Walking Two Worlds

by Josephy Bruchac

  Ely also stood out because he worked hard. As the days and weeks and months passed, Ely became one of the best students in every class.

  During his second week at Yates, Ely went with his friends to the field behind the school.

  “Race?” Reuben said.

  Ely nodded.

  They lined up. A crowd of other students gathered to watch. Harry held up his hand.

  “Are you ready?” Harry said. “Quite ready? Parker? Warren? Yes? To the chestnut tree and back? Agreed? All right. Then . . . go!”

  Reuben ran faster than Ely expected. He pulled ahead until Ely began to run faster. He passed Reuben before they reached the chestnut tree, turned, ran back, and finished far ahead of his long-legged friend.

  The students who’d gathered to watch were all cheering.

  Reuben took his hand. “Fine run,” he said, shaking his head.

  Harry was jumping up and down. “Parker,” he said, “Parker, Parker, Parker. Do you know what you have done? You have beaten the fastest runner at Yates.”

  After that, Reuben and Ely raced each other every week. Sometimes Reuben won. Ely never told Reuben that he slowed down to let him win.

  Despite how well he did, Ely never bragged. He was serious about his studies, but he also liked to have fun. He was modest and never said anything unkind to anyone.

  It was spring. Ely sat in the school library. A book was open on the desk in front of him, but he was not reading it.

  Leaves were returning to the trees. Flocks of geese passed overhead. Ely thought about his aunt and uncle at Grand River. He had learned so much while he was in Canada. But he was also learning at Yates.

  “Which do I prefer?” he thought. “The old way of living, hunting like a wolf? Or hunting for knowledge in books like a white man? I was happy outdoors. But I am also happy here.”

  Ely shook his head. He did not have to choose one way or the other.

  “I can live the life of a white man and a Seneca,” he thought.

  “Parker,” someone said.

  He turned from the window. It was his friend Harry.

  “Flagler,” Ely said. He touched his forehead with his finger and Harry did the same.

  “The Euglossians want you,” Harry said. His voice was excited.

  There were two literary societies at Yates Academy. Those societies were called the Euglossians and the Cleosophics. The best students were invited to join. Those two societies brought students together to debate and talk about literature.

  “Are you sure of that?” Ely asked. “The Euglossians?”

  “Yes, I am certain. Yes, indeed. I have been training myself to listen. The way you taught me. Talk less, listen more, eh? I have become quite good at it. And so I overheard the discussion between the president of the society and the vice president.”

  Ely bit his lip. “Am I up to this?”

  Harry laughed. “Up to it? Parker, you are the best speaker I have ever heard. Your deep, full voice is perfect. No, no! Do not deny it!”

  Ely tried to frown at Harry. But the frown turned into a smile. How could he not smile? This was wonderful news. The Euglossians!

  Sure enough, Harry was right. The president of the Euglossians invited Ely to join their club.

  Two weeks later, Ely stood at the front of the assembly hall. He rubbed his hands together and looked around. Then he placed his left hand on his chest and raised his right hand. Everyone grew silent.

  “Fellow members of our society,” he said, “I have been asked to speak.” He paused and shook his head. “Alas,” he said, “I do not know what to say.”

  In the front row, Harry leaned over to Reuben. “If you believe that,” he whispered, “you also believe that water is not wet.”

  Reuben nodded his head. “True,” he said.

  Ely pretended to scowl down at them. He took a deep breath.

  “My friends,” Ely said in his deep voice, “it has been most difficult for me. I have been engaged in translating the crooked Indian language into the English and the English back into the same. Now I should like the society to release me, for I feel myself getting crazy. Those two languages are getting mixed in my head, and I can no longer speak a single word in either.”

  Ely raised one eyebrow. Everyone in the audience began to laugh and applaud at the same time. No one else had ever spoken so well about not being able to speak.

  “Master Parker,” the president of the Euglosssians shouted as he applauded, “your request is denied! You must remain a Euglossian.”

