Turn about is fair play -- especially when you can find a balance. Remember I told you about the murder on the White side of the family. As the history of misfortune would have it, there was one on the Indian side, too -- my great grandfather, Sheriff Jesse Sunday.
The information below, I am taking from several pages in The Chronicles of Oklahoma, Spring, 1955. This is a Quarterly, published by the Oklahoma Historical Society. This particular story is found in a couple of other books I have in some safe-keeping place in the house. Every time I come across one of these books, I always put them back in a place easily remembered. Of course, it takes months to find them again. Heaven only knows their location now. But, relying on one source, this is the way the story goes. And, it even has a name. It was called, The Saline courthouse Massacre.
The year was 1897; the month, September; the place, a developing community around one of the nine courthouses built by the Cherokee Nation to serve the Districts comprising the Cherokee Nation. A general store, blacksmith shop, church, doctor, and school, took their important places around the courthouse.
This story happened in the Saline District, located near rural Rose, Oklahoma, in Eastern Oklahoma. Although Rose, Oklahoma still is found on an Oklahoma map, the Saline District was destroyed when the Federal Government ended the Cherokee Judicial System a year later.
There were major and minor roles played by several individuals that day. But, to de-complicate matters, only five names are going to be mentioned here. First, there was Thomas Baggett, a lawyer, who owned the general store; Sheriff Jesse Sunday (my great-grandfather), who was completing his elected term as sheriff; Dave Ridge, Jesse Sunday's half-brother, and soon-to-be the next sheriff. Finally, Andy Sunday (my grandfather), the eldest son of the Sheriff and Sampson Rogers.
As the initial scene begins, only Thomas Baggett and Dave Ridge are on stage. Dave Ridge had been sent by his wife to pick up a couple of items from the general store. Being a popular guy, he joined in the ongoing conversations by the groups of men who were sitting around enjoying the afternoon sunshine. Cherokees do love to talk and gossip. And, along this perpetual grapevine passes important family and community news. This was the social networking of the day.
But, mixed in with the sunshine on that September afternoon was a bit of moonshine. Playing his role, to the max, of an up-standing Christian man, Baggett, wouldn't tolerate the bottle-nipping, and closed the store. Realizing he was not going to be able to buy the items instructed by his wife, Ridge started banging on the store's front door to be let in. Baggett finally opened a second story window and told Ridge to go away. The store was closed. A ruckus ensued, a shot rang out, Baggett was struck and instantly killed. Everyone scattered.
As the second scene unfolds, we find Andy Sunday and a friend on a trail, some 200 yards from the shooting. Let's call him a typical teenager because, well educated and fluent in both Cherokee and English, Andy and his friend were delivering liquor to a bootlegger at that ill-fated time. Doesn't seem to matter the era, boys will be boys. Should they have known better? Did they need money? Were they doing someone a favor? I don't know. The reasons are lost to history.
But hearing the shot and sensing danger, the boys stepped into the bushes to hide. What they saw and later reported was seeing Dave Ridge walking the trail on his way home. From the other direction came two other men. When they met, Dave Ridge and one of the other men, later identified as Samson Rogers, started accusing each other of having killed Thomas Baggett. During the argument, Sampson Rogers just picked up some object -- a rock or a gun -- and struck Dave Ridge on the head -- it was a lethal blow and Ridge died.
Andy Sunday knew the man who'd hit Dave Ridge had a dreadful temper, so he stepped out of the bushes to try and calm him down and Sampson Rogers got right into Andy's face and threatened his life if he told anyone what he'd witnessed.
Although not recorded in the history books, the story has always circulated in the family that Andy Sunday ran home and told his mother, Sally Sunday (my grandmother) of the threat. She immediately took to her bed and refused to talk with anyone, claiming illness, as she was afraid for her son's life.
The story now changes to the third scene, where Sheriff Jesse Sunday is found busily guarding prisoners some ten miles away from the killings of Thomas Baggett and Dave Ridge. When the news arrives of these two deaths, the Sheriff left the prisoners in the hands of a deputy and turned his horse toward the Saline Courthouse. What I'm guessing is, he found a mess. Lots of confusion, finger pointing, stories running around trying to get straight, and heads shaking trying to get clear.
