le, was only half-done, Rowdy looked up and snapped, “What’re you draw-
nd ing?!” The scene changed from intimacy to defensiveness with Arnold

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 Th
ics
dr
ha
sc

stopping and scribbling the W

cartoon face over Rowdy’s Ig
face, with the word balloon ha
of Rowdy’s verbal slap. Ju
tif
I hadn’t planned all that he
out when I started doing m
the sketch, but when I was wi
half-done, I realized that
Arnold wouldn’t have been able to pin Rowdy down for very long. I M
took a piece of tracing paper and scribbled an angry cartoon face over re
Rowdy’s face, and that looked just right to me. m
ou
What do you feel is the biggest contribution your artwork brings
to the book? Di
Arnold depends on his cartoons to express himself, be understood, to wa
escape, and to survive. He says they are his “tiny little lifeboats.” The pa
reader needs to see what he’s talking about and what he means by that.

Drawing in your own sketchbook is like writing in your own diary, which
is very personal. And creative people can do some intense work when
they’re using their medium to express themselves, just for themselves.
Arnold doesn’t even understand all these things he’s getting down on
paper, because so much comes through subconsciously.

I also did all of Arnold’s handwriting. Handwritten text in general can

have a lot of emotional power and charm. Like a handwritten letter,
it’s much more personal and individual than typeset text. There’s also
a sense of immediacy because you can’t cut-and-paste or delete para-
graphs; you only write and that’s that.
Interview with Ellen Forney

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 The “crinkled scraps of paper” design was to make sure the graph-
ics were set apart somehow so they didn’t just look like illustrations
drawn straight from the text. The look makes clear that Arnold doesn’t
have a nice, shiny sketchbook, but instead collects his artwork on
scraps of paper.

he What did you take away from this project?

y’s I got to stretch my repertoire and deal with material that I wouldn’t
on have come up with on my own. I really wanted to do justice to the story,
Junior, Sherman, and to the complex issues Sherman evoked so beau-
tifully with his words. The manuscript is so rich and vivid; I couldn’t
hat help but think, “What a task!” Doing this work was like running a
ng marathon, eating a big rich feast, and walking into creepy basements
as with a candle.
hat
.I My dad got a copy of the book as soon as it came out. He’d read a
er review that said he’d laugh and cry, which he of course shrugged off as
marketing pap. The next day, he called me to say that he’d chuckled
out loud and teared up a few times by the end. He was amazed.
gs
Diary has struck a chord with so many people, in so many different
to ways. It’s accessible to all ages, all sorts of people. It’s an honor to be a
he part of a work that so many people find inspirational.
at.

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