Smoke Screen

by Suzanne Ouimet

  “What about their Dad? Alex?”

  “Alex would feel the same. He loved my Dad, admired him. He once told me he didn’t think of Dad as anything other than a great guy, never as ‘an Indian’. I think that’s sometimes part of the whole problem, people always thinking we have to be ‘different’.”

  “Did you know Tom is Ojibwe? His name is White Hawk. Waabishkaa Gekik.”

  “Hey, that’s neat! I’m surprised you can pronounce it! Here the Ojibwe are called Chippewa. We’re not related, Marybeth. The northwest-coast Indians are completely different from the Eastern or Plains Indians. My Dad’s tribe, the Kwilicoom, is Coast Salish – that’s a language designation, by the way. The Kwilicoom signed a ratified treaty with the United States in 1854 and have maintained an unbroken line of political leadership since then, but were never recognized as a separate band by the federal government. We have no assigned reservation and we get no funds. It’s my opinion that’s a good thing, because our people are more independent.

  “How does Tom feel about being Indian?” she asked, standing and stretching. “And how about you? What do you think?”

  “Obviously, he’s pretty special to me, whatever nationality he is,” Marybeth grinned. “I think he’s proud of his heritage… No, I know he is.”

  “Did you know Val’s father is on the Council and will probably be the next “Chief”? My Dad was being considered at one time, before he died.”

  “What a shame he and your Mom had to have that accident.”

  “Yes. It was.” Lisa sat quietly for several seconds, thinking about her parents, before continuing. “During the early part of the 20th century, there were many white people who claimed they had Indian blood? I’ve often wondered why.

  “There’s always been prejudice. We’ve always been looked down on, as I’m sure you know. Not me so much, but other people in my family have experienced it.” Lisa walked over to a large painting on the wall above a cabinet, leaned in to read the signature. It was an old-fashioned, snowy scene, with a farmhouse and horse-drawn sleighs. “I like this,” she remarked quietly. “It’s very peaceful.”

  “Not an original, unfortunately. It’s by Cornelius Krieghoff, a Quebec artist who was born in Holland… I’m impressed with how much you know, Lisa, when you say you don’t think of yourself as Indian.”

  “Osmosis. You breath it in from the time you’re born,” she said, sitting down, leaning back into the sofa cushions.

  “You know, I’ve often wondered why some Indians seem to be more concerned about keeping their culture alive than others? The Mohawks, for instance. We, I mean, we non-native people, almost wiped you out and in some cases, were very successful. When that didn’t work, we tried to educate the Indian out of you, tried to change you, make you be just like the rest of us. Incidentally, I feel I should apologize for that.”

  Chuckling a little at Marybeth’s apology, Lisa replied, “Not me. You couldn’t wipe me out!

  “I don’t know; maybe those still living on reservations are more concerned. There are more restrictions, not as much freedom. Actually, I don’t understand why they stay at all. But there are activists everywhere, not just on the reservations, Marybeth. I think you can liken us to… well, maybe the Chinese communities in America.”

  “Except, they aren’t forced to stay in Chinatown. They do seem to cling to their culture and language, though. Nobody takes much notice whether or not they practice their languages and traditions behind closed doors.”

  “Yeah. Whereas, our people have to stay on the reserves in order to keep their status, their rights as Indians and their government support. It’s such a complex subject, Marybeth. ’Way to complicated for us to solve.”

  “I know,” Marybeth agreed sadly, then continued. “I don’t think we non-aboriginals worry that much about keeping our heritage intact. We hardly ever think about whether we’re Anglo-Saxon, Italian or whatever. Tom told me the French Canadians, in Quebec, Canada, really work to keep their French culture and language alive, to the extent of passing laws limiting the use of the English language. So I guess some do.” She lifted up the wine bottle, asked Lisa if she wanted a refill. “My family was originally from Ontario, you know. I’m a WASP, but it’s not a big deal for me.”