From here on, I believe different versions of the story are told. It's known that Sheriff Jesse Sunday questioned various men, one being, Martin Rowe. It's fairly clear that Martin Rowe shot, and mortally wounded, Jesse Sunday. What's not clear is the reason, other than, he did shoot Baggett, and knew that Jesse Sunday suspected he was the guilty man.
The Sheriff's horse arrived at the Sunday house without its rider and a search began. Andy found his father, sitting on the ground, propped up against a tree. He took him to the house of a friend, where his father died. But, the story that the Sheriff was shot and the Sheriff was dead Couldn't be told any which way other than one. It was a fact.
The trials. Martin Rowe was convicted of murdering Sheriff Jesse Sunday. For the crime, a noose was to be dropped over his head, ending around his nectk. But, later, the case was reviewed and a decision reached that not enough evidence was presented for a hanging. Instead, he was sentenced to ten years in prison. He escaped and wound up in Texas and eventually evaded capture by Oklahoma lawmen by joining the United States Army and fighting in the Spanish American War. After being discharged, Rowe made his way back to Oklahoma, a free man.
Sampson Rogers was responsible for the murder of Dave Ridge. No one would testify against him though, and he came away from the trial a free man. Maybe there was something to Andy Sunday's knowing about Rogers vicious temper, and maybe my grandmother, Sally Sunday, was doing the right thing by going to bed and refusing to talk to anyone about what her son, Andy, saw that September afternoon on a frontier trail in Eastern Oklahoma.
When hearing this story, you have to keep in mind that some accounts were told in Cherokee, some straight English, some with a mix of Cherokee/English. Important details, lost in translation, can shade the scenes and memories different colors. It all depends on the telling. Nevertheless, the stories remain important to tell. Here you find balance -- a murder on the White side of a family; a murder on the Indian side. As of now, the sides are equal.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Monday, April 20, 2015
The White Side
The telling of this story is not an easy thing to be doing. In some ways, it seems simple -- in a common sort of way. But, it's not. It's complicated. Or, maybe it's just me and the way I'm putting it together. It's not the traditional White linear way of handing out information. Rather, what you're learning is outlined in an Indian framework -- one of visualization and circularity. An Indian making sense of things might go to the end of a story and then circle back to the very beginning. But, you'll see. There's a definite purpose.
This is a story of two families coming from two different worldviews, two different cultural histories, with different aims and goals. They didn't like each other. Whites and Indians just weren't supposed to 'mix.' Prejudice abounded and there was not too much trying to make sense of each other.
The leader on one side was mother; the other, my grandmother, daddy's mother. For starters, you could tell that mother was White (as a matter of fact, she came to be known as 'Little White Mother') because traditional Indians, especially Indian leaders, don't give orders. They abide by the rules of 'right to self-determination.' And, as a sign of respect, they do not try to impose their beliefs on others. From the get-go, mother just cut through, tore up, and threw these rules away. And, just when you thought you had her rules figured out and memorized, she'd change them right on the spot. There was no keeping a step ahead of mother. And, while trying to keep a step ahead of her for safety's sake, I think I need to lay a bit of family flooring for you. Just watch out for splinters.
Mother was proud of her family. I could never see why. But, she held them a high notch above daddy's family. Her parents were uneducated, poor, sharecroppers with five children; four girls; one alcoholic brother, whose behavior was always excused because he came home from WWII with a back injury. Only later did I learn of his multiple marriages and one child. Let's not forget the fact that -- finally -- he was murdered. Somehow, these events slipped mothers mind and fell into her basket of secrets. But, even kids sense when there is hidden information. Lurking in the shadows, and always at the ready to ambush, concealed information poisons the atmosphere; creates tension and anxiety.
Too, these were historic, harsh, almost unbearable, times in the country. The Great Depression, drought, and Dust Bowl years hit this family like a sledge hammer. The essentials of life were in short supply. Absolutely nothing was wasted. It was a bare boned life, dull colored -- quite a distance from our current lives, where most folks actually have extra money to rent storage space for their extra 'stuff.' But, in mother's growing up years, what the family lacked in food, furniture, and clothing, they substituted with pride. According to this grandfather, their shoulders would always be held back, heads high, their posture straight and tall. No apologizing found in this family.
