American Indian Stories, Legends, and Other Writings (Penguin Classics)

by Zitkala-S̈a

  Unfortunately civilization is not an unmixed blessing. Vices begin to creep into his life and deepen the Red Man’s degradation. He learns to crave the European liquid fire. Broken treaties shake his faith in the new-comers. Continued aggressions goad him to desperation. The White Man’s bullet decimates his tribes and drives him from his home. What if he fought? His forests were felled; his game frightened away; his streams of finny shoals usurped. He loved his family and would defend them. He loved the fair land of which he was rightful owner. He loved the inheritance of his fathers, their traditions, their graves; he held them a priceless legacy to be sacredly kept. He loved his native land. Do you wonder still that in his breast he should brood revenge, when ruthlessly driven from the temples where he worshipped? Do you wonder still that he skulked in forest gloom to avenge the desolation of his home? Is patriotism a virtue only in Saxon hearts? Is there no charity to cover his crouching form as he stealthily opposed his relentless foe?

  The charge of cruelty has been brought against the Indian; but the White Man has been the witness and the judge. Anglo-Saxon England, with its progressive blood, its long continued development of freedom and justice, its eight centuries of Christian training, burned the writhing martyr in the fires of Kenith field from a sense of duty. In the name of religion and liberty, the cultured Frenchman, with his inheritance of Roman justice, ten centuries of Christian ideas, murders his brother on that awful night of St. Bartholomew, and during the Reign of Terror swells the Seine with human blood. Let it be remembered, before condemnation is passed upon the Red Man, that, while he burned and tortured frontiersmen, Puritan Boston burned witches and hanged Quakers, and the Southern aristocrat beat his slaves and set blood hounds on the track of him who dared aspire to freedom. The barbarous Indian, ignorant alike of Roman justice, Saxon law, and the Gospel of Christian brotherhood, in the fury of revenge has brought no greater stain upon his name than these.

  But what have two centuries of contact with the foremost wave of Anglo-Saxon civilization wrought for him?

  You say they all have passed away,

  That noble race—and brave;

  That their light canoes have vanished

  From off the crested wave:

  That mid the forests where they roamed

  There rings no hunter’s shout;

  You say their conelike cabins

  That clustered o’er the vale

  Have disappeared—as withered leaves

  Before the autumn’s gale.

  If in their stead, we have to-day a race of blighted promise, will you spurn them? You, whose sires have permitted the most debasing influences to surround these forest children, brutalizing their nobler instincts until sin and corruption have well nigh swept them from the Earth?

  To-day the Indian is pressed almost to the farther sea. Does that sea symbolize his death? Does the narrow territory still left to him typify the last brief day before his place on Earth “shall know him no more forever”? Shall might make right and the fittest alone survive? Oh Love of God and His “Strong Son,” thou who liftest up the oppressed and succorest the needy, is thine ear grown heavy that it cannot hear his cry? Is thy arm so shortened, it cannot save? Dost thou not yet enfold him in thy love? Look with compassion down, and with thine almighty power move this nation to the rescue of my race. To take the life of a nation during the slow march of centuries seems not a lighter crime than to crush it instantly with one fatal blow. Our country must not shame her principles by such consummate iniquity. Has the charity which would succor dying Armenia no place for the Indian at home? Has America’s first-born forfeited his birthright to her boundless opportunities? No legacy of barbarism can efface the divine image in man. No tardiness in entering the paths of progress can destroy his divinely given capabilities. No lot or circumstance, except of his own choosing, can invalidate his claim to a place in the brotherhood of man or release more fortunate, more enlightened people from the obligation of a brother’s keeper. Poets sing of a coming federation of the world, and we applaud. Idealists dream that in this commonwealth of all humanity the divine spark in man shall be the only test of citizenship, and we think of their dream as future history. America entered upon her career of freedom and prosperity with the declaration that “all men are born free and equal.” Her prosperity has advanced in proportion as she has preserved to her citizens this birthright of freedom and equality. Aside from the claims of a common humanity, can you as consistent Americans deny equal opportunities with yourselves to an American people in their struggle to rise from ignorance and degradation? The claims of brotherhood, of the love that is due a neighbor-race, and of tardy justice have not been wholly lost on your hearts and consciences.

