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.