It was a typical English class writing assignment that ended up bringing me fame and infamy. I submitted it to a Creative Writing contest from La Sierra University, and to my surprise, I won First Place. The prize was $100 dollars, but I couldn't claim it because I was a racist. Apparently, after the judges presented their chosen entry to the school board, the board screamed "We can't reward this boy! He used the very derogatory word "Indian" to describe someone of the Native American persuasion! Oh well, easy come, easy go. It's been so long since I wrote it that I have a hard time feeling like it's actually mine, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. Some parts I am quite proud of, and other times it's like WHAT WAS I THINKING!?
It is the first thing I ever wrote I'll actually claim as mine though, so it's special to me. The very first thing was about an Archaeologist creatively named Edward and his retarded assistant named Achoo who went around the world finding artifacts together. There were about five two page chapters that are safely buried in my 4th grade notebooks, hopefully never to see the light of the internet.
Anyway, here's the "racist" story. As usual, blogspot wreaks havoc with the formatting....
My name is Travis Henderson. I work as a sheriff for the government. It can be emotional work, sometimes requiring me to evict people from their property. During the summer of 1924 I was sent to small town in
I’d dealt with difficult evictees before; this couldn’t be much worse then the Howell eviction, and certainly no worse than the Drysdale eviction. I felt pretty confidant in my abilities, and went towards the Tanner house with confidence.
After much scrutiny, I managed to find what appeared to be the door. No sooner had I begun knocking, then I was greeted by a raspy, loud voice.
"Who’s rattin’ on me door?
"Sheriff Henderson", I replied.
"Law enforcement! Well how ye doin?" said the voice behind the door, which then opened with a surprising amount of force.
Before me stood a tall, elderly man wearing little more then overalls.
"Come in! Come in!, I sure ain’t never had an officer of the law show up at me door before!"
I was then grabbed, and pulled indoors (although indoors was little different than outdoors). "I’ll sit you here in me best chair an’ we can talk! Name’s Jake Tanner."
Attempts at reason proved ineffective. "Mr. Tanner, I have something I need to discuss with you, so if you would---" I was interrupted.
"I was a rancher ‘round here say... forty-five year’ago".
"That’s good sir. Now-"
"I had nearly... twelve cows" interrupted Tanner.
Realizing that I was not going to get anywhere with this, I decided to allow him to finish introducing himself.
"Near...Say...1867 was it? Ner, mighta been round ‘77. These fellows decided ta build a railroad ‘cross the state. Now this wes’ fine en’dandy’ cept they didn’t have enough cash ta’ finish building that sucker."
"Couldn’t they take out a loan?’ I meekly responded
"Maybe they shoulda‘, but they durn’t."
"Durn’t?" said I, questioning his grammar.
"Durn’t."
"Sir, may ask how this relates to today?" My request fell on deaf ears.
"Now they got ‘round halfway done when they quit, and to make back some of ‘dare losses they ripped up all the iron they laid down an’sold it. So what you got was this line o’ripped up ground an this tall iron pole which was gonna do somethin’ but I never found out an’ I didn’t care’ cause it durn’t matter"
While I was trying to digest this convoluted information, Tanner pulled out an apple and began to chew between words.
"Now when you got this big metal pole stickin’ out in a plain, it’d look kinda odd eh?
I agreed.
"There was’ this small Indian tribe, you see, an-"
It was my turn to interrupt. "Sir, I’m not here to discuss..." I had meant to say "Indians", but I didn’t finish because he kept right on talking.
"-and they were sorta like outcasts from normal Indians, ya see, ‘cause their name was Weeoniweekeenee which meant somethin’ in some Indian lang-oo-age. Not sure which lang-oo-age or’ which tribe named em’ but their name translates to...er..."
He had paused. Now was my chance! "There is going to be some new park land here and..."
"Good! Good!" he burst out. "Now, their name meant ‘They who are not so bright.’ an’ they was right named too. It was sorta like an Indian funny farm, only no white coated boys!.
This amused Tanner because he laughed for a good thirty seconds or so, spitting out what little apple was left in his mouth. After calming down, he went back into his odd narrative.
"There was only ‘round a dozen Weeoniweekeenee, an’ their leader’s name was "Great Chief Buffalo Biscuits" which was a odd name even fer an Indian." Anyways, this chief was out runnin’ around through the area the other Indians gave ‘im. If I can member right, it was round a dozen acres, an’ wouldn’t ya know it? That metal pole them railroad fellows left behind happened to right smack in the middle!"
He then handed me an apple, which I accepted gratefully. I didn’t figure on being able to leave here anytime soon anyway.
"Well, if you was a half-crazy Indian, an’ you never seen a metal pole like that before, an you didn’t have nuthin’ to do, what would you do?"
He must not have expected me to answer because he did not stop.
"He wandered right up to it an just sorta stared. Don’t know how long he stared but it musta been awhile. Anyways, thats how I found ‘im. Standing there lookin’ at that pole. I walked over an’ spoke what little Indian I knew. He asked what that pole was an’ I tol‘im. You know what I said it was?
Another question I wasn’t supposed to answer.
"I tol’im it was a sorta like a spirit stick, you know like a divining rod? I tol’im that if he leaned up ‘gainst it and just put is’ear to it the Great Spirit would talk to’im an’ he would be like a prophet."
He laughed again, not quite as long, but since he wasn’t eating apple this time it wasn’t as painful.
"Would ya’ believe he took my word for it? He parked ‘imself right gainst it en’never left ‘cept once a week to relieve im’self.
"But how did he survive? Who fed him?" I asked, surprised I had got some words in, and even more surprised that I cared.
"His fellow Weeoniweekeenee brought ‘im his vittles, en’ ‘ol Buffalo Biscuits just et it up, right there. You know what’s even funnier? That pole was holler, en when the wind blew, it kinda made a whislin’ noise. Mister Biscuits knew this was the great spirit talkin’ to ‘im."
"Did it ever tell him anything?" I asked, hoping he would finish up and allow me to get to business.
"It sure did, that ol’ chief interpreted many words of wisdom from that ol’pole. It tol’im such wise things as " Saddle Green Happy." en’ "Fuzzy Sitting Beef".
This was followed by such a boisterous explosion of laughter and knee slapping that a light sprinkle of dust fell from the ceiling into my eyes.
"He’s still there, he is! If you go out past Johnson Ridge an’ walk past toad hill he’ll be right there! Ask ‘im if the spirit’s talkin today!"
As he was saying this, my patience left me. The park would just have to wait until Mr. Tanner passed on, or make a monument out of him or something. I picked up my hat and as I made my way towards the door, he called after me.
"Wait! I’ve got another story ‘bout a bear, a bandit, and a pair of stilts!
"Another time" I replied.
"Another time" He replied, in a voice marked by loneliness.
2 comments:
Having lived on reservations my entire life, I do not find this racist. Loved it.
Quite interesting reading :) But, Howell and Drysdale? Did someone happen to watch a little too much television before writing this piece?
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