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.
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
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Running Commentary
Running Commentary #15
Saturday/November 10, 2012
There's been a heavy acorn crop this year. People have been pulling out brooms and climbing ladders to clear sidewalks, driveways, reach, stretch, and sweep roofs. Who would have thought something as tiny as a thimble would cause such a fuss.
As I ran a neighborhood street this morning, watching and listening to the early dawning sights and sounds of a new day, snapping noises could be heard, as acorn shells, unable to escape from the soles of my size ten running shoes, got flattened on the street. Popping sounds could be heard, made by car tires, catching an unlucky acorn that became a victim, made ready by non-motion.
The morning air was nippy. An intentional cross-training-walk-only, soon re-defined itself as a jog-along, with a hurry-up pace. I was soon generating enough body heat to come off brain idle and energize 'stream-thinking.'
The acorns are a dime a dozen.
Appropriate cliche, I thought.
Could that be an oxymoron, I wondered?
What about the dime a dozen?
Strange how the number ten bubbles up all the time.
My feet are size ten.
Big feet. Disappointment. Didn't exactly conform to mother's imagined Scarlett O'Hara's body
type.
I stopped in the street and picked up a half empty acorn shell and held it in my hand. As a child, living in the Hollow With No Name, half acorn shells weren't for squashing or throwing away; they were to be collected, stored, and used as tea cups for the king and queen of the woods dinner parties, or maybe just set aside to collect rainwater as a present for the Little People living in the woods. Acorns were purposeful; how-to-use ideas were forever arcing around an unbounded field of imagination. I tucked the half empty acorn shell safely into my pocket and fast walked on.
Acorns aside for a moment, Americans have had a trying couple of weeks. Jiggering with another time change, the national election, a destructive hurricane that ripped the East Coast, followed by nature thumping the same land mass with a snow storm. Usually, running overcomes stress. but, these events have not been normal; stress has trumped running.
Foremost, I was worried about my youngest son, Joel, in New York City. Living without electricity, or heat, and in the dark. Maybe no food? Now, that's serious business. Growing up, I was imprinted with Depression tales of the effects of hunger.
The morning jog-walk wasn't over. Forty-five minutes minimum. That's the self-rule. Then back to modernity and the continuing hunt for up-to-date news--on cable or the Internet.
Strange--all of a sudden, a vision of paper dolls floated into consciousness. With an extra dime, mother could buy us a book full of paper doll cut-outs. My sisters and I could while away an afternoon cutting out their clothes, re-dressing them, moving them about, having them talk to their cut-out friends, or move them in and out of cut-out three dimensional structures, we'd put together from the patterns in the book--or, we could fashion houses from twigs, moss, rocks, and acorns, found in the woods, bringing our creations into a physical world for make believe play.
With all the time spent Internet searching for news of the storm, Sandy, the economy, and election politics, I became aware of how irritating it was to find side pictures, with teasy headlines, of and about, the likes of Kim Kardashian, or Britney Spears, or a Lindsay Lohan, competing with important news that was actually affecting people's lives. These gals were frozen, like preserved insects, caught in amber. I wanted to slap my hands over my eyes. It was kind of like watching stills of a scary movie. Kim, Britney, and Lindsay, were such sad, painful, figures. Manufactured big boobs, glitzy jewelry, and slinky clothes, didn't make 'it feel better.'
Then, I got it. These are today's paper dolls. Only, you can't cut them out of a computer screen, cut out their paper clothes, re-dress them, move them about, have them talk to their cut-out friends. They are untouchable. They can't live in the land of play reality. They are edited, and re-edited; the un-reals captured by the glass screen of technology.
The Lindsay's, Britney's, and Kim's, are destined to be one dimensional. They can't enter the unseen multi-dimensional world of the Little People, spirits found in the caves, hills, and woods, which surrounded the Hollow With No Name. While not seen--not wanting to be seen--the Little People are there to help and protect the Cherokee people. Too, they preserve memories and imagination. They adore music. Maybe they heard me singing to the music of my I-Pad, caused me to stop and pick up the half acorn, followed me home, smiled and watched as I took it from my pocket and placed it safely on my desk. Their duty of teaching a lesson was done for the day.
Saturday/November 10, 2012
There's been a heavy acorn crop this year. People have been pulling out brooms and climbing ladders to clear sidewalks, driveways, reach, stretch, and sweep roofs. Who would have thought something as tiny as a thimble would cause such a fuss.
As I ran a neighborhood street this morning, watching and listening to the early dawning sights and sounds of a new day, snapping noises could be heard, as acorn shells, unable to escape from the soles of my size ten running shoes, got flattened on the street. Popping sounds could be heard, made by car tires, catching an unlucky acorn that became a victim, made ready by non-motion.
The morning air was nippy. An intentional cross-training-walk-only, soon re-defined itself as a jog-along, with a hurry-up pace. I was soon generating enough body heat to come off brain idle and energize 'stream-thinking.'
The acorns are a dime a dozen.
Appropriate cliche, I thought.
Could that be an oxymoron, I wondered?
What about the dime a dozen?
Strange how the number ten bubbles up all the time.
My feet are size ten.
Big feet. Disappointment. Didn't exactly conform to mother's imagined Scarlett O'Hara's body
type.
I stopped in the street and picked up a half empty acorn shell and held it in my hand. As a child, living in the Hollow With No Name, half acorn shells weren't for squashing or throwing away; they were to be collected, stored, and used as tea cups for the king and queen of the woods dinner parties, or maybe just set aside to collect rainwater as a present for the Little People living in the woods. Acorns were purposeful; how-to-use ideas were forever arcing around an unbounded field of imagination. I tucked the half empty acorn shell safely into my pocket and fast walked on.
Acorns aside for a moment, Americans have had a trying couple of weeks. Jiggering with another time change, the national election, a destructive hurricane that ripped the East Coast, followed by nature thumping the same land mass with a snow storm. Usually, running overcomes stress. but, these events have not been normal; stress has trumped running.
Foremost, I was worried about my youngest son, Joel, in New York City. Living without electricity, or heat, and in the dark. Maybe no food? Now, that's serious business. Growing up, I was imprinted with Depression tales of the effects of hunger.
The morning jog-walk wasn't over. Forty-five minutes minimum. That's the self-rule. Then back to modernity and the continuing hunt for up-to-date news--on cable or the Internet.
Strange--all of a sudden, a vision of paper dolls floated into consciousness. With an extra dime, mother could buy us a book full of paper doll cut-outs. My sisters and I could while away an afternoon cutting out their clothes, re-dressing them, moving them about, having them talk to their cut-out friends, or move them in and out of cut-out three dimensional structures, we'd put together from the patterns in the book--or, we could fashion houses from twigs, moss, rocks, and acorns, found in the woods, bringing our creations into a physical world for make believe play.
With all the time spent Internet searching for news of the storm, Sandy, the economy, and election politics, I became aware of how irritating it was to find side pictures, with teasy headlines, of and about, the likes of Kim Kardashian, or Britney Spears, or a Lindsay Lohan, competing with important news that was actually affecting people's lives. These gals were frozen, like preserved insects, caught in amber. I wanted to slap my hands over my eyes. It was kind of like watching stills of a scary movie. Kim, Britney, and Lindsay, were such sad, painful, figures. Manufactured big boobs, glitzy jewelry, and slinky clothes, didn't make 'it feel better.'
Then, I got it. These are today's paper dolls. Only, you can't cut them out of a computer screen, cut out their paper clothes, re-dress them, move them about, have them talk to their cut-out friends. They are untouchable. They can't live in the land of play reality. They are edited, and re-edited; the un-reals captured by the glass screen of technology.
The Lindsay's, Britney's, and Kim's, are destined to be one dimensional. They can't enter the unseen multi-dimensional world of the Little People, spirits found in the caves, hills, and woods, which surrounded the Hollow With No Name. While not seen--not wanting to be seen--the Little People are there to help and protect the Cherokee people. Too, they preserve memories and imagination. They adore music. Maybe they heard me singing to the music of my I-Pad, caused me to stop and pick up the half acorn, followed me home, smiled and watched as I took it from my pocket and placed it safely on my desk. Their duty of teaching a lesson was done for the day.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Running Commentary #14
Running Commentary #14
October 31, 2010 -- Wednesday
As I headed down the straight three mile stretch, on my way to meet Laura for our early morning Sunday run, the early fall landscape spread in front of me was the sight of an empty street. No people--only deer. This is a fairly typical sight the morning after a loosing UTX football game. Front doors shut tight, shielding sour moods. The deer, though, were out and about and rambunctious. Their mood was good; they had extra free street-room to run.
My car herded a mob of deer down a full block before they broke to let me through. For one glorious moment, I imagined I was Running with the Bulls in Pamplona--picturing and pretending for another mile I was in Spain. Then my thoughts drifted to yesterday, catching the remembered sounds of music floating by, generated by going to a concert--on purpose--actual live music.