  The plaintive melodies, running from his tired but bravely enduring soul, are heard in heaven. The threatening night of oblivion lifts. The great heart of the nation sways us with the olive branch of peace. Some among the noblest of this country have championed our cause. Within the last two decades a great interest in Indian civilization has been awakened; a beneficent government has organized a successful system of Indian education; training schools and college doors stand open to us. We clasp the warm hand of friendship everywhere. From honest hearts and sincere lips at last we hear the hearty welcome and Godspeed. We come from mountain fastnesses, from cheerless plains, from far-off low-wooded streams, seeking the “White Man’s ways.” Seeking your skill in industry and in art, seeking labor and honest independence, seeking the treasures of knowledge and wisdom, seeking to comprehend the spirit of your laws and the genius of your noble institutions, seeking by a new birthright to unite with yours our claim to a common country, seeking the Sovereign’s crown that we may stand side by side with you in ascribing royal honor to our nation’s flag. America, I love thee. “Thy people shall be my people and thy God my God.”

  A Ballad (January 1897)

  Afar on rolling western lands There cluster cone-like cabins white. There roam the brave, the noble bands, A race content with each day’s light.

  Say not, “This nation has no heart In which strong passions may vibrate”; Say not, “Deep grief can play no part.” For mute long suffering is innate.

  Above the village on the plain Dark, threatening clouds of brooding woe Hang like some hovering monster Pain With wicked eye on Peace, its foe.

  Once e’er Aurora1 had proclaimed Approaching charioteer of Day, Distress, with frozen heart, controlled This village with unbounded sway.

  What means this rushing to and fro? Sad, anxious faces? Grieving eyes? Now surging tears brave hearts o’erflow In sobs that melt the sterner sighs.

  What means the neighing steeds arrayed With boughs cut fresh from living green? A dark foreboding they betrayed In pawings fierce and sniffings keen.

  Apart from this confusion strayed Winona to the watering place, A spring with mighty rocks part stayed Like sacred water in rude vase.

  ’Tis here her nag with glossy coat, The brisk young Wala, loves to graze. Alert, she hears a low, clear note. The call Winona gave always.

  Nor long was Wala innocent That ills now bowed Winona low. But see, perchance by fates well sent, Comes tall and proud Osseolo.

  By grief made bold, Winona shy, Half chiding, questioned her heart’s king; Yet even reproach was lost well nigh In mingling with the murm’ring spring.

  “But stay, Osseolo,” she prayed: “Did you not hear the angry cry Of howling wolves that last night stayed Within the deep ravines near by?

  “Did you not hear the moody owl In mournful hoots foreboding ill, With warnings of the Fate’s dark scowl That all of yesterday did fill?

  “To-day as I my Wala called, I roused the sullen, sacred bird, Which merely sight of me appalled, Nor ceased to shriek, in flight e’en heard.

  “Osseolo, you dare not go, Ambitious though perchance for fame. Our gods, ’tis clear, are with the foe, And wars without our gods bring shame.”

  In deep, sad tones, like muffled bell, The curfew of their love on earth It
seemed, and bitter tears did well Within her heart foredoomed to death.

  Winona’s fear was dreaded fact. “My chieftain father,” he replied, “Did ask me as a leader act, And I, a loyal son, complied.

  “ ’Tis thoughts of you shall make me strong. Though hard and cruel ’tis to part: But hark! I bear the farewell song Begun, the signal for our start.”

  Soon Wala bore Osseolo Fast o’er receding hill and vale. Like breathing arrow from the bow She urged the space from village wail.

  For on that day of rounded moon There would be heard a festive strain Of hostile bands they planned at noon To pounce upon and glory gain.

