Читать книгу Neither Wolf Nor Dog - Kent Nerburn - Страница 14

CHAPTER FOUR

ONE WILY OLD INDIAN

I didn’t bring up the subject of our conversation for a few days. I figured that the old man would say more when the time was right. But I knew now that Grover had been right. The old man had an orator’s eloquence that could never be captured by piecing together notes from a shoe box. I needed to stay with him, live with him, follow him, and listen. It was my pen and my tape recorder that were going to be my most precious assets.

Dan really did live his life like Fatback. He got up when he wanted, lay down when he wanted, spoke when he wanted, stayed silent when he wanted. Unlike white people, he never explained his actions, or announced when he was going to do something, no matter how abrupt it might seem. I might be sitting and speaking with him, and he would suddenly stand up and go into his bed. Or he might stop in the middle of a sentence and start watching the television, which droned perpetually from the corner of his living room. Sometimes there were reasons. Other times it made no sense that I could understand. He was responding to some inner promptings that were not mine to know.

The days passed in this relaxed and enigmatic way. Little of purpose was actually accomplished. We mostly spent the time driving around in my truck and sitting in his kitchen or on his porch.

I became increasingly aware of how old and fragile he really was. It was as if he had etched a strength into his body over the years, and he now could call upon it when he needed it to act. But the effort was great, and there were times when he would just sink into a reverie and then gradually slide into a fitful sleep. If I happened to speak he would open his eyes and answer, but I could see that I was calling him back from some faraway place. So I soon learned to occupy myself in silence while he slept.

One time Wenonah drove up while I was sitting there waiting for the old man to awake. She gestured me to her car. “You don’t have to sit there and wait for him, Nerburn,” she said. “He won’t mind if you go.”

“It feels disrespectful to me to leave when he falls asleep,” I answered.

“Don’t worry about it. That’s the Indian way. When you are here, you are here. When you are gone, you are gone. It isn’t a problem to be gone, so long as you are really here when you’re here.”

“That’s a nice Zen sentiment,” I offered.

She just smiled and shrugged. “He likes you. That means you can do what you want to. He will respect it.”

“I’d rather sit and wait. I’d feel better.”

She smiled and walked up the steps. “I’ve got to cook him some dinner.”

As soon as the screen door slammed, the old man was awake and alert. “Been waiting for you,” he said.

“You’re one wily old Indian, Grandpa,” she retorted. He responded with something in his own tongue and the two of them broke into gales of laughter.

The old man saw me still sitting on the stoop. He called me in. “You’re getting to be like Fatback, Nerburn. That’s how she started, just hanging around.”

“Maybe you should start sleeping under the car,” Wenonah said. “It’s cheaper than that motel.”

The two of them laughed again. Dan seemed wide awake and in a good mood, so I ventured a question: “Do you mind being called an Indian, Dan?” It seemed appropriate, since his granddaughter had just referred to him as an Indian, and it was a question that always lurked just below the surface when I was involved in conversations with Indian people.

“What the hell else would you call me?”

“Oh, Native American. I don’t know. Something. Anything other than Indian.”

The old man took a deep breath, as if he had explained this many times before.

“It doesn’t bother me. It bothers a lot of our people, though. They don’t like that the name we have was a mistake. Just because Columbus didn’t know where he was, we have to be called Indians because he thought he had found the East Indies. They think it takes away our pride and our identity.”

“That seems like a fair sentiment to me,” I said. The old man waved his hand in front of his face to silence me.

“I guess I don’t mind because we have taken the name and made it our own. We still have our own names in our own languages. Usually that name means ‘first people,’ but no one would ever call us that. So we let people call us ‘Indians.’

“Does that tell you something about us?”

I wasn’t sure what he was driving at. “It tells me you are willing to accept a certain level of injustice.”

He nodded vigorously. “Sure. What if you called black people Russians or Chinamen? Do you think they’d stand for it?” He laughed at the thought. “Hell, they change what they want to be called every few years.