Right now, we've tiptoed into the territory of family secrets that have been secrets for so long, I'm wondering if I should honor their memory and not tell the tales. But, in the past, if I hadn't of kept pestering, and asking for answers to fill in the dark caverns of wide blanks, how would I have ever known that this grandfather moved his entire family several states away from home after he found out my mother had secretly married an Indian. Eventually, he migrated then to Texas, and back to Oklahoma Indian Country, completing a circle.
Maybe this is why Joel keeps pushing me to write this story. Maybe he senses I have hidden information/secrets. It's possible. We're imprinted with the ways of a family. Some of these prints can be dusted off; others are permanent. The habit of keeping secrets may be a stain my sisters and I just can't get out of us.
My maternal grandmother could bake like heaven, quilt beautifully, using patterns only found in the recesses of her imagination, and grow a vegetable garden that would make Whole Foods proud. Mother told me that people thought my grandmother had the 'healing power.' Maybe this came from her Pentecostal beliefs. Folks would knock on her door to find a cure for their aches and pains. Friends and family were accepting of her highly tuned sixth sense about events that had happened, but were yet unknown -- or, eerily, her 'sights' of events to come. Mother also told me that my grandmother said I had the same gift and it should not be encouraged. Mother later denied ever having said such a thing. But, my younger sister claims this is true, having heard the same story more than once.
My grandfather was just plain mean. I didn't like him because he liked to bend my fingers until the knuckles hurt. Mother adored him. He died in a car wreck. I guess life just didn't turn out quite like he expected.
But, boy! Did they believe in education -- maybe because neither one of them ever graduated high school. I'm not certain if my grandmother was the education pusher or my grandfather. My bet's on grandmother because she taught me my multiplication tables while I stood in the center of her small kitchen and she baked good-smelling biscuits.
College didn't 'take' with my Uncle. But, mother and her sisters worked and put themselves through four years of college. As they married, this side of the family produced five grandchildren. Mother's three girls and two boys from two of mother's sisters. I'm not counting my Uncle's child because I never knew this cousin existed. There was closeness with only one of these cousins. He died too young. It was his job during the Vietnam War to dump Agent Orange out of helicopters. While his mother could survive the tragedies of nature and Wall Street, the son fell to our government's policies of war.
This is a story of two families coming from two different worldviews, two different cultural histories, with different aims and goals. They didn't like each other. Whites and Indians just weren't supposed to 'mix.' Prejudice abounded and there was not too much trying to make sense of each other.
The leader on one side was mother; the other, my grandmother, daddy's mother. For starters, you could tell that mother was White (as a matter of fact, she came to be known as 'Little White Mother') because traditional Indians, especially Indian leaders, don't give orders. They abide by the rules of 'right to self-determination.' And, as a sign of respect, they do not try to impose their beliefs on others. From the get-go, mother just cut through, tore up, and threw these rules away. And, just when you thought you had her rules figured out and memorized, she'd change them right on the spot. There was no keeping a step ahead of mother. And, while trying to keep a step ahead of her for safety's sake, I think I need to lay a bit of family flooring for you. Just watch out for splinters.
Mother was proud of her family. I could never see why. But, she held them a high notch above daddy's family. Her parents were uneducated, poor, sharecroppers with five children; four girls; one alcoholic brother, whose behavior was always excused because he came home from WWII with a back injury. Only later did I learn of his multiple marriages and one child. Let's not forget the fact that -- finally -- he was murdered. Somehow, these events slipped mothers mind and fell into her basket of secrets. But, even kids sense when there is hidden information. Lurking in the shadows, and always at the ready to ambush, concealed information poisons the atmosphere; creates tension and anxiety.
Too, these were historic, harsh, almost unbearable, times in the country. The Great Depression, drought, and Dust Bowl years hit this family like a sledge hammer. The essentials of life were in short supply. Absolutely nothing was wasted. It was a bare boned life, dull colored -- quite a distance from our current lives, where most folks actually have extra money to rent storage space for their extra 'stuff.' But, in mother's growing up years, what the family lacked in food, furniture, and clothing, they substituted with pride. According to this grandfather, their shoulders would always be held back, heads high, their posture straight and tall. No apologizing found in this family.
Right now, we've tiptoed into the territory of family secrets that have been secrets for so long, I'm wondering if I should honor their memory and not tell the tales. But, in the past, if I hadn't of kept pestering, and asking for answers to fill in the dark caverns of wide blanks, how would I have ever known that this grandfather moved his entire family several states away from home after he found out my mother had secretly married an Indian. Eventually, he migrated then to Texas, and back to Oklahoma Indian Country, completing a circle.
