The Removed: A Novel

By Brandon Hobson

“A haunted work, full of voices old and new. It is about a family’s reckoning with loss and injustice, and it is about a people trying for the same. The journey of this family’s way home is full—in equal measure—of melancholy and love.” —Tommy Orange, author of There There

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Steeped in Cherokee myths and history, a novel about a fractured family reckoning with the tragic death of their son long ago—from National Book Award finalist Brandon Hobson

In the fifteen years since their teenage son, Ray-Ray, was killed in a police shooting, the Echota family has been suspended in private grief. The mother, Maria, increasingly struggles to manage the onset of Alzheimer’s in her husband, Ernest. Their adult daughter, Sonja, leads a life of solitude, punctuated only by spells of dizzying romantic obsession. And their son, Edgar, fled home long ago, turning to drugs to mute his feelings of alienation.

With the family’s annual bonfire approaching—an occasion marking both the Cherokee National Holiday and Ray-Ray’s death, and a rare moment in which they openly talk about his memory—Maria attempts to call the family together from their physical and emotional distances once more. But as the bonfire draws near, each of them feels a strange blurring of the boundary between normal life and the spirit world. Maria and Ernest take in a foster child who seems to almost miraculously keep Ernest’s mental fog at bay. Sonja becomes dangerously fixated on a man named Vin, despite—or perhaps because of—his ties to tragedy in her lifetime and lifetimes before. And in the wake of a suicide attempt, Edgar finds himself in the mysterious Darkening Land: a place between the living and the dead, where old atrocities echo.

Drawing deeply on Cherokee folklore, The Removed seamlessly blends the real and spiritual to excavate the deep reverberations of trauma—a meditation on family, grief, home, and the power of stories on both a personal and ancestral level.

“The Removed is a marvel. With a few sly gestures, a humble array of piercingly real characters and an apparently effortless swing into the dire dreamlife, Brandon Hobson delivers an act of regeneration and solace. You won’t forget it.” —Jonathan Lethem, author of The Feral Detective

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Feb 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9780062997562

Brandon Hobson

Brandon Hobson is the author of the novel Where the Dead Sit Talking, which was a finalist for the 2018 National Book Award for Fiction and winner of the Reading the West Book Award. His other books include Desolation of Avenues Untold and the novella Deep Ellum. His work has appeared in the Pushcart Prize anthology, The Believer, the Paris Review Daily, Conjunctions, NOON, and McSweeney’s, among other places. He is an assistant professor of creative writing at New Mexico State University and teaches in the MFA program at the Institute of American Indian Arts. Hobson is an enrolled citizen of the Cherokee Nation Tribe of Oklahoma.

Book preview

Prologue

Ray-Ray Echota

SEPTEMBER 5

Quah, Oklahoma

THE DAY BEFORE HE DIED, in the remote town of Quah, Oklahoma, Ray-Ray Echota rode his motorcycle down the empty stretch of highway, blowing past rain puddles and trees, a strong wind pressing against his body. He was fifteen years old. Workers along the side of the road wore orange vests and white hard hats. They didn’t pay any attention to him as he flew past them, hunched forward working the throttle. He rode for the pureness of the thrill and for the isolation of riding alone in an area where few police officers ever patrolled. Clouds hung low and pale before him as he rode home past fields and old buildings, heading east into the hills, landscape and sky blending into the horizon.

That night he did impersonations at home to entertain his parents. While Ernest and Maria watched their police drama on TV, Ray-Ray staggered into the living room wearing dark sunglasses and waving a cane around, pretending he was blind. He stood in front of them, blocking their view of the TV, and spoke in his best French accent: Care to help an old blind man, monsieur? I am in need of assistance.

Funny, Maria said. Isn’t he funny, Ernest?

I’m trying to watch my show, Ernest said.

But monsieur, Ray-Ray said.