This story begins with the Sunday family moving from the house in the hollow to Bartlesville. The two home structures were separated by about 100 miles of pavement and gravel and 100 degrees of cultural difference. The new, eight hundred foot, low mortgage G.I. Bill, Bartlesville house became the place I would live, from age 10 until age 16. This new house even included an inside bathroom--in my eyes--quite a palace.
To mother, 133 was Tara and, like Tara, would grow in size through the years. Over a fifty year period, 133, according to mother, just about doubled in square footage. One Thirty-Three, initiated the start of what I call mother's Gone with The Wind era. Her three daughters were safely out of the woods and she was hell bent on molding a trio of 'Charlotte O'Hara's.' High on the list of our 'genteelization' was music. My domain was the French horn and piano lessons. Baby sister got the clarinet and flute. Memory includes the sounds of a few piano scales from my older sister. Maybe, her latent talent was un-coaxable, as her piano sounds quickly fade from memory.
Baby sister was a different case. The sounds she brought forth from the clarinet and flute were so loud and discordant, mother moved her out of the house to a front yard chair for daily practice. I guess there were complaints from the neighbors because these sounds soon faded, too.
Mother then discovered I could carry a tune and decided I needed voice lessons. She found a teacher and took me in for an eye-to-eye meeting. Instructions were given to come back, with sheet music, for a second lesson. I did, and walked in with mother's selection--From the Halls of Montezuma--I think mother must have been trying to merge World War II and the Civil War. Or, maybe she got them mixed up. I was embarrassed; mother was proud; the voice teacher didn't quite know what to do. Imagine--Les Paul and Mary Ford; Rosemary Clooney; Georgia Gibbs; and Patti Page, were left on the shelves. Rock and Roll was just around the corner. But, I continued to sing and play the piano and French horn. Music became an important part of my life.
That is, until June 19, 1984, the day my eldest son, Eric, died. The day the music stopped. I took every radio out of the house; every stereo; the piano; sold all records, music books and sheet music from the 1950s. Music became painful; I wanted it gone from my life. And, it was. I made it so.
Yesterday, I went to a concert--on purpose--to listen to live music. A barrier of unimaginable psychic pain was breached. What causes deeply buried memories to make their way to the surface: What causes aged old unspeakable suffering to begin to heal? Driving down an empty street on a beautiful Sunday morning? Herding deer? Perhaps no explanation is needed. Yesterday, I went to a concert--on purpose--to listen to live music.
The Sunday run was beautiful.
October 31, 2010 -- Wednesday
As I headed down the straight three mile stretch, on my way to meet Laura for our early morning Sunday run, the early fall landscape spread in front of me was the sight of an empty street. No people--only deer. This is a fairly typical sight the morning after a loosing UTX football game. Front doors shut tight, shielding sour moods. The deer, though, were out and about and rambunctious. Their mood was good; they had extra free street-room to run.
My car herded a mob of deer down a full block before they broke to let me through. For one glorious moment, I imagined I was Running with the Bulls in Pamplona--picturing and pretending for another mile I was in Spain. Then my thoughts drifted to yesterday, catching the remembered sounds of music floating by, generated by going to a concert--on purpose--actual live music.
This story begins with the Sunday family moving from the house in the hollow to Bartlesville. The two home structures were separated by about 100 miles of pavement and gravel and 100 degrees of cultural difference. The new, eight hundred foot, low mortgage G.I. Bill, Bartlesville house became the place I would live, from age 10 until age 16. This new house even included an inside bathroom--in my eyes--quite a palace.
To mother, 133 was Tara and, like Tara, would grow in size through the years. Over a fifty year period, 133, according to mother, just about doubled in square footage. One Thirty-Three, initiated the start of what I call mother's Gone with The Wind era. Her three daughters were safely out of the woods and she was hell bent on molding a trio of 'Charlotte O'Hara's.' High on the list of our 'genteelization' was music. My domain was the French horn and piano lessons. Baby sister got the clarinet and flute. Memory includes the sounds of a few piano scales from my older sister. Maybe, her latent talent was un-coaxable, as her piano sounds quickly fade from memory.
Baby sister was a different case. The sounds she brought forth from the clarinet and flute were so loud and discordant, mother moved her out of the house to a front yard chair for daily practice. I guess there were complaints from the neighbors because these sounds soon faded, too.
Mother then discovered I could carry a tune and decided I needed voice lessons. She found a teacher and took me in for an eye-to-eye meeting. Instructions were given to come back, with sheet music, for a second lesson. I did, and walked in with mother's selection--From the Halls of Montezuma--I think mother must have been trying to merge World War II and the Civil War. Or, maybe she got them mixed up. I was embarrassed; mother was proud; the voice teacher didn't quite know what to do. Imagine--Les Paul and Mary Ford; Rosemary Clooney; Georgia Gibbs; and Patti Page, were left on the shelves. Rock and Roll was just around the corner. But, I continued to sing and play the piano and French horn. Music became an important part of my life.
That is, until June 19, 1984, the day my eldest son, Eric, died. The day the music stopped. I took every radio out of the house; every stereo; the piano; sold all records, music books and sheet music from the 1950s. Music became painful; I wanted it gone from my life. And, it was. I made it so.
Yesterday, I went to a concert--on purpose--to listen to live music. A barrier of unimaginable psychic pain was breached. What causes deeply buried memories to make their way to the surface: What causes aged old unspeakable suffering to begin to heal? Driving down an empty street on a beautiful Sunday morning? Herding deer? Perhaps no explanation is needed. Yesterday, I went to a concert--on purpose--to listen to live music.
The Sunday run was beautiful.
Running Commentary #14
Running Commentary #14
October 31, 2012 -- Wednesday
As I headed down the straight three mile stretch, on my way to meet Laura for our early morning Sunday run, the early fall landscape spread in front of me was the sight of an empty street. No people--only deer. This is a fairly typical sight the morning after a losing UTX football game. Front doors shut tight, shielding sour moods. The deer, though, were out and about and rambunctious. Their mood was good; they had extra free street-room to run.
My car herded a mob down a full block before the deer broke to let me through. For one glorious moment, I imagined I was Running with the Bulls in Pamplona--picturing andn pretending for another mile that I was in Spain. Then my thoughts drifted to yesterday, catching the remembered sounds of music floating by, generated by going to a concert--on purpose--actual live music.
October 31, 2012 -- Wednesday
As I headed down the straight three mile stretch, on my way to meet Laura for our early morning Sunday run, the early fall landscape spread in front of me was the sight of an empty street. No people--only deer. This is a fairly typical sight the morning after a losing UTX football game. Front doors shut tight, shielding sour moods. The deer, though, were out and about and rambunctious. Their mood was good; they had extra free street-room to run.
My car herded a mob down a full block before the deer broke to let me through. For one glorious moment, I imagined I was Running with the Bulls in Pamplona--picturing andn pretending for another mile that I was in Spain. Then my thoughts drifted to yesterday, catching the remembered sounds of music floating by, generated by going to a concert--on purpose--actual live music.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Running Commentary
Running Commentary: #13
Sunday, October, 14, 2012
It was still dark; the cold morning air held hostage by a strong, unfriendly wind. Welcome to the world of age group running.
What in the world was I doing in this IBM parking lot, already filled with hundreds of vehicles of all shapes, sizes, and models? Still too dark to determine colors.
Laura was sitting in the front passenger seat. She pulled out her I-Pad and announced, "There was no way she was getting out in that cold! The race didn't start for another hour." I got out of the car, though, scoped out the parking lot, and played like I was running. It had been a year since I'd run a 10K, and I thought a bit of warming up was warranted. Besides, I had to decide what 'visual' would run along side me this morning. Sometimes it's Eric; sometimes mother; sometimes I focus on my Indian self, and run across the plains like the old days; remembered scenes from The Man From Snowy River, with the fantastic Australian Brumby horses careening down impossibly steep mountainsides, creating a pictorial visual rush could be a selection; the number of times Laura has yelled, "Iron Will! Iron Will," so mental toughness would emerge to get me up a hill, are uncountable. Scenes from the movie, Iron Will, capturing the misery of a young boy completing the suffering of the Iditarod, are responsible for keeping it in the selection of possibles. Of course, the pain of a run, regardless of its length, are inconsequential compared to the horrific physical pain Eric and mother withstood, the last days of their lives. If they could stand it, so could I. Their stories are the ultimate driver. As Sue, my good friend says, "I hate that cancer!"
Laura finally opened the car door. "Time to go find the startling line,: she said. And, we did. We pushed our way into the middle of 1,600 other runners and settled on a spot that was not too fast and not too slow. Time to find out if our five months of training work was going to pay off. We stood a few minutes, talking off the nerves, ignoring the cold. Then, the crowd began to move forward. I never heard the start-horn. Too late--Our feet picked up the rhythm of a shuffle; my heart picked up its beat; the sounds of breathing began to run with the wind. What I'd decided to take along with me was Kurt's comment--"The blog needs a bit of drama." It would take some time for me to puzzle out an answer to--why the remark; 6.2 miles was just about right.