Maybe this is why Joel keeps pushing me to write this story. Maybe he senses I have hidden information/secrets. It's possible. We're imprinted with the ways of a family. Some of these prints can be dusted off; others are permanent. The habit of keeping secrets may be a stain my sisters and I just can't get out of us.
My maternal grandmother could bake like heaven, quilt beautifully, using patterns only found in the recesses of her imagination, and grow a vegetable garden that would make Whole Foods proud. Mother told me that people thought my grandmother had the 'healing power.' Maybe this came from her Pentecostal beliefs. Folks would knock on her door to find a cure for their aches and pains. Friends and family were accepting of her highly tuned sixth sense about events that had happened, but were yet unknown -- or, eerily, her 'sights' of events to come. Mother also told me that my grandmother said I had the same gift and it should not be encouraged. Mother later denied ever having said such a thing. But, my younger sister claims this is true, having heard the same story more than once.
My grandfather was just plain mean. I didn't like him because he liked to bend my fingers until the knuckles hurt. Mother adored him. He died in a car wreck. I guess life just didn't turn out quite like he expected.
But, boy! Did they believe in education -- maybe because neither one of them ever graduated high school. I'm not certain if my grandmother was the education pusher or my grandfather. My bet's on grandmother because she taught me my multiplication tables while I stood in the center of her small kitchen and she baked good-smelling biscuits.
College didn't 'take' with my Uncle. But, mother and her sisters worked and put themselves through four years of college. As they married, this side of the family produced five grandchildren. Mother's three girls and two boys from two of mother's sisters. I'm not counting my Uncle's child because I never knew this cousin existed. There was closeness with only one of these cousins. He died too young. It was his job during the Vietnam War to dump Agent Orange out of helicopters. While his mother could survive the tragedies of nature and Wall Street, the son fell to our government's policies of war.
Tuesday, April 07, 2015
Mixing The Identities
Dang it Joel. You started all of this! Wanting the story about the little Indian/White girl. What in the world were you thinking?! Huge hunks are too heavy with sadness; can't lift them; pieces of me buried too deep to excavate; many moments of shame appear as my memory roams the past years. And, then, as he gave the world his memoir, the words of Stuart Scott in a recent issue of Time caught my eye: " I feel repetitive and pathetic and self-centered." So, there needs to be something of interest to say; not just me-me-me twaddle. I guess it doesn't have to be important; just not boring. Boring or maudlin. Maudlin tales are to be erased -- never put before the eyes of any -- and, I'm assigning you the job of editor.
Right off, we've got the first problem. I don't like to talk about myself. I'd rather hear about 'you.' And, I'm a pretty good deflector. The reason can be explained by years of practice. I learned a long time ago how to hide my twin selves from others. Mother taught me the art of hiding. Besides, the White side of me is kind of ashamed; the Indian side of me is not supposed to focus on self. See how confusing it is? People can get all tangled up when dealing with their mixed identities.
Into this land of fences stepped a ten-year old girl who had completely lost her place in the world. Gone were the woods where she could roam free. The terrain was flat; no tress. Nothing but block after block of small houses built by the government for the families of men who'd fought in WWII and returned -- at least to our side of town. The back-from-the-war side of town wasn't separated from the other side by railroad tracks, but by a straight street artery called Tuxedo. Mother would fight this barrier the rest of her life. As with any good general, she plotted strategies and engineered tactics to push her girls into the life on the other side of Tuxedo. Her first dictum -- never, ever, were her three girls to tell anyone we were Indian! Those fences, with their invisible gates, were there for good reason.
This land of fences was a place of many barriers. First, we were living in a company town, and, of course, the higher your daddy was in the company hierarchy, the more elevated your position in elementary, junior and senior high school. Well, elementary doesn't really count because our elementary was on the wrong side of Tuxedo. But, as a bit of Indian luck would have it, we had good teachers and formally entered Jr. High with a solid educational foundation. But, I had a lot of catching up to do, as this was my first start at seeing the blackboard, or stars, or telephone wires. Only in the land of fences was it discovered I couldn't see. 'Bind as a bat," mother would always say.
