Running Commentary: #11

Running Commentary: #11
August 14, 2012 -- Tuesday

Reminiscing -- Going back to where it all started


     Long ago, some Saturday's found me at the Indian Boarding School. My friend Nakita lived there in one of those small institutional houses built by the government. They were so drab. No color anywhere. Cheap, brown furniture inside the thin walls. Government issue. Brown dirt outside. No grass, flowers, or bushes holding it down. Blowing away on the wind. Losing more Indian land minute-by-minute.

     I don't remember how I got to Nakita's government house, how long I stayed, or how I got home. Who took me? Who picked me up? I'm guessing it was mother. Who else would it be. I just remember the in-between. Wadding up pieces of paper into small balls. Using spit to make them hard. The ammunition Nakita and I divided up, as we took our places behind the only sofa or chair in the living room. Taking a couple of rubber bands saved in our jean pockets, we began to play war. Spending many Saturday's together, we never tired of this game.

     Nakita came in and out of my life for a number of years after the games-of-war period. We became uncomfortable with each other. I was hop, skipping, and jumping back and forth between the White and Indian worlds; Nakita was one hundred percent Indian. Strange, I don't think I ever met her father. Nor, do I ever remember seeing her mother on those Saturday visits. The wind blew dust in my eyes.

     One time, Nakita came to my house in the hollow to play. The day was hot. School was over for the summer. We had a bike. Where it came from, I don't know because I don't remember ever seeing it again.

     We rode that bike, taking turns, up and down #10 Highway, outside of Tahlequah. The lazy, meandering Illinois River kept us company alongside. Whoever wasn't riding ran whatever distance the rider chose to go. There was only one rule to the game. Don't be greedy with your turn.

     I'm certain I ran barefooted. Every year, I had my own ritual to initiate summertime. Throw off my shoes and run the rocky road from my house to the highway. When I could go the distance without feeling any pain, the feet were tough, ready for all the adventures of summer. It took a few practice runs to pass the test.

     I don't remember any cars on the highway that day. No traffic to break our concentration. Just a steady cycle of one girl riding a bike, one running along behind, waiting her turn. No clouds. Squinting into the bright distance. Feeling the pleasant tickle of sweat. No conversation. Total focus.

     Nakita was the runner. I'd just taken over the bike. "Wait!" I heard her say, as I'd just gotten up to full speed. "I can't feel my legs!" came the word sounds through the wind. I turned my head and could see she had fallen behind. She was in trouble and I braked. "Give me the bike to ride!" she shouted. "I think I've got Polio."

     There was no worse word than Polio in our lives, other than War. I was stunned. I didn't know much about Polio, other than it was very bad. I was a sure-fire-alert word!

     Nakita had come to a dead stop in the middle of the highway. Just a few seconds ago she had been running. This must be really bad. I turned and pedaled as fast as I could to help Nakita.

     Kind of dazed, thinking about Polio, I got off the bike and turned the handlebars over to Nakita and watched as she was miraculously cured. She got on the bike and her legs began to pump in straight, furious strokes. It was a transformation. I stood and watched--dumbfounded. My eyes were in slow motion. Nakita started laughing as she faded away into the distance. I couldn't move.

     "I tricked you. I tricked you!" I though I heard her say. I began to run and finally caught the bike. "You cheated, Nakita. I didn't get my turn. Give it back!" By now, though, Nakita had thought up a new game. Changed the rules. Whoever had possession of the bike was the ruler. She laughed again and told me she was just hot and tired and needed to rest. I was pretty dumb to believe she had Polio, she told me. She laughed again. I don't remember her laugh as being pretty.

     I don't think I was angry with Nakita. But, I did feel shame. I must have felt shame because I've never told anyone this story before. But, I can tell you that whenever I have writing drought, two words are ever present and ready: truth and dishonesty.

Running Commentary: #10

Running Commentary: #10
October 4, 2012--Sunday

     Laura went one-on-one with herself in lonely sidebars during the warm-up part of this Sunday's run. I didn't listen too carefully. Just stuff about being so tired because of a family garage sale yesterday. Her feet hurt. She didn't know if her legs would make it this morning. We call this condition the "Ya-Da-Ya-Da" song and just ask for consideration in keeping the volume turned low because, depending on the 'Yada's' mood, there can be many verses.

     We're rounding the home curve. Laura's mailbox, with water bottles perched on top, is in sight. We're working hard and sweat drenched as proof. The fist twenty minutes crossed off our hour and a half morning goal.

     This distance is as good as it's going to get for me. For the second time, I've had to scratch from the Marine Corp Marathon; just too hot to run the couple of needed twenty-training miles. Peter told me it was dumb to train for a marathon during a Texas summer anyway. But, the fingers of a Sagittarius are trping this message: If someone says it can't be done, that's an invitation to do it--or, as the years have accumulated--at least, try it.

     Try it, we did--like adding a long hill--going up about a mile; not down. The reasoning behind this morning test was, if we were really serious about running the IBM 10K, early October, we might as well get in a little simulation to bring out the stimulation. Half way up, these words were heard mixing it up with ragged breathing. "Laura, see that guy over there? He's passing us.: Laura kept her head down and plowed on. "Laura, look! He stopped. Not gonna happen to us." We hit a cross-street stop sign. I managed a "runners coming through." Eyes down, I noticed some spit on the street. This is kind of a runner's ritual thing. A few feet further, more spit. The guy's leading us home, I thought. If I could of mustered the extra breath, I would have burst into a chorus of an original gospel song--He's Leading Us Home. At least that's the way I felt when we got to the top--I'd reached heaven.

