Growing Up Ethnic in America: Contemporary Fiction About Learning to Be American by Maria Mazziotti Gillan, Jennifer Gillan Page B
Authors: Maria Mazziotti Gillan, Jennifer Gillan
Tags: Historical, Anthologies
Ads: Link
friend all pile into my half-sister’s Dodge Dakota four-by-four and we drive to the Mercantile. Halfway out of the yard, Johnny screams savagely, “
You’redragging a dog, you’re dragging a dog!
” My sister slams on her brakes; everybody is thrust forward. Johnny is laughing. “
Just fooling … aaay!
” At the Mercantile, we pile up our purchases on the counter: two loaves of Wonder Bread, a case of Vienna Sausages, catsup, mustard, sweet rolls, milk, Kool-Aid, bacon, two dozen eggs, six cartons of cigarettes, and an apple. When we arrive back at the house, we’re surrounded by Indians. Auntie Mugs has spread the word that we are in town and will pay cash for commodity cheese. When we finally leave, she pulls my mother aside and asks if she could please mail her any extra VCRs.
Day 8
Returning to Poplar in time for the Oil Celebration Powwow, we meet up with my mother’s childhood friend Patsy who is visiting from Vegas. Pulling up to the powwow grounds, we’re stopped by a young tribal officer. He searches the inside of our car with his flashlight. “
Are you carrying any alcohol?”
Patsy grins, leans out the window, and shoots back, “
No … you got any?
” Everybody cracks up. Patsy reloads. “
Officer, I’m clean but I don’t know about my friend here; you should give her a strip-search, aaay!
” At the arena we buy Cokes and fry bread and claim a length of bleachers. The men’s traditionals are wearing Ray • Bans. The grass dancers are adorned in acres of yarn. The fancy dancers are kicking up their Adidas sneakers. The jingle dancers are chiming and clanging years of accumulated Copenhagen-chew top lids. The shawl dancers are dancing circles around the hoop dancers. Somebody drops an eagle feather. All the whirling, buzzing, singing, swirling, bustling, drumming, and frenzy abruptly stops to a dead calm. A solemn ceremony is presented. A tall Indian man with elk teeth dangling around his neck and deer antlers crowning his head slowly marches to the center of the arena. Everyone watches, waits, listens tohim offer a prayer to the spirits that preside. He shakes a tortoise rattle over his head to each of the four directions. He sings a holy song in a barely audible whisper. He leans down toward his moccasinned feet and tentatively, slow, slow, slowly plucks the fallen feather from the sawdust as if he’s recovering sharp glass amid water and graciously turns to return it to its owner. The dancing resumes.
Americanism
KATHRYN NOCERINO
Say whatever you like about the 1950s; from where I stood, smack in the center of our living room in Flushing, they stank! Five times a week, I’d drag myself home from a hard day slaving over my desk at PS 214. All I wanted to do at the close of such a day was to collapse in an unsightly heap on our genuine imitation Oriental rug and watch my favorite TV program. My favorite program went under a lot of different names but always contained the following non-negotiable elements: guys in cowboy hats, on horses. The guys fell into two basic categories: good guys and bad guys. The good guys were boring and wore white hats; the bad guys wore black and had interesting character defects, but you had to watch out for them. When you were really lucky an American Indian would show up—bold, doomed, and romantic, and then everyone on your TV screen would participate in a ruckus. One of my favorite programs was this same show with a Mexican accent. Two guys would begin and end each episode: the tall, handsome one, who was a good guy even though he dressed totally in black like Roy Orbison, would say, “Hey, Pancho!” His pal, this short, ridiculous fat guy, would yell, “Hey,
Ceesco!!!
” I’d suffer through the entire half-hour no matter how tedious, just to hear this; it was like that number on the
Andy Devine Show
with the talking cat. Andy would lean over this cat and squeal, “Hey, Midnight, say ‘nice.’” And Midnight would say “nice” in the most
You’redragging a dog, you’re dragging a dog!
” My sister slams on her brakes; everybody is thrust forward. Johnny is laughing. “
Just fooling … aaay!
” At the Mercantile, we pile up our purchases on the counter: two loaves of Wonder Bread, a case of Vienna Sausages, catsup, mustard, sweet rolls, milk, Kool-Aid, bacon, two dozen eggs, six cartons of cigarettes, and an apple. When we arrive back at the house, we’re surrounded by Indians. Auntie Mugs has spread the word that we are in town and will pay cash for commodity cheese. When we finally leave, she pulls my mother aside and asks if she could please mail her any extra VCRs.
Day 8
Returning to Poplar in time for the Oil Celebration Powwow, we meet up with my mother’s childhood friend Patsy who is visiting from Vegas. Pulling up to the powwow grounds, we’re stopped by a young tribal officer. He searches the inside of our car with his flashlight. “
Are you carrying any alcohol?”
Patsy grins, leans out the window, and shoots back, “
No … you got any?
” Everybody cracks up. Patsy reloads. “
Officer, I’m clean but I don’t know about my friend here; you should give her a strip-search, aaay!
” At the arena we buy Cokes and fry bread and claim a length of bleachers. The men’s traditionals are wearing Ray • Bans. The grass dancers are adorned in acres of yarn. The fancy dancers are kicking up their Adidas sneakers. The jingle dancers are chiming and clanging years of accumulated Copenhagen-chew top lids. The shawl dancers are dancing circles around the hoop dancers. Somebody drops an eagle feather. All the whirling, buzzing, singing, swirling, bustling, drumming, and frenzy abruptly stops to a dead calm. A solemn ceremony is presented. A tall Indian man with elk teeth dangling around his neck and deer antlers crowning his head slowly marches to the center of the arena. Everyone watches, waits, listens tohim offer a prayer to the spirits that preside. He shakes a tortoise rattle over his head to each of the four directions. He sings a holy song in a barely audible whisper. He leans down toward his moccasinned feet and tentatively, slow, slow, slowly plucks the fallen feather from the sawdust as if he’s recovering sharp glass amid water and graciously turns to return it to its owner. The dancing resumes.
Americanism
KATHRYN NOCERINO
Say whatever you like about the 1950s; from where I stood, smack in the center of our living room in Flushing, they stank! Five times a week, I’d drag myself home from a hard day slaving over my desk at PS 214. All I wanted to do at the close of such a day was to collapse in an unsightly heap on our genuine imitation Oriental rug and watch my favorite TV program. My favorite program went under a lot of different names but always contained the following non-negotiable elements: guys in cowboy hats, on horses. The guys fell into two basic categories: good guys and bad guys. The good guys were boring and wore white hats; the bad guys wore black and had interesting character defects, but you had to watch out for them. When you were really lucky an American Indian would show up—bold, doomed, and romantic, and then everyone on your TV screen would participate in a ruckus. One of my favorite programs was this same show with a Mexican accent. Two guys would begin and end each episode: the tall, handsome one, who was a good guy even though he dressed totally in black like Roy Orbison, would say, “Hey, Pancho!” His pal, this short, ridiculous fat guy, would yell, “Hey,
Ceesco!!!
” I’d suffer through the entire half-hour no matter how tedious, just to hear this; it was like that number on the
Andy Devine Show
with the talking cat. Andy would lean over this cat and squeal, “Hey, Midnight, say ‘nice.’” And Midnight would say “nice” in the most
Similar Books