Ernest leaned forward and watched Ray-Ray as he removed his sunglasses and went through his usual impersonations: Pee-wee Herman, Marlon Brando’s Vito Corleone, even Ernest’s friend Otto, who told old Cherokee stories drunk:

Listen, Chooch, Ray-Ray said in Otto’s low drunken voice. He pretended to smoke an imaginary cigarette. You know the story of Tsala, who was killed for refusing to leave the land? Let’s go get another whiskey.

Not bad, Ernest said. We’ll probably see him tomorrow at the Cherokee National Holiday.

The following day, September 6, marked the anniversary of the 1839 signing of the Constitution of the Cherokee Nation in Oklahoma. Ernest spoke with an unfamiliar excitement in his voice about the date’s importance. This is a very important day for all of us, since it marks the Trail, so we should honor it. September 6 usually fell close to Labor Day weekend and brought people from all over the country to Oklahoma. The Echotas planned to spend the entire weekend watching stickball games, attending powwows, pageants, and art shows.

Outside, a storm was heading west instead of east. A soft rain pattered against the window, the beginning of a thunderstorm. The night was cool. The house smelled of fried catfish from dinner, which they had eaten on TV trays there in the living room.

Did you finish your homework? Maria asked Ray-Ray.

The paper is done. A-plus with smiley face. I bid you all good night. Ave atque vale.

What?

It’s Latin for hail and farewell. Ave atque vale.

Sure, sure, Maria said. Now go play with your little brother.

Edgar, the youngest sibling, was sitting on a blanket playing quietly with Legos in the corner of the room, as he often did. Ray-Ray limped over to him, dragging his leg like a wounded soldier, and collapsed. He began helping Edgar stack Legos together.

When Ray-Ray was younger he had fallen out of the tree in their backyard, breaking his leg in three places. He’d spent a few days in the hospital, where he told the nurse he had learned to levitate like the false prophet Simon Magus.

I flew up in the air forty, fifty feet and then fell, he said. That explains the broken leg.

The nurse looked at Ernest and Maria, confused.

My son has an active imagination, Ernest kept saying, which was true. Ray-Ray always carried with him a notebook in which he scribbled song lyrics and sketched strange creatures, beasts with fire shooting from their eyes and tongues hanging from their mouths, chubby old men with pig snouts instead of noses, and Uktena and Tlanuwa, the mythic hawks who carried away babies. Ernest and Maria encouraged his artistry, his drawings and impersonations, and also loved how he enjoyed searching outside near the lake for animal bones, bird bones, and feathers to make necklaces. How he wore certain shirts he said were for healing. How he was fascinated by the sky and would go lie down and watch the stars at night. How he mowed lawns and cleaned roof gutters for two summers until he earned enough money to buy his own 250cc Nighthawk, the motorcycle he would ride to the mall in Tulsa on September 6, the day he was shot by a police officer.

Sonja, who was sixteen and the eldest sibling, was eccentric in her own way too, retreating to her room every day after school and staying there all night, rarely coming out. Sensitive to the strange intimacy of family conversations, she preferred solitude. On this night, she was in her bedroom writing long letters to boys at school and listening to Joy Division. She would later wonder why she hadn’t been in the living room spending time with Ray-Ray. If only I’d been a better sister, she often thought.

The night of September 5, his last night alive, Ray-Ray lay next to his younger brother Edgar on the floor with the Legos. We should build a castle, he said. It could be beautiful, brother.

I’m building a monster, Edgar told him excitedly. He held up his Lego creature and roared.

Little brother, Ray-Ray said, there are enough monsters in this world.

Present Day

Maria Echota

SEPTEMBER 1

Near Quah, Oklahoma

AT SUNSET THE LOCUSTS FLEW, a whole swarm of them, disappearing into the darkening sky. They buzzed each night, moving through wind and trees, devouring crops and destroying gardens. The sky was pink and blue on the horizon. Another unusually rainy season had caused weeds to sprout up everywhere, so we were seeing more locusts, more insects.

When was the last time it snowed? Ernest asked.

