halsparks

Painted Back

For years I drove past it. It always made me angry. Sad. Disconnected. A small window. not more than 2 foot square. At the top of a wall on the side of a house on the edge of a hillside farm. Through the rain drenched glass of my mothers car it screamed at me. I would slide to the other side of the seat. But the river bank held even more sorrow.
I dont remember how old I was when I heard the story of the last Kentucky Indian. But I know it was in that house. at a dinner table so big it could have been our roof. I didnt know these people. My Father did. I cant see their faces. I cant remember the sound of their voices. They are all eclipsed by the ferocity of the images in the story.
Roughly, because the details always seemed to change depending on how swiftly it was told... On a warm fall night, a hundred years ago, the wealthy farmers wife who lived in this house had seen an Indian on the river bank. Strong and savage, he sat near the water, washing a bowl after a solitary meal. She said simply he made her uneasy. Her husband, either out of desire to put his wife at ease or simply to quiet her went to the attic and opened the tiny window that faced the river. Sure enough, a proud strong young Indian man was cleaning his few possessions in the river. Without hesitation he aimed a rifle at the knot in the Indians hair...and fired.
There was only mild shame in the telling. The story seemed to have an air of slight melancholy as if they spoke of a sick dog that had to be put down. I could feel my face catch fire as the picture of the Indian falling froze in my mind. That picture would be with me every time I saw this place, I thought. But the story was not finished.
It goes that the farmer, always a hunter, had to check the kill. To be sure. So he went to the river and stood over the young man. Who lay half in the river and half out growing cold only for the reason that he made someone uneasy and had a strange hue. It was then that the farmer noticed the beautiful tattoo. Ornate and simple, primitive and pure, it covered his entire back. The farmer admired it for a moment before taking the Indians own knife and cutting it off of him. He brought it back to the house to show the family. Rumor was the skin was in this house somewhere. But the story they told was that it was lost long ago. I cried at the table. and they laughed that I was scared because the story spoke of a gun..or a knife.. not what they were used for... or how easily.
I had a realization the other day that made this whole story come flooding back. I find that those who believe they are civilized will always try to kill the indian in you. What they see as savage or ancient or strange... must be dispatched. cut away. eliminated without hesitancy. Anything that causes them to be even slightly uneasy must be... put down. And yet they will always take a trophy of the different, the strange... they will take the paintings, the humor, the music, they will make you dance for them as a child, forgiven for being savage and unlearned... but grow and the savage must perish.
I say this only to remind you,,and myself.... protect the Indian.
Within and without. What they see as savage is a projection. What it is is simply a truly living being. Original. Resilient. Clean. Be your pure self and be aware of the weak hearted who wish you to simply be like them. They See you in your moments alone..content.. satisfied by life... on the bank of the river and, fearing their own ignorance of how to live like that,... must make it go away. That... is savage.

Honor yourself by being yourself.

Let those who cannot understand... live with misunderstanding.

If you see something Fresh...and Pure... and Real in yourself.. let it live.


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