To search, first, I've got to return to ground-zero. Whether it's habit or a ritual, who knows? It just is. The start-line always begins with, #10 Highway, five years old, and Indian country. It's time travel in repeat. Recently, I got a glimpse of this process in the movie, Looper, except the actors in Looper were coming from future to present. I'm traveling from past to present. At the end of the first mile, as Laura and I were navigating the crowd and running side-by-side, my mind eased into the following scene:
I really didn't want to go to school. They made fun of me. Or, at least they stared at me. The girls did. I only paid attention to the girls. That's all I knew. All I'd every been around. My mother, my two sisters, my grandmothers, and aunts. All the men, including daddy, had gone to war.
My hair was blonde. My eyes green. My skin White. I had freckles. I knew my sister must be in this school, too. She was older than e. I didn't know where she was. I never remember seeing her get on the bus. She has black hair. Dark eyes. Dark skin. My mother thinks she is beautiful.
One time, I went into the girls bathroom and another girl followed me and told me I was going to the devil. I didn't know why. I never told my mother. But, I've been fighting it ever since. It's a problem, this trying to stay away from the devil. I was only five years old. First grade. I don't know whether it was the bad luck of having a birthday in December or my mother just wanting to get me out of her hair. But, school started in September. And, there I was.
I think the reason the girls didn't like me was because they looked Indian and I didn't. Maybe they were fullblood. Maybe not. I wasn't. Daddy was Indian. Mother White. But, genes play tricks, but also make wonders. My sisters looked Indian. Me, the middle, was different. Looking different on the outside in the Indian world, a part of you on the inside thinking and acting White, is just down right confusing. Besides, my mama told me I couldn't tell anyone I was Indian.
One foot here. One foot there. Daily walking is not straight or even. Year after year after year. The rubbing together of time doesn't always smooth out identity confusion.
Time and direction of those years is a gauntlet lined and divided by women. The female side is White. They face the men--the Indians. This is not a team. It's my family, rich with drama; seeds planted to grow a lifetime of drama.
Laura and I ended mile three; the wind blew us around a corner. We were into the hill of mile four. I was running fine by using the sounds of Laura's breath as a metronome. Perfect tempo for me. Laura must have gotten tired of my breath-drafting, as she surged ahead. I-Pod time. Vangelis--Chariots of Fire and Bill Haley's, Rock Around the Clock, pulled me through mile five and mile six. The last .2 distance? I ran like the devil.
Sunday, October, 14, 2012
It was still dark; the cold morning air held hostage by a strong, unfriendly wind. Welcome to the world of age group running.
What in the world was I doing in this IBM parking lot, already filled with hundreds of vehicles of all shapes, sizes, and models? Still too dark to determine colors.
Laura was sitting in the front passenger seat. She pulled out her I-Pad and announced, "There was no way she was getting out in that cold! The race didn't start for another hour." I got out of the car, though, scoped out the parking lot, and played like I was running. It had been a year since I'd run a 10K, and I thought a bit of warming up was warranted. Besides, I had to decide what 'visual' would run along side me this morning. Sometimes it's Eric; sometimes mother; sometimes I focus on my Indian self, and run across the plains like the old days; remembered scenes from The Man From Snowy River, with the fantastic Australian Brumby horses careening down impossibly steep mountainsides, creating a pictorial visual rush could be a selection; the number of times Laura has yelled, "Iron Will! Iron Will," so mental toughness would emerge to get me up a hill, are uncountable. Scenes from the movie, Iron Will, capturing the misery of a young boy completing the suffering of the Iditarod, are responsible for keeping it in the selection of possibles. Of course, the pain of a run, regardless of its length, are inconsequential compared to the horrific physical pain Eric and mother withstood, the last days of their lives. If they could stand it, so could I. Their stories are the ultimate driver. As Sue, my good friend says, "I hate that cancer!"
Laura finally opened the car door. "Time to go find the startling line,: she said. And, we did. We pushed our way into the middle of 1,600 other runners and settled on a spot that was not too fast and not too slow. Time to find out if our five months of training work was going to pay off. We stood a few minutes, talking off the nerves, ignoring the cold. Then, the crowd began to move forward. I never heard the start-horn. Too late--Our feet picked up the rhythm of a shuffle; my heart picked up its beat; the sounds of breathing began to run with the wind. What I'd decided to take along with me was Kurt's comment--"The blog needs a bit of drama." It would take some time for me to puzzle out an answer to--why the remark; 6.2 miles was just about right.
To search, first, I've got to return to ground-zero. Whether it's habit or a ritual, who knows? It just is. The start-line always begins with, #10 Highway, five years old, and Indian country. It's time travel in repeat. Recently, I got a glimpse of this process in the movie, Looper, except the actors in Looper were coming from future to present. I'm traveling from past to present. At the end of the first mile, as Laura and I were navigating the crowd and running side-by-side, my mind eased into the following scene:
I really didn't want to go to school. They made fun of me. Or, at least they stared at me. The girls did. I only paid attention to the girls. That's all I knew. All I'd every been around. My mother, my two sisters, my grandmothers, and aunts. All the men, including daddy, had gone to war.
My hair was blonde. My eyes green. My skin White. I had freckles. I knew my sister must be in this school, too. She was older than e. I didn't know where she was. I never remember seeing her get on the bus. She has black hair. Dark eyes. Dark skin. My mother thinks she is beautiful.
One time, I went into the girls bathroom and another girl followed me and told me I was going to the devil. I didn't know why. I never told my mother. But, I've been fighting it ever since. It's a problem, this trying to stay away from the devil. I was only five years old. First grade. I don't know whether it was the bad luck of having a birthday in December or my mother just wanting to get me out of her hair. But, school started in September. And, there I was.
I think the reason the girls didn't like me was because they looked Indian and I didn't. Maybe they were fullblood. Maybe not. I wasn't. Daddy was Indian. Mother White. But, genes play tricks, but also make wonders. My sisters looked Indian. Me, the middle, was different. Looking different on the outside in the Indian world, a part of you on the inside thinking and acting White, is just down right confusing. Besides, my mama told me I couldn't tell anyone I was Indian.
One foot here. One foot there. Daily walking is not straight or even. Year after year after year. The rubbing together of time doesn't always smooth out identity confusion.
Time and direction of those years is a gauntlet lined and divided by women. The female side is White. They face the men--the Indians. This is not a team. It's my family, rich with drama; seeds planted to grow a lifetime of drama.
Laura and I ended mile three; the wind blew us around a corner. We were into the hill of mile four. I was running fine by using the sounds of Laura's breath as a metronome. Perfect tempo for me. Laura must have gotten tired of my breath-drafting, as she surged ahead. I-Pod time. Vangelis--Chariots of Fire and Bill Haley's, Rock Around the Clock, pulled me through mile five and mile six. The last .2 distance? I ran like the devil.
Running Commentary: #13
Running Commentary: #13
Sunday, October 14, 2012
It was still dark; the cold morning air held hostage by a strong, unfriendly wind. Welcome to the world of age group running.
What in the world was I doing in this IBM parking lot, already filled with hundreds of vehicles of all shapes, sizes, and models? Still too dark to determine colors.
Laura was sitting in the front passenger seat. She pulled out her I-Pad and announced, "There was no way she was getting out in that cold! The race didn't start for another hour." I got out of the car, though, scoped out the parking lot, and played like I was running. It had been a year since I'd run a 10K, and I thought a bit of warming up was warranted. Beside, I had to decide what 'visual' would run alongside me this morning. Sometimes it's Eric; sometimes mother; sometimes I focus on my Indian self, and run across the plains like the old days; remembered scenes from The Man From Snowy River, with the fantastic Australian Brumby horses careening down impossibly steep mountainsides, creating a pictorial visual rush could be a selection; the number of times Laura has yelled, "Iron Will! Iron Will," so mental toughness would emerge to get me up a hill, are uncountable. Scenes from the movie, Iron Will, capturing the misery of a young boy completing the suffering of the Iditarod, are responsible for keeping it in the selection of possibles. Of course, the pain of a run, regardless of its length, are inconsequential compared to the horrific physical pain Eric and mother withstood, the last days of their lives. If they could stand it, so could I. Their stories are the ultimate driver. As Sue, my good friend says, "I hate that cancer!"