“I don’t blame them, though. They’ve been called some pretty bad names. And being called by a color is almost as strange as being called by a place you never lived. But the point is that our people mostly don’t care so much about something like a name. We’re pretty easygoing about things.

“There is something we don’t like, though. It’s when people call us Indians and then start calling sports teams and other things Indians. If we’re going to have a false name, at least let us have it and then leave it alone. Don’t start putting it on beer bottles and ice cream cartons and making it into something that embarrasses us and makes us look like fools. And don’t tell us it’s supposed to be some honor to us. We’ll decide what honors us and what doesn’t.”

The old man was getting agitated. The subject obviously brushed against a nerve.

“See,” he said, “this is all part of the way it has always been since the white people first came to our country. No one will leave us alone and let us be who we are. First we were told who we are, then we were told how we should be. Now we are being told how we’re supposed to take it when someone wants to define us in a certain way. No one ever asks us. No one ever listens to us when we speak. Everyone knows what they want and we’re supposed to let them think it. If we don’t agree with it, we’re called radicals or troublemakers.

“You remember a few years ago? Some Indians decided they would rather be called Native Americans. It’s an okay name; it’s more dignified than ‘Indians.’ But it’s no more real than Indians, because to us this isn’t even America. The word America came from some Italian who came over here after Columbus. Why should we care if we’re called Native Americans when the name is from some Italian?

“It’s like if someone took over this country now and called it, say, Greenland, and then they said that those of us who were already here are going to be called Native Greenlanders. And they said they were doing this out of respect. Would you feel respected? Would you care a whole hell of a lot if they called you that or something else?

“That’s the way it’s been for us. It’s what we put up with every day — people calling us a bunch of names that aren’t even real and aren’t even in our language, then asking us if one name is better than another. Hell, it doesn’t even matter. If some of us want to be called Native Americans, you should call us Native Americans. If some of us want to be called Indians, you should call us Indians. I know it makes you kind of uncomfortable, not ever knowing which one is right. But I think that’s good. It reminds you of how uncomfortable it is for us — we had our identity taken from us the minute Columbus arrived in our land.”

The old man turned toward Wenonah. “Go get that magazine with the map on it.” Wenonah went into the bedroom and came out with an old National Geographic. Dan spread it out on the table. “Look at this,” he said. It was a map of various tribal areas in North America. He tapped his finger on the Bering Strait. “That’s the problem, right there.”

I shrugged my shoulders and gestured for him to continue. But he wanted me to respond. He tapped the map again. “Tell me, Nerburn, what is an Indian, anyway?”

I was wary of the question. I didn’t want to anger him, but I knew I had to answer.

“It’s one of the people who was here originally,” I said, knowing full well that wasn’t a satisfactory answer.

“Okay. Where did we come from?”

“A lot of people say you were part of a migration across the Bering Strait.”

“Ha!” he spat. “See, you don’t have an answer, either. You’re afraid to say we started here, that the Creator put us here. You come out with that damn Bering Straits idea, just like this magazine.”

“Well,” I said, “Nobody knows.”

“What do you mean, nobody knows? We know. But nobody believes us. We know in our hearts who we are. We have the stories from our ancestors. But we can’t prove anything. If we say we are the first people, the ones who are from here, some damn archaeologist will jump up and tell us we came over through Alaska on a land bridge. They want to make sure that we’re immigrants, too. Just that we got here earlier.

“If we say that our ancestors tell us we started here, some anthropologist will pull on his beard and tell us that is just a myth.

“Then if we don’t even try to talk about where we came from, but just say we are part of a tribe, no one will believe us without proof. We say we have the proof in our stories, but that’s not good enough. We are told it must be written down. But the people who wrote down the tribes were all white people or Indians who worked for white people and they made all kinds of mistakes.

“And what about the Indian people whose tribes were destroyed and don’t exist any more? Are you going to say that those people aren’t Indians because they aren’t members of a tribe that the government recognizes?

“You see how it is? We have a false name, someone else tries to tell us about our history and says that the history we know is wrong. Then the government tries to make its own rules about who we are and who can be part of us.”

“It’s a sad situation,” I said.

