Remnants of the First Earth

by Ray A. Young Bear

  Excuse me, interrupted the long-legged schoolteacher, but isn’t he too fat to be dancing, anyway? And isn’t his wife the one who does a stupid imitation of a Northern Plains woman’s cry? And aren’t you the Texaco Man’s mistress?

  How about you, teacher lady, aren’t you the one who wraps long legs around men like an anaconda, making them fartsy, making them cry? the slobbering old men audibly whispered.

  Hey, chuck that filth, alright? pleaded the atheist Indian artist, the one who was extricated from his moped with the “Jaws of Life” and charged with drunk driving.

  Yeah, she’s state-certified, said the ineffective tribal social services worker.

  Hoping she wouldn’t be seen, Grace Disgrace, the tribal grants writer, took advantage of the ruckus and excused herself to go take a crap, complaining she should have gone sooner.

  Go on then, Ma, get out of here, she was told by the fifth executive director we had had in eight years, Scotty Disgrace, convicted embezzler and wife beater.

  Blame taco salad, if anything, said the intellectuals as a sarcastic joke to Grace Disgrace’s ill-timed exit.

  In addition to the main Disgraces, you’re all a disgrace, spoke the members of Weeping Willow School Board, who had just been canned by their employers, the Tribal Council.

  What does your firing have to do with the whirlwind? asked the antischool buffoons. Have you gcine bananas, in Lakota zee-skopa-ed? The Missooni Indian woman you hired got smashed at your Halloween party and assaulted her husband afterward on the intersection of Highways 30 and 63. Listen to a local newspaper quote. “Noted for her jingle dress dancing abilities and not her academic credentials, the lady subdued her pumpkin-masked mate with flying roundhouse kicks.” Need we say more?

  And it went on like that, day after day, constant bickering until foam from a dozen frothy mouths formed a slough. Whew! Pe-e-eeeooo! Whenever the controversy began to dry up in its own heat, the once-sympathetic elders renewed the attack. Backed by the Tribal Council —all of whom were suspected of embezzling casino cash—the elders presented their sons and grandsons as good examples. Role modelish. Ish is right. Ishi-bound. Everyone snickered. Like prosecuting lawyers in a high-profile criminal trial, the cynics outlined their case item by item. The council members and their records were reviewed. There were loopholes, inconsistencies, and outright hypocrisy.

  “Kensey” Muscatine, the pedophile-horticulturalist and former Council chair, for instance, hoodwinked the clans into praying with him for a lenient sentence. Of course, he was assisted by a new generation of informants who had no qualms selling the Earthlodge clan gourds. Only a handful had the guts to leave but in so doing they set themselves up as targets.

  These cronies are engaged in sacrilegious doings, said the cynics.

  Those who left the “asking for a lenient jail sentence” feast were visited that night at their windows by exotic-sounding birdcalls that changed to loud, electrifying growls of a bearlike creature who stood upright in the moonlight, emitting sparks from its inquisitive snorts as it dropped on all fours and drove away in grinding, mechanical gear sounds.

  Those who worship figurines supposedly symbolizing past warriors are fooling themselves, said the cynics. (It was believed the Black Hummingbird Society were sorcerers who replenished their own lives with other lives. Ancient Count Draculas, Jekyll and Hyde characters. Nighttime ceremonies in which arrows of light were seen ascending to the stars through the earthlodge portals scared everyone. Sorcery as religion, they said quietly among themselves.)

  At televised community meetings, “Kensey” Muscatine condemned the fate of anyone who wasn’t an earthlodge participant. The room temperature was ice cubish. Save yourselves for the good of the tribe! he urged.

  Does that mean forcefully shoving a minors face to your sweaty crotch as redemption? shouted the cynics. Is this why your daughter leaves home every summer because she can’t stand your repulsive BO?

  The curious onlookers and assorted good-for-nothings expressed whoas.

  Forgiving relatives of “Kensey,” from “Grubby’s” and Horatio’s side of the family, shouted back until the pedophile’s wife, Devonshire Muscatine, keeled over, all 258 pounds of her, knocking over the television camera crews of KORN—Channel 9 Local Access News, ending the meeting.

