Sorry folks. For two reasons, this is a rewrite. First, a major mistake needs correcting and second, the word has filtered down as to some confusion. Some readers thought it difficult to keep the various players straight. Apologies -- especially to my Indian cousins. Now, let's see if we can make this right.
Turn about is fair play -- particularly when you can find a balance. Remember I told you about the murder of my Uncle 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 the Quarterly and a phone conversation with Cousin Rose, 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, an active community hubbed around one of the nine courthouses built by the Cherokee Nation to serve these nine Districts comprising the Cherokee Nation. The center of activity included a general store, blacksmith shop, church, doctor, and school.
This story happened in the Saline District, which was located near rural Rose, Oklahoma, in the eastern part of the state. Google Rose, Oklahoma. You can find it. But, the Saline District, along with the other eight Districts, were destroyed when the Federal Government ended the Cherokee Judicial System a year later, 1898.
There were major and minor roles played by several individuals that fateful day. But, to de-complicate matters, only seven 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. Andy Sunday (my grandfather), the eldest son of the Sheriff; Sampson Rogers (the man with the temper), Martin Rowe (supposed friend to Sheriff Andy Sunday) and, Sallie Sunday (my grandmother and wife of Andy Sunday).
As the initial scene begins, only Thomas Baggett and Dave Ridge are on stage. Events were set in motion when Dave's wife sent him to the general store to pick up a couple of items. Being a popular guy, he was easily persuaded to postpone his shopping in favor of joining the other men sitting around in friendly conversation while enjoying the 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, something that Thomas Baggett, the owner of the general store, would not tolerate. Playing to the max his role as an up-standing Christian man, Baggett closed the store. When Ridge realized he was not going to be able to buy the items as instructed by his wife, he started banging on the front door to be let in. Baggett finally opened a second story window and told Ridge the store was closed and to go away/get lost. A ruckus ensued, a shot rang out. Baggett was struck and instantly killed. Everyone scattered, including Dave Ridge.
The sounds of that shot reverberated, reaching the ears of twenty-year-old Andy Sunday, son of Sheriff Jesse Sunday, some 200 yards away. Though well educated, fluent in both Cherokee and English, and a married man, Andy and his friend were on the trail engaged in some mischief. In this case, they were delivering liquor to a bootlegger. Should they have known better? Did they need money? Was this accepted practice of the times? Were they doing someone a favor? I don't know. The reasons are lost to history.
In any event, their mission paled in comparison to the deed they were about to witness. As they quickly stepped into the bushes to hide. Dave Ridge came down the trail in one direction. From the other direction came two other men, one being Sampson Rogers. The three met and Ridge and Rogers started accusing each other of having killed Thomas Baggett. During the argument, Sampson Rogers struck Dave Ridge on the head with some object. Whether a rock or a gun, the deed was done, and the blow killed Ridge.
Andy Sunday knew Sampson Rogers had a dreadful temper, so he stepped out of the bushes to try and calm Rogers down, which caused Rogers to get into Andy's face and threaten his life if he told anyone what he'd just witnessed.
Now, Sheriff Jesse Sunday was some ten miles away from the killings of Thomas Baggett and Dave Ridge. He was going about the business of guarding prisoners. But, when the news of the dual killings arrived by messenger, the Sheriff left the prisoners in the hands of a deputy and turned his horse toward the Saline Courthouse. What I'm guessing is, when he arrived, 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, different versions of the story are told. It's known that Sheriff Jesse Sunday questioned various men, one being his supposed friend, Martin Rowe. It's fairly clear that Martin Rowe shot, and mortally wounded, Jesse Sunday. What is not clear is the reason, other than, Rowe did shoot Baggett, and he knew that the Sheriff suspected he was the guilty man.
The Sheriff's riderless horse appeared at the Sunday house. Alarmed, a search for the Sheriff began. Supposedly, 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. Along with the White side, the Indian side of the family had a murder.
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 neck. 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.
