Neither Wolf Nor Dog. Kent Nerburn
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Название: Neither Wolf Nor Dog
Автор: Kent Nerburn
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Биографии и Мемуары
Серия: Canons
isbn: 9781786890184
isbn:
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.
CHAPTER FIVE
A LAND OF DREAMS AND PHANTASMS
It had been several weeks since I arrived on the reservation. The weather was starting to take a slight autumn turn. Great roiling cumulus clouds rolled like tumbrels across the sky. The light seemed filtered, the ground animals more industrious.
As a child of the woodlands, I had never had much of a sense for the plains and the prairies. But now, as the days passed, the hypnotic power of the land had overtaken me. I felt like a man on an inland sea. The billowing, waving prairie grasses were symphonic in their ebbs and swells; the marching cadences of the passing clouds transfixed the eye. Sound was magnified, as if echoing against some vast, celestial vault. Thunder would roll in from beyond the horizon; the buzzing of insects would seem to be inside your head. It was equal parts peace and dread — a land of dreams and phantasms.
Sometimes at night I would spread out a sleeping bag in my pickup bed and watch distant flashes of lightning illuminate the inside of giant, looming thunderheads six or seven miles high. The earth itself had ceased to be the prime element in my consciousness. This was a land of the sky, and every turn, every action, lifted the eye upward.
Dan had noticed my growing fascination. We had taken to visiting his favorite hilltop almost every day. He never said anything, but I could see him watching me as I would stare out over the plains. We would sit for hours, oftentimes without speaking. The only sound would be the endless rushing of the wind and the rustling and snuffling of Fatback as she burrowed around in the tall prairie grasses.
Sometimes the old man would make a passing comment, like the time he told me that his father had brought him to this spot when he was a child, and many things had happened to him here that he couldn’t talk about. Other times he would begin singing, keeping his song low and private, as if meant for no one to hear. One time he looked at me and nodded. “Your eyes are different, Nerburn,” he said. “You are looking farther.” He didn’t elaborate or say another word, but that phrase, with all its cryptic meaning, buoyed me like nothing else he had ever said.
When we were on the hill, I would pass my time thinking of my family, or wondering about God or any number of other topics that fill the mind when confronted with vast, empty spaces. Never having been much for examining flora or fauna, I found little of interest in the profusion of tiny flowers and plant life that seemed to occupy so much of Dan’s attention. For me, this was a land of poetry — sparse, singular, with lyricism written on the wind.
One day Dan startled me with a full sentence. “You’re getting better with silence,” he said.
“I am?”
“I watch you.”
“I know.”
“You’re learning. I can tell because of your silence.”
I sensed that he had something to say. Dan did not make small talk when he was on his hill.
“We Indians know about silence,” he said. “We aren’t afraid of it. In fact, to us it is more powerful than words.”
I nodded in agreement.
“Our elders were schooled in the ways of silence, and they passed that along to us. Watch, listen, and then act, they told us. This is the way to live.
“Watch the animals to see how they care for their young. Watch the elders to see how they behave. Watch the white man to see what he wants. Always watch first, with a still heart and mind, then you will learn. When you have watched enough, then you can act.”
There was a silence.
“That’s quite a bit different from our way,” I volunteered, hoping to prod him into further conversation.
“Yes,” he said. “With you it is just the opposite. You learn by talking. You reward the kids who talk the most in school. At your parties everyone is trying to talk. In your work you are always having meetings where everyone interrupts everyone else and everyone talks five, ten, or a hundred times. You say it is working out a problem. To us it just sounds like a bunch of people saying anything that comes into their heads and then trying to make what they say come around to something that makes sense.
“Indians have known this for a long time. We like to use it on you. We know that when you are in a room and it is quiet you get nervous. You have to fill СКАЧАТЬ