Laura finally opened the car door. "Time to go find the starting line," she said. And, we did. We pushed our way into the middle of 1,600 other runners and settled on a spot that was not too fast and not too slow. Time to find out if our five months of training work was going to pay off. We stood a few minutes, talking off the nerves, ignoring the cold. Then, the crowd began to move forward. I never heard the start-horn. Too late--Our feet picked up the rhythm of a shuffle; my heart picked up its beat; the sounds of breathing began to run with the wind. What I'd decided to take along with me was Kurt's comment--"All the blog needs is a little drama." It would take some time for me to puzzle out an answer to--why the remark; 6.2 miles was just about right.
To search, first, I've got to return to ground-zero. Whether it's habit or a ritual, who knows? It just is. The start-line always features, #10 Highway, five years old, and Indian country. It's time travel in repeat. Recently, I got a glimpse of this process in the movie, Looper, except the actors in Looper were coming from future to present. I'm traveling from past to present.
At the end of the first mile, as Laura and I were navigating the crowd and running side-by-side, my mind eased into the following scene:
I really didn't want to go to school. They made fun of me. Or, at least, they stared at me. The girls did. I only paid attention to the girls. That's all I knew. All I'd ever been around. My mother, my two sisters, my grandmothers, and aunts. All the men, including daddy, had gone to war.
My hair was blonde. My eyes green. My skin White. I had freckles. I knew my sister must be in this school, too. She was older than me. I didn't know where she was. I never remember seeing her get on the bus. She has black hair. Dark eyes. Dark skin. My mother thinks she is beautiful.
On time, when I went into the girl's bathroom, a girl followed me and told me I was going to the devil. I didn't know why. I never told my mother. But, I've been fighting it ever since. It's a problem, this trying to stay away from the devil. I was only five years old. First grade. I don't know whether it was the bad luck of having a birthday in December or my mother just wanting to get me out of her hair. But, school started in September. And, there I was.
I think the reason the girls didn't like me was because they looked Indian and I didn't. Maybe they were fullblood. Maybe not. I wasn't. Daddy was Indian. Mother White. But, genes play tricks but also make wonders. My older sister looked Indian as did my baby sister. Me, the middle, was different. Looking different on the outside in the Indian world, a part of you on the inside thinking and acting White, is just down right confusing. My mama told me I couldn't tell anyone I was Indian.
One foot here. One foot there. Daily walking is not straight or even. Year after year after year. The rubbing together of time doesn't always smooth out identity confusion.
Time and the direction of those years is a gauntlet lined and divided by women. The female side is White. They face the men--the Indians. This is not a team. It's my family, rich with drama; seeds planted to grow a lifetime of drama.
Laura and I ended mile three; the wind blew us around a corner. We were into the hill of mile four. I was running fine by using the sounds of Laura's breath as a metronome. Perfect tempo for me. Laura must have gotten tired of my breath-drafting, as she surged ahead. I-Pod time. Vangelis--Chariots of Fire and Bill Haley's, Rock Around the Clock, pulled me through mile five and mile six. The last .2 distance? I ran like the devil.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
It was still dark; the cold morning air held hostage by a strong, unfriendly wind. Welcome to the world of age group running.
What in the world was I doing in this IBM parking lot, already filled with hundreds of vehicles of all shapes, sizes, and models? Still too dark to determine colors.
Laura was sitting in the front passenger seat. She pulled out her I-Pad and announced, "There was no way she was getting out in that cold! The race didn't start for another hour." I got out of the car, though, scoped out the parking lot, and played like I was running. It had been a year since I'd run a 10K, and I thought a bit of warming up was warranted. Beside, I had to decide what 'visual' would run alongside me this morning. Sometimes it's Eric; sometimes mother; sometimes I focus on my Indian self, and run across the plains like the old days; remembered scenes from The Man From Snowy River, with the fantastic Australian Brumby horses careening down impossibly steep mountainsides, creating a pictorial visual rush could be a selection; the number of times Laura has yelled, "Iron Will! Iron Will," so mental toughness would emerge to get me up a hill, are uncountable. Scenes from the movie, Iron Will, capturing the misery of a young boy completing the suffering of the Iditarod, are responsible for keeping it in the selection of possibles. Of course, the pain of a run, regardless of its length, are inconsequential compared to the horrific physical pain Eric and mother withstood, the last days of their lives. If they could stand it, so could I. Their stories are the ultimate driver. As Sue, my good friend says, "I hate that cancer!"
Laura finally opened the car door. "Time to go find the starting line," she said. And, we did. We pushed our way into the middle of 1,600 other runners and settled on a spot that was not too fast and not too slow. Time to find out if our five months of training work was going to pay off. We stood a few minutes, talking off the nerves, ignoring the cold. Then, the crowd began to move forward. I never heard the start-horn. Too late--Our feet picked up the rhythm of a shuffle; my heart picked up its beat; the sounds of breathing began to run with the wind. What I'd decided to take along with me was Kurt's comment--"All the blog needs is a little drama." It would take some time for me to puzzle out an answer to--why the remark; 6.2 miles was just about right.
To search, first, I've got to return to ground-zero. Whether it's habit or a ritual, who knows? It just is. The start-line always features, #10 Highway, five years old, and Indian country. It's time travel in repeat. Recently, I got a glimpse of this process in the movie, Looper, except the actors in Looper were coming from future to present. I'm traveling from past to present.
At the end of the first mile, as Laura and I were navigating the crowd and running side-by-side, my mind eased into the following scene:
I really didn't want to go to school. They made fun of me. Or, at least, they stared at me. The girls did. I only paid attention to the girls. That's all I knew. All I'd ever been around. My mother, my two sisters, my grandmothers, and aunts. All the men, including daddy, had gone to war.
My hair was blonde. My eyes green. My skin White. I had freckles. I knew my sister must be in this school, too. She was older than me. I didn't know where she was. I never remember seeing her get on the bus. She has black hair. Dark eyes. Dark skin. My mother thinks she is beautiful.
On time, when I went into the girl's bathroom, a girl followed me and told me I was going to the devil. I didn't know why. I never told my mother. But, I've been fighting it ever since. It's a problem, this trying to stay away from the devil. I was only five years old. First grade. I don't know whether it was the bad luck of having a birthday in December or my mother just wanting to get me out of her hair. But, school started in September. And, there I was.
I think the reason the girls didn't like me was because they looked Indian and I didn't. Maybe they were fullblood. Maybe not. I wasn't. Daddy was Indian. Mother White. But, genes play tricks but also make wonders. My older sister looked Indian as did my baby sister. Me, the middle, was different. Looking different on the outside in the Indian world, a part of you on the inside thinking and acting White, is just down right confusing. My mama told me I couldn't tell anyone I was Indian.
One foot here. One foot there. Daily walking is not straight or even. Year after year after year. The rubbing together of time doesn't always smooth out identity confusion.
Time and the direction of those years is a gauntlet lined and divided by women. The female side is White. They face the men--the Indians. This is not a team. It's my family, rich with drama; seeds planted to grow a lifetime of drama.
Laura and I ended mile three; the wind blew us around a corner. We were into the hill of mile four. I was running fine by using the sounds of Laura's breath as a metronome. Perfect tempo for me. Laura must have gotten tired of my breath-drafting, as she surged ahead. I-Pod time. Vangelis--Chariots of Fire and Bill Haley's, Rock Around the Clock, pulled me through mile five and mile six. The last .2 distance? I ran like the devil.
Monday, October 01, 2012
Running Commentary #12: October 3, 2012
Sometimes the writing muse just goes into hiding; no courtesy whatsoever; no peeking around a corner, giving up a teasing smile, before scurrying off, again, into the darkness.What a dirty game she can play. My searching around for decent running commentary topics has found only emptiness; a topical landscape thoroughly scrubbed.
I wish I could find it--the small picture. Me sitting on the wooden school steps, with the group of Ute Indian kids. All with black, straight hair, and me, right in the middle--the 'toe head.' The picture was taken in Blanding, Utah. Mother didn't know it at the time, but Daddy would soon be on his way to Germany. The reason--WWII.
That paragraph you just read--it doesn't mean anything more than a pencil searching for creative juice. Why have I thought about this creativity stopper--making someone color within the lines--for so long? One thing I do know. If you put your finger on the Indian characteristic of, "I've gotta think about it for a while," and push that button, give yourself the million dollar prize.
I've pondered the problem long enough. The fizzle left my creative dizzle for a few weeks. Circular thinking has won the battle. Linear thinking lost. The Indians circled and beat the White guys this time. Any topic now goes, except, of course, money, politics, and religion. I grew up in a time where those three topics were completely off limits in polite society. No wonder I got caught in the tech bust, don't have the patience for long-winded, worthless meetings, don't want to learn the art of double-speak, and am curious why most folks look puzzled when you say, Siddhartha--as in Siddhartha the Buddha.
A famous Buddhist saying goes:
"Do not speak--unless it improves on the silence."
The silence is over. Time to ratchet up the blog again.
You might think Laura and I are just out there blind-assed running. Nothing could be further from the truth. We've got a plan and it's being put to the test this coming Sunday morning. It's IBM 10K time. I'll keep you posted.
