American Indian Stories, Legends, and Other Writings

by Zitkala-S̈a

  This war has emphasized in many ways the need of higher education for the Indians, and that the Indians themselves must make the effort upon their own initiative. They must have a voice in the manner in which their funds shall be used for their education and civilization.

  In the olden days, the Indian hunter went forth in search of game that the family be fed and clothed. He did not sit in his tent waiting for some one to bring him food and raiment. Neither can the Indians today wait for some one else to bring to their door the indulgence of human rights. The Indians must go forth in search of the new game,—higher education, that they may enjoy equal rights with all American citizens.

  In conclusion the Secretary reports that in the main the Society’s plan to work for those large principles which benefit the many has been adhered to, exceptions being made in the cases where those concerned appeared to be pitifully helpless and suffering in distress. Never a penny has been received for remuneration from those who received aid in the name of the Society of American Indians.

  Editorial Comment (Winter 1919)

  The eyes of the world are upon the Peace Conference sitting at Paris.6

  Under the sun a new epoch is being staged!

  Little peoples are to be granted the right of self determination!

  Small nations and remnants of nations are to sit beside their great allies at the Peace Table; and their just claims are to be duly incorporated in the terms of a righteous peace.

  Paris, for the moment, has become the center of the world’s thought. Divers human petitions daily ascend to its Peace Table through foreign emissaries, people’s representatives and the interest’s lobbyists. From all parts of the earth, claims for adjustments equitable and otherwise are cabled and wirelessed. What patience and wisdom is needed now to render final decisions upon these highly involved and delicate enigmas reeking with inhumanities! The task may be difficult and the exposures of wrongs innumerable, still we believe—yes, we know, the world is to be made better as a result of these stirring times.

  Immortal justice is the vortex around which swing the whirl of human events!

  We are seeking to know justice, not as a fable but as a living, active, practical force in all that concerns our welfare!

  Actions of the wise leaders assembled in Paris may be guided ostensibly by temporary man-made laws and aims, dividing human interests into domestic and international affairs, but even so those leaders cannot forget the eternal fact that humanity is essentially one undivided, closely intertwined fabric through which spiritual truth will shine with increasing brightness until it is fully understood and its requirements fulfilled. The universal cry for freedom from injustice is the voice of a multitude united by afflictions. To appease this human cry the application of democratic principles must be flexible enough to be universal.

  Belgium is leading a historic procession of little peoples seeking freedom!

  From the very folds of the great allied nations are many classes of men and women clamoring for a hearing. Their fathers, sons, brothers and husbands fought and died for democracy. Each is eager to receive the reward for which supreme sacrifice was made. Surely will the blood-soaked fields of No-Man’s Land unceasingly cry out until the high principles for which blood spilled itself, are established in the governments of men.

  Thus in this vast procession to Paris, we recognize and read the flying banners.

  Labor organizations are seeking representation at the Peace Conference. Women of the world, mothers of the human race, are pressing forward for recognition. The Japanese are taking up the perplexing problem of race discrimination.

  The Black man of America is offering his urgent petition for representation at the Conference; and already President Wilson has taken some action in his behalf by sending to Paris, Dr. Moton, of Tuskegee Institute, accompanied by Dr. DuBois.

  A large New York assembly of American men and women wirelessed, it is reported, to President Wilson while he was in mid-ocean, enroute to Paris, requesting his aid in behalf of self-government for the Irish people.

  The Red man asks for a very simple thing—citizenship in the land that was once his own—America. Who shall represent his cause at the World’s Peace Conference? The American Indian, too, made the supreme sacrifice for liberty’s sake. He loves democratic ideals. What shall world democracy mean to his race?

  There never was a time more opportune than now for American to enfranchise the Red man!

  America, Home of the Red Man (Winter 1919)

  To keep the home fires burning, the Society of American Indians held its annual conference this fall at Pierre, South Dakota. While en route to the West, the Secretary was accosted by a traveler whose eyes fairly gleamed under the little service pin she wore. At length curiosity spoke. The only preliminary introduction was a clearing of the throat. “You have a relative in the war?” asked the voice. “Yes, indeed,” was the quick reply. “I have many cousins and nephews, somewhere in France. This star I am wearing is for my husband, a member of the great Sioux Nation, who is a volunteer in Uncle Sam’s Army.” A light spread over the countenance of the pale-faced stranger. “Oh! Yes! You are an Indian! Well, I knew when I first saw you that you must be a foreigner.”

  The amazing speech dropped like a sudden curtain behind which the speaker faded instantly from vision. In figures of fire, I saw, with the mind’s eye, ten thousand Indian soldiers swaying to and fro on European battle-fields—finally mingling their precious blood with the blood of all other peoples of the earth, that democracy might live. Three-fourths of these Indian soldiers were volunteers and there were those also who did not claim exemption, so eager were they to defend their country and its democratic ideals. The Red Man of America loves democracy and hates mutilated treaties.

  Twelve million dollars had been subscribed by the American Indians to the Liberty Loans. Generous donations they made to war funds of the Red Cross, Y.M.C.A. and other organizations.