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 different colors, depending 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, we are equal.
Although not recorded in the history books, the story has always circulated in the family that Andy Sunday ran home and told his young wife, Sallie Sunday (my grandmother) of the threat made by Sampson Rogers. She immediately took to her bed and refused to talk with anyone, claiming illness, as she was afraid for Andy's life. In a recent telephone conversation with Cousin Rose, she related that she was told, a group of men came to Sallie Sunday's home and threatened her by saying that if Andy told anyone what he saw, the whole family would be killed. Rose also mentioned that to her knowledge, our grandmother never spoke of these events. If my family records are correct, at the time of The Saline Courthouse Massacre, Sallie Sunday was eighteen years of age, Andy was twenty.
Friday, May 01, 2015
Thursday, April 30, 2015
The Indian Side
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, January 25, 2015
This is for Joel
Freedom and good deeds got left behind in that move to Bartlesville. The slate of my identity was being erased. The 'wild child' play in the woods was lost. Ways and places to stay out of mother's sight disappeared. It took me forever to get back in her good graces from attempting to sew the buttons back on the coat of a new-made school friend. My memory tells me I was five years old. It was winter. The girl's blue coat had dangly buttons and wouldn't close. I thought I could help her keep warm. I took the coat home, found mother's sewing basket, hid in an attic corner, tried to thread a needle and sew back on the buttons, just like I'd seen mother do. The girl's mother told my mother that I had her daughter's coat and to give it back. I was in trouble. The blue coat, with its' dangly buttons disappeared. I was shamed for taking the coat and making the little girl cold. I don't remember being friends, ever again, with the little dark-skin girl. That was the start of an important mother lesson -- what others thought of us was more important than doing good things for people. Never forget, mother was the King, the Queen, and the High Sheriff. What she said and did was law.
This was WWII time. Daddy was somewhere between Germany and Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri. And, I know this from reading a story in The Weekly Leader (Thursday, Sept. 29, 2011), a Tahlequah newspaper. My Tahlequah life has no memory of mother ever talking about the war, ever talking about daddy. Did I have a daddy? At the time, the answer to the question didn't seem to be important.
I just did a quick run through my blogs to see what I've already written. They provide a good example of the way I think -- circular -- not in a straight line -- not linear, like White people -- like my 'little White mother." It's no wonder she was a total confusion to me. Circular think is not confined to 'in a box.' A command of 'No,' doesn't have to be automatically followed. It needs thought, and this can lead to trouble. Mother didn't have a lot of time or patience or time for circular thinking. But, for the purposes of this blog, the story doesn't have to be told in a straight line. It can be told and colored 'outside the lines,' in its own time.
I guess Linda was right...I'm still not ready to leave Tahlequah; not do I have to. But, of course, I can't, and won't--ever. I'm tethered. The Hollow keeps me grounded.
I've never thought much about grade school in Tahlequah. And, since I was so nearsighted, it's amazing I learned to read on schedule. But, clear eyesight was always held hostage by a pervasive anxiety, and that's tough for a little kid. The medicine cure was not looking out, but looking in, protecting self, or by climbing the hills in the hollow and lying on the ground, in the leaves and moss, and looking up between tree branches, into the clouds designed in the sky. Here held the secrets of Maslow's physiological needs.
Grade school in Tahlequah was a time in U.S. history when educators were trying to get rid of American Indian culture. Since my sisters and I were mixed-blood Cherokees, we fell into that 'get rid of group.' I missed most of this since I don't 'look out.' But, sister Karen did. She saw White kids, praised, given honors, and awarded special recognitions.' Burned into her memory is the time, as a first grader, wanting to be chosen for the role as Snow White in the upcoming school production. But, being a world 'outer looker,' Karen was devastated by seeing that only White (Anglo) kids were chosen for visible roles. Indian kids, got to stand at the back of the stage, holding hand-held rattles, in a group designated, 'the rhythm section.' That's the way sister Karen told the story to me. Like Snow White was the Holy Child. That showed those little Indian kids where they belonged.