I wish I could find it--the small picture. Me sitting on the wooden school steps, with the group of Ute Indian kids. All with black, straight hair, and me, right in the middle--the 'toe head.' The picture was taken in Blanding, Utah. Mother didn't know it at the time, but Daddy would soon be on his way to Germany. The reason--WWII.
That paragraph you just read--it doesn't mean anything more than a pencil searching for creative juice. Why have I thought about this creativity stopper--making someone color within the lines--for so long? One thing I do know. If you put your finger on the Indian characteristic of, "I've gotta think about it for a while," and push that button, give yourself the million dollar prize.
I've pondered the problem long enough. The fizzle left my creative dizzle for a few weeks. Circular thinking has won the battle. Linear thinking lost. The Indians circled and beat the White guys this time. Any topic now goes, except, of course, money, politics, and religion. I grew up in a time where those three topics were completely off limits in polite society. No wonder I got caught in the tech bust, don't have the patience for long-winded, worthless meetings, don't want to learn the art of double-speak, and am curious why most folks look puzzled when you say, Siddhartha--as in Siddhartha the Buddha.
A famous Buddhist saying goes:
"Do not speak--unless it improves on the silence."
The silence is over. Time to ratchet up the blog again.
You might think Laura and I are just out there blind-assed running. Nothing could be further from the truth. We've got a plan and it's being put to the test this coming Sunday morning. It's IBM 10K time. I'll keep you posted.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Running Commentary: #11
Running Commentary: #11
August 14, 2012 -- Tuesday
Reminiscing -- Going back to where it all started
Long ago, some Saturday's found me at the Indian Boarding School. My friend Nakita lived there in one of those small institutional houses built by the government. They were so drab. No color anywhere. Cheap, brown furniture inside the thin walls. Government issue. Brown dirt outside. No grass, flowers, or bushes holding it down. Blowing away on the wind. Losing more Indian land minute-by-minute.
I don't remember how I got to Nakita's government house, how long I stayed, or how I got home. Who took me? Who picked me up? I'm guessing it was mother. Who else would it be. I just remember the in-between. Wadding up pieces of paper into small balls. Using spit to make them hard. The ammunition Nakita and I divided up, as we took our places behind the only sofa or chair in the living room. Taking a couple of rubber bands saved in our jean pockets, we began to play war. Spending many Saturday's together, we never tired of this game.
Nakita came in and out of my life for a number of years after the games-of-war period. We became uncomfortable with each other. I was hop, skipping, and jumping back and forth between the White and Indian worlds; Nakita was one hundred percent Indian. Strange, I don't think I ever met her father. Nor, do I ever remember seeing her mother on those Saturday visits. The wind blew dust in my eyes.
One time, Nakita came to my house in the hollow to play. The day was hot. School was over for the summer. We had a bike. Where it came from, I don't know because I don't remember ever seeing it again.
We rode that bike, taking turns, up and down #10 Highway, outside of Tahlequah. The lazy, meandering Illinois River kept us company alongside. Whoever wasn't riding ran whatever distance the rider chose to go. There was only one rule to the game. Don't be greedy with your turn.
I'm certain I ran barefooted. Every year, I had my own ritual to initiate summertime. Throw off my shoes and run the rocky road from my house to the highway. When I could go the distance without feeling any pain, the feet were tough, ready for all the adventures of summer. It took a few practice runs to pass the test.
I don't remember any cars on the highway that day. No traffic to break our concentration. Just a steady cycle of one girl riding a bike, one running along behind, waiting her turn. No clouds. Squinting into the bright distance. Feeling the pleasant tickle of sweat. No conversation. Total focus.
Nakita was the runner. I'd just taken over the bike. "Wait!" I heard her say, as I'd just gotten up to full speed. "I can't feel my legs!" came the word sounds through the wind. I turned my head and could see she had fallen behind. She was in trouble and I braked. "Give me the bike to ride!" she shouted. "I think I've got Polio."
There was no worse word than Polio in our lives, other than War. I was stunned. I didn't know much about Polio, other than it was very bad. I was a sure-fire-alert word!
Nakita had come to a dead stop in the middle of the highway. Just a few seconds ago she had been running. This must be really bad. I turned and pedaled as fast as I could to help Nakita.
Kind of dazed, thinking about Polio, I got off the bike and turned the handlebars over to Nakita and watched as she was miraculously cured. She got on the bike and her legs began to pump in straight, furious strokes. It was a transformation. I stood and watched--dumbfounded. My eyes were in slow motion. Nakita started laughing as she faded away into the distance. I couldn't move.
"I tricked you. I tricked you!" I though I heard her say. I began to run and finally caught the bike. "You cheated, Nakita. I didn't get my turn. Give it back!" By now, though, Nakita had thought up a new game. Changed the rules. Whoever had possession of the bike was the ruler. She laughed again and told me she was just hot and tired and needed to rest. I was pretty dumb to believe she had Polio, she told me. She laughed again. I don't remember her laugh as being pretty.
I don't think I was angry with Nakita. But, I did feel shame. I must have felt shame because I've never told anyone this story before. But, I can tell you that whenever I have writing drought, two words are ever present and ready: truth and dishonesty.
August 14, 2012 -- Tuesday
Reminiscing -- Going back to where it all started
Long ago, some Saturday's found me at the Indian Boarding School. My friend Nakita lived there in one of those small institutional houses built by the government. They were so drab. No color anywhere. Cheap, brown furniture inside the thin walls. Government issue. Brown dirt outside. No grass, flowers, or bushes holding it down. Blowing away on the wind. Losing more Indian land minute-by-minute.
I don't remember how I got to Nakita's government house, how long I stayed, or how I got home. Who took me? Who picked me up? I'm guessing it was mother. Who else would it be. I just remember the in-between. Wadding up pieces of paper into small balls. Using spit to make them hard. The ammunition Nakita and I divided up, as we took our places behind the only sofa or chair in the living room. Taking a couple of rubber bands saved in our jean pockets, we began to play war. Spending many Saturday's together, we never tired of this game.
Nakita came in and out of my life for a number of years after the games-of-war period. We became uncomfortable with each other. I was hop, skipping, and jumping back and forth between the White and Indian worlds; Nakita was one hundred percent Indian. Strange, I don't think I ever met her father. Nor, do I ever remember seeing her mother on those Saturday visits. The wind blew dust in my eyes.
One time, Nakita came to my house in the hollow to play. The day was hot. School was over for the summer. We had a bike. Where it came from, I don't know because I don't remember ever seeing it again.
We rode that bike, taking turns, up and down #10 Highway, outside of Tahlequah. The lazy, meandering Illinois River kept us company alongside. Whoever wasn't riding ran whatever distance the rider chose to go. There was only one rule to the game. Don't be greedy with your turn.
I'm certain I ran barefooted. Every year, I had my own ritual to initiate summertime. Throw off my shoes and run the rocky road from my house to the highway. When I could go the distance without feeling any pain, the feet were tough, ready for all the adventures of summer. It took a few practice runs to pass the test.
I don't remember any cars on the highway that day. No traffic to break our concentration. Just a steady cycle of one girl riding a bike, one running along behind, waiting her turn. No clouds. Squinting into the bright distance. Feeling the pleasant tickle of sweat. No conversation. Total focus.
Nakita was the runner. I'd just taken over the bike. "Wait!" I heard her say, as I'd just gotten up to full speed. "I can't feel my legs!" came the word sounds through the wind. I turned my head and could see she had fallen behind. She was in trouble and I braked. "Give me the bike to ride!" she shouted. "I think I've got Polio."
There was no worse word than Polio in our lives, other than War. I was stunned. I didn't know much about Polio, other than it was very bad. I was a sure-fire-alert word!
Nakita had come to a dead stop in the middle of the highway. Just a few seconds ago she had been running. This must be really bad. I turned and pedaled as fast as I could to help Nakita.
Kind of dazed, thinking about Polio, I got off the bike and turned the handlebars over to Nakita and watched as she was miraculously cured. She got on the bike and her legs began to pump in straight, furious strokes. It was a transformation. I stood and watched--dumbfounded. My eyes were in slow motion. Nakita started laughing as she faded away into the distance. I couldn't move.
"I tricked you. I tricked you!" I though I heard her say. I began to run and finally caught the bike. "You cheated, Nakita. I didn't get my turn. Give it back!" By now, though, Nakita had thought up a new game. Changed the rules. Whoever had possession of the bike was the ruler. She laughed again and told me she was just hot and tired and needed to rest. I was pretty dumb to believe she had Polio, she told me. She laughed again. I don't remember her laugh as being pretty.
I don't think I was angry with Nakita. But, I did feel shame. I must have felt shame because I've never told anyone this story before. But, I can tell you that whenever I have writing drought, two words are ever present and ready: truth and dishonesty.