As it turned out though, mother taught in an elementary school on the other side of Tuxedo, so she was able to observe, and pick up hints, of what her three girls needed to learn to jump the barrier. A bit of White luck at work here.
Besides inventing the secret we were Indian, mother marched we three girls into one of 133s small bedrooms for a second critical dictum. She pointed to my eldest sister and informed her that she was going to be the prettiest. Turning to my younger sister, mother told her she would be the smartest. That left me. I could tell mother's brain was churning. "Well! What are we going to do with you?" I didn't have an answer, but mother did. "We are going to make you have a good personality. You'll make us laugh." Still to this day, I consider this my job. Make you laugh. The best way -- me making fun of me.
I didn't know quite where to put this bit of information into the telling, and have resisted in doing so. But, it's important. Mother loved her hairbrush. And, it's main purpose was to hit me. My mental video didn't take pictures of her whacking my little or big sister; I was the main target. On one significant day, my little sister did something I considered wrong and I called her 'a little dickens.' She ran and tattled. Mother called me into the middle bedroom where she was waiting with the hairbrush and told me to bend over. Since I didn't think I'd done anything wrong, I promised myself, 'no matter how many times she hits me, I will not cry.' The spanking began. No tears from me. Finally, mother said, 'You'd better cry because I'm going to continue until you do.' I cried. On that day, mother killed my tears. Only one other time in my life have I cried.
I suppose one good thing happened as a result of the move. Before, with daddy gone because of the war, and mother busy trying to earn a teaching certificate, the shuttling back and forth between grandparents came to an end. My White grandmother taught me multiplication tables. My daddy's mother -- how to fear God, turn Him into a very suspicious character, and, eventually, detest the Southern Baptist religion. But, now, we were all together at 133. And, I thought this was good because I had a good personality, would get to see my daddy, touch him, and make him happy. Just to test, one time I crawled into daddy's lap. He jumped up and pushed me away -- told me I was 'too big to do that.' I couldn't figure it out and wondered what I did wrong. The only thing my ten years of living could figure out was I was right -- my daddy was ashamed of me. He didn't like me because I looked different. It was all about the blonde hair and green eyes. If he didn't like me, how could he love me? I was wary of him, and it would be years before I every touched my daddy again. From the start, mother and daddy put me on the outside.
Mother had a third dictum: cut the cord between our White family and Indian family. From then on, we were kept from the Indian side of the family. Only years later would I learn that daddy's frequent absences from 133 were because he went back to Indian Country. There was his Indian family and pretty Indian women. The pile of secrets continued to grow.
It seems as though I lived these childhood/teenage years at 133 in a blur. But, at some level of deep consciousness, I was recording. Internal sensors and monitors were always aware and on alert. Keen listening became an art.
Of course I wanted to belong, was always interested in being accepted by 'the group.' But, once accepted, I was ready to move out and on to the next challenge. I guess you could say I was successful in working my way into 'popular.' But, I could never be what mother wanted me to be....I was way too tall; my feet were too big; my waist wasn't the size of Scarlett's; I was too tomboyish; I bit my fingernails; I wore glasses; my hair just wouldn't behave -- in mother's new paradigm, I didn't mold quite right. I was like the hunk of clay I held in my hand when taking a pottery class many years later. Our instructor told us that from the unmolded clay, to the wheel, to the glaze, to the kiln, no one would make an ugly pot. And, if that unthinkable were to happen, the pot would not be allowed to go into the kiln. My little pot stands as a metaphor for the 133 years. It was ugly.
Right off, we've got the first problem. I don't like to talk about myself. I'd rather hear about 'you.' And, I'm a pretty good deflector. The reason can be explained by years of practice. I learned a long time ago how to hide my twin selves from others. Mother taught me the art of hiding. Besides, the White side of me is kind of ashamed; the Indian side of me is not supposed to focus on self. See how confusing it is? People can get all tangled up when dealing with their mixed identities.
Into this land of fences stepped a ten-year old girl who had completely lost her place in the world. Gone were the woods where she could roam free. The terrain was flat; no tress. Nothing but block after block of small houses built by the government for the families of men who'd fought in WWII and returned -- at least to our side of town. The back-from-the-war side of town wasn't separated from the other side by railroad tracks, but by a straight street artery called Tuxedo. Mother would fight this barrier the rest of her life. As with any good general, she plotted strategies and engineered tactics to push her girls into the life on the other side of Tuxedo. Her first dictum -- never, ever, were her three girls to tell anyone we were Indian! Those fences, with their invisible gates, were there for good reason.
