“Hell, yes. I might not make it until tomorrow.”
There was a general round of laughter. I wanted to leave.
I stepped further into the room and started paging through the neatly stapled packets, trying to find one in which I had confidence.
“Just pick one. It don’t matter,” said the old man.
I grabbed the one sitting on the top. It was one of the most beautiful, I thought, and it was the one that had come to me most fully crafted. Unlike the others, this one had been meticulously printed in ballpoint pen and sealed into a separate envelope. I was not even sure he had written it alone.
I had improved the grammar and changed a few words. But the phrasing, the cadences, and the thoughts were exactly as I had received them.
I cleared my throat like a schoolboy and began:
Hello, my friends.
I am going to speak to you now. I have thought about this for many years.
I have always tried to follow the ways of my grandfathers. In my ears I have heard the words of Sitting Bull, telling me that white people are not to be trusted. But I have also heard the words of Black Kettle, who told us to reach out a hand of peace.
I have carried them both in my heart.
Now that I am old I have decided to speak.
There are many of my people who would have me keep silent. They feel we must continue to hide ourselves from the white man. They say that every time we have offered our hand we have been destroyed.
But there is no more place to hide. The white man controls the air we breathe and the water we drink. He comes among us for good and for ill. Our numbers are small, but we are strong in heart. We must meet together, red people and white, one final time before it is too late. Perhaps our strong hearts will be heard this time. If they are not, what does it matter? Then our time is done either way.
I choose to believe otherwise. The Creator did not put our people here to be destroyed and forgotten. We are part of the great circle of creation. The voice of our people needs to be heard.
If I remain silent, our voice is silenced by one. So I choose to speak.
If at times my words seem angry, you must forgive me. In my mind, there is great anger. No one who has seen the suffering of our children and the tears of our grandmothers cannot be angry. But in my heart I struggle to forgive, because the land is my teacher, and the land says to forgive.
If the mountain can forgive the scarring and the mining, and can cover over her gashes with the fresh grasses of summer, should I not, too, be able to cover over the gashes with the fresh grasses of kindness and understanding?
If the forest can survive the murder of all her children, and rise again once more in beauty, should I not, too, be able to survive the murder of my people and once again raise my heart toward the sun?
It is not easy for a man to be as great as a mountain or a forest. But that is why the Creator gave them to us as teachers. Now that I am old I look once more toward them for lessons, instead of trying to understand the ways of men.
They tell me to be patient. They tell me I cannot change what is, I can only hope to change what will become. Let the grasses grow over our scars, they say, and let the flowers bloom over our wounds.
If I have spoken too much, or spoken wrongly, may others speak out to make it right. If I have spoken truly, may others hear the words and take them to their hearts.
I am only a man. I was not given a seat at the head of my people and I was not raised up to speak for them. I say these things because I believe they must be said. Others may come who can say them better. When they do, I will stand aside.
But I am old, and I cannot wait. I have chosen to speak.
I will be silent no more.
When I was done, one of the others looked at the old man. “Did you write that, Dan?”
The old man was impassive. “That one’s okay,” he said.
“What the hell you doing?” the man with the cards said.
“Just making some little talks.”
“Jesus. You making a book?”
One of the other men spoke up. “I think it’s damn good.”
The third man had remained silent. “I don’t know,” he said. As if on some inaudible cue, he got up to leave. The other two stood up, also.
“Don’t forget the card up your sleeve,” the old man said. The others laughed and filed out the door.
“Did I do something wrong?” I asked.
The old man took out a cigarette. “Nah. They just decided to go home. Let me hear that one you just read me again.”
I reread the chapter. It sounded strange and stilted in a room full of playing cards and cigarette smoke. The old man could see my puzzlement.
“You white boys don’t understand,” he said. “Come back tomorrow morning and I’ll show you something.” He spit something into the coffee can by his chair. “Be sure to bring some tobacco.”
Morning dawned with a wet and heavy air. Mosquitoes buzzed against the screen and a foggy haze rose from the fields outside the motel window. Somewhere nearby a semi sat idling with its refrigeration unit on. The low diesel rumble pulsed and droned against the motel wall.
The enigmatic nature of the old man’s response had set me on edge. It was a long drive and an expensive trip to come out and visit him. I wanted some greater sense of purpose out of these encounters — a thank-you, a level of excitement and anticipation, anything. But all I was getting were nods and grunts and people coming and going with no discernible purpose.
“Stay calm,” I told myself. I remembered what a man I respected, a tribal leader of the local Ojibwe, had said when asked about Indian time. “You know what Indian time means?” he had responded in a session with local college students. “It means, ‘When I’m damn good and ready.’”
The old man was operating on Indian time. I was still operating on a clock and a paycheck.
I showered quickly and pulled on a pair of blue jeans and a T-shirt. I had driven out in my sandals, but they seemed embarrassingly citified. I took the old pair of workboots out of my duffel bag and slipped them on over some grey cotton socks. I took a quick glance in the mirror. With my blond hair and rapidly greying beard, I guess I could easily be seen as looking like Grizzly Adams to an old Indian. There were worse things they could have called me.
The old man was waiting when I arrived. Once again, his granddaughter was cooking him breakfast. I began to wonder if this was a daily ritual, and where she emerged from every morning. She was frying smoky strips of bacon on an old cast-iron griddle, then pouring the bacon grease into a big pot of oatmeal.
“You hungry, Nerburn?” she asked, stirring the grease into the oatmeal with a large metal spoon. Her familiarity took me aback, almost as much as the breakfast she was concocting.
“A couple of strips of bacon and a cup of coffee would be great,” I said. I remembered her brew; it had at least shown some promise. It was more twigs and less tire than the old man’s. And I was willing to endure anything to avoid the mephitic gruel she was brewing up on the stove.
The old man tapped the table with his arthritic finger. “Did you bring the tobacco?”
I nodded. “I had it along last night, but it didn’t seem like the right time to give it to you.”
“Suit yourself,” he said. His granddaughter glanced over at me out of the corner of her eye, but turned her gaze away when I saw her looking.
Soon another