  Above them, the turbulent skies hovered. Devonshire, amazingly, was the only one to witness the revelation. A tiny lavender whirlwind descended into her hairy nostrils until the smell of gunpowder was exhaled, defusing her original opinions. Against her husband’s wishes she forgave the cynics before she was on her cellulite-swollen ankles. She indicated it was “heavenly” that small ceremonies were being done by these families within the privacy of their homes. Belief in the Principal Religion was taught, she added.

  But then so is immorality by some of the earthlodge and Tribal Council leaders, retorted Grace Disgrace, who was composed and rejuvenated upon her return from the can. In spite of their superior knowledge, she indicated in her closing remarks, some earthlodge leaders are charlatans!

  Not far away, old men wept over disobedient sons. There were insinuations these sons witnessed the seduction of their aunts and sisters while their mothers snored on the floor nearby. Unwanted babies, not long ago, were smothered to assure family dignity. Retroactive fatherhood was inconceivable but it was done.

  In the verbal aftermath of the whirlwind no one was right, no one was wrong. For centuries we had gone against the white-skinned people, sensing they carried with them earth’s demise. Into them are we helplessly drawn today. The whirlwind, it was said, exemplified that very possibility.

  The Mask of Seeing

  It would be good if my self-published book of verse, The Mask of Seeing (Hominy Creek Press, 1989), inspired Lorna Bearcap and Claude E. Youthman to write “The Weeping Willow Manifesto.” Unbeknownst to the Black Eagle Child Quarterly editors, namely Billy “Cracker” Jack and his supervisors, the article was published in the spring 1990 issue. The mimeographed community newsletter that had published my poetry three decades ago became a glossy tabloid. Aimed at the casino-oriented market via “Big Money Winners” and trivial “Card Dealer of the Month” selections, the publication arm of the Tribal Council had a promotional slant. And so when “The Weeping Willow Manifesto” made it through the censors to a large readership, there were outcries and feelings of consternation from the tribal members.

  In one way Bearcap and Youthman were the exception when it came to Black Eagle Child people. Distinguished in their knowledge of tribal culture and in their Earthlodge clan participation, they were also certified to teach in the state of Iowa. No small deed. They were nevertheless ostracized by the Tribal Council for being “educated.” “These teachers can work,” they stipulated to the Weeping Willow School Board, “with the understanding they remain free of political opinions, i.e., unnecessary editorializing in newsletters and general acts of subversion.” No joke. Under these restrictive conditions Lorna Bearcap and Claude Youthman postulated in “The Weeping Willow Manifesto” that there was a qommon enemy: “ourselves and our relatives.”

  Much of who we were and what we had become was reflected in the unacceptable curriculum of the school, which conformed to the greater society’s restraints. The condemned building represented to Bearcap and Youthman “a wild-eyed creature ensnared in razor-sharp barbed wire. In its movements to free itself, the creature who didn’t know better and would not rest became its own enemy.” Instead of developing an institution of tribal learning, we prepared Black Eagle Child youth for an unpredictable and irresponsible tomorrow.

  After an incident whereby the Plain Brown Bear family sent themselves and not the eighth-grade graduating class to Disney World, Bearcap and Youthman resigned in protest from Weeping Willow. Through fear of retribution no one else objected because the Plain Brown Bears and their Muscatine cousins sat on the Black Eagle Child Tribal Council, as well as the gambling, school, housing, recreation, culture, fine arts, and health boards. Res
igning from the wretched school and secretly entering their article in the casino-backed Black Eagle Child Quarterly computers were admirable acts for Bearcap and Youthman. The only problem was, although we came from the same philosophical encampment, I was adamant in the belief that teachers and writers were different. You had to be either one or the other. They, in this case, were the other. They were bureaucrats in limbo, no authority to do anything. “If given a chance they’d perpetrate misdeeds themselves” was the opinion expressed by my Principal Bear uncles. Nevertheless, that did not prevent me from bubbling with glee when the following excerpt appeared in the BECQ:

  Behind the receptionist’s desk of the BEC health clinic sits Abraham Plain Brown Bear, Weeping Willow Elementary School Board chair-for-life and alleged “lollipopper” of young boys and men. Through his father, an influential earthlodge leader, he wants you to think he’s clean, repentant, and remorseful. But honestly, ki nwa-e me to se ne ni wi ye ko, you who are the people, are you comfortable that your medical records and physical condition are open to Abraham? Do you care if he handles them, making photocopies in case you’re a rival or an outspoken critic? Are you comfortable that he’s urging youth to roll up their blue jeans up and over the ankles, showing the white socks? How would you like it if someone asked you to apply the eyebrow liner toothpick-thin, dark, and crooked—and you were a man? Abraham’s records show he once got several boys intoxicated in a hotel room, tied them up, and took photographs of them in the nude. Asked by the judge why he shot photos from angles that made the subjects’ hands and feet appear abnormally large, Abraham replied, “I like K. C. Zormon’s lithographs, Your Honor. Mr. Zormon is a contemporary Indian pop artist.” Without being asked, the all-white jury nodded they, too, hadn’t heard of “Mr. Zormon.” Why was the judge so preoccupied with bondage, camera angles, and the photo enlargements of the male minors? Why this blatant disrespect for their families and their privacy?

  Why ponder this triviality? It’s reality.

  Black Eagle Child people, to ki ko, wake up! Seriously now.

  The courthouse scene is no different from the current tribal administration.

  Present at Abraham Plain Brown Bear’s trial were Horatio Plain Brown Bear, the defendant’s brother and secretary of the Tribal Council; Kensington “Kensey” Muscatine, the defendant’s cousin; and Hayward “Grubby” Muscatine, the defendant’s brother-in-law and Tribal Council treasurer: character witnesses.

  On the stand “Kensey” attests to Abraham’s “divergence on occasion” and dodges questions about his own problems. The prosecution states that as Why Cheer High School STU-JEPP (Students in Academic Jeopardy Program) counselor, “Mr. Muscatine molested disadvantaged white females, for which he was found guilty. He was thereby forced to resign as chair of the Black Eagle Child Tribal Council.” “Kensey” explains he is going to be a “greenhouse horticulturist.” “Grubby” Muscatine, brother-in-law of Abraham and Horatio Plain Brown Bear, confirms the horticulture grant is part of the Tribal Council’s rehabilitation program, not a reward. He does this while yelling. There is a fifteen-minute recess. “Grubby” apologizes for the outburst and fidgets with his long, silver braids that are wrapped in stiff strips of yellow leather. He is last seen leaving the courthouse with his wife, Elvia Plain Brown Bear-Muscatine, following closely behind. Funny how tall people look when they flee, someone was heard saying, their big ten-nis-shoed feet plopping loudly over the polished wooden floors.

  What happened? people were saying also.

  Did “Grubby” see a photo enlargement of himself as a youth gang member, based on motorcycle rider ideology, French-kissing Horatio Plain Brown Bear? Did the photo taken of a group of kids reveal more than a rebellious, cool, and sixtyish fad worshipper? And is that him peering from behind the hangers inside the proverbial closet? Is this why he staunchly supports Horatio and Abraham Plain Brown Bear? Was Elvia, the sister, the last conquest, the last sibling to be embraced . . . spreading . . . bending? Which was it? Who gives a_________? “Grubby,” lip-locker and provider of bisexual acts among the Plain Brown Bears . . .

  Billy “Cracker” Jack, Black Eagle Child Quarterly editor, almost lost his job. He found it necessary to make late-night visits, reminding Tribal Council members he had their signatures. In his long, dull gray Cadillac, “Cracker” Jack brought gambling to the Black Eagle Child Settlement at ten thousand dollars per vote from the seven-person tribal government. The people despised his gestapoliticking demeanor and “wise guy” connections. Without knowing a referendum had taken place, the tribe awoke one morning to televised press conferences we had voted unanimously for gambling. That was years ago. The houses “Cracker” Jack promised are slowly being built for relatives of whoever is in charge, and no one is a millionaire.

  With a circulation of eighteen thousand copies, the Black Eagle Child Quarterly issue was an instant collector’s item. Thanks to the blistering attack by Bearcap and Youthman. Lambasted as a leader of the corrupt Black Eagle Child gambling enterprise, “Cracker” Jack cruised the thoroughfares of the Settlement with his Batmobile late into the starlit night.

