opposite of the way you are and the warrior thing was directly opposite from me and my life. Idevoured that book. After Camp Mi Ma Ho I knew what I wanted to be. What I
had
to be.
Once school started again I dug around the library and read everything they had on Indians. Back then no one had anything close to being relevant or true but I didn’t care. All I was after was input. Ignorance is such bliss, eh?
Soon I was walking around singing, “My paddle’s clean and bright, flashing with silver, swift as the wild goose flies, dip, dip and swing, dip, dip and swing,” reciting the ever-popular “By the Shores of Gitche Gumee” and believing that Hank Williams’s song “Kawliga” and that sappy song “Running Bear” by whoever were really paeans to the culture, for God’s sake. Paeans. Jesus. And movies? I watched every single movie on TV that had anything to do with Indians. I didn’t know whether I wanted to be an Apache, Commanche, Cherokee, Sioux or Cheyenne, but I knew I wanted to be a warrior.
Try growing up without a history. I never even knew I had a grandfather until we took over the store in Mildmay. My father, as you know, wasn’t real big on details. So sometime around eight-and-a-half I became an Indian. I never told anybody. How do you tell somebody that you’ve just become someone else? I just kept it to myself and worked at being a warrior. When I met you I couldn’t believe it. I mean, who thinks they’re going to meet a real Indian in the middle of the farm belt? When I discovered that you had no knowledge of yourself as an Indian it confused me. I knew more about who you were supposed to be than you did. Even though my information pool was shallower than Otter Creek in midsummer, I still knew more. That’s when I started to lose it — the moment I figured, at ten years old, that I knew more about being an Indian than the Indians.
T ournament day blew in bright and clear and hot. It was one of those windless, cloudless summer days when you stand on the land and you can actually feel it changing beneath your feetand all around you. Growth. Life. Farming. Ordinarily I would have loved a morning like that, but this day was different from any I’d experienced. I moved through the routine of chores like a zombie. My father grinned and let me be. By the time we were ready to load the car with food, extra clothes and lawn chairs, I was as nervous as I can ever recall being. The idea of taking the game we’d learned behind the equipment shed and playing in front of people from three towns and three schools was suddenly terrifying. I knew we were ready, that we’d honed the fundamental skills to a high level and that we could think our way through any game situation, but we’d never really
played
the game. I had no idea what it was like to be a part of a team aside from our small quartet behind the shed.
“Nervous, son?” my father asked once we’d pulled out of the driveway and headed down the hill towards Highway 9.
“Yeah,” I answered in a small voice.
“Well, that’s good,” he said. “Shows that you’re not overconfident or cocky. You’ll play better.”
“I will?”
“Oh, yes. You’ll see better, think clearer, and when the time comes to make a play, you’ll be ready. Once you do something and get into the game, you won’t be nervous any more.”
“I hope so.”
We were picking up Johnny on our way through town since neither of his parents was going. He was waiting on the porch steps, looking as spooked by things as I was.
“Hey,” he said as he sat beside me, smiling weakly.
“Hey,” I said.
“John, you’re looking well today,” my mother said, turning in her seat to look at us.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “Sure wish I felt well.”
“Nervous?” my father asked.
“As a cat on a hot tin roof,” he answered.
They laughed. I missed the humor in this entirely and could only sit and grin vacantly. Johnny punched me lightly on the shoulder.
had
to be.
Once school started again I dug around the library and read everything they had on Indians. Back then no one had anything close to being relevant or true but I didn’t care. All I was after was input. Ignorance is such bliss, eh?
Soon I was walking around singing, “My paddle’s clean and bright, flashing with silver, swift as the wild goose flies, dip, dip and swing, dip, dip and swing,” reciting the ever-popular “By the Shores of Gitche Gumee” and believing that Hank Williams’s song “Kawliga” and that sappy song “Running Bear” by whoever were really paeans to the culture, for God’s sake. Paeans. Jesus. And movies? I watched every single movie on TV that had anything to do with Indians. I didn’t know whether I wanted to be an Apache, Commanche, Cherokee, Sioux or Cheyenne, but I knew I wanted to be a warrior.
Try growing up without a history. I never even knew I had a grandfather until we took over the store in Mildmay. My father, as you know, wasn’t real big on details. So sometime around eight-and-a-half I became an Indian. I never told anybody. How do you tell somebody that you’ve just become someone else? I just kept it to myself and worked at being a warrior. When I met you I couldn’t believe it. I mean, who thinks they’re going to meet a real Indian in the middle of the farm belt? When I discovered that you had no knowledge of yourself as an Indian it confused me. I knew more about who you were supposed to be than you did. Even though my information pool was shallower than Otter Creek in midsummer, I still knew more. That’s when I started to lose it — the moment I figured, at ten years old, that I knew more about being an Indian than the Indians.
T ournament day blew in bright and clear and hot. It was one of those windless, cloudless summer days when you stand on the land and you can actually feel it changing beneath your feetand all around you. Growth. Life. Farming. Ordinarily I would have loved a morning like that, but this day was different from any I’d experienced. I moved through the routine of chores like a zombie. My father grinned and let me be. By the time we were ready to load the car with food, extra clothes and lawn chairs, I was as nervous as I can ever recall being. The idea of taking the game we’d learned behind the equipment shed and playing in front of people from three towns and three schools was suddenly terrifying. I knew we were ready, that we’d honed the fundamental skills to a high level and that we could think our way through any game situation, but we’d never really
played
the game. I had no idea what it was like to be a part of a team aside from our small quartet behind the shed.
“Nervous, son?” my father asked once we’d pulled out of the driveway and headed down the hill towards Highway 9.
“Yeah,” I answered in a small voice.
“Well, that’s good,” he said. “Shows that you’re not overconfident or cocky. You’ll play better.”
“I will?”
“Oh, yes. You’ll see better, think clearer, and when the time comes to make a play, you’ll be ready. Once you do something and get into the game, you won’t be nervous any more.”
“I hope so.”
We were picking up Johnny on our way through town since neither of his parents was going. He was waiting on the porch steps, looking as spooked by things as I was.
“Hey,” he said as he sat beside me, smiling weakly.
“Hey,” I said.
“John, you’re looking well today,” my mother said, turning in her seat to look at us.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “Sure wish I felt well.”
“Nervous?” my father asked.
“As a cat on a hot tin roof,” he answered.
They laughed. I missed the humor in this entirely and could only sit and grin vacantly. Johnny punched me lightly on the shoulder.
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