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Stories from Cheewa's book
A Silver Belt by Cheewa James I had wandered into a small Indian shop in the foothills of the Sierras in Northern California. I struck up a conversation with the Native American woman who owned the shop. My own American Indian heritage and love of Indian jewelry caused me to tell her of the pain I had suffered when my mother's silver Navajo concho belt was stolen. My mother, Louella Mueller James, did not speak English until her teens. Her parents were immigrants from Germany. Although not of Indian blood, she was the one who preserved the history and all the lovely Indian arts and crafts that were handed down in our family. My mother had worn her concho belt almost every day of her life. It was handed down to me when she had passed through the arch of life to the other side. My mother was a dramatic, articulate, creative woman. I remember as a small girl putting my arms around my mother's waist and feeling the warmth of her body through the silvet platelets. Having her belt gave me great comfort after her death. As I talked with the Indian woman, I could sense her empathy. But when I finished expressing my grief at having lost the belt, her message was not the one of sympathy I expected. What she gave me was a new beginning and an insight into my mother. "Remember," she said, "the true gift you were given, things of the spirit. Don't ever cry over things that can't cry over you." My mother is not a belt. My mother is reflected in the woman who now stands in her place—me. My true heritage is the talents and strengths that she left to me. I no longer cry over a thing that can't cry over me. I cherish the fortitude and love a woman left to me. —Cheewa James, Modoc
Turn the Other Cheek by Rory Elder My grandmother was Choctaw and used to talk about her family walking the Trail of Tears from Mississippi to Oklahoma. She used it to let me know how tough the world can be. She also used the story to let me feel pride in being Indian. Grandmother called me by my Indian name, Nitatohbi. White Bear. She was a great big Indian woman, weighing around 250 pounds. When she squeezed me, which she did often, I felt like a tube of toothpaste. She would squeeze me so hard, with so much love, that I felt all my insides would come out. She had a joyous, happy laugh that started way down inside her and rolled out. We had moved from Oklahoma to Los Angeles when I was just a small boy and each day Grandmother would pick me up at school and walk me home. She would ask me about my day and then as we walked, she would tell stories. It was what I call heart-felt learning. Into all her stories she would weave in a lesson or message that related to my day. To make her points, she would point to trees, flowers, birds, animals. She found these things effortlessly and didn't even have to try. It was as if she had a third eye or a special magnet for these things of nature. This was quite amazing to me as we were in the middle of L.A. "When you are connected," she explained, "you will find these things even in the midst of concrete." The greatest lesson she taught me was one that was so profound that it exists in me today in what I call a cellular connection - it is literally part of my body. It happened one day on the way home from school. A group of teenagers began to taunt Grandmother with Indian war whoops. "Where's your tomahawk and feathers?" they jeered at her. She tightened her grip on my hand and walked a little faster but gave no other indication that she knew they were there. Then to my horror and disbelief, one of the boys spit in her face. Even with the spit running down her cheek, my grandmother did nothing. As we continued home, she did not wipe the spit from her face and seemed to be oblivious to it. When we got home, I was still stunned and shaken at what I had seen done to my grandmother. It was then that she sat me down and talked about what had happened. As I faced her, I could see that there was still a spot on her cheek but the spit had evaporated. "There are people in this world who will never know or understand our ways. It is important that you know who you are and be proud of that. I know you wonder why I didn't wipe the spit off. I left it on so that you would see that it will dry up but that you know your heart never will." My grandmother as an old woman had a face that looked like leather, with deep wrinkles running through it. But when I looked at her I saw in every wrinkled line a story. Each wrinkle was a river of wisdom. I would touch her face, and it felt so differently from how it looked. It was as soft and warm as her hugs. Grandmother died at the age of 94. She suffered with Alzheimer's disease in her later years and was in another world much of the time. I flew back to see her shortly before her death and took my nine-month old son. When I knelt at her bedside, the spirits chose to give me a special gift. I experienced five minutes of complete lucidity and understanding from my grandmother. "Grandmother," I whispered in her ear, "I'm here." "Nitatohbi, you're here," she said, her beautiful old face cracking into hundreds of smile lines. "Grandmother, I've brought my son to meet you." Her arms reached out to squeeze him like a tube of toothpaste. In these lucid moments she knew that the circle of life had moved my son to her. We sat together, we three complete in our circle. She died, I believe, in great peace. —Rory Elder, Choctaw
Lessons from the Two-Holer by Darlene Brown Most of the wisdom I have in this world came from long evenings at the old two-holer outhouse where I went each evening with my grandmother. It was there that I was molded, developed and given the gift of positive thinking. My grandparents raised me. My grandmother's name was Bernice Dorman Brown. She was a Yuki from the Round Valley Reservation in Covelo, CA. People said we were poor, but I never felt that way. I had plenty to eat, was warm and dry and had lots of love. We had no running water until I was 13 and no indoor plumbing. Gram hauled water every day and on Sunday heated water for my bath. She'd pull the curtains in the kitchen and pour the steaming water in a big round tub. My hair was never cut as a child and I didn't wash my own hair. Gram did it. It was an act of great care and love to take my long black hair and shampoo it - even as I kicked and screamed as she worked out the snarls. My hair was both my own and my grandmother's great joy. Today I never touch my hair without thinking of Gram. I used to brush my teeth every day in the horse trough. I guess that sounds like not the best way to brush your teeth, but everytime I started, the horses would come over and stand there as I brushed. That's something I actually miss now when I brush my teeth in a sink. One reason I never felt poor is that Gram never saw herself as poor. I never saw her complain. Her attitude in life was that you do what you have to do, live through the tough times, but most importantly, grab the joy and happiness that life has to offer. Those were the lessons of the two-holer. Each evening, either knowingly or unknowingly, she built my character. Everything she told me about living the most with what you have, she role modeled for me. People seem to complain so much about the bad in life, but she always turned the bad around and made it good. She'd gone to the Sherman Indian School in Riverside, CA. The school had given her a lot of structure in life as well as knowledge. From the age of four on, it was constantly impressed on me that I had to get as much education as I possibly could. It was a forceful message from the two-holer. I tried to do what she said. Today I'm a successful publications manager for a printing house. I'm surrounded by editing and words all day. But to this day, the most powerful words are still those of the two-holer. —Darlene Brown, Concow/Yuki/Littlelake/Shoshone/Bannock
When Coyote Fell in the Fire told to Willie Pink There's a story about a group of older women who went into the round house to gamble one evening. They divided into two teams and went about their business. Seems like this same evening, a young white man - looked kinda like what some people call a hippie - was wandering by, heard all the noise and decided to see what all those Indians in there were doing. It would have been more polite if he'd knocked on the door. It sure would have been better for him if he'd taken that route. What he did do was climb up on the roof. He saw an opening in the center with smoke comin' out and crawled over to it. He peeked through the hole and saw an open fire cracklin' away below him. Then, just like the trickster coyote might have done, he fell through the hole straight into the fire. Now he must have been one surprised, scared hippie. But he was no more surprised and scared than the women down below. He jumped left and right, tryin' to get out of the fire, but the women were convinced he was an evil spirit, and every time he'd about make it out of those hot flames lickin' at his heels, these women, screamin' and yellin' at the top of their lungs, would push him back with their canes and clapper sticks. Now I'm pretty sure there's a good ending to this, because there was never any tell of a man roasted to death in a round house. That hippie must have finally bounced right out of there. Like any good coyote story, it has a moral. Mind your manners and always use the door. |