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.
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Monday, October 28, 2013
The World As Seen Through Movies, TV, the Internet, Books, Newsprint, and my Dreams
I sat straight up in bed. "Something's wrong with Karen." That's what the dream said. The whole of the day was unsettled.
December 22, 2010
Karen called from Tulsa, Oklahoma, late Monday, December 20, 2010, to tell me a mass had been found in her right lung. She paused to take a breath--my heart skipped a beat and my breathing stopped until she spoke again. "I guess we won't be coming Christmas."
"It's a small tumor," Karen continued, "Just about the size of a nickel or dime."" At the same time I wanted to run and yank a nickel and a dime from my purse and put them side-by-side, on the table, right in front of me, to touch and see. I was listening to Karen's voice as she talked. There was a flat affect.
My brother-in-law--Dan's words--then joined the conversation. "It is either a small cell lung cancer or a non-small lung cancer. The doctor told us the area around the tumor was spiculated and consistent with cancer. What will happen is, if the tumor is small cell, Karen will undergo chemotherapy and radiation. If the tumor turns out to be non-small cell, she will have surgery. The last outcome is the best." As the professor he is, I could just as easily have been sitting in a classroom listening to Dan give a lecture comparing two types of lung cancer and their treatment. A portion of my brain heard what Dan was saying; the rest of me, tried to rein in an imagination gone wild.
"But, Karen, we don't have any lung cancer on either side of the family."
"Yes, we do. cousin Lynn."
"But, Lynn's lung cancer was caused by two Vietnam tours, being dusted with Agent Orange and his many years of working in a chemical plant. He even told me one time that because of a work accident, he was doused from head-to-toe with two types of lethal chemicals. Lynn thought the chemical bath did him in." I looked at the palm of my right hand to check the length of my life line.
"Lynn never told me that," Karen said. "Besides, everyone in our family smoked--both sides; there was second hand smoke everywhere. But, I haven't smoked in 20 years. Tomorrow morning, I'm going into the hospital for a biopsy. Next comes the pathology work-up news. We'll have the results in a couple of days. I've got to be at the hospital at 10 in the morning and the actual biopsy is scheduled for 11:30."
"Well, Karen, how are you doing? Are you freaked out? I just don't understand this. Why would the doctors automatically say you have cancer? I know of people who have had suspicious 'dark spots' show up on x-rays and they don't turn out to be cancer. The tumor doesn't have to be small cell or non-small cell. It could be just a nothing." Denial was doing its job.
Dan's words slid back into the conversation. "I think the doctors are just preparing for the worst. Then, if they turn out to be wrong, everyone can smile and be grateful."
Christmas Eve -- December 24, 2010
All Dan wanted for Christmas in Austin was to see, True Grit, Joel and Ethan Cohen's remake of the old John Wayne classic. But, that's what he and Karen did in Tulsa yesterday--go to the movies. They said it was 'good, just not great.' Probably an academy award nomination would go to Jeff Bridges and the young actress, Hailee Steinfeld, playing the role of Mattie Ross. Matt Damon and Josh Brolin would have to sit this award ceremony out, as their characters would fade into the monochromatic, dusty West.
My bet is that Karen and Dan just switched seats after they got home--from the theater to the couch and a pre-queued Netflix movie. Over the years, Karen and I have puzzled the source of our movie addiction. The end of any discussion on why we are the way we are, always targets mother as the villain or our savior.
"It was coming out of the hollow and going to town on Saturday's for groceries and necessary shopping," is Karen's constant explanation. "We'd get a dime from mother for the cowboy and Indian movie, playing at the Sequoyah," is always my memory.
Lash LaRue, the Lone Ranger, and Tarzan, stoked our imaginations with enough fuel to last five days to play our Saturday-made, theater fantasies, back in the two hills protecting our house in the hollow. The seventh day was reserved for the Baptists; there was no playing. Later, came exploring the Osage Theater when we moved from Cherokee Country to Bartlesville and entered Osage territory.
I could say Christmas time is movie time, or, Thanksgiving time is movie time. But, actually, any time of the year is movie time. Yesterday, middle-son, Peter, and I saw the fantastic movie, The Fighter. Christian Bale and Mark Wahlberg played the true life story of half-brothers, Dickie Eklund and Micky Ward. I hate boxing. I had to cover my eyes during the fight scenes. But, I'm putting this movie right on top of Laura Hillenbrand's book, Unbroken. Both movie and book are stories of "Survival, Resilience, and Redemption." I think Karen and I are going to be taking huge doses of all three.