Wednesday, August 08, 2012
Running Commentary: #10
Running Commentary: #10
October 4, 2012--Sunday
Laura went one-on-one with herself in lonely sidebars during the warm-up part of this Sunday's run. I didn't listen too carefully. Just stuff about being so tired because of a family garage sale yesterday. Her feet hurt. She didn't know if her legs would make it this morning. We call this condition the "Ya-Da-Ya-Da" song and just ask for consideration in keeping the volume turned low because, depending on the 'Yada's' mood, there can be many verses.
We're rounding the home curve. Laura's mailbox, with water bottles perched on top, is in sight. We're working hard and sweat drenched as proof. The fist twenty minutes crossed off our hour and a half morning goal.
This distance is as good as it's going to get for me. For the second time, I've had to scratch from the Marine Corp Marathon; just too hot to run the couple of needed twenty-training miles. Peter told me it was dumb to train for a marathon during a Texas summer anyway. But, the fingers of a Sagittarius are trping this message: If someone says it can't be done, that's an invitation to do it--or, as the years have accumulated--at least, try it.
Try it, we did--like adding a long hill--going up about a mile; not down. The reasoning behind this morning test was, if we were really serious about running the IBM 10K, early October, we might as well get in a little simulation to bring out the stimulation. Half way up, these words were heard mixing it up with ragged breathing. "Laura, see that guy over there? He's passing us.: Laura kept her head down and plowed on. "Laura, look! He stopped. Not gonna happen to us." We hit a cross-street stop sign. I managed a "runners coming through." Eyes down, I noticed some spit on the street. This is kind of a runner's ritual thing. A few feet further, more spit. The guy's leading us home, I thought. If I could of mustered the extra breath, I would have burst into a chorus of an original gospel song--He's Leading Us Home. At least that's the way I felt when we got to the top--I'd reached heaven.
Catch-breath-hydration-time over. From what I can remember, the next twenty minutes were over in a hurry--time spent talking about some Jamaican father claiming his Olympic running son was fast because of all the yams he ate. We wondered, what's the difference between a yam and a sweet potato? A lot! But, Google also told me the U.S. government has confused the whole situation by labeling our sweet potatoes, yams. This may turn out to be one of the hidden, underlying causes of our screwed up economy. If the government can cover up the true identity of yams, there's no telling what lengths they'll go to, keeping 'higher-archy' shenanigans from us.
Then the subject jumped to the American Civil Liberties Union suing the State of Michigan over the low literacy rates in the public schools. The state's graduating their kids without knowing how to read! Who's to blame? What's to blame? It sure as heck isn't the teachers, according to Laura. Her breathing rhythm gets all out of whack when teachers are criticized; we dropped out of that topic after passing one mother pushing a baby stroller, two wobbly-legged baby deer, cars rubbernecking and us waving back.
"See that cat up ahead?" I said.
"Nope."
"He's sitting in the street, with his paws on the curb--right by your mailbox."
"I'm really hurtin'," said Laura.
"Speed it up. Looks like he's praying us in to home base." There's nothing like the sight of a praying cat for motivation.
Laura made it but didn't stop for a drink. "Gotta take a bathroom break," she yelled and headed for her house. Not much to say about that. If you've gotta go; you gotta go. Although a bathroom spot in-house, sure beats an outhouse. That final thought ended a Sunday successful run.
October 4, 2012--Sunday
Laura went one-on-one with herself in lonely sidebars during the warm-up part of this Sunday's run. I didn't listen too carefully. Just stuff about being so tired because of a family garage sale yesterday. Her feet hurt. She didn't know if her legs would make it this morning. We call this condition the "Ya-Da-Ya-Da" song and just ask for consideration in keeping the volume turned low because, depending on the 'Yada's' mood, there can be many verses.
We're rounding the home curve. Laura's mailbox, with water bottles perched on top, is in sight. We're working hard and sweat drenched as proof. The fist twenty minutes crossed off our hour and a half morning goal.
This distance is as good as it's going to get for me. For the second time, I've had to scratch from the Marine Corp Marathon; just too hot to run the couple of needed twenty-training miles. Peter told me it was dumb to train for a marathon during a Texas summer anyway. But, the fingers of a Sagittarius are trping this message: If someone says it can't be done, that's an invitation to do it--or, as the years have accumulated--at least, try it.
Try it, we did--like adding a long hill--going up about a mile; not down. The reasoning behind this morning test was, if we were really serious about running the IBM 10K, early October, we might as well get in a little simulation to bring out the stimulation. Half way up, these words were heard mixing it up with ragged breathing. "Laura, see that guy over there? He's passing us.: Laura kept her head down and plowed on. "Laura, look! He stopped. Not gonna happen to us." We hit a cross-street stop sign. I managed a "runners coming through." Eyes down, I noticed some spit on the street. This is kind of a runner's ritual thing. A few feet further, more spit. The guy's leading us home, I thought. If I could of mustered the extra breath, I would have burst into a chorus of an original gospel song--He's Leading Us Home. At least that's the way I felt when we got to the top--I'd reached heaven.
Catch-breath-hydration-time over. From what I can remember, the next twenty minutes were over in a hurry--time spent talking about some Jamaican father claiming his Olympic running son was fast because of all the yams he ate. We wondered, what's the difference between a yam and a sweet potato? A lot! But, Google also told me the U.S. government has confused the whole situation by labeling our sweet potatoes, yams. This may turn out to be one of the hidden, underlying causes of our screwed up economy. If the government can cover up the true identity of yams, there's no telling what lengths they'll go to, keeping 'higher-archy' shenanigans from us.
Then the subject jumped to the American Civil Liberties Union suing the State of Michigan over the low literacy rates in the public schools. The state's graduating their kids without knowing how to read! Who's to blame? What's to blame? It sure as heck isn't the teachers, according to Laura. Her breathing rhythm gets all out of whack when teachers are criticized; we dropped out of that topic after passing one mother pushing a baby stroller, two wobbly-legged baby deer, cars rubbernecking and us waving back.
"See that cat up ahead?" I said.
"Nope."
"He's sitting in the street, with his paws on the curb--right by your mailbox."
"I'm really hurtin'," said Laura.
"Speed it up. Looks like he's praying us in to home base." There's nothing like the sight of a praying cat for motivation.
Laura made it but didn't stop for a drink. "Gotta take a bathroom break," she yelled and headed for her house. Not much to say about that. If you've gotta go; you gotta go. Although a bathroom spot in-house, sure beats an outhouse. That final thought ended a Sunday successful run.
Friday, August 03, 2012
Running Commentary: #9
Running Commentary: #9
July 30, 2012 -- Monday
Laura was a no-show this morning. Today's run featured the familiar duo of me and my mind. The me, raised its hand to shade eyes and see if anyone else was on the track. The mind wondered if anyone was reading this blog. That silent question got me going. I warmed up by slowly running the yellow center line of the track for a start-to-the-day balance check; thoughts began popping in and out of my head about running, Indians, and pop culture.
All of these writings are telling a story--in the Indian way. I'll bet you the dime I found on the track the other day, by the time my story is finished, a circle can be drawn from its beginning to its end. It's just that it can take a long time to get from here to there. You see, Indian stories have five parts: "time, place, character (s), event, and purpose" (Fixico, p. 25). Time can be then and now; the importance is explaining the "why and how something happened." Place provides reference points to our experiences. Characters can be human or animal. Listeners form opinions; do they respect, disrespect, like, or don't like the characters. The event is the core of the story--this is where knowledge and the lesson, the purpose, is given.
Two miles of slow running begins to put me back in time. If I ever lost my Saturday movie money, my eight-year-old legs would walk the main street of town until mother finished shopping.
Saturday, in town, was where all the local news was exchanged. Stories told. Births, obituaries announced. Politics and business discussed. Tales of woe and boastful claims quietly broadcast. This was face-to-face social networking.
Often, I would sit on the bench in front of the dry goods store, if someone scooted over to make room, and just people watch. Or, I would walk around the circle path in front of the old historic courthouse, listening to the elders who were sitting around, talk the sounds of the sing-songy, poetic cadence of the Cherokee language. I thought the sounds beautiful; like listening to music.
It was healing tonic to hear the sounds of soft laughter and watch the side language of hand expressions. Hands gently moving; a slow twist of the wrist; palms up and open, making a verbal, aerial solo, in time to their movement. The hands made silent statements, filled with meaning.
The Cherokee language was not spoken in our home. Mother always told us the reason was our Grandfather, Andy Sunday, my daddy's father, didn't want his children speaking Cherokee. That meant all nine of them. There were two more children--Sequoyah and Laura. But, they died, way before learning to talk.
