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Overview
At a Thanksgiving party held in a Bureau of Indian Affairs gymnasium, the elders of the Meskwaki Settlement in central Iowa sip coffee while the teenagers plot their escape. Edgar Bearchild and Ted Facepaint, too broke to join their friends for a night of drinking in a nearby farm town, decide to attend a ceremonial gathering of the Well-Off Man Church, a tribal sect with hallucinogenic practices. After partaking of the congregation’s sacred star medicine, Edgar receives a prophetic vision and comes to a newfound understanding of his people’s past and present that will ultimately reshape the course of his life.
Set against the backdrop of the tumultuous 1960s, Black Eagle Child is the story of Edgar’s passage from boyhood to manhood, from his youthful misadventures with Ted, to his year at prestigious liberal arts college in California, to his return to Iowa and success as a poet. Deftly crossing genre boundaries and weaving together a multitude of tones and images—from grief to humor, grape Jell-O to supernatural strobe lights—it is also an unforgettable portrait of what it means to be a Native American in the modern world.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504014168 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 10/27/2015 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 230 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
The recipient of a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts, Ray Young Bear has taught creative writing and Native American literature at numerous schools across the United States, including the University of Iowa and the Institute of American Indian Arts. A singer as well as an author, Young Bear is a cofounder of the Woodland Singers & Dancers, which performs contemporary and traditional tribal dances throughout the country.
Read an Excerpt
Black Eagle Child
The Facepaint Narratives
By Ray Young Bear
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1992 Ray A. Young BearAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1416-8
CHAPTER 1
The Well-Off Man Church
November 1965
The Thanksgiving party at the Weeping Willow Elementary School had just concluded with the same lethargic atmosphere it started with. Poor planning and late hand-delivered newsletters by the Limelighters contributed to a disappointing evening for the few families of the Black Eagle Child Settlement who had arrived early with lawn chairs, blankets, and children predressed in ornate dance costumes. The fresh, striking smell of mimeo ink had once again lured reclusive people out of their homes to join the Why Cheer High School Indian girls' club for refreshments — and a pow-wow. Dolores Fox-King, club president, encouraged community attendance "for national holidays are celebrated by Indians, too!" But tribal members were keenly aware affairs such as Christmas, Halloween, and Easter were meaningless. More so when wrapped gifts and fine grotesque masks were unnecessary expenditures; hard-boiled eggs, of course, were easy to decorate and hide. As a child, colored eggs symbolized the return of baskets filled with resilient green grass, imitation chicks, and chocolate rabbits. Although these items were donated by the Presbyterian Mission, our guardians convinced us it was their doing. Like the time my mother, Clotelde Principal Bear, walked out from the frozen creek with a stocking gift-monkey, I knew it came from the mission by its old clothes, blankets-used-by-mice smell. And with year's end came satanic celebration via carved pumpkins, witches on brooms, and paper skeletons. There was also the birth (death and resurrection?) of a sad-looking bearded white man known as the son of God. But even He was far away from our despair, like the turkeys, stuffing, and cranberries that were absent from most tables. This get-together, I mused, was further indication of our inability to chronologically set social plans into motion, another attempt to duplicate another man's observance.
While we were a "tribe" in every respect, it was unconscionable to help another individual, family, or clan achieve any degree of success in their public endeavors. Behind the pretense of cooperation were razor-sharp anchors that raked and dug into the visions of our grandfathers. The girls' club, for example, was aptly represented by the influential Kingfisher, Sturgeon, Bearcap, Hummingbird, Fox-King, and Beaver clans, but what mattered the most was leadership. Ideally, it had to mirror politics. But everyone knew otherwise. Community affairs were unjustly manipulated by a group of progressive visionaries. If there was an inkling of sympathy for reinstating divine leadership, the atmosphere was readjusted by these illiterate dreamers. Everything was monitored, including the girls' club: the Fox-King sisters were there, as usual, headstrong and obnoxious, as were the Foxchild cousins and the plain Fox twins, mixed-bloods. Also present were three of the Water Runner sisters and their Red Boy advisers. Standing to the side, where they should be, were the Critical Ones. And represented at every event was the clan cursed to a hundred years of suicides, the Excluded Ones.