This land of fences was a place of many barriers. First, we were living in a company town, and, of course, the higher your daddy was in the company hierarchy, the more elevated your position in elementary, junior and senior high school. Well, elementary doesn't really count because our elementary was on the wrong side of Tuxedo. But, as a bit of Indian luck would have it, we had good teachers and formally entered Jr. High with a solid educational foundation. But, I had a lot of catching up to do, as this was my first start at seeing the blackboard, or stars, or telephone wires. Only in the land of fences was it discovered I couldn't see. 'Bind as a bat," mother would always say.
As it turned out though, mother taught in an elementary school on the other side of Tuxedo, so she was able to observe, and pick up hints, of what her three girls needed to learn to jump the barrier. A bit of White luck at work here.
Besides inventing the secret we were Indian, mother marched we three girls into one of 133s small bedrooms for a second critical dictum. She pointed to my eldest sister and informed her that she was going to be the prettiest. Turning to my younger sister, mother told her she would be the smartest. That left me. I could tell mother's brain was churning. "Well! What are we going to do with you?" I didn't have an answer, but mother did. "We are going to make you have a good personality. You'll make us laugh." Still to this day, I consider this my job. Make you laugh. The best way -- me making fun of me.
I didn't know quite where to put this bit of information into the telling, and have resisted in doing so. But, it's important. Mother loved her hairbrush. And, it's main purpose was to hit me. My mental video didn't take pictures of her whacking my little or big sister; I was the main target. On one significant day, my little sister did something I considered wrong and I called her 'a little dickens.' She ran and tattled. Mother called me into the middle bedroom where she was waiting with the hairbrush and told me to bend over. Since I didn't think I'd done anything wrong, I promised myself, 'no matter how many times she hits me, I will not cry.' The spanking began. No tears from me. Finally, mother said, 'You'd better cry because I'm going to continue until you do.' I cried. On that day, mother killed my tears. Only one other time in my life have I cried.
I suppose one good thing happened as a result of the move. Before, with daddy gone because of the war, and mother busy trying to earn a teaching certificate, the shuttling back and forth between grandparents came to an end. My White grandmother taught me multiplication tables. My daddy's mother -- how to fear God, turn Him into a very suspicious character, and, eventually, detest the Southern Baptist religion. But, now, we were all together at 133. And, I thought this was good because I had a good personality, would get to see my daddy, touch him, and make him happy. Just to test, one time I crawled into daddy's lap. He jumped up and pushed me away -- told me I was 'too big to do that.' I couldn't figure it out and wondered what I did wrong. The only thing my ten years of living could figure out was I was right -- my daddy was ashamed of me. He didn't like me because I looked different. It was all about the blonde hair and green eyes. If he didn't like me, how could he love me? I was wary of him, and it would be years before I every touched my daddy again. From the start, mother and daddy put me on the outside.
Mother had a third dictum: cut the cord between our White family and Indian family. From then on, we were kept from the Indian side of the family. Only years later would I learn that daddy's frequent absences from 133 were because he went back to Indian Country. There was his Indian family and pretty Indian women. The pile of secrets continued to grow.
It seems as though I lived these childhood/teenage years at 133 in a blur. But, at some level of deep consciousness, I was recording. Internal sensors and monitors were always aware and on alert. Keen listening became an art.
Of course I wanted to belong, was always interested in being accepted by 'the group.' But, once accepted, I was ready to move out and on to the next challenge. I guess you could say I was successful in working my way into 'popular.' But, I could never be what mother wanted me to be....I was way too tall; my feet were too big; my waist wasn't the size of Scarlett's; I was too tomboyish; I bit my fingernails; I wore glasses; my hair just wouldn't behave -- in mother's new paradigm, I didn't mold quite right. I was like the hunk of clay I held in my hand when taking a pottery class many years later. Our instructor told us that from the unmolded clay, to the wheel, to the glaze, to the kiln, no one would make an ugly pot. And, if that unthinkable were to happen, the pot would not be allowed to go into the kiln. My little pot stands as a metaphor for the 133 years. It was ugly.
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