  The young women of Yates also admired Ely. One day, during the dining hour, he heard two young women whispering about him. They were sitting at a table thirty feet away. They were first-year students, like Ely. Their names were Clara and Emma. They did not know that he could hear as well as a wolf.

  “Look at him,” Clara whispered to her friend. “See how noble he looks.”

  “Oh, yes,” Emma answered. “He is a copper-skinned Adonis.”

  Ely did not turn his head their way. But he smiled. He knew who Adonis was. Adonis was the most handsome young man in ancient Greece.

  Ely knew he was not the most handsome young man at Yates. However, it pleased him to be talked about in that way. Especially by girls as pretty as Clara and Emma.

  Other people were also talking about Ely. A meeting of the elders was held at the Tonawanda reservation. A few of the chiefs were worried that Ely’s education was not a good thing.

  “He is becoming a white man,” they said. “He will no longer be loyal to his people.”

  But most of the elders were pleased. “He is learning how to speak for us,” Ely’s grandfather Sosehawa said.

  “Sosehawa is right,” Blacksmith agreed. “Hasanoanda now speaks English as well as any white man. He will help us.”

  Help certainly was needed. The Ogden Land Company was pushing their claim that they owned all of Tonawanda. Letters had to be written to Albany and Washington. Delegations had to be sent to the governor and the president. Someone who understood English was needed.

  A few thought Hasanoanda was too young. But all agreed that no one else among them could write and speak English as well as Ely. So it was decided. They would call on Ely to write their letters in English to the white men in Albany and Washington. They would use him as their interpreter.

  Ely was sitting in Latin class when Harry came in.

  Harry looked at Ely. He touched his finger to his forehead, but he did not smile. There was a serious look on his round face. Harry went to the Latin teacher.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Harry said. “Beg pardon. I must bring Master Parker to the office.”

  “What is this about, Flagler?” Ely asked as they walked down the hall.

  “Oh, you are in big trouble, Parker.” Harry replied. “Yes, indeed. No doubt. I expect you are about to be thrown out of school for your poor scholarship.”

  Ely could tell Harry was teasing. “Flagler,” Ely said, “You are the one in big trouble. When I see you later, I am going to give you a beating!”

  That made Harry chuckle. Ely was the strongest young man in the school. But Ely never used his strength to hurt anyone.

  They reached the principal’s office.

  “Farewell, Parker. Alas, alas. I leave you now to your awful fate,” Harry said.

  “Your awful fate is to be badly beaten,” Ely said.

  “First you must catch me,” Harry replied.

  The two of them smiled. They each touched their foreheads with their fingers. Then Harry walked away.

  Ely knocked on the door.

  “Come in.”

  Ely opened the door. What he saw surprised him. Someone was sitting in the visitor’s chair in front of Principal Wilcox’s desk. Chief Blacksmith.

  Principal Wilcox stood up. He pushed his glasses back on his nose.

  “Master Parker,” he said, “your chief is here to speak with you about matters regarding your people.”

  Wilcox pulled out a pocket watch. He
looked at it and nodded. “Time for our Shakespeare class. You may join us when you are done.”

  Principal Wilcox left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Ely stood there, uncertain what to do.

  “I greet you in peace, Hasanoanda,” Chief Blacksmith said. “Now sit down. We must talk. This will not take long.”

  Ely sat. Chief Blacksmith opened a large pouch. He took out some papers. One paper had writing on it. The other pages were blank.

  “This is a letter to the White Father in Washington, President Tyler,” Blacksmith said. “We wrote it as best we could. But I think we did not write it well.”

  Ely looked at the letter. Chief Blacksmith was right. It was not written well. Words were spelled wrong. Sentences were incomplete.

  Ely took a pencil from the principal’s desk and a blank sheet of paper. He bit his lip. Then he wrote out a first draft. Chief Blacksmith waited patiently. Ely studied what he had written. He crossed out a few words and added others. Then he took a second sheet of paper. He picked up a pen. He wrote carefully, forming each letter perfectly as he wrote.