It would never work — existence to the year 2000. Although our foreheads were not misshapened with cedar slats from childhood to denote tribal class, our Black Eagle Child society was based on names. Our ancestors' bones did not have glittering jewels inlaid in their teeth to tell us of social structures; instead, names were carried from one fortunate or unfortunate generation to the next. The clash between deities of the land, water, and sky was imminent for human beings as well. What our supernatural predecessors experienced, it was said, we would relive. It was part of our mythology — and religion. But this was 1965, and we were older and more stationary in time.
The brass-studded octagon hide drum sat upright at the center of the glossy Bureau of Indian Affairs gymnasium floor, and the few old men and women who entertained themselves for a couple of hours with this instrument through song and dance now sipped cool coffee and chatted idly about recent community events. The booming echo of the traditional percussion instrument and the high nasal tones of the women-hummers became forgotten sounds lodged in the corners of the beamed ceiling. In its place was gossip. There were, as always, initial dismay and then gradual acceptance of local atrocities: Rose Grassleggings had again forgiven her husband for unusual acts he allegedly committed on her daughters, three of them. Judith, the oldest, was said to drift in and out of dreams, night or day, with her mouth slightly ajar; Christina, the middle child who once had the loveliest slanted eyes, was permanently cross-eyed; and Brook, the youngest, was hidden from the public. There was outrage, but no one did anything. Castration was a mere fantasy "under the influence" among the girls' skinny uncles. And then there was Claude Youthman, who terrorized a carload of state dignitaries in downtown Why Cheer for "laughing too long" at his wife. When the wife was asked by the farmer selling produce if she had "a sack or anything to put it (the cantaloupe) in," the Indian woman panicked at what she mistook as an obscene suggestion. She could only stutter back, "Put it in?" Before the limousine took direct cantaloupe hits, the men who had brought promises of twenty houses with indoor plumbing for the tribe found this misinterpretation highly amusing. The Farmers Market standoff might have been funny, but everyone knew Claude's brother, a trained sniper, had the white men in the cross hairs of his telescope in case the confrontation escalated. The limousine and its promises drove away and never returned. And every week Lorna Bearcap made the news. Yesterday commodity surplus flour was poured over her lover and stepchild. With white powdery faces they could be seen running through the valley before crying in horror. This, the people speculated, was a result of the turmoil in being unenrolled. There had been knives and deliberate bloodletting in the past. "What's next?" the people said. There was a firm belief in tribalhood, equality, and fairness, but in truth we were such a burden to each other, an encumbrance, that our chances of advancing into a reasonable state of cultural acquiescence diminished with each novel prejudice acquired. There were instances of how we went to extraordinary measures to impede understanding, humanity, and the overwhelming future.
All this internalized agony led us to hurt or seriously injure one another for no reason other than sheer disgust in being Indians. Seasons determined the type of aggression people would vent on one another. The full moons of summer were notorious, and falls were utterly depressing. Religious ceremonies were at their peak, but the train of death ran parallel with ancient beliefs, picking up passengers left and right. "Do me a favor," drunks would say in morbid jest before passing out, "kill me." But everyone would wake up nauseated by the fact they were still alive. This reality aggravated the weak but dangerous ones who then took it out on their innocent families. Many here knowingly broke the law, and the rest became accessories to crime. (The most famous was the January 1936 drowning of three conservation officers by twenty spearfishermen. No one questioned the "stupid white man on weak ice" story.) We kept awful secrets but dared not to expose others for fear we would one day have relatives in similar trouble. And if the vicious vortex of a community of accessories wasn't enough, the law in the nearby twintowns of Why Cheer and Gladwood didn't care "one stinkin' skin" if guns were pointed and shot as long as we were on the other end. Investigations were quick and ineffective. Also taking part in this condemnation were newspapers which gave our people nicknames like Cucumber Man, Muskrat Bob, and Indianapolis Isabel. Sadly, this trio had the distinction of being arrested for intoxication fifty times apiece in three years, and through them was found the justification to ridicule us in public. Whenever the promises they made in court — to pay fines or do community duty — were broken because of a lull in cucumber harvests, fur trapping, and amateur stock car races, anyone who could read knew. We were kept abreast of their trials through extensive quotes. Instead of the funnies rural folk turned to the court news for "looking down at the pits of society" time. It became normal to hear police make jokes like, "I've seen and fought with more redskins than Custer." For campaign publicity mayors would frequently chase juvenile delinquents over our graveyards, apprehend them with handcuffs, and pose for photographs reminiscent of hunters on an African safari. And it was over these very graves that I silently wished my friends and relatives farewell, knowing their harsh journeys were over with while mine was just beginning. The suicides, however, had no place to go; they were stuck as shadows somewhere, watching and wishing ...