  Lisa, holding out her glass, spoke thoughtfully, “White, Anglo, Saxon Protestant. I must admit I don’t know much about Canada. We’re pretty insular here in America, aren’t we? We don’t take much interest in other countries, or their cultures for that matter. It’s something we ought to work on.”

  “Yeah. Canadians often notice that.”

  “So, you know what I mean then. I try to introduce my children to new places, to broaden their horizons, as much as I can. We can’t travel much, but we do get the National Geographic magazine, which helps show them some of the world outside our own little bailiwick, our ‘neck of the woods’. The school system isn’t much help. You know, one of these days, we should go up to British Columbia for a visit. It’s only about three hours away. Easy trip. It’d be good for the kids. Educational.”

  She gathered her thoughts for a moment before continuing. “What about the white supremacists? They’re pretty concerned about keeping what they consider the ‘white’ race ‘pure’. And they sure don’t like us! Ugly people!”

  “Like any of them are ‘pure’!” Marybeth exclaimed. “It’s different, though, don’t you think? Aren’t they worried more about race, not so much culture?”

  “They wouldn’t know culture if it bit them in the ass!

  “Race and culture? Can they be separated? What do you think? ”

  “Lisa, maybe first we need to define the word ‘culture’?”

  “ I think it means the behaviours, beliefs, institutions and so forth, of a population, passed down from generation to generation - the way of life for an entire society. I recall this from university, by the way. It’s not an original thought,” Lisa added with a small laugh.

  “Okay. So there are different cultures or traditions – ways of behaving – in every society then. For instance, most Black people originated in Africa but there are many differences, in appearance, in habits and in folkways, depending on where on the continent they came from.”

  “Yes. Same thing here,” Lisa agreed, nodding. “There were many different indigenous nations, across the whole of North America. We’re all considered Indians, but we never were the same people. Many still identify themselves by their tribal names despite having been thrown together. Traditions are often quite different. Down in Rosebud, in South Dakota, where Cal apparently lives and teaches, there are three distinct groups, each with differences in heritage, customs and culture. The Lakota, who, by the way, are very outspoken, as well as several Sioux nations, including the Brule.”

  “It’s like that everywhere, I guess. South America, for sure. Russia, India, China – everywhere. Even in Great Britain the people speak different dialects in different parts of the country and no doubt have different customs and traditions.”

  Abruptly changing the subject, Marybeth suddenly asked, “So you know what and where Cal teaches?”

  “Nice segue, Marybeth.” After a slight pause, Lisa smiled and said, “He’s teaching Lakota Studies and English at Sinte Gleska University… Now you know.”

  When Marybeth, who had enjoyed her afternoon with Lisa immensely, later told Tom about their conversation, he asked, “Did you, by any chance, learn if Lisa knows about Frannie, or the baby?”

  “No, they were never mentioned.”

  “It would have been a good time to bring them up, don’t you think?”

  “I thought about it, but decided the time wasn’t right. I don’t think she knows. Remember when we asked her about Marilyn and didn’t even think we were talking about her aunt?”

  “I guess Val, or Sonny, will eventually tell her. However she learns, she’s gonna be shocked. Maybe even upset.”

  “Yeah. But it’s not our responsibility, Tom. It’s a family thing.”
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br />   Chapter 16

  Letters from Viet Nam

  Several days after their visit, Lisa telephoned Marybeth with good news.

  “Guess what Val gave me this morning?” she asked.

  “I can’t guess; better tell me,” Marybeth replied.

  “Letters from Carmine when he was in Vietnam!” Lisa was excited. “I’ve read them all. He stopped writing before he came home though, so there’s nothing recent. But at least it’s a start.”

  “Are you going to bring them over? I’d love to read them.” Marybeth was thrilled that Lisa had decided to be her friend to let her into her life.

  “Next time I see you, okay? Oh, and another thing. Val has written to Cal. She wanted to tell him about their baby. She told me she’d let me know if he writes back. Isn’t it exciting, Marybeth?”

