Neither Wolf nor Dog

“From the first you are told, ‘This is mine, this is yours’; ‘Don’t touch that, it doesn’t belong to you.’ You are taught to keep away from things because of ownership, not because of respect. In the old days we never had locks on our doors. There was no stealing, but if someone was hungry, they could go in your house and get food. That was all. Why didn’t people take things? Because of respect.
“You build fences around your yards and pay money for people to measure the ground to tell you if your neighbor’s fence is one inch too close to your house. You give nothing away unless you can get something in return. Everything is economic.
“Your most powerful people don’t even hide their thinking on this. If you ask for something, they don’t ask whether you need it; they say, ‘What’s in it for me?’”
“I’m afraid that’s America, Dan,” I said.
He hammered the air with his gnarled fist.
“I know it. And a lot of our people have started to act like that, too. Not all, but enough. This kills the old Indian way, where everything was shared. We believed that everything was a gift, and that a good man or woman shared those gifts. Next to bravery, generosity was the most important.

“It works, all right,” the old man said. “But it causes problems, too. I remember as a little boy in school. When the teacher would call on me I would sometimes want to think about my answer. She would get nervous and tap her ruler on the desk. Then she’d get angry at me and ask me if maybe I didn’t hear her or if the cat got my tongue.
“How was I supposed to think up my answer when I could see her getting upset and nervous and knew that the longer I waited the worse it would be? I’d end up saying one word or, ‘I don’t know.’ I’d say anything to get her away from me. Pretty soon they said I was stupid

“Think about this. Do you ever hear white people saying that they are part black or part Mexican? Hell, no. But the world is full of people who say they are part Indian. Usually they’ll say it was their grandmother or their great grandmother. It’s never a grandfather. You wouldn’t want an Indian man in your background. He might have had a tomahawk or something. You want some old blanket Indian woman who taught your family wise ways. And they’re never a Potawatami or a Chiracahua or a Tlingit — usually it’s a Cherokee. Something about the Cherokees is more romantic. I bet I’ve met a hundred white people who say they had a Cherokee grandmother. And you know what? They believe it! They want it to be true so much that they make themselves believe it.
“Mostly they leave it at that. But some of them don’t. They grow their hair in braids and go to some powwows. Maybe take a class from some phony medicine man, and presto! we’ve got a new Indian. Pretty soon they’re spouting Indian philosophy and twisting up the idea of the Indian even further.
“I tell you, Nerburn, being an Indian isn’t easy. For a lot of years America just wanted to destroy us. Now, all of a sudden, we’re the only group people are trying to get into. Why do you think this is?”

“They mixed us up with white people. They took away our language. They took our kids away to schools and wouldn’t let them learn about the old culture. They herded us onto reservations and rewarded Indians who acted just like white people. They created a generation of Indians who didn’t even know who they were.”