My husband was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. He was seventy-four but looked young for his age. He still kept his gray hair long in a ponytail, still had his same laugh and sense of humor, though he was getting more and more confused. We had known about the Alzheimer’s for almost a year, and of course these things never get easier with time. He grew frustrated easily. He would forget little things like why he’d walked into a room. Whenever he did this, he would look down at the floor and struggle to understand. I would find him rummaging through the garage, and when I asked him what he was looking for, he couldn’t tell me. He was growing considerably worse.

I’m turning into tawodi, he said. "Tawodi means hawk in Cherokee."

We were sitting on our back deck, where Ernest liked to look for geese flying over the lake. I watched him lean forward, squinting.

I’ll eat locusts and honey like John the Baptist, he said.

Ernest, I said quietly.

I see a sailboat out there. I see smoke or fog, maybe a spirit.

There is no spirit out there, I told him.

He reclined back in his chair, still looking.

Ernest, I said, tomorrow Wyatt is coming. Did you remember?

He was thinking.

The foster boy, I said. I have Ray-Ray’s old room ready for him.

You already mentioned it before.

He’ll be here tomorrow, I said. Remember?

Wyatt, sure, Ernest said. Stop asking me if I remember.

I wanted to make sure.

I got it.

The call had come a few days earlier from Indian Family Services. It was Bernice, a former coworker of mine. I had retired from social work a year earlier. Bernice said they needed an emergency foster placement for a twelve-year-old Cherokee boy. Would Ernest and I be able to take him in temporarily?

You’re our only available Cherokee family, Bernice said. His dad’s in jail, mom left the state. Right now he’s at an aunt’s, but she’s in bad health. We’re trying to contact grandparents.

When I told Ernest, I was surprised he agreed. We had never fostered before. He can mow the grass, Ernest said. He can play checkers. Catch fish.

We could see the lake behind our house, and a small amber pond down past where the road ended was also visible. Most people liked to go fishing at the lake, but Ernest preferred the pond, which he said was always a decent place to fish, full of catfish and largemouth bass. There were fewer people there, and bullfrogs and yellow-striped ribbon snakes lived in the water. He had been talking about fishing a lot more.

Ernest shivered in his sweater, even though it was still warm. Time to go inside, he said, getting up from his chair.

I’ll be right in, I told him.

He slid open the screen door and stepped inside. I leaned forward and looked out over the yard. Red and yellow leaves were scattered everywhere on the sloping ground. Evenings were quiet and still. Some mornings I sat on that deck and watched a red-tailed hawk return to its same nesting tree while red-winged blackbirds gathered at the birdhouse. Every now and then several cedar waxwings would land on a branch, apple-blossom petals in their beaks, and sit there watching me.

In the distance, tonight, a fog settled over the lake, and I could sense the presence of something gathering there.

WE LIVED ON A WINDING DIRT ROAD by Lake Tenkiller in a hardwood forest of persimmon, oak, and hickory trees near the Cookson Hills. Many years ago, the Cherokees came to this area during the Trail of Tears to build a nation. They developed a tribal government, constructed buildings and schools, and invented a syllabary. Ernest and I both grew up in Quah. When we were newly married, he built a back deck onto our house, overlooking the slope of trees down to the edge of the water.

It was in this place that we raised our three children. Here, in our house made of rock and brick, with its slanted roof and chimney full of spirits. Here, where we slept under the blue light of the moon in the dark sky, waking sometimes to see a deer at the edge of the yard. I remember seeing a family of deer gather down the hill near the water. And how sad our daughter Sonja was when they never returned, and how Ray-Ray promised they would return one day. Sonja was only a teenager. After Ray-Ray died, she sat watching for a deer all winter, but we never saw them again. It’s deer season, she said. Maybe they died, too. Maybe someone shot them and dragged their bodies away in their truck. I pictured their bodies hanging somewhere, and all that blood dripping. We sat on the back deck, and I prayed for deer to return and for Sonja to heal. We soon saw other deer along the road, but Sonja was still unhappy. It’s not the same family, she said. I can tell. This deer is different. The deer that came to our house are dead.