“Sad? I’ll say it’s sad. Then there’s another thing. There were times when the government let white people move onto our land and claim it for their own. Lots of white people moved onto Indian lands and later if there were treaty payments, they said they were Indians so they could get part of the treaty payments.

“And then there was a lot of intermarrying between our races, and sometimes there were rapes, so nobody really knows who is an Indian anymore, or even what it means.”

Wenonah had been leaning against the sink, listening placidly. She obviously enjoyed seeing her grandfather like this. She placed a cup of coffee on the table in front of him and gave me a sideways wink. “Take it easy, Grandpa,” she said. “You’ll give yourself a heart attack.”

The old man waved her away. “The hell with the heart attack. These are things I need to say.”

He turned back to me. “You’d better be getting this down.”

I pointed at the tape recorder. He nodded his approval.

“This can get real confusing to us, Nerburn. Real confusing. The Europeans really did exterminate us, you know. They did it with guns and they did it with laws and they did it with all kinds of censuses and regulations that confused who we were.

“They mixed us up with white people. They took away our language. They took our kids away to schools and wouldn’t let them learn about the old culture. They herded us onto reservations and rewarded Indians who acted just like white people. They created a generation of Indians who didn’t even know who they were.”

He leaned over to me so close I could hear his chest wheezing. “Now, don’t get me wrong on this. But you’ve got to understand that we are still at war. It’s not like we are fighting against America or the American people, but we are still defending who we are. It’s a war to us, because if we don’t fight for who we are we will be destroyed. We’ll be destroyed by false ideas and phony Indians and all the good intentions of people who think they are helping us by making us act like white people.”

“Grandpa,” Wenonah interjected.

The old man shook his head. “No. Let me finish. I’m almost done.

“Think about this. Do you ever hear white people saying that they are part black or part Mexican? Hell, no. But the world is full of people who say they are part Indian. Usually they’ll say it was their grandmother or their great grandmother. It’s never a grandfather. You wouldn’t want an Indian man in your background. He might have had a tomahawk or something. You want some old blanket Indian woman who taught your family wise ways. And they’re never a Potawatami or a Chiracahua or a Tlingit — usually it’s a Cherokee. Something about the Cherokees is more romantic. I bet I’ve met a hundred white people who say they had a Cherokee grandmother. And you know what? They believe it! They want it to be true so much that they make themselves believe it.

“Mostly they leave it at that. But some of them don’t. They grow their hair in braids and go to some powwows. Maybe take a class from some phony medicine man, and presto! we’ve got a new Indian. Pretty soon they’re spouting Indian philosophy and twisting up the idea of the Indian even further.

“I tell you, Nerburn, being an Indian isn’t easy. For a lot of years America just wanted to destroy us. Now, all of a sudden, we’re the only group people are trying to get into. Why do you think this is?”

I told him I didn’t know.

“I think it’s because the white people know we had something that was real, that we lived the way the Creator meant people to live on this land. They want that. They know that the white people are messing up. If they say they are part Indian, it’s like being part of what we have.”

Wenonah had been hovering around the outside of the conversation. She had been watching the old man carefully, monitoring his anger and his exertion like a nurse watching a patient. It was clear that she loved him dearly. I let her take the lead in how to proceed.

Soon she walked over behind him and put her arms around his neck. She nestled her head against his and spoke softly into his ear. “That’s enough, Grandpa. That’s enough.”

The old man nodded. He slumped back in his stiff wooden chair. An impassive look settled over his face. Wenonah took the National Geographic off the table and returned it to the bedroom. From the half darkness of the back room I could see her looking at me. She raised her hand to her lips, as if to say, “He’s had enough.”

The old man’s exhaustion was palpable. He seemed to be turning to stone before my eyes. His stare did not vary and he didn’t move a muscle. It was as if he had gone inside to a place of tears and memory.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” I said. Wenonah nodded, obviously pleased that I had understood her message. I took one last look at the old man as I pushed open the screen door. Wenonah was standing behind him, stroking his hair with the side of her hand and humming softly like a mother hums to a child.