  He gave the letter to Chief Blacksmith.

  “Nya:weh, Hasanoanda,” the chief said. He stood up. “Now you go back to your studies. We will call on you again. This will be your job for us.”

  Ely walked back to class thinking about what had just happened. A great weight had been placed on his shoulders. But he also felt like shouting in happiness. He was doing what his mother had dreamed. He was moving back and forth between the two worlds of the white man and the Senecas.

  “This is the way,” he thought, “that I will help my people.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Always, Just an Indian

  Ely was enjoying his new role. He was being called on often to write letters for the chiefs to government men in Albany, the state capital, and to Washington.

  He was also enjoying his life at Yates Academy. It now felt easy for him to move between the two worlds. He was still an Indian but seemed wholly accepted in the white man’s world. Whenever he spoke, the lecture hall was filled. Whenever he took part in debates, his side always won.

  It was a beautiful June morning. Ely sat in class, waiting for the teacher to arrive. As always, he was the first in class. Someone else came into the room. Clara Williams. Ely always noticed Clara. Everyone did. She was the prettiest girl in school, lively and popular. She was usually with a group of her friends. They almost always were the last ones to arrive at class. They would come in laughing and talking.

  “Why is she here so early?” Ely thought. He kept reading his book. The class had been assigned to read the play Othello by William Shakespeare. It was about a dark-skinned prince who married a white woman. Othello was the dark-skinned prince. Ely thought the story was a sad one.

  Clara slipped into the desk next to him. It was not her desk. It was Harry’s. Clara’s was on the other side of the room. She leaned toward Ely.

  Ely bit his lip. He could smell her perfume. Its scent was like flowers. His neck felt hot.

  “Excuse me,” Clara said.

  Ely looked at her. For a moment he forgot how to speak. He bit his lip again.

  Clara looked into his eyes. “You are such a good student.” She placed her hand on his book. “This is so hard to understand. Could I ask your help?”

  “Me?” Ely said. “Help you?”

  Clara nodded. “Please.”

  “Yes,” Ely said, “Yes, yes. Of course. I would be glad, delighted to assist you. Yes, indeed.”

  “I sound like Harry,” Ely thought. But he was smiling as he thought it.

  Soon they were talking about Othello. It seemed as if Clara understood it better than she said.

  “I think it terrible,” she said, “that Othello met such a sad end. Despite the color of his skin, he was noble and good.”

  In the days that followed, Ely found himself spending as much time with Clara as he did with Harry and Reuben.

  “Good for you, Parker. She is quite the lovely lass,” Harry said. “Yes, indeed. You are the first man here at Yates that she has chosen as a friend.”

  “True,” Reuben said.

  Ely became Clara’s escort to every event at the school. They walked together to lectures and evening meetings. She took his hand as he helped her down the stairs. They were never alone, though. That was not allowed. Although young men and young women went to school together at Yates, they never met privately.

  Everyone in the school talked about their friendship. Some thought it was charming. Others did not approve. Ely heard what they whispered.

  “Parker is forgetting his place,” some said.

  “Bright as he is, he is still just an Indian,” others said.

  Clara’s friend Emma took her aside.

  “Clara,” she said, “have you heard what people are saying? You must break it off with Parker.”

  Clara shook her head. “Why should I listen to what others say? Ely is my friend. I shall not reject him.”

  As they sat side by side in the lecture hall, Clara reached over and touched his elbow.

  “You are the most handsome young man in this room,” she said.

  Ely did not reply. But he sat up straighter in his seat and smiled.

  Ely and Clara’s friendship continued and grew as the school year went on. When July came, a rumor went around the school.

  “Have you heard?” people said. “Parker is planning to hire a carriage.”

  “A carriage?”

  “Yes. He plans to take Clara Williams for a ride on the Fourth of July.”

  “Ely Parker the Indian and beautiful Clara Williams? Wait till her parents hear about this.”

  Even Ely’s good friends heard the rumors.