Fifteen years earlier, on September 6, our son Ray-Ray rode his motorcycle to a mall where he evidently got into an altercation with two other guys. Someone fired a gun, and Ray-Ray was shot in the chest by a police officer. The police officer heard a gunshot and instinctively fired at the Indian kid. Afterward, when the police officer gave his statement to the press, he swore he thought Ray-Ray had been the one who shot the gun, but it had been a white kid. The officer was temporarily placed on administrative leave. After months of investigation, the police department declared that the officer’s behavior was justified in the shooting, so it never went to trial.

Everything changed in me after that.

How do you lose a child to gun violence and expect to return to a normal way of life? This was the question I struggled with the most. My son was a victim. The officer who shot him—now retired—lived in our town, and there were many sleepless nights when I wanted to drive to his house and kill him myself. I wanted to hit him as hard as I could, so that he could feel pain. Yes, yes, I have always known grief is difficult and that forgiveness takes many years. I still haven’t learned to completely forgive. I could only put it in the will of the Great Spirit. Ernest handled it better than me; he was able to get himself together and go back to work at the railroad after a month or so. A doctor prescribed Xanax for me, and then for a long time all I did was sleep. Every day I sat in a chair by the window.

My sister Irene came and stayed with us to help out, especially with Sonja and Edgar. In the midst of my depression, Irene dragged me to a Methodist church service one Sunday, where I heard the Doxology for the first time. After that I kept hearing the phrase in my head: Praise God from whom all blessings flow, over and over. When I got home, I wrote it down in my notebook. My therapist encouraged me to journal as much as possible. I once wrote, I no longer am afraid of dying. If I die in my sleep, I am fine with that. Another time I wrote, I feel so guilty for wanting to die when I have Sonja and Edgar who so desperately need me. I feel like a terrible person. But the Doxology kept returning to me. Thinking about it was so comforting, I found my journaling didn’t return to such a dark place.

Ernest kept his mind busy by focusing on Sonja and Edgar, being a good father. He took them out to movies, to parks, anything he could do to get them out of the house while I stayed in my chair, depressed. Only in the past few years have we finally started acknowledging the anniversary of Ray-Ray’s death. Now, every September 6 we build a small bonfire, and each of us shares a memory. Ernest and I decided it would be a good way to get the family together, because we were never all together anymore.

* * *

Around six in the evening, I heated up a leftover casserole for supper. Ernest and I ate on trays in front of the TV, watching a show on unsolved crimes. Ernest kept pointing the remote and adjusting the volume up and down.

Maybe the foster kid can fix the TV, he said.

Well, there’s nothing wrong with the TV.

I think it’s the volume.

The volume is fine.

What do we do? Sit here and take it?

I saw the frustration in his face, looking at the remote. He was obsessed with the colored buttons and their functions, the menus on the screen. The remote made him nervous. I thought of the years in the past when we had sat in the same chairs in front of the TV, eating supper contentedly. How different he looked now, giving such a confused gaze, a confirmation that things were declining quickly. While he continued to stare intently at the remote, I heard Sonja come in through the front door. She lived just down the road in a small house and had been coming over more often now that Ernest was getting worse.

He looked up at her when she stepped into the room, and for a moment I wondered whether he even recognized her. She walked over to him and put her hand along his back, rubbing in a light circular motion.

How are you, Papa?

I don’t know. Goddamn remote.

Her face grew solemn, as if she realized the severity of his illness. We were all speechless for a moment while I stared at her. Sonja, at thirty-one, strongly resembled my sister Irene when she was younger, though they were nothing alike. My sister had always been demure, reserved, conservative. Sonja stayed out late nights. I worried about her and the younger men she dated, some of whom attended the college in Quah. I wanted her to settle down; Ernest and I both did, but the more we brought it up, the more she withdrew from us.

There’s a guy I want to meet, she finally said.

A new guy? I said. What does he do?

He’s a musician, she said. I’m going to see him play tonight at a bar near campus. Tonight I’m going to talk to him. I’m finally going to meet him. I’ve thought about it for weeks.

A musician? What’s his real job?

I haven’t even met him yet.

Well, how old is he?

I don’t know. Twenty-three?

