should know about Jeffrey Martinez is that
he understands and has cultivated and ap-
plies fortitude to his life. It’s one of seven La-
kota values his mother, Martha, instilled in
him from a young age. The others are humil-
ity, respect, compassion, prayer, generosity,
and wisdom, which Jeffrey can list off easily,
because he really knows them.
Fortitude is one of those words I knew was
important when I first learned it, but that took
time to understand, to practice, to be made
a quality. The word is defined as “courage in
pain or adversity.” This is one of the most
beautiful definitions of a word not beautiful.
I believe adversity can breed brilliance be-
yond what those with safe and comfortable
lives are capable of. I’m not convinced that
Jeffrey—Sicangu and Oglala Lakota from
South Dakota, born and raised in Oakland,
California—would be the excellent human
being he is did he not know what happened
to the men in his family. This is a truth he’s
had to live with: that all the men died.I’VE KNOWN Jeffrey’s family for
more than a decade. I met Martha at the
Native American Health Center in Oakland,
where we both worked at the time. I first
learned of Jeffrey’s existence in a digital-
storytelling workshop Martha and I took
together. She made a short film about havingmakes me think of Jeffrey, Martha, and Geri.
The day was sunny but not hot, and we spoke
in the backyard, surrounded by sour grass and
wildflowers. Laid out on the table between us,
purring, was Luna, the family cat. “She likes
it when people hang outside with her,” Jeffrey
said. Luna is thirteen and a big part of the fam-
ily’s life. When our families get together, we’re
sure to hear about Luna’s latest hijinks, like
the times—plural—she called Martha from
their landline. One time, Luna rang as Jeffrey,
Martha, and Geri were heading two and a half
hours east to visit my family, in Angels Camp,
California. Another time—and this is Jeffrey’s
favorite story about Luna’s phone antics—she
called Martha and left a voice-mail message.
She meowed into the phone for seven minutes.
When I first knew Jeffrey, he was young and
small and shy, but he’s tall now, and seventeen.
His face has a brilliant, unabashed sweetness
when he’s smiling, and an almost worried pen-
siveness when he’s not. One of my first ques-
tions was about whether he’s faced challeng-
es growing up Native in Oakland. I instantly
regretted my question, because I didn’t like
being asked the same thing. It felt like I was
somehow being asked to authenticate my Na-
tive experience, and I feared Jeffrey would feel
the same way. He didn’t seem worried at all.
“I feel like it’s been easy for me,” he said. “I
feel like my mom has created an environment
that allows me to freely express myself.” This is
both a true statement and Jeffrey being hum-
ble. I’ve known his family long enough to knowadopted Jeffrey straight from the hospital.
Jeffrey is her brother’s son by birth. She
adopted him because her brother died and
his birth mother wasn’t able to take care of
him. His Lakota name is Hokšila ókiyapi,
which translates to Helped Him Boy. The
film I made was also about becoming a
parent, and what it means to pass the weight
of our stories, our histories, on to the next
generation. Our families are close now. His
mom is the godmother of my son.
Until recently, I wasn’t particularly close
to Jeffrey. I knew him as a quiet genius of
Lego-and-cardboard art. He’d spend days,
sometimes weeks, constructing Hogwarts
Castle or a steam train or spaceships from Star
Wa r s. A few years ago, he gave one of these
massive and intricate homemade replicas to my
son for his birthday. It still hangs in his room.
This July, I spent a few days getting to know
Jeffrey better. We first met up at his home, just
off Piedmont Avenue in North Oakland, where
he lives with Martha and her mother, Geri,
who’s eighty-six. Their house is bright yellow,
with an always-plentiful fig tree growing in the
front yard. A couple blocks away, at St. Leo’s
Church, my mom’s parents were married in
1943, and they are buried down the street, at
Mountain View Cemetery. This part of Oak-
land used to make me think of my grandpar-
ents, of an Oakland they were a part of, which
doesn’t exist anymore, gone with the many
memories we lost when their house burned
down in the ’91 Oakland fire. Now the areaONE THING YOU
P. 98