Christmas Day -- December 25, 2010
The day is cold and dreary--colorless, except for two large holiday red bows, silver tinsel, and blinking blue lights on the neighbor's house across the street. I am certain this is why I did not like, True Grit. I left the theater with a feeling of melancholy. There was no color in the movie. How many shades of brown and grey are there? I didn't think about counting until afterwards, but I think the director called for and the cinematographer, following directions, mixed together every single shade of brown, grey, black, and white, exiting on a paint pallet. The look of the movie has carried into Christmas Day. There's no smiling in greys and browns.
Because of Karen's news, time stood still--frozen in its immediate footsteps. Or, so it seemed. I awakened this morning with the leftovers of disturbing dreams. There was no whole cloth, only pieces of old, faded, frayed, fabric, alongside new colorful material, with the smell of fresh dye and edges designed by the work of pinking shears. The only way to make sense of this discord was to take a few strings handing from the old an tie to the small triangles of the newly pinked. A few days ago, I watched F. F. Coppola's, Apocalypse Now. Captain Willard (Martin Sheen) and Kurtz (Marlon Brando) got right in my face and reminded me of how we tore ourselves apart in Vietnam and haven't quite figured out how to put the remnants of ourselves back together again. Maybe Apocalypse was reincarnated into the patterns of my cloth dream. "Oh man,"said Willard ... "the bullshit piled up so high in Vietnam, you needed wings to stay above it." Cousin Lynn told me such stories. But, often, if you have not had the experience, you can't make the connection.
October 28, 2013
Karen and I had a long talk today. I asked her if she would mind if I posted this two year old blog. Did I ever tell you our family keeps secrets? Information is both tangled and hidden. One could more easily find light through a Kudzu thicket than fight the way to truth and enlightenment through the thick layers of secrets pulsating through the aged-old, embedded grapevines of our family. Karen and I are still trying.
December 22, 2010
Karen called from Tulsa, Oklahoma, late Monday, December 20, 2010, to tell me a mass had been found in her right lung. She paused to take a breath--my heart skipped a beat and my breathing stopped until she spoke again. "I guess we won't be coming Christmas."
"It's a small tumor," Karen continued, "Just about the size of a nickel or dime."" At the same time I wanted to run and yank a nickel and a dime from my purse and put them side-by-side, on the table, right in front of me, to touch and see. I was listening to Karen's voice as she talked. There was a flat affect.
My brother-in-law--Dan's words--then joined the conversation. "It is either a small cell lung cancer or a non-small lung cancer. The doctor told us the area around the tumor was spiculated and consistent with cancer. What will happen is, if the tumor is small cell, Karen will undergo chemotherapy and radiation. If the tumor turns out to be non-small cell, she will have surgery. The last outcome is the best." As the professor he is, I could just as easily have been sitting in a classroom listening to Dan give a lecture comparing two types of lung cancer and their treatment. A portion of my brain heard what Dan was saying; the rest of me, tried to rein in an imagination gone wild.
"But, Karen, we don't have any lung cancer on either side of the family."
"Yes, we do. cousin Lynn."
"But, Lynn's lung cancer was caused by two Vietnam tours, being dusted with Agent Orange and his many years of working in a chemical plant. He even told me one time that because of a work accident, he was doused from head-to-toe with two types of lethal chemicals. Lynn thought the chemical bath did him in." I looked at the palm of my right hand to check the length of my life line.
"Lynn never told me that," Karen said. "Besides, everyone in our family smoked--both sides; there was second hand smoke everywhere. But, I haven't smoked in 20 years. Tomorrow morning, I'm going into the hospital for a biopsy. Next comes the pathology work-up news. We'll have the results in a couple of days. I've got to be at the hospital at 10 in the morning and the actual biopsy is scheduled for 11:30."
"Well, Karen, how are you doing? Are you freaked out? I just don't understand this. Why would the doctors automatically say you have cancer? I know of people who have had suspicious 'dark spots' show up on x-rays and they don't turn out to be cancer. The tumor doesn't have to be small cell or non-small cell. It could be just a nothing." Denial was doing its job.
Dan's words slid back into the conversation. "I think the doctors are just preparing for the worst. Then, if they turn out to be wrong, everyone can smile and be grateful."