Mother's explanation always seemed incomplete and a bit off to me. That piece of family history had a ragged edge. You see, my grandfather, Andy, grew up in a home speaking both Cherokee and English. He was the eldest son of Jesse and his wife, Alice Hair. Since my Great-grandfather, Jesse Sunday, was the elected Sheriff in Saline County, Oklahoma, one of the nine districts making up the Cherokee Nation, in 1841, it doesn't seem likely he could have held this position without fluency in the Cherokee language. Just makes sense his son, Andy, could speak Cherokee.
Even daddy told me once that his father, Andy, was fluent in both English and the Cherokee language--in speaking and writing. During the early years before and after Oklahoma statehood, being bi-lingual, Andy often served as an interpreter in the courts at Tahlequah between the non-English speaking litigants and the Court. But, this was in the years before Andy, the Cherokee, and my Grandmother, the White preacher's daughter, married.
Whatever the reason, the Cherokee language began to vocally disappear from our family. Could my father speak Cherokee? It's one of those mysteries that will remain hidden in past history. But, the Cherokee language lay in the shadows of my young life, moving back into consciousness on those Saturday's when I missed the movie and could sit and listen to its musical sounds and enjoy the feeling of delight.
Three more miles have gone by; the water bottle is empty; my mind is drifting back to real time; playtime is over.
Interesting reading: Donald L. Fixico (2003). The American Indian Mind In A Linear World. Routledge.
July 30, 2012 -- Monday
Laura was a no-show this morning. Today's run featured the familiar duo of me and my mind. The me, raised its hand to shade eyes and see if anyone else was on the track. The mind wondered if anyone was reading this blog. That silent question got me going. I warmed up by slowly running the yellow center line of the track for a start-to-the-day balance check; thoughts began popping in and out of my head about running, Indians, and pop culture.
All of these writings are telling a story--in the Indian way. I'll bet you the dime I found on the track the other day, by the time my story is finished, a circle can be drawn from its beginning to its end. It's just that it can take a long time to get from here to there. You see, Indian stories have five parts: "time, place, character (s), event, and purpose" (Fixico, p. 25). Time can be then and now; the importance is explaining the "why and how something happened." Place provides reference points to our experiences. Characters can be human or animal. Listeners form opinions; do they respect, disrespect, like, or don't like the characters. The event is the core of the story--this is where knowledge and the lesson, the purpose, is given.
Two miles of slow running begins to put me back in time. If I ever lost my Saturday movie money, my eight-year-old legs would walk the main street of town until mother finished shopping.
Saturday, in town, was where all the local news was exchanged. Stories told. Births, obituaries announced. Politics and business discussed. Tales of woe and boastful claims quietly broadcast. This was face-to-face social networking.
Often, I would sit on the bench in front of the dry goods store, if someone scooted over to make room, and just people watch. Or, I would walk around the circle path in front of the old historic courthouse, listening to the elders who were sitting around, talk the sounds of the sing-songy, poetic cadence of the Cherokee language. I thought the sounds beautiful; like listening to music.
It was healing tonic to hear the sounds of soft laughter and watch the side language of hand expressions. Hands gently moving; a slow twist of the wrist; palms up and open, making a verbal, aerial solo, in time to their movement. The hands made silent statements, filled with meaning.
The Cherokee language was not spoken in our home. Mother always told us the reason was our Grandfather, Andy Sunday, my daddy's father, didn't want his children speaking Cherokee. That meant all nine of them. There were two more children--Sequoyah and Laura. But, they died, way before learning to talk.
Mother's explanation always seemed incomplete and a bit off to me. That piece of family history had a ragged edge. You see, my grandfather, Andy, grew up in a home speaking both Cherokee and English. He was the eldest son of Jesse and his wife, Alice Hair. Since my Great-grandfather, Jesse Sunday, was the elected Sheriff in Saline County, Oklahoma, one of the nine districts making up the Cherokee Nation, in 1841, it doesn't seem likely he could have held this position without fluency in the Cherokee language. Just makes sense his son, Andy, could speak Cherokee.
Even daddy told me once that his father, Andy, was fluent in both English and the Cherokee language--in speaking and writing. During the early years before and after Oklahoma statehood, being bi-lingual, Andy often served as an interpreter in the courts at Tahlequah between the non-English speaking litigants and the Court. But, this was in the years before Andy, the Cherokee, and my Grandmother, the White preacher's daughter, married.
Whatever the reason, the Cherokee language began to vocally disappear from our family. Could my father speak Cherokee? It's one of those mysteries that will remain hidden in past history. But, the Cherokee language lay in the shadows of my young life, moving back into consciousness on those Saturday's when I missed the movie and could sit and listen to its musical sounds and enjoy the feeling of delight.
Three more miles have gone by; the water bottle is empty; my mind is drifting back to real time; playtime is over.
Interesting reading: Donald L. Fixico (2003). The American Indian Mind In A Linear World. Routledge.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Running Commentary: #8
Running Commentary: #8
July 24, 2012--Tuesday
The day before Laura and family were to return from the coast, I was, once again, standing on the grassy knoll, overlooking the high school track, staring, and making up my mind what running drills I could talk my body into doing. Pin-pointed at the end of the stare, I noticed a host of young, lean, trim, male teenage football hopefuls, being pushed through systematic, physical drills. What a puzzling sight; the coaches were a visual oxymoron; they were fat. Looked like the only calories they were burning were blowing a whistle. Watching the contradiction gave me good reason to stall my workout for a few minutes. I never did make sense of it.
July 25, 2012--Wednesday
Glory be to humidity. I could have entered a wet T-shirt constest after the first twenty minutes. Probably wouldn't have won a prize, though.
Laura was back from the coast, full of stories and new information. For the first time, I heard about her love of fishing; A River Runs Through It? She loves this movie! Other days were spent sand castle building. To the beat of our feet, the castle building process was explained, along with a mention of disappointment that the guy giving castle building lessons was all booked. I learned sand-sculptors scooped up sand and let the water drain from the grains in order to create solidity. This part of the process was not working the days Laura was on the job because white grass seaweed strands had woven themselves throughout the sand; the water couldn't drain; the sand coudn't compact.
The sand castle report was coming at about the fifty minute mark. I had slowed to a walk; mental concentration was getting tough; humidity was playing bandit with energy; queasy tummy; definitely time to head back to water. Silence took over.
I call Laura, Top-Shelf Science Teacher. This satisfies my tendency to give people nick-names. Replacing names, I think, comes from an age old practice of American Indians to joke by changing names to identify Whites by various perceived characteristics. Today, I think my habit simply excuses my inability to remember people's names. Instead of Top-Shelf Science Teacher, though, we could just call Laura, TSST. This satisfies the popular need to reduce the English language to acronyms; the purpose being, to exclude and confuse others--or maybe, it's nothing more than mental laziness.
Laura is always devising interesting ways to teach science--to the young and old. This morning, she was into The Karate Kid and Mr. Miyagi's 'wax on' and 'wax off' lesson to Daniel-san. Laura had transferred Mr. Miyagi's car waxing lesson from Karate to the heavens. By moving the right hand in a right handed circular motion, one could remember the moon was getting bigger--it's waxing phase; the left hand, moving in a left handed circular motion meant the moon was in a waning phase, or getting smaller; clever teacher.
Considering my disappointing slow-down, we agreed tomorrow would be a rest day. New plan--meet at the track. Laura wanted to look at the football coaches.
Interesting reading: Portraits of "THE WHITEMAN" Linguistic play and cultural symbols among the Western Apache. Keith H. Basso with a foreword by Dell Hymes. 1992. Cambridge University Press.
July 24, 2012--Tuesday
The day before Laura and family were to return from the coast, I was, once again, standing on the grassy knoll, overlooking the high school track, staring, and making up my mind what running drills I could talk my body into doing. Pin-pointed at the end of the stare, I noticed a host of young, lean, trim, male teenage football hopefuls, being pushed through systematic, physical drills. What a puzzling sight; the coaches were a visual oxymoron; they were fat. Looked like the only calories they were burning were blowing a whistle. Watching the contradiction gave me good reason to stall my workout for a few minutes. I never did make sense of it.
July 25, 2012--Wednesday
Glory be to humidity. I could have entered a wet T-shirt constest after the first twenty minutes. Probably wouldn't have won a prize, though.
Laura was back from the coast, full of stories and new information. For the first time, I heard about her love of fishing; A River Runs Through It? She loves this movie! Other days were spent sand castle building. To the beat of our feet, the castle building process was explained, along with a mention of disappointment that the guy giving castle building lessons was all booked. I learned sand-sculptors scooped up sand and let the water drain from the grains in order to create solidity. This part of the process was not working the days Laura was on the job because white grass seaweed strands had woven themselves throughout the sand; the water couldn't drain; the sand coudn't compact.
The sand castle report was coming at about the fifty minute mark. I had slowed to a walk; mental concentration was getting tough; humidity was playing bandit with energy; queasy tummy; definitely time to head back to water. Silence took over.