  When Cal left home in 1957, he went to say goodbye to his girlfriend, Valerie Young. He was only fifteen and thought he’d return to California, although his memories of life there with his mother, Sandro and Gabriel remained unpleasant. He was relieved when Val’s father, Frank, who was prominent in Indian affairs in the Tacoma region, found him a job with a local logging company. He was able to live at the camp and stay away from town where the Georges might spot him. Although he was only fifteen at the time, he found he actually enjoyed the physical labour and responsibility, things he’d hated at home.

  He and Valerie often went to spend time with his great-aunt Agnes and her husband Nick. He had asked them to deny they knew of his whereabouts and they never revealed where he, and later Sonny, had gone.

  In 1960 Cal turned eighteen. Realizing he would soon be drafted, he enlisted instead, in the U.S. Navy. He became one of nearly seventy-eight thousand Native-Americans who volunteered to serve in the Vietnam conflict. Amazingly, over half of them actually saw combat. Theirs was the highest volunteer record per capita for any ethnic group in America, a statistic that Carmine was proud of years later when he returned home.

  He regularly wrote to his great-aunt Agnes and her husband, Nick, as well as to his brother, Sandro and his fiancée, Valerie, up until just before his return from Vietnam. His first letters came from Coronado Island, south of San Diego. Government censors had heavily blacked out passages of his letters, but as he had often telephoned his aunt and Sandro, before he was shipped out to Vietnam, so they knew where he was. Sometimes they had to try to decipher what he had actually written.

  December 30, 1960

  Dear Aunt and Uncle,

  Well, here I am at boot camp, somewhere near San Diego, in Cali-forn-I-A. It’s just as nice as I remember it. Great weather. Very hot during the day and cold at night, great for sleeping.

  The training is very rigorous, which is to be expected, but I’m thriving on it. The challenge here is to get as fit as you can. The Sarg runs us up and down the beach and sand dunes ten miles every morning. At the end of each run, we end up standing up to our necks in the ocean for twenty minutes and is it ever cold! Then, after lunch, we do it all over again.

  The chow – that’s what we call the food here – isn’t as good as yours, Auntie, but there’s lots of it! You know how you always said I was too thin? Well, you’ll be happy to hear I’m getting not only taller, but broader too. I am developing muscles at long last!

  I don’t know how long I’ll be here. There is lots of stuff to learn, like washing our own clothes and making our beds properly! And we’ve been drown-proofed! We had to jump off a twenty-foot platform and tread water for maybe twenty minutes in a pool filled with super-chlorinated water. It burns your eyes like mad. I passed the test though. Another thing we’ve been doing – first aid training, which I really like a lot!

  I’ll close for now. Write soon. We all love getting mail here. Say hi to all the cousins! And share this letter with them if you want. Also with Val and Sandro, if you see them.

  Love, your nephew,

  Carmine Juarez.

  P.S. Here is a picture of me in uniform. And Happy New Year!

  * * *

  December 31, 1960

  Hey Little Bro,

  You wouldn’t like this place at all! It’s rough. The officers are nasty, man! The training is endless. Long runs under the blazing sun, hours standing up to our necks in the cold ocean. What’s that all about?

  The food is good though, no complaints there. We get to smoke, but can only have one pack of cigs in our possession at one time and they inspect you for them too! You can get in big trouble if you have more so I’m going to try to give them up. It’ll be good for my health.

  We had this drown-proofing thing yesterday. It was pretty horrible, but I passed, thank God. It’s to make sure we have what it takes to survive an abandon ship drill. They say the massive amounts of chlorine is a substitute for real salt water and the fuel oil you’d have to deal with if you had to abandon ship for real. I can’t even imagine having to abandon ship. What am I doing here?

  Sandro, don’t even think of joining up. You couldn’t take the punishment, kiddo.

  It’s New Year’s Eve and we still have to turn in early!

  Write soon,

  Carmine.

  * * *

  December 31, 1960

  Happy New Year, darling!