“You see how it is? We have a false name, someone else tries to tell us about our history and says that the history we know is wrong. Then the government tries to make its own rules about who we are and who can be part of us.”
“It’s a sad situation,” I said.
“Sad? I’ll say it’s sad. Then there’s another thing. There were times when the government let white people move onto our land and claim it for their own. Lots of white people moved onto Indian lands and later if there were treaty payments, they said they were Indians so they could get part of the treaty payments.
“And then there was a lot of intermarrying between our races, and sometimes there were rapes, so nobody really knows who is an Indian anymore, or even what it means.”
Wenonah had been leaning against the sink, listening placidly. She obviously enjoyed seeing her grandfather like this. She placed a cup of coffee on the table in front of him and gave me a sideways wink. “Take it easy, Grandpa,” she said. “You’ll give yourself a heart attack.”
The old man waved her away. “The hell with the heart attack. These are things I need to say.”
He turned back to me. “You’d better be getting this down.”
I pointed at the tape recorder. He nodded his approval.
“This can get real confusing to us, Nerburn. Real confusing. The Europeans really did exterminate us, you know. They did it with guns and they did it with laws and they did it with all kinds of censuses and regulations that confused who we were.
“They mixed us up with white people. They took away our language. They took our kids away to schools and wouldn’t let them learn about the old culture. They herded us onto reservations and rewarded Indians who acted just like white people. They created a generation of Indians who didn’t even know who they were.”
He leaned over to me so close I could hear his chest wheezing. “Now, don’t get me wrong on this. But you’ve got to understand that we are still at war. It’s not like we are fighting against America or the American people, but we are still defending who we are. It’s a war to us, because if we don’t fight for who we are we will be destroyed. We’ll be destroyed by false ideas and phony Indians and all the good intentions of people who think they are helping us by making us act like white people.”
“Grandpa,” Wenonah interjected.
The old man shook his head. “No. Let me finish. I’m almost done.
“Think about this. Do you ever hear white people saying that they are part black or part Mexican? Hell, no. But the world is full of people who say they are part Indian. Usually they’ll say it was their grandmother or their great grandmother. It’s never a grandfather. You wouldn’t want an Indian man in your background. He might have had a tomahawk or something. You want some old blanket Indian woman who taught your family wise ways. And they’re never a Potawatami or a Chiracahua or a Tlingit — usually it’s a Cherokee. Something about the Cherokees is more romantic. I bet I’ve met a hundred white people who say they had a Cherokee grandmother. And you know what? They believe it! They want it to be true so much that they make themselves believe it.
“Mostly they leave it at that. But some of them don’t. They grow their hair in braids and go to some powwows. Maybe take a class from some phony medicine man, and presto! we’ve got a new Indian. Pretty soon they’re spouting Indian philosophy and twisting up the idea of the Indian even further.
“I tell you, Nerburn, being an Indian isn’t easy. For a lot of years America just wanted to destroy us. Now, all of a sudden, we’re the only group people are trying to get into. Why do you think this is?”
I told him I didn’t know.
“I think it’s because the white people know we had something that was real, that we lived the way the Creator meant people to live on this land. They want that. They know that the white people are messing up. If they say they are part Indian, it’s like being part of what we have.”
Wenonah had been hovering around the outside of the conversation. She had been watching the old man carefully, monitoring his anger and his exertion like a nurse watching a patient. It was clear that she loved him dearly. I let her take the lead in how to proceed.
Soon she walked over behind him and put her arms around his neck. She nestled her head against his and spoke softly into his ear. “That’s enough, Grandpa. That’s enough.”
The old man nodded. He slumped back in his stiff wooden chair. An impassive look settled over his face. Wenonah took the National Geographic off the table and returned it to the bedroom. From the half darkness of the back room I could see her looking at me. She raised her hand to her lips, as if to say, “He’s had enough.”
The old man’s exhaustion was palpable. He seemed to be turning to stone before my eyes. His stare did not vary and he didn’t move a muscle. It was as if he had gone inside to a place of tears and memory.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” I said. Wenonah nodded, obviously pleased that I had understood her message. I took one last look at the old man as I pushed open the screen door. Wenonah was standing behind him, stroking his hair with the side of her hand and humming softly like a mother hums to a child.
Go back Remaining pages in chapter: 3

No one will leave us alone and let us be who we are. First we were told who we are, then we were told how we should be. Now we are being told how we’re supposed to take it when someone wants to define us in a certain way. No one ever asks us. No one ever listens to us when we speak. Everyone knows what they want and we’re supposed to let them think it. If we don’t agree with it, we’re called radicals or troublemakers.

“There is something we don’t like, though. It’s when people call us Indians and then start calling sports teams and other things Indians. If we’re going to have a false name, at least let us have it and then leave it alone. Don’t start putting it on beer bottles and ice cream cartons and making it into something that embarrasses us and makes us look like fools. And don’t tell us it’s supposed to be some honor to us. We’ll decide what honors us and what doesn’t.”

when you’re here.”

That’s the Indian way. When you are here, you are here. When you are gone, you are gone. It isn’t a problem to be gone, so long as you are really here

“You did something we did not think was possible. You killed us without even taking our lives. You killed us by turning our land into pieces of paper and bags of flour and blankets and telling us that was enough. You took the places where the spirits talked to us and you gave us bags of flour.