     Catch-breath-hydration-time over. From what I can remember, the next twenty minutes were over in a hurry--time spent talking about some Jamaican father claiming his Olympic running son was fast because of all the yams he ate. We wondered, what's the difference between a yam and a sweet potato? A lot! But, Google also told me the U.S. government has confused the whole situation by labeling our sweet potatoes, yams. This may turn out to be one of the hidden, underlying causes of our screwed up economy. If the government can cover up the true identity of yams, there's no telling what lengths they'll go to, keeping 'higher-archy' shenanigans from us.

     Then the subject jumped to the American Civil Liberties Union suing the State of Michigan over the low literacy rates in the public schools. The state's graduating their kids without knowing how to read! Who's to blame? What's to blame? It sure as heck isn't the teachers, according to Laura. Her breathing rhythm gets all out of whack when teachers are criticized; we dropped out of that topic after passing one mother pushing a baby stroller, two wobbly-legged baby deer, cars rubbernecking and us waving back.

     "See that cat up ahead?" I said.

     "Nope."

     "He's sitting in the street, with his paws on the curb--right by your mailbox."

     "I'm really hurtin'," said Laura.

     "Speed it up. Looks like he's praying us in to home base." There's nothing like the sight of a praying cat for motivation.

     Laura made it but didn't stop for a drink.  "Gotta take a bathroom break," she yelled and headed for her house.  Not much to say about that.  If you've gotta go; you gotta go.  Although a bathroom spot in-house, sure beats an outhouse. That final thought ended a Sunday successful run.

Running Commentary: #9

Running Commentary: #9
July 30, 2012 -- Monday

     Laura was a no-show this morning. Today's run featured the familiar duo of me and my mind. The me, raised its hand to shade eyes and see if anyone else was on the track. The mind wondered if anyone was reading this blog. That silent question got me going. I warmed up by slowly running the yellow center line of the track for a start-to-the-day balance check; thoughts began popping in and out of my head about running, Indians, and pop culture.

     All of these writings are telling a story--in the Indian way. I'll bet you the dime I found on the track the other day, by the time my story is finished, a circle can be drawn from its beginning to its end. It's just that it can take a long time to get from here to there. You see, Indian stories have five parts: "time, place, character (s), event, and purpose" (Fixico, p. 25). Time can be then and now; the importance is explaining the "why and how something happened." Place provides reference points to our experiences. Characters can be human or animal. Listeners form opinions; do they respect, disrespect, like, or don't like the characters. The event is the core of the story--this is where knowledge and the lesson, the purpose, is given.

     Two miles of slow running begins to put me back in time. If I ever lost my Saturday movie money, my eight-year-old legs would walk the main street of town until mother finished shopping.

     Saturday, in town, was where all the local news was exchanged. Stories told. Births, obituaries announced. Politics and business discussed. Tales of woe and boastful claims quietly broadcast. This was face-to-face social networking.

     Often, I would sit on the bench in front of the dry goods store, if someone scooted over to make room, and just people watch. Or, I would walk around the circle path in front of the old historic courthouse, listening to the elders who were sitting around, talk the sounds of the sing-songy, poetic cadence of the Cherokee language. I thought the sounds beautiful; like listening to music.

     It was healing tonic to hear the sounds of soft laughter and watch the side language of hand expressions. Hands gently moving; a slow twist of the wrist; palms up and open, making a verbal, aerial solo, in time to their movement. The hands made silent statements, filled with meaning.

     The Cherokee language was not spoken in our home. Mother always told us the reason was our Grandfather, Andy Sunday, my daddy's father, didn't want his children speaking Cherokee. That meant all nine of them. There were two more children--Sequoyah and Laura. But, they died, way before learning to talk.

     Mother's explanation always seemed incomplete and a bit off to me. That piece of family history had a ragged edge. You see, my grandfather, Andy, grew up in a home speaking both Cherokee and English. He was the eldest son of Jesse and his wife, Alice Hair. Since my Great-grandfather, Jesse Sunday, was the elected Sheriff in Saline County, Oklahoma, one of the nine districts making up the Cherokee Nation, in 1841, it doesn't seem likely he could have held this position without fluency in the Cherokee language. Just makes sense his son, Andy, could speak Cherokee.

     Even daddy told me once that his father, Andy, was fluent in both English and the Cherokee language--in speaking and writing. During the early years before and after Oklahoma statehood, being bi-lingual, Andy often served as an interpreter in the courts at Tahlequah between the non-English speaking litigants and the Court. But, this was in the years before Andy, the Cherokee, and my Grandmother, the White preacher's daughter, married.

     Whatever the reason, the Cherokee language began to vocally disappear from our family. Could my father speak Cherokee? It's one of those mysteries that will remain hidden in past history. But, the Cherokee language lay in the shadows of my young life, moving back into consciousness on those Saturday's when I missed the movie and could sit and listen to its musical sounds and enjoy the feeling of delight.

     Three more miles have gone by; the water bottle is empty; my mind is drifting back to real time; playtime is over.


Interesting reading: Donald L. Fixico (2003). The American Indian Mind In A Linear World. Routledge.