I didn’t say anything. I got up, and Sonja followed me, helping me take the dishes into the kitchen. I turned on the water in the sink and rinsed the plates, then handed them to Sonja to put in the dishwasher.

Did you talk to Edgar about Ray-Ray’s anniversary next week? she asked.

I was busy helping Irene at the powwow all weekend, but yesterday I tried calling him, and he hasn’t called me back.

Me either, she said. I’m concerned.

I am, too, I said. It’s been too long. It’s been weeks.

He might be embarrassed, she said.

We’d had an intervention with Edgar six months earlier. He had been living with his girlfriend, Desiree, in New Mexico and got hooked on meth. He’d stolen money from Desiree and from us. Before the intervention, he had visited and said he needed money to pay for an alternator replacement on his car, plus repairs for an oil leak. Ernest loaned him over $400 in cash. He’d already dropped forty pounds in weight, so we were on edge. Sonja thought he was doing cocaine, too. Edgar was only twenty-one, my youngest baby. The thought of his drug use had nauseated me. I could hardly eat. A month later Desiree had called and said she had to bail him out of jail for breaking into a car.

Ernest, Sonja, and I had driven to Albuquerque to confront him. We arrived at the rental house he shared with Desiree, who was waiting for us on the front porch when we pulled into the drive. Edgar was taking a nap on the couch. When we walked in, he woke with a start and sat up. He didn’t say anything, but he looked terrified. I think he knew what was happening. I sensed that Desiree had already said something to him, and that he expected us. We all sat down at the kitchen table with him and told him we were worried, his drug use out of control, he was slowly killing himself, and we didn’t want to watch him die.

You have to realize the harm you’re doing to yourself, I told him. We want you to get help before it’s too late.

I thought the intervention had worked. He broke down, told us he would go to rehab as long as we paid for it. Sonja had already found a residential treatment center in Tulsa, where he agreed to check himself in the following week, but he never went. We couldn’t force him to go, and his relationship with Desiree was falling apart. We had spoken to him a few times on the phone, but he mostly kept his distance from us, which surely meant he was still using. I prayed he would come home.

In the kitchen I wiped my hands on a dish towel and turned to Sonja. Do you think there’s any chance he’ll show up next week?

He knows it’s important to us, she said.

You think so?

I mean, I think so.

Tell him it’s important to Ray-Ray, I said.

THAT NIGHT ERNEST WOKE ME from sleep. He was standing beside the bed with his hand on mine. I felt the coldness of his hand and sat up.

What is it? I said.

There’s a noise, he said. It’s coming from somewhere outside. I have to go outside and check.

What kind of noise?

I don’t know, a hard knock. A clanging. I heard it outside. I have to go check.

He started for the door. I didn’t want him going alone, so I put on my slippers and followed him down the hall into the kitchen, where he peeked out the window. He turned on the back porch light, unlocked the door, and stepped out. I waited by the door, watching from the window while he looked around. He walked to the side of the house, then to the middle of the backyard. He stood still for a moment, as if he’d forgotten something. Then he headed to the shed, and I saw the light come on in there.

I opened the back door and walked to the shed. Once, a few years back, we kept

Reviews for The Removed

[anniik_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Good book. Very sad but also very moving.

[castlelass · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Set mostly in Oklahoma, this book tells the story of the Echota family and their Cherokee ancestors. Teenage son, Ray-Ray, was killed in a police shooting fifteen years ago. The family recognizes the anniversary of his death, and they are preparing for the annual bonfire. The storyline focuses on Ray-Ray’s mother, Maria, father, Ernest, sister, Sonja, and brother, Edgar. Maria and Sonja experience repercussions from their grief, and their stories take place in the real world. Ernest suffers from Alzheimer’s. Edgar is an addict. He takes drugs and finds himself in the Darkening World, a surreal world where he experiences bizarre events. Tsala is the voice of a long-dead ancestor who tells the story of the Trail of Tears.

It is a story of grief – both past and present. It explores the idea that forgiveness is not required in order to achieve healing. The concept of home is prominent. The Darkening World inserts an element of magical realism. It could be drug-induced or perhaps the character is among the dead. I felt the sister’s story was the weakest link – her motivations are unclear, and I am not sure she added much.