So, school time in Tahlequah didn't mean much to me. It didn't register. I just knew I was different. A mixed-blood Cherokee child, with green eyes and blond hair, who couldn't sit still. Would rather be running -- moving at all times. Later years would show me I was mildly dyslexic, along with needing glasses. That's when I would learn about telephone wires and stars. But, 'looking in' would never leave me. What I did come to realize is, even though I was not an 'out-looker.' my mind was always taking and storing pictures. With time, even now, I allow some to be played back to me.
This was WWII time. Daddy was somewhere between Germany and Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri. And, I know this from reading a story in The Weekly Leader (Thursday, Sept. 29, 2011), a Tahlequah newspaper. My Tahlequah life has no memory of mother ever talking about the war, ever talking about daddy. Did I have a daddy? At the time, the answer to the question didn't seem to be important.
I just did a quick run through my blogs to see what I've already written. They provide a good example of the way I think -- circular -- not in a straight line -- not linear, like White people -- like my 'little White mother." It's no wonder she was a total confusion to me. Circular think is not confined to 'in a box.' A command of 'No,' doesn't have to be automatically followed. It needs thought, and this can lead to trouble. Mother didn't have a lot of time or patience or time for circular thinking. But, for the purposes of this blog, the story doesn't have to be told in a straight line. It can be told and colored 'outside the lines,' in its own time.
I guess Linda was right...I'm still not ready to leave Tahlequah; not do I have to. But, of course, I can't, and won't--ever. I'm tethered. The Hollow keeps me grounded.
I've never thought much about grade school in Tahlequah. And, since I was so nearsighted, it's amazing I learned to read on schedule. But, clear eyesight was always held hostage by a pervasive anxiety, and that's tough for a little kid. The medicine cure was not looking out, but looking in, protecting self, or by climbing the hills in the hollow and lying on the ground, in the leaves and moss, and looking up between tree branches, into the clouds designed in the sky. Here held the secrets of Maslow's physiological needs.
Grade school in Tahlequah was a time in U.S. history when educators were trying to get rid of American Indian culture. Since my sisters and I were mixed-blood Cherokees, we fell into that 'get rid of group.' I missed most of this since I don't 'look out.' But, sister Karen did. She saw White kids, praised, given honors, and awarded special recognitions.' Burned into her memory is the time, as a first grader, wanting to be chosen for the role as Snow White in the upcoming school production. But, being a world 'outer looker,' Karen was devastated by seeing that only White (Anglo) kids were chosen for visible roles. Indian kids, got to stand at the back of the stage, holding hand-held rattles, in a group designated, 'the rhythm section.' That's the way sister Karen told the story to me. Like Snow White was the Holy Child. That showed those little Indian kids where they belonged.
So, school time in Tahlequah didn't mean much to me. It didn't register. I just knew I was different. A mixed-blood Cherokee child, with green eyes and blond hair, who couldn't sit still. Would rather be running -- moving at all times. Later years would show me I was mildly dyslexic, along with needing glasses. That's when I would learn about telephone wires and stars. But, 'looking in' would never leave me. What I did come to realize is, even though I was not an 'out-looker.' my mind was always taking and storing pictures. With time, even now, I allow some to be played back to me.
Friday, May 09, 2014
Heads Up - Eyes Front and Center
Heads Up -- Eyes Front and Center
May 8, 2014
In 1950, we moved from the woods of Tahlequah to a suburb of Bartlesville. No memory recorded of being told the move was going to happen; it just did. Of course, Mother's law was invoked. translation -- whatever mother wanted to happen, happened. The move was not too far from Tahlequah; but not too close; the distance from the Hollow, just right for mother's purposes. Her first dictate -- tell no one we girls were Indian, which was a reinforcement of my developing Indian/White identity confusion.
Actually, the suburb was a group of 'cookie-cutter' houses built from the federal government's GI Bill money. The modest house still stands, is well cared for, has a close family member in residence, and eventually, came to be fondly known as 133.