  I beheld rapidly shifting pictures of individual sacrifices of Indians both young and old.

  An old grandmother, whom someone dubbed a “Utah squaw” now appeared wonderously glorified. Her furrowed face was aglow with radiance. Her bent form, clad in pitiful rags, changed in a twinkle of an eye to strength and grace. Her spirit shining through earth’s misfortunes, revealed an angel in disguise. She donated five hundred dollars to the Red Cross and had left only thirteen dollars. “Thirteen dollars left? That is enough for me,” the toothless old grandmother lisped in her own native tongue. It was her mite in this cause of world democracy.

  Beside her stood an Indian brave in the Army uniform. Earlier he went overseas for active service at the front. A treasured file of his letters filled the air like white-winged pigeons, telling a story stranger than fiction.

  He was a machine gunner. It was his duty to stand by his gun till he should drop. One day he fell, but the wound was not fatal. After his recovery he served as an infantryman. A Hun shrapnel found him again. His time, apparently, had not yet come to die. He recovered. Undaunted, he was glad when he was re-assigned to the Remount Station. “I have nothing to do now,” his letters read, “only to break army horses for riding.” True, he was an expert horseman but with a crippled knee, no telling what moment he might ignominiously break his own neck. This thought never occurred to him. Later a message came again from France. “I am no longer in the Remount. I have been assigned to garden work. I am digging spuds to help with the war.”

  And now I saw little French orphans, babes with soft buckskin moccasins on their tiny feet. Moccasins, that Indian women of America had made for them, with so much loving sympathy for an anguished humanity.

  Time and distance were eliminated by the fast succession of pictures crowding before me. The dome of our nation’s Capitol appeared. A great senator of Indian blood introduced upon the floor of the United States Senate a resolution that all Indian funds in the United States Treasury be available to our government, if need be, for the prosecution of the war. From coa
st to coast throughout our broad land not a single voice of the Red Man was raised to protest again it.

  America! Home of the Red Man! How dearly the Indian loves you! America! Home of Democracy, when shall the Red Man be emancipated? When shall the Red Man be deemed worthy of full citizenship if not now?

  A slight motion of the strange pale-face standing before me attracted my notice. I scanned him closely, to see what part of the dream he was. I wondered if a part of any dream could be cognizant of the rest of the actors, dream fellows, beheld by the dreamer or seer of visions. A pity he could not have seen the pictures that held me spellbound a moment ago. Alas, I did not have the courage to try to put them into words. When at last I spoke, the luster of his eye grew less bright. He was fast losing interest. From the questions with which I plied him, he probably guessed I was a traveling book agent.

  Did you ever read a geography? The Red Man is one of the four primary races into which the human family has been divided by scientists. America is the home of the Red Man. Have you read the June Designer, 1918, about Indian children in Red Cross work? Have you read the April National Geographic Magazine, 1918, in which the Secretary of the Interior, Hon. Franklin K. Lane, has contributed an article entitled, “What is it to be an American?” In the third paragraph of this article we are told “There has been nothing of paternalism in our government.” I would like to ask “How does this apply to the Red Men in our midst?”

  Slowly shaking his head, the stranger withdrew cautiously, lest he be snared into subscribing for one or all of these publications.

  The Coronation of Chief Powhatan Retold (Winter 1919)

  Mrs. Woodrow Wilson, wife of the President of the United States, is a lineal descendant of Pocahontas. Wide acclaim has been given Mrs. Wilson in Europe where, preliminary to the world’s Peace Conference, both she and her distinguished husband have been enthusiastically welcomed and sumptuously banqueted by the royal families.

  It is a remarkable coincidence that three centuries ago, Pocahontas was also received in Court by the King and Queen of England. It is recorded in history “that the most flattering marks of attention” were paid to the daughter of Chief Powhatan. Springing from the tribal democracies of the new world, Pocahontas was the first emissary of democratic ideas to caste-ridden Europe. She must have suffered untold anguish when King James was offended with her sweetheart husband, Rolfe, for his presumption in marrying the daughter of a king—a crowned head too!”

  Through weary miles of tangled forests of the eastern coast, Captain John Smith with four escorts carried word to Powhatan that new presents for him had arrived from England; and that Captain Newport sent him an invitation to come to Jamestown to receive them.

  The stately Indian chief, having just returned from a journey, was very likely reclining upon “his bed of mats, his pillow of dressed skin lying beside him with its brilliant embroidery of shells and beads.” Dressed in a handsome fur robe, “as large as an Irish mantell.” It was the fall of 1608; and the air was damp and cool. With grave dignity he replied to the messengers—“If your king has sent me presents, I also am a king and this is my land. Here I will stay eight days to receive them.” As for the cunning proposal that he join the settlers in a common campaign against another tribe of Indians, he said “I can avenge my own injuries.” Proud and sagacious was Powhatan, even Captain John Smith had to admit.

