Nobody Cries at Bingo by Dawn Dumont

never helps out with his kids?”
    Presented with the other choice, bingo seemed to be the correct one. Besides, a mom only got in the way during our busy schedule of dangerous evening activities.
    The first bingos our family attended were held in band halls, scheduled between the chief’s meeting and the first aid training. Our bingo players dutifully travelled from one reserve to another in their crowded car.
    Their need for different games and bigger jackpots drove them to try different bingos. First they branched out to Catholic Church bingos, then, disappointed by the lack of high jackpots and the prowling nuns in the aisles, they added Protestant bingos to their schedule. When they ran out of those, they expanded their area to include bingos held in small towns. At first it was awkward sitting next to the same white people who glared at Native people when they walked into their stores, but after sharing a few fingernail-biting jackpots, racism faded into the background as they concentrated on the true enemy:
    â€œGoddamn fuckin’ bingo caller!”
    â€œI only needed one number for a fucking hour.”
    â€œLast fucking time I play at this hall!”
    Finally when their appetite was whetted and they felt ready, like truly ready, they went to a bingo in the big city. You had to be prepared for that bingo though; you had to feel it in your heart that you could make it among the big boys. (You also had to have enough gas in your tank.)
    City bingos were held in huge monoliths built to honour the bingo gods. Dedicated players could attend bingo from morning until night until morning again. Once you entered such a bingo palace, there would be no reason to ever leave again, if you played your cards right, that is.
    My mom took me to my first bingo game as a reward for being a good girl which in my case meant not hitting my sister or brother for sixty minutes in a row (or more likely that Mom hadn’t witnessed me bullying them in said time frame.) I was suitably excited. It was one-on-one Mom time, which was rare in a house where four kids and an infinite number of cousins were all clamoring for her attention.
    Lots of people brought their kids to bingo. The hall was located next to a playground for this very reason. I knew that my friends Layla and Trina would be perched on that playground equipment. When I arrived, I waved at them and headed in their direction only to be pulled short by my mom.
    â€œWhere you going?”
    â€œTo play with my friends.”
    â€œYou’re here to play bingo, not to have fun.”
    I mouthed the words, “I have to play” to my friends as she escorted me inside the hall.
    Instead of being disappointed, my heart surged. I was gonna play bingo! I had played in school before but that wasn’t real bingo because in school, everyone won. Even Boris who spilt his milk all over his cards won, for god’s sake. This would be real. There would be a bingo caller who had dedicated his or her life to pronouncing numbers in a numb monotone. There would be runners who would hurry to the side of a person who yelled bingo, grab their card and then race the card to the front where it would be verified by the caller and the manager. The runners were like fleet deer and someday I wanted to be one of them.
    The games outside the bingo hall were just as exciting as the ones inside the hall. The kids would play hide and go seek among the cars, or rummage through the ashtrays looking for butts to smoke. The games always left the kids red-faced and sweaty as they headed back into the hall to visit their mothers.
    â€œI changed my mind, I want to play outside,” I told my mom as an overheated kid walked by me.
    â€œNo, you play your card. Look, you’re missing numbers.”
    â€œMommmmmmmmm . . . ”
    â€œMaybe I should have brought Celeste.”
    My mouth slammed shut as I placed my red markers on the card. I was playing a three-up, the easiest card