I call Laura, Top-Shelf Science Teacher. This satisfies my tendency to give people nick-names. Replacing names, I think, comes from an age old practice of American Indians to joke by changing names to identify Whites by various perceived characteristics. Today, I think my habit simply excuses my inability to remember people's names. Instead of Top-Shelf Science Teacher, though, we could just call Laura, TSST. This satisfies the popular need to reduce the English language to acronyms; the purpose being, to exclude and confuse others--or maybe, it's nothing more than mental laziness.
Laura is always devising interesting ways to teach science--to the young and old. This morning, she was into The Karate Kid and Mr. Miyagi's 'wax on' and 'wax off' lesson to Daniel-san. Laura had transferred Mr. Miyagi's car waxing lesson from Karate to the heavens. By moving the right hand in a right handed circular motion, one could remember the moon was getting bigger--it's waxing phase; the left hand, moving in a left handed circular motion meant the moon was in a waning phase, or getting smaller; clever teacher.
Considering my disappointing slow-down, we agreed tomorrow would be a rest day. New plan--meet at the track. Laura wanted to look at the football coaches.
Interesting reading: Portraits of "THE WHITEMAN" Linguistic play and cultural symbols among the Western Apache. Keith H. Basso with a foreword by Dell Hymes. 1992. Cambridge University Press.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Running Commentary: #7b
Running Commentary: #7b
July 20, 2012--Friday
Slow-Mo today. Laura and family have abandoned Austin. They've headed to the Texas coast for an early 'adios' to summer.
Free time is disappearing; back to school days are looming. So, I've been given a five day test on self-discipline and perseverance--hold the line on daily running--'Suck It Up.' Bill Saporito wrote a great article, Survival of The Fitness, in the latest Time. It was all about what it takes to win the Olympic gold. It's not the most athletically gifted; it's all about mental toughness, enduring pain, and who works the hardest. Made me think we shouldn't have had a banner stretched across America's skies, "Mission Accomplished." Better to have a new one flying, saying, "Work Harder!"
On the morning before the leaving-for-the-coast farewell run, Laura told me that both her husband's and mother's car batteries had died--on the same day. She thought it odd and not a coincidence. Probably caused by the Solar Cycle 24. Her guess was, the neighborhood was sitting in a pocket of magnetic field weakness and the Earth needed the energy juice from car batteries to keep circling. Now, while she hadn't had time to do a house-by-house canvass for a dead battery count, Laura thought it was, on the spot, a pretty darn good working theory. We laughed, grabbed an ice cube and took off. Success! We located nonsense to start the run with a smile.
Before we'd turned the corner of the first block, here came more news from Laura. "I told the girls yesterday, that after 30 minutes of T.V., they had to turn it off and find something else to do for the rest of the day. After the whines came a surprise, They created and filmed YouTube movies for the rest of the day."
Whoa! T-Time. We've entered a magic zone. Like in the valley of Technologies of Expressions.
"Uh...how did they make a movie? On what," I asked, Laura.
"On their cell phones, silly."
"Well, you know I told you it took me three days to figure out how to post my first picture on Facebook, and I was so proud of myself, I've still got the feeling, and not wanting it spoiled, I haven't tried to post another since."
I guess my comment wasn't worth a follow-up because Laura just ignored me. Time to change talk-run tempo, anyway. We were coming in for our first water break.
"You know the air is getting dirtier.I can measure the quality of what we're breathing by bath taking. There are black flecks on the bottom of the tub after the water drains. This wasn't the case a few years ago. I know it's all the gunk flying in the air. The sweat in the hair traps it.Good thing I've got straight, grow forward, Indian hair, the polluted air debris just slides right out with a good shampooing."
Laura wasn't too interested in talking about hair pollution. Actually, the range of talk topics was light. Had to have been because when I later thumbed through my little spiral where I take notes at the water breaks on what we've talked about, the pages were blank. This was just a 'get it over with' and 'get on with it,' kind of morning.
July 22, 2012--Sunday
Walking to the high school track this morning, I spied a dime, half-way buried in the dirt. Did I bend over to pick it up? Of course I did. To me, dimes are precious.
Growing up, in our house in the hollow, there was no radio to touch the outside world. No music. No telephone. Just the Saturday afternoon movie in town, where mother would put me and my two sisters, so she could go buy groceries, with a stop-over at the ice plant to buy the family block of ice for the week. My hand can still feel the dime I was given to buy my ticket to get into the theatre and see the magic--Roy Rogers. Lash LaRue. The Lone Ranger. Red Ryder. Black and White images filling the screen with action. My fingers were squeezed so tightly around a thin piece of silver. Sometimes I kept it in my mouth to make certain I would never lose it.
In every single movie, the White cowboys or White army always won. No one ever explained to me why the Indians were always made to play the enemy. In those day, though, if you were on the enemy side, you lost.
On those going into town Saturday's, ever so often, regardless of all my protective rituals, my show money would disappear. And, when this happened, the only thing left to do was while away time by walking and exploring the few blocks of the town's main street until mother finished her Saturday errands. So, this morning, I stopped and picked up the dime and walked toward the track, on my way to run, listen to music, and explore a new morning.
July 20, 2012--Friday
Slow-Mo today. Laura and family have abandoned Austin. They've headed to the Texas coast for an early 'adios' to summer.
Free time is disappearing; back to school days are looming. So, I've been given a five day test on self-discipline and perseverance--hold the line on daily running--'Suck It Up.' Bill Saporito wrote a great article, Survival of The Fitness, in the latest Time. It was all about what it takes to win the Olympic gold. It's not the most athletically gifted; it's all about mental toughness, enduring pain, and who works the hardest. Made me think we shouldn't have had a banner stretched across America's skies, "Mission Accomplished." Better to have a new one flying, saying, "Work Harder!"
On the morning before the leaving-for-the-coast farewell run, Laura told me that both her husband's and mother's car batteries had died--on the same day. She thought it odd and not a coincidence. Probably caused by the Solar Cycle 24. Her guess was, the neighborhood was sitting in a pocket of magnetic field weakness and the Earth needed the energy juice from car batteries to keep circling. Now, while she hadn't had time to do a house-by-house canvass for a dead battery count, Laura thought it was, on the spot, a pretty darn good working theory. We laughed, grabbed an ice cube and took off. Success! We located nonsense to start the run with a smile.
Before we'd turned the corner of the first block, here came more news from Laura. "I told the girls yesterday, that after 30 minutes of T.V., they had to turn it off and find something else to do for the rest of the day. After the whines came a surprise, They created and filmed YouTube movies for the rest of the day."
Whoa! T-Time. We've entered a magic zone. Like in the valley of Technologies of Expressions.
"Uh...how did they make a movie? On what," I asked, Laura.
"On their cell phones, silly."
"Well, you know I told you it took me three days to figure out how to post my first picture on Facebook, and I was so proud of myself, I've still got the feeling, and not wanting it spoiled, I haven't tried to post another since."
I guess my comment wasn't worth a follow-up because Laura just ignored me. Time to change talk-run tempo, anyway. We were coming in for our first water break.
"You know the air is getting dirtier.I can measure the quality of what we're breathing by bath taking. There are black flecks on the bottom of the tub after the water drains. This wasn't the case a few years ago. I know it's all the gunk flying in the air. The sweat in the hair traps it.Good thing I've got straight, grow forward, Indian hair, the polluted air debris just slides right out with a good shampooing."
Laura wasn't too interested in talking about hair pollution. Actually, the range of talk topics was light. Had to have been because when I later thumbed through my little spiral where I take notes at the water breaks on what we've talked about, the pages were blank. This was just a 'get it over with' and 'get on with it,' kind of morning.
July 22, 2012--Sunday
Walking to the high school track this morning, I spied a dime, half-way buried in the dirt. Did I bend over to pick it up? Of course I did. To me, dimes are precious.
Growing up, in our house in the hollow, there was no radio to touch the outside world. No music. No telephone. Just the Saturday afternoon movie in town, where mother would put me and my two sisters, so she could go buy groceries, with a stop-over at the ice plant to buy the family block of ice for the week. My hand can still feel the dime I was given to buy my ticket to get into the theatre and see the magic--Roy Rogers. Lash LaRue. The Lone Ranger. Red Ryder. Black and White images filling the screen with action. My fingers were squeezed so tightly around a thin piece of silver. Sometimes I kept it in my mouth to make certain I would never lose it.
In every single movie, the White cowboys or White army always won. No one ever explained to me why the Indians were always made to play the enemy. In those day, though, if you were on the enemy side, you lost.
On those going into town Saturday's, ever so often, regardless of all my protective rituals, my show money would disappear. And, when this happened, the only thing left to do was while away time by walking and exploring the few blocks of the town's main street until mother finished her Saturday errands. So, this morning, I stopped and picked up the dime and walked toward the track, on my way to run, listen to music, and explore a new morning.
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