1838 WHEN 70,000 NATIVE AMERICANS WHERE REMOVED FROM THE EASTO

white men in uniforms ride up to our home. My mother calls me. I can tell something is wrong

The nights are still cold in the mountains and we do not have enough blankets to go around. My mother holds me at night to keep me warm.

Each day, we start walking a little later. They bury the dead in shallow graves,

tried to wake her up, but she lay there. The soft warmth she once was, she is no more.

None of them care about me or my people. All they ever saw was the color of our skin.