  There was a plethora of unmet conditions in the offing that prevented me from joining forces with Bearcap and Youthman. Politically inspired diatribe intrigued me. It was hard resisting a visit to the houses of these exemplary visionaries. The fact was—and Bearcap and Youthman understood this—I had no allies other than the Six Grandfathers’ Journals. But regardless of the chasm between writer and teacher, all three of us were saying the prophecies our grandparents most feared were here. It was little consolation, however, because a majority of the tribe, for lack of better words, “sucked eggs.” To them we were the incongruity. Anyone who possessed a college degree or an honorary doctorate in letters—wrote books—could not be trusted. The Tribal Council stated that “the Settlement has no room for educated people; the casino was established primarily for the uneducated.” In their tainted love/hate relationship with education, they raised the Weeping Willow Elementary tribal culture instructors’—their wives’—salaries to be comparable to those of state-certified teachers. My parents complained that since the school was operated by illiterates, they were jealous of my sister student-teaching at Weeping Willow.

  As the uneducated leaders and their followers took the helm of the craft christened the Black Eagle Child Settlement, the Creator’s whirlwind lifted the prefab big-top tent above and down upon the Black Eagle Child Field Days and Chautauqua crowd, injuring many.

  It was useless.

  The Tribal Council members didn’t get the message, not even when the Creator, according to Professor Crockston, affixed the postal zip code and their tribal names to their letters: Bo ki te ba, Me ma ka na tti ya ta, Mo tti ti ya ta, Wi ni ko ma ta-a be ji, Me ta na ki ti ya ta, Ka ske ti ta, koni Be mi te wi-ma ki ti ya ta, Why Cheer, Iowa 53229. Hole-in-the-Head, Large-Testicled One, Dirty-Assed One, Constant Dirty-Nosed One, Entirely Naked One, Constipated One, and Lard Big-Butted One, Why Cheer, Iowa 53229.

  It was rugged commentary but needed in a reclusive community where points were rarely made and understood.

  The vortex of evil brought lovely female impersonators who did blow jobs on old, unsuspecting white men and handsome male impersonators did the same on old, white ladies. White-on-white crime —for the time being.

  Disgusted beyond the point of control I contemplated trashing the casino’s Christmas display of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves that lit up in neon letters “WISH U A MERRY X-MAS!” along the Highway 30 casino mixmaster. The dwarves alone were worth twelve thousand dollars apiece. No one in the casino marketing department knew why Snow White had been ordered for the Christmas holidays.

  In my journals I wrote: “If they (the tribe) could only wake up, they’d realize they have no future as long as the Tribal Council is in charge. It will be like before: At a critical juncture when everything we represent and own—central Iowa realty—is under jeopardy of being lost, only then will the tribe turn to the O
ki ma, the Sacred Chieftains.”

  To advance my argument, the Central Plains Register out of Des Moines was helpful, publishing my essays on the deconstruction of tribal government to eliminate corruption. In spite of the fact that I was no shining example of a circumspect, half-assimilated tribal member, my journalistic skills would keep me away from “the big house.” For Horatio, “Grubby,” and “Kensey,” there were federal charges pending on gigoloism, embezzling, and racketeering.

  As Grandmother forewarned, a certain evilness had set in. The destiny of the tribe was determined by a grossly uneducated Tribal Council whose members were easily swayed by Twintowns businesses with projects that benefited only the whites and themselves—and not the tribe per se. For the Tribal Council, the sudden influx of casino cash was mind-boggling. They left government and state monies alone because it could be traced. The truth was, some were no different from their greedy grandfathers.

  Beyond the money issue, there was the matter of the former council chair, the pedophile-horticulturalist, “Kensey” Muscatine, who reminded us that the potential of another Dorothy Black Heron situation still lurked. The threat also existed in the personage of the present council chair, Horatio Plain Brown Bear II, who spent most of his waking hours in court on a number of paternity suits. When he wasn’t impregnating his two younger brothers’ girlfriends, there were suspicions he was at his sister Elvia’s house when she conveniently wasn’t there, loin-locking to the extreme with “Grubby” Muscatine! The stories were vivid. Through the window they were allegedly seen: the round, obese frame of Horatio behind the bent-over frame of “Grubby,” and both with cigarettes dangling from their mouths, discussing whether the soap actress Susan Lucci would ever win something for her acting. Whether this happened, no one really knew.