In late August of 1950, as I wandered through half of 133's seven-hundred square feet, I came to a dead stop outside of the door to a bathroom. I stood and stared, for the longest time, as the indoor toilet sitting in the small room -- the outhouse, transformed into an indoor bathroom. As much as it's possible for a ten year old to do so, I had a feeling I was looking at a symbol, signifying a profound change in my life.
Talking about this key memory is like playing mental hopscotch. I jump from one square, which deals with seared, ingrained memories, and the importance of those memories, then hop onto a different square, dealing with the problem of handling a quantum leap from one differing culture to another. Was the last square real? The culture square? Or, was it fiction, manufactured by mother?
Besides the magic of new technology -- the indoor toilet -- I now had to deal with mother's new rule -- don't tell anyone you're Indian. Skipping back to the memory square, the sight of the new technology was amazement, excitement, a push, expanding my world.
This mental hopscotching is like being caught in a vortex of circular Indian thinking. Getting the thoughts ordered, can last a long time.
The indoor bathroom memory is one of my important life markers. It adds to 'my' story and provides 'me' a lesson. That is, without taking the time to observe, think, and mentally catalogue a meaning of what I see, many life scenes would probably be absent recall.
Recently, I spent about 45 minutes in the Austin airport waiting to board a plane for New York City. Many people, of all ages, were sitting in the American waiting area; probably five times as many were walking the concourse. This was 'People Watching Pleasure.' For 45 minutes, I people watched, clicking my brain camera, cataloging scenes of interest for future viewing. I watched other people watch their cell phone screens; never heads nor eyes up. What memories were they making, I wondered? Would they have any stories 40 years from now? Would they remember sitting in the Austin airport?
I've been thinking about a question from Dara Horn's, A Guide For The Perplexed -- "Are our lives determined by forces we can't control, do we have the free will to determine the future?" Are our gadgets a force we can't control? How will our memories and stories be made and saved if we delete interaction with real people? Have the gadgets seduced and weakened our free will and stunted our memories?
Joel was with me on the NYC trip. During one of our conversations, he said, "Just wait until 2020. It's going to be a fantastic year." When I asked him to explain, he told me, "2020 is the year we finally realize we are living in a science fiction world."
I know my indoor bathroom memory was not science fiction. I also know, during the time spent staring at that toilet, bathtub, and indoor sink, I hopscotched to a new square -- free will. Bartlesville time was going to be different.
May 8, 2014
In 1950, we moved from the woods of Tahlequah to a suburb of Bartlesville. No memory recorded of being told the move was going to happen; it just did. Of course, Mother's law was invoked. translation -- whatever mother wanted to happen, happened. The move was not too far from Tahlequah; but not too close; the distance from the Hollow, just right for mother's purposes. Her first dictate -- tell no one we girls were Indian, which was a reinforcement of my developing Indian/White identity confusion.
Actually, the suburb was a group of 'cookie-cutter' houses built from the federal government's GI Bill money. The modest house still stands, is well cared for, has a close family member in residence, and eventually, came to be fondly known as 133.
In late August of 1950, as I wandered through half of 133's seven-hundred square feet, I came to a dead stop outside of the door to a bathroom. I stood and stared, for the longest time, as the indoor toilet sitting in the small room -- the outhouse, transformed into an indoor bathroom. As much as it's possible for a ten year old to do so, I had a feeling I was looking at a symbol, signifying a profound change in my life.
Talking about this key memory is like playing mental hopscotch. I jump from one square, which deals with seared, ingrained memories, and the importance of those memories, then hop onto a different square, dealing with the problem of handling a quantum leap from one differing culture to another. Was the last square real? The culture square? Or, was it fiction, manufactured by mother?
Besides the magic of new technology -- the indoor toilet -- I now had to deal with mother's new rule -- don't tell anyone you're Indian. Skipping back to the memory square, the sight of the new technology was amazement, excitement, a push, expanding my world.
