Growing Up Ethnic in America: Contemporary Fiction About Learning to Be American by Maria Mazziotti Gillan, Jennifer Gillan Page A

Joke. “Indin” humor rocks and shakes the bellies of every human being on the planet. During an interview with Phil Donahue, the rancher who once owned the plot of land is quoted as saying, “It weren’t no shrine; we was having us a cow-chip lottery.” When asked what’s a cow-chip lottery, the rancher replied, “Everybody bets their lives on one square patch of land, the cattle are unloaded, then everybody waits for natureto call. From the looks of things, I’d say everybody went home a winner.” The world explodes in laughter.
    Day 5
    The rodeo got cancelled. None of the Indians want to be cowboys this year. Somebody suggests a buffalo hunt, but then we remember all the buffalo are gone. Cookie invites everyone over to her digs to watch videos, but nobody wants to on account of we already know the end of the movie. Silas Tail Spins says, “We could get drunk.” But Thunderbird has lost its power. Gladys Everybody Talks About advocates the entertainment value in a good round of gossip. But everyone already knows everyone else’s business. Alice Brought Plenty suggests we have a powwow, but everyone says. “Been there, done that.” Victoria Walking Child says, “I could do everyone’s tarot reading.” But everyone can already guess at their futures. Cain Long Bow says, “We could interview the elders and learn about our heritage.” But all the elders have retired to Florida. Ennui covers the most hopeful of days with a blanket of apathy. Nobody knows what to do. So we all go home and sleep for a good long time. Nobody dreams.
    Day 6
    We drive out to South Dakota to view a national monument, a symbol of America’s pride. I think of baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, and Chevrolets, and a conquered people’s dream that perished so violently to accommodate this uncertain present. A once magnificent past is reduced to Hallmark cards post-marked galaxies away. When we finally arrive, a band of Hell’s Angels are attempting to make a monetary treaty with the motel desk clerk. But the desk clerk won’t take their money. They offer him booze, firearms, women, gold. At first glance you can tell the desk clerk is no stranger to bribery; you can tell he’s a subscriber to Pat Robertson andJimmy Swaggart; you can tell that he is a man shrouded in a heavy coat of fear. Fear of spiders, fear of dust, fear of public restrooms, fear of his mother, fear of his children, fear of his own mortality. But especially fear of bikers, gypsies, Indians. Fear of anything that defies confinement. We turn around just in time to hear the echo of breaking glass. We know it isn’t Armageddon, but centuries of accumulated fear. We drive to the “shrine.” Gutzon Borglum is captured in the rock immediately below Lincoln’s heavy brows, as if to say
Justice is just, but revenge is sweet.
Winnebago and Apache land cruisers are positioned randomly throughout the parking area as if to say
One man’s shrine is another man’s cemetery.
A bright ribbon of red paint is smeared across Washington’s classic nose, as if to say
Goddamn, this elevation has given me a nosebleed.
Trapped within another mountain, several miles away, a warrior’s arm is pointed toward the men’s room, as if to say
America is going to the toilet.
On our way out of Keystone, we stop at a souvenir shop. I can’t resist buying the Indian bow, arrow, and knife set, wrapped up in a slick package of artificial African leopard skin.
    Day 7
    We arrive at Bullhead just in time to watch Evel Knievel make his infamous jump over the Snake River Canyon. I don’t have the heart to tell my cousins that he failed this leap years ago and that the TV broadcast has only just now reached their antennas. Cousin Alfred bets everyone that Evel Knievel is really Elvis Presley staking out the territory of a new career. I hold back from informing him that Elvis is dead. There’s nothing to eat in the house except inedible commodity food, so Alfred, Penny, Trudi, Johnny, Liza, and her