The author leaves the ending up to the reader to connect the stories to come up with an explanation. The reader’s reaction will likely depend on how effectively a satisfying conclusion can be conjured. I came up with something that worked for me.

[hccpsk · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Brandon Hobson writes haunting stories in a somewhat disjointed manner, and The Removed follows suit. Fifteen years after the fact, The Echota family is still struggling to move on from the police shooting of their son and brother, Ray-Ray. Every member of the family gets a voice in the book as the narration shifts perspectives — it even includes an ancestor from the Trail of Tears. The Removed is a difficult read, but a powerful story of grief, family, and Cherokee culture.

[jjbooklvr · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A powerful tale of family, identity, and the ways we deal with tragedy, all wrapped around Cherokee myths and storytelling. This book evoked so many emotions that I know will linger for a long time.

[phyllis2779 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

One of the depressing books I've ever read. I couldn't read it in one sitting or even more than a small chunk at a time. I get what the author was trying to do but I just didn't get hooked in. It is a good picture of the impact of loss of a loved one, especially unjustly, on people but for a reader the book has to go somewhere and this one, for me, didn't. I didn't get a sense of people healing, which I thought the book was going. I was already familiar with the Trail of Tears and how awful it was so that was new to me. The author did do a good job on showing the hardship but it didn't help me want to read any more.

[citizenjoyce · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I think you have to be high on peyote to truly enjoy this book with all its dreams and symbolism. Then it would be a real winner.

[viviennestrauss · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I was expecting more given all the high praise it received but it fell short for me. I really liked the characters and the story overall but writing was very choppy and it felt like it needed more development.

[mojomomma_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A present-day Cherokee family deals with life and grief when an extraordinary young boy comes to stay with them for an emergency temporary foster placement. He is just like their deceased son and his presence restores some of the joy they've lost since his death. The old trauma of the removal plays a role in their lives and the other son's addictions, which he visualizes as a "red fowl" that follows him.