This mental hopscotching is like being caught in a vortex of circular Indian thinking. Getting the thoughts ordered, can last a long time.
The indoor bathroom memory is one of my important life markers. It adds to 'my' story and provides 'me' a lesson. That is, without taking the time to observe, think, and mentally catalogue a meaning of what I see, many life scenes would probably be absent recall.
Recently, I spent about 45 minutes in the Austin airport waiting to board a plane for New York City. Many people, of all ages, were sitting in the American waiting area; probably five times as many were walking the concourse. This was 'People Watching Pleasure.' For 45 minutes, I people watched, clicking my brain camera, cataloging scenes of interest for future viewing. I watched other people watch their cell phone screens; never heads nor eyes up. What memories were they making, I wondered? Would they have any stories 40 years from now? Would they remember sitting in the Austin airport?
I've been thinking about a question from Dara Horn's, A Guide For The Perplexed -- "Are our lives determined by forces we can't control, do we have the free will to determine the future?" Are our gadgets a force we can't control? How will our memories and stories be made and saved if we delete interaction with real people? Have the gadgets seduced and weakened our free will and stunted our memories?
Joel was with me on the NYC trip. During one of our conversations, he said, "Just wait until 2020. It's going to be a fantastic year." When I asked him to explain, he told me, "2020 is the year we finally realize we are living in a science fiction world."
I know my indoor bathroom memory was not science fiction. I also know, during the time spent staring at that toilet, bathtub, and indoor sink, I hopscotched to a new square -- free will. Bartlesville time was going to be different.
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Still Barefooted On The Moss Covered Hills of Tahlequah
Over dinner with Linda, she wondered why the blogs had stopped.
"I can't get out of Tahlequah to Bartlesville," I said. "I'm stuck in the first 10 years of my life, and I don't want to leave. How do I make the jump from one world to the next; the Indian to the White? I can't find the transition."
"You don't have to," Linda said. "You still have stories to tell. And, when you are ready, you'll leave."
The next day I called sister Karen, and we talked. As always, we talked about mother and daddy and our confusion of being their children. We talked about the power of family secrets and the safety of magical thinking.
I shared with Karen that it would never have occurred to me to talk with Mother about my thoughts of our Saturday movies because I didn't feel I had permission. Mother wasn't interested in what I thought or had to say. In Mother's world, I was definitely a do-as-you-are told and talk-when-I talk-to-you, child. She made me quite anxious to be around her. I bit my fingernails. I was always afraid of doing something wrong and get into trouble, whatever trouble meant by her definition. Maybe she wouldn't notice me if I didn't make any noise. Be invisible. Breathe quietly and not very often. My Mother was the law; she was the power side of White, just like in the Saturday movies. And, I was afraid of her. Also, I believe, it was during these very early years, living under the non-understandable rules of Mother that I began to develop magical thinking as a way of protecting myself from her harsh judgments and subsequent punishments.
I mentioned to Karen about underling three words found in Heinlein's, Stranger In A Strange Land: "Secrecy begets tyranny."
"Mother was the law," I continued, "because Daddy was not there. If I were sitting in a therapy session and asked to draw a picture of that time in my life, there would be no Daddy."
"Also," I told Karen, "I pulled out my 'daddy folder,' started to read his story about Blanding, Utah-- when he worked for the Bureau of Indian Affairs, and we lived in Allen Canyon. You weren't born yet--and, shortly, stopped reading. I was embarrassed. I was ashamed." "Why?" asked Karen.
"Listen. Here's what he wrote:"
"We had two children when we went to Utah, Gayle and Jo Layne. I could not stand the isoltation....I missed Momma and the family...."
"A grown man had to run back to his mother. I can't write about that. It's shameful." Karen replied," But, is it really?" That caused me to sit back in my chair.