  Well, here I am in boot camp. You’ll laugh when you look at the picture of me. As you can see, they shaved my head! Pretty sad, huh? You know how I love my hair. All that beautiful black, wavy stuff, all over the floor, mixed in with blond, brown and red. Weird. Oh, well. It’ll grow back. I hope. You should have seen us lined up to go through our physicals – every one of us stark naked! Lots of shapes and sizes. Ha ha. Even I had to laugh and I was one of them!

  The other fellows here are okay. Most of them seem nice. There are even a couple of ‘spics’ here. There’s this one guy named Carlos I like quite a lot. He’s from L.A. I left there when I was quite young, so don’t know any of the places he talks about, but we do have a bit of a connection. I sort of hope we end up going through our service together.

  Food is good and I’m eating well. But it’s New Year’s Eve and here I am, away from you and missing you a lot. I keep thinking about our last night together. In a way, I didn’t really want to leave. It shouldn’t be too long before we get some leave – they call it liberty in the navy – and I can get back home. Even if it’s just a short time I can’t wait!

  The training is hard, but I’m keeping my focus on my goal - UDT. You know how much I want that! I’ve heard it’s really hard, so we’ll see.

  Val, please don’t let Sandro volunteer next year. This would be way too hard for him. I don’t think they’d take him anyway, with his health problems, but he shouldn’t even try.

  Going to sleep now, my sweet. Write soon.

  Love,

  Your ‘special guy’ – Carmine.

  P.S. I’m looking at your picture right now. I carry it with me everywhere.

  When Carmine spoke of UDT – he was referring to Underwater Demolition Training, in other words he wanted to become a ‘frogman’. In one of his later letters he mentioned how he couldn’t go forward with his plan due to having flunked the course. This was a huge disappointment, expressed only to his brother. In the same letter, he described the SERE training he was taking instead.

  Hi Bro,

  Some bad news and some good news. First, I flunked out of the UDT course. Some swimming problem apparently. Not sure but I think it had to do with the time I was able to stay underwater. Nobody told us how long we had to do it for, just flunked us when we seemed ready to quit. I’m really disappointed, but guess I’ll get over it.

  Now for the good news. You’ll be happy to learn I’ve quit smoking. It wasn’t so hard, just a couple of days when I thought I’d go nuts but didn’t. I can run better as a result – not so out-of-breath now. Val will be happy to hear this, so tell her I’ve quit, okay?

  I’m really pleased you’ve decided to attend OSU along with Val. Write and tell me more about the courses you’re taking. It will
be much better than joining up, for sure. You’ll have a career when you’re finished. I know you’re disappointed about being rejected due to your diabetes, but really, it’s for the best. This is tough stuff here.

  Right now, my group is undergoing SERE training. SERE means survival and evasion, resistance and escape as well as water survival. We’re being taught how to survive in the wilderness (I know, Ben taught us that!) but this is so much more. We’re also learning first aid, navigation, camouflage and evasion techniques, communication and how to improvise tools. I love it!

  We’ve been told there is a really tough exercise coming up where you are taught how to resist and escape should you be captured. We’ve heard this is very realistic and I have to say I’m not looking forward to it. The final part of the SERE training is water survival, some of which I’ve experienced so far and haven’t had any problem with other than the timed underwater exercise. I’ll let you know how it goes.

  Lights out, so I’ll say goodnight for now. Write soon please.

  Carmine.

  In another letter, Carmine wrote of his experience being in ‘prison camp’ while being right home in the U.S. of A. and how realistic and frightening it was. In one of his letters to Val, he talked about the long trip to Vietnam and his arrival in DaNang.

  Hi Babe,

  We boarded a regular Delta plane, and headed out over the Pacific. We all wanted to remember the last sight of our country. Most of us wouldn’t see the U.S. of A. for another year and maybe never again. We were all really quiet once it had disappeared from sight. Our first stop was Hawaii for a crew change and refueling. The next stop was Wake Island (9 hours) then Guam (5 hours), for another refuel and another flight crew, then another in the Philippines at Clark Air Base after a flight of 6 hours. The whole trip to Vietnam took about 30 hours.