[thewanderingjew_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The Removed: A Novel, Brandon Hobson, author; Shaun Taylor-Corbett, DeLanna Studi, Katie Rich, Christopher Salazar, narrators.Reading this short novel about a Cherokee family left me feeling conflicted. The plight of the Echotas, a Native American family, was horrifying. They had no recourse to protest the findings in the death of their son, shot by a policeman in a shopping mall where shots were fired. He appeared to be targeted as the gunman, though unarmed, because he was of Indian heritage. We never do find out if that was true or just supposition. It seems to be up to the reader to determine whether or not the policeman was cleared of charges of murder fairly, or unfairly, whether or not racism played a part in his actions. I was not convinced, either way, although I was totally committed and sensitive to the idea of the Native American’s lack of power. If this story is based in any way on reality, it screams for the reform that was absent.The Echota family was devastated when their son and brother, Ray-Ray, was murdered at just 15 years old. He had a promising future, a winning personality, and was well liked and kind. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but could it have truly been a random murder? There was not enough evidence to prove Ray-Ray was a target because he was a Native American, but circumstantially, one could agree, it was odd that he was simply picked out of a group of people by a cop who was responding to a bulletin that said, “shots fired”! He didn’t see Ray-Ray do anything wrong. From that date forward, 15 years into the future, the family was in the throes of the trauma which changed all of their lives forever. They never stopped mourning the loss. They never got adequate closure. Since the parents were stable until this tragedy, one has to conclude that the event caused the dissolution of the family, the disintegration of their unit, and the loss of the beliefs and values that had guided their lives before. No one was held responsible for Ray-Ray’s murder.Sonja became a bit wanton, used foul language, engaged in sex too freely, didn’t seem to respect herself or others. She sought out younger men, perhaps to replace her brother (only one year younger than she), who had died at age 15 and never aged further, or perhaps to punish those she believed were guilty or involved in his death in some way. She was pulled in many directions. She stalked and sought the affection of Vin, the son of the police officer who shot and killed her brother. Then she wanted to reject him, discovering she did not care for his personality after sleeping with him, but she did love his son. She feared he was violent as she believed his father was. At 31, she was childless and unmarried. She did not seem to have a very honorable character. She was adrift.Edgar, 21, lost his purpose in life because of the effects of his brother’s death on his family, and he became a drug addict who was aimless and had no goals in life. Like his sister, secrets and lies were acceptable to him. His girlfriend was disgusted with him and was planning to leave him. He was involved with odd people and was adrift. He had odd visions and seemed to be irresponsible. He was ashamed of his life, but could do little to change it. Could these two siblings be saved, resurrected? I was not convinced.Ray-Ray’s parents, Ernest, suffering from Alzheimer’s, and Maria who held a bonfire in Ray-Ray’s honor every year for the last decade, were the most stable persons in the family. They took in a bright, witty, wonderfully behaved and well-mannered 15 year old Cherokee foster child, Wyatt, who brought happiness into their lives once again and seemed to miraculously bring back Ernest’s memory, to boot. He seemed to be their son Ray-Ray returned in the body of another. Wyatt was also from the Cherokee Indian tribe.The character’s told their stories in their own voices. One mystical character, Tsala, an ancestor, illustrated a good deal of Indian folklore, which I sometimes found hard to follow. However, the allusions to the “Trail of Tears” were very powerful and enlightening. The book inspires research into the plight of the Native American Indian and that makes it a fabulous choice to read. Anything that inspires learning and positive change is worthwhile.The book is steeped in mystery, legends, the paranormal, otherworldly moments, the supernatural and even weirdly unpredictable and miraculous events. It is a short novel, with excellent narrators, although sometimes it is confusing in its scope, without a fully adequate explanation of events or choices. The trauma of losing a family member without justice prevailing, altered the Echota family’s course of history and changed their lives dramatically, in much the same way that “The Trail of Tears” changed the lives of all Native Americans. Their path forward was blocked.The novel highlights the ways in which people can be “removed” or “cancelled” by a society, in natural and unnatural ways. Ray-Ray was completely “removed”, since he was taken out in what seemed to be a random act of murder; the Native American tribes were forcibly “removed” by the United States government with the “Trail of Tears”, which was the forced migration that systematically made them “disappear” between 1830-1850; Sonja’s childhood personality was “removed” when she could not find a way to process her brother’s death with any justified cause; Edgar was slowly being “removed” as his drug habit made it difficult for him to think and act; the man that Ernest was, is slowly being “removed” as his memory fades; and Maria’s sunny personality was “removed” when the trauma of losing her son completely devastated her. She did remain the strength in the family, however. These family members impacted each other but could not save each other from the devastating effects of Ray-Ray’s murder. There are many ways to “remove” someone from effectively living in society and this book highlights several of them.In many ways today, this same removal culture, now called the “cancel culture”, is “removing” a segment of America’s history, and a segment of the population, as well. The political “left” no longer seems to want to allow any opposition to have a legitimate voice or place in their world. This “cancelling” of the political right, seems no less egregious to many Americans. America is at a crossroads that this author may have been unaware of as he wrote this book to highlight just one aspect of America’s “removal” system. However unintentionally, he also illuminates America’s hypocrisy from the left side of the political spectrum, he illuminates a fault in our government and our free society that will be a stain on society in much the same way as the “Trail of Tears”.

[perednia_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Beautiful story of a family and a people headed toward healing.

[brangwinn · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Focusing on the Echota family preparing for the annual bonfire to remember their murdered son, Hobson has used Cherokee folklore to help the family understand what has happened. Hobson was able to create characters who the reader can relate. From Ernest, the father, who is experiencing dementia and his wife, Maria, who holds the family together. The adult daughter is dealing with her identity and sadness and the son is struggling with addiction. Both of the adult children also deal with racism in their Oklahoma communities. Add in a foster child who seems to be the reincarnation of Ray-Ray, the dead son. I imagine that if I were to read this story the second time, I would see the same words with different eyes. Hobson is a master storyteller.