"Look," Karen said. "I grew up being so angry with both of them. I constantly 'look' through their lives--what little I know--for answers. You have to remember the circumstances of Daddy's life--the family living on a land Allotment of an older sister, her selling it, dispossessing the family; hard scrabbling for food during the Depression; Daddy being sent to Indian Boarding Schools; his father's death; early marriage; WWII; living in the Holler; finally, secruing a job, several counties away, with Phillips PEtroleum. The one stabilizing figure in his life, throughout all of these traumas, was his mother. It's understandable why he needed to get back to Cherokee County--to the safety of his mother. Don't forget, Daddy's life was colored by the religious dogma of our grandmother, which marked every person in the family in a harmful way. We were branded by its trickle-down effects."
"Too many family secrets woven in there," I said. "I just can't do a show-and-tell on paper.
"Why?" asked Karen. Then she laughed. "I hope you don't tell that one."
Me? Too many secrets starting to surface. I pulled the curtain down; called the conversation quits and went for a run.
"I can't get out of Tahlequah to Bartlesville," I said. "I'm stuck in the first 10 years of my life, and I don't want to leave. How do I make the jump from one world to the next; the Indian to the White? I can't find the transition."
"You don't have to," Linda said. "You still have stories to tell. And, when you are ready, you'll leave."
The next day I called sister Karen, and we talked. As always, we talked about mother and daddy and our confusion of being their children. We talked about the power of family secrets and the safety of magical thinking.
I shared with Karen that it would never have occurred to me to talk with Mother about my thoughts of our Saturday movies because I didn't feel I had permission. Mother wasn't interested in what I thought or had to say. In Mother's world, I was definitely a do-as-you-are told and talk-when-I talk-to-you, child. She made me quite anxious to be around her. I bit my fingernails. I was always afraid of doing something wrong and get into trouble, whatever trouble meant by her definition. Maybe she wouldn't notice me if I didn't make any noise. Be invisible. Breathe quietly and not very often. My Mother was the law; she was the power side of White, just like in the Saturday movies. And, I was afraid of her. Also, I believe, it was during these very early years, living under the non-understandable rules of Mother that I began to develop magical thinking as a way of protecting myself from her harsh judgments and subsequent punishments.
I mentioned to Karen about underling three words found in Heinlein's, Stranger In A Strange Land: "Secrecy begets tyranny."
"Mother was the law," I continued, "because Daddy was not there. If I were sitting in a therapy session and asked to draw a picture of that time in my life, there would be no Daddy."
"Also," I told Karen, "I pulled out my 'daddy folder,' started to read his story about Blanding, Utah-- when he worked for the Bureau of Indian Affairs, and we lived in Allen Canyon. You weren't born yet--and, shortly, stopped reading. I was embarrassed. I was ashamed." "Why?" asked Karen.
"Listen. Here's what he wrote:"
"We had two children when we went to Utah, Gayle and Jo Layne. I could not stand the isoltation....I missed Momma and the family...."
"A grown man had to run back to his mother. I can't write about that. It's shameful." Karen replied," But, is it really?" That caused me to sit back in my chair.
"Look," Karen said. "I grew up being so angry with both of them. I constantly 'look' through their lives--what little I know--for answers. You have to remember the circumstances of Daddy's life--the family living on a land Allotment of an older sister, her selling it, dispossessing the family; hard scrabbling for food during the Depression; Daddy being sent to Indian Boarding Schools; his father's death; early marriage; WWII; living in the Holler; finally, secruing a job, several counties away, with Phillips PEtroleum. The one stabilizing figure in his life, throughout all of these traumas, was his mother. It's understandable why he needed to get back to Cherokee County--to the safety of his mother. Don't forget, Daddy's life was colored by the religious dogma of our grandmother, which marked every person in the family in a harmful way. We were branded by its trickle-down effects."
"Too many family secrets woven in there," I said. "I just can't do a show-and-tell on paper.
"Why?" asked Karen. Then she laughed. "I hope you don't tell that one."
Me? Too many secrets starting to surface. I pulled the curtain down; called the conversation quits and went for a run.
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