  Here too was Judas of this tribe, A silent, plotting traitor base, Whom Jealousy and Hate did bribe In hands of foe this plan to place.

  Osseolo, though brave and bold, Was not prepared to meet his foe Forearmed with his own plottings sold Together with the cruel bow.

  Like jungle fight was battle din, When elephant and tiger groan. In bloody conflict one must win, ’Mid thundering roar and dying moan.

  The hoarse uproar of fallen ones Was pierced by pain and death-fraught cry Of wounded horse. The life blood runs In streams too strong to ever dry.

  Winona is of friend bereaved! A crouching, wounded form passed on To death. But Wala’s heart now sheathed His cruel sword. The traitor’s gone.

  Osseolo unconscious lay Amid the mass in deeper sleep Till cooling breath of waning day Aroused his senses Death would keep.

  Although secure in bands of foe, Recovered life brought with it hope To one whose needed strength did flow From thoughts of home with fate to cope.

  But clings like poisoned dart, his lot. In three days hence a sacrifice To gods of war he would be brought, A future favor to entice.

  With gnawing hunger, burning throat, And eyes that ached for want of sleep, O’er him one day and night did float Like lingering flights from Fiery Deep.

  An eagle from his lofty nest, With greedy eye fast on his prey, Were not more sure his aim to test Than that ill-fated, dreaded day.

  As now it poises overhead The narrow space of two brief nights, The hope of all escape lies dead, Too vivid are funereal rites.

  Defeat held every plan for flight, Which maddened him with wild despair. The torture did surpass his might. His cup o’erflowed with pain, its care.

  The second night dispelled the light; With it the captive’s reason fled, Or seemed to flee from frenzied might. Osseolo seemed madness-led.

  That harsh and empty laugh is his, That makes your heart so numb and cold, Once proud—now reeling judgment’s his That blinds your eyes with pain untold.

  And Rumor soon the story spread. Men did, with knowing faces, nod In movement slow that plainly said, “Our captive’s doomed e’en by a god.”

  The third and final day was spent In singing loud resounding praise Of all the gods appeased who sent The sacrifice they soon would raise.

  That night, though heaven darkly frowned, And great black clouds did veil her face, They, reason in their vict’ry drowned, Did boisterous revelry embrace.

  And even faithful guards did dare To join the band of braves renowned. And thus they threw aside all care Of him whom fates, they said, had bound.

  But with the rushing, rising tide Of thousand laughing voices rose Once proud—now reeling judgment’s his That blinds your eyes with pain untold.

  Then passed from out the prison gate A figure proudly straight and tall. Like spirit for its wand’rings late, It glided past the prison wall.

  The evening twilight of next day Found by the spring Winona lone To bathe with tears the sad moon’s ray, To add heart-groans to spring’s low moan.

  Was it a voice from spirit land That called in accents so well known? Or was it only memory’s band That led from worded keys the tone?

  No more the moonbeams seemed to pine, But fell like tiny, downy flakes, Amid the heart’s deep sea of brine, And sweetened it e’en as the lakes.

  No more is heard the spring’s low moan. It fell like spray of tinkling bells. Winona is no more alone, And now a joy all grief dispels.

  New life for her begins to flow, Her heart grows warm and eyes grow bright. A wilted flower revived can grow! Osseolo is back this night.

  Iris of Life (November 1898)

  Like tiny drops of crystal rain, In every life the moments fall, To wear away with silent beat, The shell of selfishness o’er all.

  And every act, not one too small, That leaps from out the heart’s pure glow, Like ray of gold sends forth a light, While moments into seasons flow.

  Athwart the dome, Eternity, To Iris grown resplendent, fly Bright gleams from every noble deed Till colors with each other vie.

  ’Tis glimpses of this grand rainbow, Where moments with good deeds unite, That gladden many weary hearts, Inspiring them to seek more Light.

