|
stories > > > |
|
(Continued from previous page) Every day, for four days, the males would perform, and being skinny and short, I could push through the crowd right up to the edge of the platform. First would come four middle-aged men with shiny braids topped off with large black felt hats and one of two eagle feathers stuck in their hats bands. One gave the explanation that each feather represented one of the four winds. They started the slow drum beats, and the chanting began, "Ay yaw, yaw, yaw, Ay yaw, yaw, yaw, Ay yaw, yaw, yaw, Ay, yaw, yaw, yaw." It really stirred the blood. Then the young male dancers would come up to the stage, one by one, and perform. They were introduced by name, tribe and type of dance they were demonstrating. It seemed to me that the dancers put a lot into the war dances. For one thing, the stamping of feet was louder, and the chanting soared to the sky. My favorite was the hoop dance, by a young Comanche who kept four shiny rings on arms and legs, and twirling them while dancing. The Great Chiefs I used to imagine that some of the great chiefs looked down from the sky, seated on their war ponies, and saying, "Not bad, but we did it better." (All old men say that). Among my favorites of the great chiefs were: Quanah Parker (Comanche), Little Mountain (Kiowa), Cochise (Chiricahua), Geronimo (Apache), Sitting Bull (Sioux), Red Cloud (Sioux), and Crazy Horse (Oglala Sioux). Will Rodgers once said, "Nobody but an Indian can pronounce Oologah." The Painter and the Poet Every year, Enid, Oklahoma, the county seat, held a festival commemorating the Cherokee Strip Run. There was to be an art show, and I was invited to attend by the State Historian, Gwen Hendrickson, who was a friend of the family. (It helps to have friends in high places, especially when you are in the arts.) On 4/27/73 I found myself sitting next to a young Indian man, whom I thought was Cherokee because of his good looks. We sat in silence for a long time, staring ahead. I don't believe Indians are very talkative with strangers. Now the Irish cannot stand silence for long, so I asked him if I could look at the paintings and read the poems attached to each painting. I was quite taken with one painting called, "The Battle That One Keeps," and the poem attached to it. He allowed me to copy these haunting words: When my spear is broken, and no longer needed with my freedom dying with the setting of the sun. And my people lost in the blackness of civilization, where then shall we put the House of the Holies? |