Christmas Eve -- December 24, 2010
All Dan wanted for Christmas in Austin was to see, True Grit, Joel and Ethan Cohen's remake of the old John Wayne classic. But, that's what he and Karen did in Tulsa yesterday--go to the movies. They said it was 'good, just not great.' Probably an academy award nomination would go to Jeff Bridges and the young actress, Hailee Steinfeld, playing the role of Mattie Ross. Matt Damon and Josh Brolin would have to sit this award ceremony out, as their characters would fade into the monochromatic, dusty West.
My bet is that Karen and Dan just switched seats after they got home--from the theater to the couch and a pre-queued Netflix movie. Over the years, Karen and I have puzzled the source of our movie addiction. The end of any discussion on why we are the way we are, always targets mother as the villain or our savior.
"It was coming out of the hollow and going to town on Saturday's for groceries and necessary shopping," is Karen's constant explanation. "We'd get a dime from mother for the cowboy and Indian movie, playing at the Sequoyah," is always my memory.
Lash LaRue, the Lone Ranger, and Tarzan, stoked our imaginations with enough fuel to last five days to play our Saturday-made, theater fantasies, back in the two hills protecting our house in the hollow. The seventh day was reserved for the Baptists; there was no playing. Later, came exploring the Osage Theater when we moved from Cherokee Country to Bartlesville and entered Osage territory.
I could say Christmas time is movie time, or, Thanksgiving time is movie time. But, actually, any time of the year is movie time. Yesterday, middle-son, Peter, and I saw the fantastic movie, The Fighter. Christian Bale and Mark Wahlberg played the true life story of half-brothers, Dickie Eklund and Micky Ward. I hate boxing. I had to cover my eyes during the fight scenes. But, I'm putting this movie right on top of Laura Hillenbrand's book, Unbroken. Both movie and book are stories of "Survival, Resilience, and Redemption." I think Karen and I are going to be taking huge doses of all three.
Christmas Day -- December 25, 2010
The day is cold and dreary--colorless, except for two large holiday red bows, silver tinsel, and blinking blue lights on the neighbor's house across the street. I am certain this is why I did not like, True Grit. I left the theater with a feeling of melancholy. There was no color in the movie. How many shades of brown and grey are there? I didn't think about counting until afterwards, but I think the director called for and the cinematographer, following directions, mixed together every single shade of brown, grey, black, and white, exiting on a paint pallet. The look of the movie has carried into Christmas Day. There's no smiling in greys and browns.
Because of Karen's news, time stood still--frozen in its immediate footsteps. Or, so it seemed. I awakened this morning with the leftovers of disturbing dreams. There was no whole cloth, only pieces of old, faded, frayed, fabric, alongside new colorful material, with the smell of fresh dye and edges designed by the work of pinking shears. The only way to make sense of this discord was to take a few strings handing from the old an tie to the small triangles of the newly pinked. A few days ago, I watched F. F. Coppola's, Apocalypse Now. Captain Willard (Martin Sheen) and Kurtz (Marlon Brando) got right in my face and reminded me of how we tore ourselves apart in Vietnam and haven't quite figured out how to put the remnants of ourselves back together again. Maybe Apocalypse was reincarnated into the patterns of my cloth dream. "Oh man,"said Willard ... "the bullshit piled up so high in Vietnam, you needed wings to stay above it." Cousin Lynn told me such stories. But, often, if you have not had the experience, you can't make the connection.
October 28, 2013
Karen and I had a long talk today. I asked her if she would mind if I posted this two year old blog. Did I ever tell you our family keeps secrets? Information is both tangled and hidden. One could more easily find light through a Kudzu thicket than fight the way to truth and enlightenment through the thick layers of secrets pulsating through the aged-old, embedded grapevines of our family. Karen and I are still trying.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
The Lone Ranger
Of course I've been running. But, only my feet have been moving. My mind has been stuck. I know--I know--Peter and Joel are tired of hearing me rail about it--the devastating reviews of Walt Disney's, The Lone Ranger. Movie critics just killed the movie. I thought, 'The cowboys are at it again. They are killing the Indians.'
No doubt about it. The negative reviews of The Lone Ranger messed with a set of treasured memories--built--Saturday by Saturday--in and by a ten year old girl, sitting in a theater, watching cowboy and Indian movies. The Lone Ranger was a favorite. Admittedly, watching the battles between the Indians and the Whites of whatever Western was showing that Saturday, I often walked away from the theater wondering--why were the Indians never allowed to win.
