1
During a night at a museum that does not exist, I
press a button next to an exhibit.
Inside the exhibit there is the likeness of an Indianized American, and
he is sitting upon a horse within a desert landscape.
The
button flashes after I press it, and to my surprise the negated Indian begins
to articulate. Words are piped in for
the sake of a mouth that does not move, for lips that do not quiver. I am supposed to think that another Indiaman
merchanted from a nearby photograph is addressing me, his weathered features
prescient within his grayshaded confinement.
I am not here. I never was.
2
“The sun was very high that day, and I could see
into the desert for miles. I was on my
horse, on the bluff overlooking the flatlands.
Beyond the flatlands I could see the dry mountains in the far distance,
and a great column of the white people’s wagons was passing near to where I sat
my horse, staring down at them. Many of
them glanced in my direction and grew nervous.
“I was studying one of
the wagons,” said the statue, “I was studying the nearest one. It creaked beneath the weight it bore. One of the axles was about to give out.
“I did not speak or
call out as they passed below me, though I knew it was only a matter of time
before one of their number started preaching in my direction. A man like me can find no peace in their
presence, just as men like them can find no peace in my presence.”
And I look to my left
and to my right, almost expecting to find him standing there, a ghost from
another century. Is this what he would
have told me? Is this what he really
wanted to say?
“I think that one day
the white men will try to drive us away again, to some other place they have no
use for. One day they will try to kill
us, even though we only follow the ways of our people. For them we are all red men, and there can be
no peace between two tribes so different.
I often think that they are right.
“They say that these
men who I saw that day, these particular men who crossed our desert, were cast
out by the other white men. I cannot say
why. To me it does not make any
difference, because the white men’s differences are all the same. I have read their Bible, and I have learned
their tongue.
“I know that their
leader talks about a Kingdom of God, and so they walk into the deserts, where
many of them will die. It is always this
way with the white men. They divide one
tribe from another, and then sacrifice themselves to some strange idea, in a
place that is no good for hunting. As
for myself, I would rather be sitting next to the council fires, where I know
myself and my people.”
20 minutes until the
museum will close. Patrons are
encouraged to exit via the main entrance.
The museum will reopen tomorrow at 9:30 am.
“One of the white men
was talking to me then. I pretended not
to understand. He said that the truth
was revealed to these white men on golden plates, held by an angel. In truth, I do not know what an angel is
supposed to be.
“He said that at the
beginnings of this land all the men were white like him, or maybe he should
have said they were red, and that it was God who cursed my grandfathers with
redness, or blackness. He said that
Jesus was among us then. The white men
are always speaking of Jesus.
“He said that Jesus
came to the New World. He thought that
the world is divided into two parts: the Old and the New, just like the Bible
is divided into two parts: the Old and the New.
It seems to me that this land always was, and always will be. If a place always was, how can it be divided
from itself?
“My horse whinnied,
and the white man put a paper into my hand.
I pretended not to read the words.
I did not want to. I took the
paper and smiled. He was telling me
something about false prophets, and how I should not listen to every other
white man who talked about Jesus, but only to him. I smiled again, and called him a devil in my
language.
“In my pack there was
a rifle, but I did not fire it that day.
The white men passing below had too many of their own rifles, and they
were always quick to use them on a red man like me. The white men are always quick to take offence,
and even quicker to grow frightened. It’s
easy for them to kick drunken Indians around their towns, but when they see us
in the open places they grow restive, and uncertain. I know that the white men will always hate
the red men, because there is too much fear between us.
“Sometimes
I wonder whether I am a white man or a red man.
My grandmother was a white woman – as white as any white man’s woman –
but she was mighty in our nation, so maybe that made her red. My sister had also gone off to live with a
white man, and I was wearing a white man’s clothes, so maybe that makes me
white.
“The
white man spoke of places and things I did not understand, and did not want to
understand. I smiled some more, and
cursed him again with a big grin. He
might have considered me a noble savage.
He might have considered me a simple brute, or an unschooled heathen. His Civilization is as flimsy as his white
skin. It burns away in the desert sun.
“The sun
was very high that day. No good
hunting. Not even a rabbit in the
brush. Later I would go home and lie
with my red wife, thinking of the white woman and her fearful husband. I would think of how good it would be to rut
with her, and to make her mine. I would
look at my wife, but I would be thinking of the white woman. My wife was red, redder than even me, and she
was strong where the white woman was beautiful.
She, like the white woman, bore both the trials and the shames of her
people.
“I
looked down, and saw that one of the wagons was stuck in a hole. The white men crowded around the wagon, trying
to help. There was a long line of those
wagons, moving up to where the land was even worse. That yellow haired woman had already passed
out of view.
“And
the man who handed me the paper was gone.
He was one of those who were trying to pull the wagon out of the
hole. There are so many of these white
men, and more and more all the time. You
would think that they would one day grow tired of their moving around, and
buying, and selling, and drinking, and claiming, but for every one of them that
grows tired there are ten to take his place.
Some of these are born here, while some others come from boats, which
ride upon an ocean I have never seen.
They have been about their Father’s business since this land was young,
and free of them.
“My
father said that they were born empty, and can never be filled. Maybe this is why they always go to the
emptiest places; because it is there that they feel most at home.
“I
wanted to go home, and to see my children.
I wanted also to enjoy the memory of the yellow haired woman, and how
she tried to look so at ease in the midst of her terror. The desert is no place to feel at ease. Even the desert tribes know that.”
3
The unoriginally cast aboriginal grows silent, and
the button has ceased flashing. I look
once again at a photograph upon a plate, with descriptions of his life and
times written to preserve everything about him that was not essential. I wonder if it is really his words that I
have heard. I wonder what it is this
thing that I am becoming, every day, and if we really could understand any
voices that might speak from yesterday.
A child brushes me out of the way, eager to press the flashing button,
but not so eager to hear the words, spoken on the caricature’s behalf.
This
child does not discriminate between the pictures held up from the past, or
between the voices summoned up to represent it.
Some of us others try. We hold
the pictures one against the other, looking for shadows that do not overlap,
looking for gaps in the story, or looking for lies persistent. But what if we are only fooling
ourselves? What if our pictures are
always too small to check against, or else too large to be comprehended in a
single, easy viewing?
“Daddy,”
says the child, says my daughter, “I want to go now.”
4
1 And at that time there was a great strife in the
land, for the armies of the righteous had been cast down, and the word of the
LORD could no longer be heard among them.
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