Near the hallway entrance to the gymnasium, Ted Facepaint and I stood and watched the Limelighters walk across the length of the basketball court with their long brooms, picking up dust, pebbles, crumpled paper cups, and cigarette butts. Beside us, we could hear plans being made for a collection to facilitate a party at Lone Ranger or South Street. Since Ted and I didn't have money, we were ignored. Like persistent fools, however, we stood around nervously hoping for an invitation. The ten-mile round-trip walk to the small farming community of Why Cheer had become a weekend highlight. With the cheapest beer possible, Grain Belt, we would return over the Milwaukee tracks, singing off pitch and talking profanely to block the invisible pain of midwestern Americana. The fact that alcohol-related tragedies occurred on the cool rails never bothered us as much as being penniless. As the group turned to count their money, Ted thought for a while before suggesting we attend his grandfather's annual Thanksgiving ceremonial gathering. Among the six beliefs of the tribe, this sect was the least I knew anything of. Either they were discreet or people made it a point not to talk about them. I was aware people called them Those Who Partake. But boldly stenciled in English on a mailbox on Whiskey Corners Road was the name they preferred: the Well-Off Man Church, a name which amused me. Before I could respond with a "no," Ted began telling me about the gathering itself — the church: "We pray and cleanse ourselves with an imported medicine from distant desert valleys owned by members of the Well-Off Man congregation. Further, if this plant, which is a form of mushroom, is ingested and the mind is free of bad thoughts, it produces a pleasant intoxicating effect."
So anxious to do something and feeling largely abandoned by people who I thought were friends disappearing into the night toward Why Cheer, I apprehensively agreed with his proposal. We started our walk uphill, the opposite direction. In a hopeless gesture, I turned around to have a final look. The group had transformed into shapeless objects followed by the small red glow of their cigarettes.
Afflicted with a speech impediment since infancy — his brothers "baptized" him in a flooded creek where a "strange germ" lurked — Ted laughed wholesomely whenever my younger brother, Al, called him Three-Speed after the Schwinn English bike we all marveled in comic books. Whenever Ted's verbalization slowed down, Al would remind Ted to "change gears like a three-speed." Ted would raise his eyebrows and inhale deeply and accelerate, walking faster, talking more rapidly. Since the bike was a luxury we would never possess (no one ever sold enough salve or garden seeds to own one), Facepaint treasured the dream. It represented self-improvement in school and society. I pondered about this as we were walking, for our paces were different and more apparent in motion. (But that was how our later lives were to be: his impediments would one day cease while mine would fester.) Before we reached the turnoff on the community's main gravel road, a squawking pheasant broke into flight from a utility pole, startling us. Sensing it was perhaps an omen, we stopped to take deep, long breaths.
Above us in the central Iowa sky, the stars shone immaculately, and the pine valley road was well lit. As soon as Ted spotted the dim porch light through the trees, he began to brief me on what to expect, what to do and not do, that except for a child or two we would probably be the youngest people in attendance. "If it was summer," Ted said excitedly, "we would descend into the salamander effigy which overlooks the lowlands and rivers. The medicine's effect is spectacular under the earth. Tonight's gathering, however, will be held inside Circles-Back's house. Just remember, Edgar, should it come to you as an emetic, there are empty coffee cans for that specific purpose. Try not to think of throwing up, no matter how terrible the taste." As we approached the house I thought it was odd to see eight to ten cars parked near a house at night. All being sober family types. Once we stepped inside the warm kitchen a familiar herbal odor filled my nose and fogged my thick, black-framed glasses, giving both of us a chance to relax and blend into the solemn but tense activity. We unzipped our coats and wiped our glasses on our shirttails. Plump women wearing floral-print aprons were exchanging news and busying themselves with pots, pans, and firewood; men in western shirts and ironed dress-slacks were puffing cigarettes in the adjoining room. We were each accorded a second of attention. Ted secretly signaled his aunt Louise Stabs Back. She politely excused herself from the table where she directed the meticulous cutting, cleaning, and sorting of both fresh and dry plants Ted called A na qwa mi ke tti i o ni, Star-Medicine.