If reviewers ever get the podium, having anything to say about it, the Indians are never going to claim victory. Instead, they just fancy dance up to a piece of paper, pick up the favored weapon of today and start to write. They lick their sharpened pencils, click their pens, hit the keyboard, dip into the red ink, and marshal an attack. More than likely, doing so, the movie critics have confused a whole generation of Americans by re-mixing childhood memories--memories that kept us grounded.
I loved The Lone Ranger. My sister, Karen, loved The Lone Ranger. Even Peter left the theater with a smile on his face. He got it! I know my father, who served time in two Indian boarding schools, would have smiled when Johnny Depp called The Lone Ranger 'an idiot.' The unmistakable, subtle Indian humor, threaded throughout the movie, came down like welcomed rain.
And, one more thing--supposing--just supposing--did the critics ever consider the heart scene, the one critics loudly chorused and christened so violent children should not see the movie, a metaphor for White's tearing out the very Heart of the Indian tribes? And, here's a hoot. The violence in World War Z, I guess was blessed. Apparently, it's OK for kids to watch zombies killing other zombies and killing real live people.
And, supposing, just supposing--did they every really sit back and think about the black crow? The one on Tonto's head? Which, by the way, belongs in the Sioux culture, not Cheyenne. Did they ever think this mixing up was an intentional visual display of how the White's forcibly attempted the cultural blending of Indian tribes. 'Blending' could be just a dirty little euphemism for 'Let's round 'em all up, and make 'em be White.' You know-like Americans--real Americans. I think this is the grand end game of multiculturalism.
Instead, this caused the experts of 'which to see movies,' to criticize Johnny Depp for not being a real Indian. Well, what is a real Indian anymore? Those critics ungrounded me for a few weeks. But, I'm back. Back to running with joy, occasionally sharing my thoughts and new discoveries. The part of me, the memory of the little Indian girl sitting in the Saturday movies, delighting in the antics of Tonto and The Lone Ranger, are back in a safe place. I know Peter and Joel are relieved.
Jody Sunday Kehle
email: jkehle@austin.rr.com
No doubt about it. The negative reviews of The Lone Ranger messed with a set of treasured memories--built--Saturday by Saturday--in and by a ten year old girl, sitting in a theater, watching cowboy and Indian movies. The Lone Ranger was a favorite. Admittedly, watching the battles between the Indians and the Whites of whatever Western was showing that Saturday, I often walked away from the theater wondering--why were the Indians never allowed to win.
If reviewers ever get the podium, having anything to say about it, the Indians are never going to claim victory. Instead, they just fancy dance up to a piece of paper, pick up the favored weapon of today and start to write. They lick their sharpened pencils, click their pens, hit the keyboard, dip into the red ink, and marshal an attack. More than likely, doing so, the movie critics have confused a whole generation of Americans by re-mixing childhood memories--memories that kept us grounded.
I loved The Lone Ranger. My sister, Karen, loved The Lone Ranger. Even Peter left the theater with a smile on his face. He got it! I know my father, who served time in two Indian boarding schools, would have smiled when Johnny Depp called The Lone Ranger 'an idiot.' The unmistakable, subtle Indian humor, threaded throughout the movie, came down like welcomed rain.
And, one more thing--supposing--just supposing--did the critics ever consider the heart scene, the one critics loudly chorused and christened so violent children should not see the movie, a metaphor for White's tearing out the very Heart of the Indian tribes? And, here's a hoot. The violence in World War Z, I guess was blessed. Apparently, it's OK for kids to watch zombies killing other zombies and killing real live people.
And, supposing, just supposing--did they every really sit back and think about the black crow? The one on Tonto's head? Which, by the way, belongs in the Sioux culture, not Cheyenne. Did they ever think this mixing up was an intentional visual display of how the White's forcibly attempted the cultural blending of Indian tribes. 'Blending' could be just a dirty little euphemism for 'Let's round 'em all up, and make 'em be White.' You know-like Americans--real Americans. I think this is the grand end game of multiculturalism.
Instead, this caused the experts of 'which to see movies,' to criticize Johnny Depp for not being a real Indian. Well, what is a real Indian anymore? Those critics ungrounded me for a few weeks. But, I'm back. Back to running with joy, occasionally sharing my thoughts and new discoveries. The part of me, the memory of the little Indian girl sitting in the Saturday movies, delighting in the antics of Tonto and The Lone Ranger, are back in a safe place. I know Peter and Joel are relieved.
Jody Sunday Kehle
email: jkehle@austin.rr.com
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