  A Protest Against the Abolition of the Indian Dance2 (August 1902)

  Almost within a stone’s throw from where I sit lies the great frozen Missouri. Like other reptiles, the low murmuring brown river sleeps through the winter season underneath its covering of blue sheening ice.

  A man carrying a pail in one hand and an axe in the other trudges along a narrow footpath leading to the river. Close beside the frozen stream he stands a moment motionless as if deliberating within himself. Then, leaving his pail upon the ground, he walks cautiously out upon the glassy surface of the river. Fearless of the huge sleeper underneath, he swings his axe like one accustomed to the use of his weapon. Soon with the handle as a lever he pries up a round cake of ice. Hereupon great moans and yawnings creak up from some unfathomable sleep and reverberate along the quiet river bottom. The sleeping river is disturbed by the mortal’s tapping upon its crusty mantle; and—restless—turns, perchance, in its bed, gently sighing in its long winter sleep.

  The man stoops over the black hole he has made in that pearly river shell and draws up a heavy pail. Apparently satisfied, he turns away into the narrow path by which he came. Unconscious is he of the river’s dream, which he may have disturbed; forgetful, too, of the murmuring water-songs he has not released through his tiny tapping! The man’s small power is great enough to gain for him his small desire, a pail of winter-buried water!

  Here I should have stopped writing had not the man I saw retracing safely his footsteps returned—in fancy—possessed with a strange malady. Under some wild conceit regarding the force of his pigmy hammer stroke, he labors now to awaken the sleeping old river in midwinter. Vainly he hacks at the edge of acres of ice, while Nature seems to humor the whim by allowing so much as a square inch of the crystal to be broken.

  Like our brown river, the soul of the present day Indian is sleeping under the icy crust of a transitional period. A whole race of strangers throng either side of the frozen river, each one tapping the creaking ice with his own particular weapon. While the Dreamer underneath moans in disturbed visions of Hope, these people draw up each his little pail, heavy with self-justification. But where is spring? The river dreams of springtime, when its rippling songs shall yet flood its rugged banks.

  Though I love best to think the river shall in due season rush forth from its icy bondage, I am strongly drawn by an irresistible spirit to wander along the brink. A mist gathers over my sight and the celebrated art galleries of a modern city lure my notice. The geniuses of a cultured nation portray in chiseled stone figures of grace and strength in marvelous imitation of God’s own subtle works. Then the inner light, burning underneath the eyelids, dispels the darkness limiting the art ground, and there within the extended walls are the bronzed figures of Indian dancers. Aye, they are greater than the marble tribe, for they are the original works of the Supreme Artist.

  As I passed by a man hacking river ice, I heard him hiss—“Immodest; the Indians’ nudity in the dance is shockingly immodest!”

  “Why! Does he not wear a dress of paint and loin cloth?” I would have asked; but a silence sealed my lips, and I thought: “False modesty would dress the Indian, not fo
r protection from the winter weather, but to put overalls on the soul’s improper earthly garment. I wonder how much it would abash God if, for this man’s distorted sense, a dress were put on all the marble figures in art museums. It were more plausible—it seems to a looker-on—to build an annex to the “Infirmary for Ill-Humored People” where folk suffering from false senses of pride and of modesty may be properly nursed.

  Again a voice speaks, “This dance of the Indian is a relic of barbarism. It must be stopped!” Then hack! hack! hack!—the little man beats the crystal ice. Before me hangs a mist-tapestry. Woven in wonderful living threads is a picture of a brilliantly lighted hall with mirrored walls. Over its polished floor glide whirling couples in pretty rhythm to orchestral music. The daintiness and exquisite web-cloth of the low-necked, sleeveless evening gowns must be so from the imperative need to distract the mind from the steel frames in which fair bodies are painfully corseted. It may be gauze-covered barbarism, for history does tell of the barbaric Teutons and Anglo-Saxons. It may be a martyrdom to some ancient superstition which centuries of civilization and Christianization have not wholly eradicated from the yellow-haired and blue-eyed races.