"Aunt Louise, this is Edgar Bearchild, Ka ka to. Do you think Grandfather would give approval for a visitor?" His short, cherubic aunt looked up at us with warm eyes and calmly replied, "Ted, I know who he is. His grandmother, Ada Principal Bear, sometimes helps with the cooking for the feast. Perhaps she may even be here tomorrow." Without realizing it, I nodded in agreement. Upon careful reflection I thought this must be the place where my grandmother often walked, even on the coldest winter day, to help out with the feast — like she did with every religious group on the Settlement.
From across the room I noticed Ted's war-hero uncle, Clayton Carlson Facepaint, coming toward us in a low boxing stance. In the forties Clayton became well known in the service for his pugilistic ability. I had read old newsclippings of his unheralded boxing exploits. One headline read: "Champion Joe Louis Spars with Indian Fighter for War Bonds." Later, Clayton was perhaps the only Indian in the county — or state — invited to join and fly bombing missions with the RAF. He eventually became a prisoner of war but escaped from Hider's forces by cartwheeling down a mountainside and joined the French underground where he waged successful strikes against ammunition and fuel depots. Nowadays, he was feared by all for his skills in hand-to-hand combat; with one abrupt pinch or swift chop to the delicate shoulders or necks of abusive people, red or white, he could literally put anyone's lights out. When he rotated his stocky body toward me, I cautiously stepped back and nearly fell over the woodpile. In blinding speed he hooked Ted hard in the ribs several times, and Ted took it without flinching. Clayton straightened up to chuckle and congratulate Ted. He then stared at me with squinty, knowing eyes. "You remember?" he asked in a near whisper. I knew what he was referring to right away; I remembered the lewd, drunken comment he made one night about his Caucasian wife as he forced me to drive him home from town. Doogie was what he called her — an Indian reference for a person's frame spread apart. Out of nervousness I must have been humored by this, for he repeated it slowly again in my ear. I quit breathing, not wanting to inhale the pungent smell of chewing tobacco. "The red-headed woman I love is so chubby she's got balls." Detecting a hint of seriousness this time, I pretended to be stricken with wonder. "I have another one for you, Child Edgar Bear," he said while raking his butch with a metal comb. "Listen to this: big rabbits, big white ones with red 'Thumper' eyes." I shrugged my shoulders, indicating I didn't know the joke, but images from Bambi flashed in my mind in technicolor. By Walt Disney. After Walter Cronkite. Mutual of Omaha. And Walt Hill, Nebraska, near Winnebago on the ridge where this portly Mongolian warrior held up the caravan of horses and wagons with a bullwhip.
Like a dazzling savior, Ted's grandfather, who was dressed in a dark blue suit and pants with gray pinstripes, came out from the living room and nodded his white-haired head. His attire reminded me of someone from the notorious Al Capone era; it was magnificent. "Come on!" Ted said with a grin, breaking my thoughts from "The Untouchables" and the piercing, authoritative voice of its narrator, Walter Winchell. "Let's go in before he changes his mind." We entered an unfurnished living room, which looked and smelled newly constructed. The floorboards creaked, and the pine lumber scent was overpowering. Worn pillows and Pendleton blankets were lined up neatly at the base of the drywalls. To the south I closely examined a framed painting of Jesus Christ, who was descending from the billowy clouds with a lamb cradled in his arms. The yellow halo was the brightest object in the glazed oil painting. "My brother, Christian, did that," remarked Ted proudly. The artwork itself was the best I had ever seen on the Settlement, but I failed to see its significance. Christianity was the white man's belief. What the hell is it doing here? I quietly asked myself.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Black Eagle Child by Ray Young Bear. Copyright © 1992 Ray A. Young Bear. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Publisher's Note on Poetry,Preface,
Foreword by Albert E. Stone,
The Well-Off Man Church,
Gift of the Star-Medicine,
Alfred E. Neuman Was an Arsonist,
The Introduction of Grape Jell-O,
The Precociousness of Charlotte,
Brook Grassleggings Episode,
A Circus Acrobat on the Grass,
The Year of the Jefferson Airplane,
The Human Parchment Period,
How We Delighted in Seeing the Fat,
The Supernatural Strobe Light,
The Ugliest Man in Big Valley,
Ask the One Who Blesses the Roots,
Junior Pipestar: The Destiny Factor,
Black Eagle Child Quarterly,
The Man Squirrel Shall Not Wake,
Afterword,
About the Author,