  When Jamestown learned that Chief Powhatan would be at home to receive the King’s gifts, Captain Newport with fifty men immediately set out to the chief’s dwelling. Among the many gifts presented at that memorable time, was a royal crown sent by King James I of England. It was a disappointment to Captain Newport that this unusual present brought to the Indian chief no glad thrills at all. But the faithful subjects of England knew that the old chief was exceedingly whimsical. They thought so because he was more interested in trifling trinkets and bright colored beads which appealed more to the artistic eye of the aborigine. He was grossly ignorant of the world’s rank and power associated with particular pieces of the white man’s articles of dress and decoration. One time, the chief admired a string of blue beads so much that he bought them from Captain Smith, paying three hundred bushels of corn, every kernel of which was worth more than gold to the hungry colonists.

  It was not surprising then that the scarlet robe and royal crown did not happen to please his unspoiled taste. Perhaps brooding over the encroachments of the pale-faces upon his territory might have caused him to question the real significance of these King’s garments and crown. To the liberty loving soul of Powhatan, this royal camouflage was no comparison to the gorgeous array of Autumn in that primeval forest where he roamed at will.

  However, by dint of persuasion, the coronation day was chosen. When the time came for the performance of the solemn ceremony, the courage of Powhatan failed. Such a parley as was held under those ancient trees can scarcely be imagined. The Indian Chief was incorrigible. It was really laughable, did it not in later years prove to be so tragic. After hours of reassurance that the king’s garments would not injure him, he reluctantly permitted himself to be dragged into them. The greatest difficulty was encountered when Powhatan stubbornly refused to kneel to receive the crown, as he was requested.

  The patience of his visitors was exhausted. Still they who would move heaven and earth to execute their king’s command must find a way to move this American aborigine. They resorted to trickery. “One leaned hard upon his shoulder to make him stoop a little and three stood ready to fix the royal gewgaw on his head.” At the signal of a pistol shot, a volley of musketry was fired as a salute.

  With a muttered growl of surprise, the warrior chieftain tore himself loose from their hands. His eagle eye flashed the wireless “Are you come to trifle with me and to kill?”

  Again Powhatan, now a crowned head, was reassured that all was well. Upon recovering his composure, it is told that he generously gave his old shoes and mantle to Captain Newport for his courtesy.

  Letter to the Chiefs and Headmen of the Tribes7 (Winter 1919)

  My friends and kinsmen:

  This little letter is written to you that each may receive a direct message today. There are two things I wish to bring to your special attention. These are English-speaking and retaining ownership of a portion of our Indian lands.

  Since the close of the great war, in which our Indians fought so bravely, there is much talk among our White brothers about the importance of all Americans learning to speak English. There are many languages among the White people just as there are among our different Indian tribes. Plans are being made and our government is supporting this new movement to educate all foreigners who now are American citizens, by the study of the English language.

  In all their papers, many of which I read, they are urging the returned soldiers and girl war-workers to go back to the schools. Night schools are opened for the working men and women. No one is ever too old to learn.

  Friends, if the White people have found it worth while to do this, isn’t it even more worth our while to renew our efforts to speak English? No doubt there have been occasions when you wished you could have expressed your thought in English. Remembering this experience, will you now encourage other Indians to make the effort to learn this language?

  Very often I have wished that you could write to me in a language we both would understand perfectly. I could then profit by your advice in many things, and you would know you were not forgotten.

  And now, I have a word to say about Indians holding permanently a small portion of their inherited lands. Sometimes I fear they are selling their lands too fast and without consideration for the future children of our race. Indians are an out-of-doors people, and though we may become educated in the White man’s way and even acquire money, we cannot really be happy unless we have a small piece of this Out-of-Doors to enjoy as we please. For the sake of our children’s children we must hold onto a few acres that they may enjoy it as we have.

  Many times as I w
alk on the paved streets of the city, I long for the open Indian country in which I played as a child. I wonder how our White brothers can be content, being born and bred In-Doors. I understand that it is their fast increasing population that necessitates building houses, larger and higher, to accommodate them. The White man is a wonderful builder of stone houses, which to me are better to look upon from the outside than to live in, as they shut out the sky and sunshine.

  I shall be glad to hear from you, should you feel interested in these two things about which I have taken the liberty to write you.8

  Editorial Comment (Spring 1919)

  The Black Hills Council

  With the full Council meeting annually and the Executive Committee thereof convening at more frequent intervals, the Black Hills Council of the Sioux has been established for many years. Intelligent, progressive Indians, realizing the necessity of united efforts, organized this association for the purpose of obtaining an equitable and just settlement of what is known as the Black Hills claim.

  In spite of the treaty of 1868,9 “the cupidity of the white man, lusting for gold in the forbidden country of the Black Hills, prevailed upon the War Department to come to his rescue by instituting war against the peaceful roaming Sioux.”

  The Black Hills claim, like other Indian claims, is the progeny of broken treaties. Paradoxical as it may seem, the very people standing most in need of the aid of justice and the machinery of law is debarred from the courts of America. Three-fourths of the Indian race being non-citizen, have no legal status, though a race that is good enough to fight and die for world democracy is surely worthy of full American citizenship and the protection of law under our constitution! The Indian’s voice will not be heard, however, in the courts of our land until our great government uproots the Bureau System, the love-vine strangling the manhood of the Indian race.