  “Is it true?” Harry asked Ely. It was July third. Harry and Reuben and Ely were sitting together on the steps in front of the academy.

  “What if it is?” Ely asked. “What is wrong about taking a young lady for a ride?”

  “My friend,” Harry said. “It would not bother me at all. No, not at all. But there are some who would be upset. Most upset. Is that not so, Reuben?”

  “I suppose,” Reuben said.

  But Ely did not listen to their advice.

  When the Fourth of July came, a crowd of students gathered in front of the academy. Their eyes were on the road that led past the school. They heard the sound of hooves and the rattle of wheels. A coach came into sight. It was a fine, open rig. The man driving it was a black man in a bright red coat. The students recognized him. His name was Thomas Smith. The coach and the horse, which he often rented out, were his.

  In the back of the coach, Ely and Clara sat side by side. Clara held a bouquet of flowers in her hands. As they passed the school, Ely took off his hat and waved to the crowd.

  “Fine day for a drive,” he shouted.

  Two days later, Ely sat again with Harry and Reuben on the school steps. Ely’s shoulders were slumped. His face was grim.

  “I cannot believe it,” Ely finally said. “Clara has been withdrawn from school by her parents. They have taken her to Europe. Her friend Emma says that Clara will not be returning to Yates.”

  Harry put his hand on Ely’s shoulder. “As I feared,” Harry said. “Just as I feared.”

  Reuben said nothing. He put his hand on Ely’s other shoulder.

  “It does not matter how much I succeed,” Ely thought. “In the eyes of the white world, I will always be just an Indian.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A Fateful Encounter

  One spring afternoon in 1844, Ely was again in Albany. He and the Seneca chiefs had met with Governor Bouck of New York that morning. Bouck had been pleasant and friendly.

  “Tell your chiefs,” Governor Bouck said, “that I sympathize with them in their desire to save their reservation.”

  Before they left, Bouck had taken Ely aside.

  “Young man,” he said, “you have great promise. I expect to hear great things
of you in the future.”

  The governor’s words were pleasing, Ely thought. But they were not deeds.

  This lovely April afternoon, there were no further meetings. The Seneca chiefs had not been interested in seeing more of the city. So Ely was free to do as he pleased. As he walked along State Street, Ely looked down the hill to his left. Governor Bouck’s mansion was down there.

  “So many white men,” Ely thought, “are like the governor. They speak words of support, but in the end they do nothing.” Then he spotted a bookstore.

  Ely rubbed his hands together. “Yes,” he said to himself. He walked inside.

  The smells of the leather bookbindings, the ink, and the paper were as pleasing to him as the scent of spring flowers. He thought for a moment of Clara. Then he shook his head. He needed to forget about her, forget about everything that was troubling. He found a shelf piled high with volumes in Greek and Latin. He picked up one by Cicero, the Roman orator, a copy of the Aeneid by Virgil, and a book called Greek Grammar. He had just enough money to buy all three.

  A brown-haired, well-dressed white man came around the corner of the bookshelves. Ely moved aside to let him pass. The man did not go past him. He just stood there staring at Ely.

  Ely nodded. “A good day to you, sir.”

  The man’s mouth dropped open.

  “Sir?” Ely said. “Are you unwell?”

  The man did not answer Ely’s question. Instead, he asked one of his own.

  “Are you . . . are you an Indian?”

  Ely understood. This white man was shocked to see an Indian in a bookstore. Probably, like most white men, he thought all Indians were savage and stupid.

  “Alas,” Ely said, a small smile on his face, “I must plead guilty as charged.”

  With a surprised look in his eyes, the man took a step toward him. It looked as if he was about to shout and grab hold of Ely.

  “You speak English!” he said.

  Ely held up the Aeneid. “Would you prefer to converse in Latin?” he asked.

  A smile came to the man’s face. He shook his head.

  “Forgive me,” the white man said. “I have forgotten my manners. I am just so terribly excited. My name is Morgan. Lewis Henry Morgan.”