It’s near Orion and it resembles
A Native mother cradling her son.
109.
Where the Creek
Becomes River
I HAVE NOT worn a pair of moccasins in four decades.
Let me repeat that.
I have not worn a pair of moccasins in four decades.
Let those eleven words become a chorus.
I have not worn a pair of moccasins in four decades.
The last time I wore moccasins was in Arlee, Montana, on the Flathead Indian Reservation, during the Fourth of July Powwow in 1976.
Is there any greater oxymoron than Bicentennial Powwow?
A few days earlier, my father had run away from home on yet another multiday drinking binge. And my mother, as she often did in reaction to my father’s escape act, had also impulsively run away from home. But she, as usual, took my little sisters and me along with her as she drove from our reservation across the Idaho and Montana borders into Arlee.
In the indigenous world, we assign sacred value to circles. But sometimes a circle just means you keep returning to the same shit again and again.
This book is a series of circles, sacred and profane.
As a teen, my mother had been married to man who lived in Arlee, but I didn’t know about that marriage in 1976. Looking back, I suppose she took us to Arlee in some effort to reclaim her youth.
Or perhaps to reclaim a certain part of her youth—her sexuality.
Shortly after dropping my little sisters and me at the campsite of my aunt and cousins, my mother climbed into an RV with a man—a stranger to me—and drove away. I can’t recall any physical details about the man. I don’t know if he was Indian or white or something else. I only remember waving good-bye and crying as that man and my mother drove away on a dirt road. I remember all the dust kicked up by that RV’s wheels. Even now, my throat constricts with that memory of dirt and tears—by the silt of abandonment.
My aunt, in an act of consolation, gave me a new pair of moccasins. She’d originally bought them to give to one of her sons as a gift, but she was desperate to stop my weeping. So she gave those moccasins to me instead. She knew I might cry for hours. She was probably scared I would rage and wail until my mother returned. And who knew when that would be?
My little sisters were sad, too, but they were powwow dancers. So they consoled themselves by wrapping shawls around their shoulders—like indigenous armor—and dancing in a collective circle with all of the other powwow dancers.
But I didn’t dance. My childhood brain surgery and years of aftereffects and seizures and medications and hospital stays and subsequent illnesses had left me a physically and emotionally frail kid. I didn’t have confidence in my body or soul. I didn’t feel strong and graceful enough to dance. I didn’t feel like I deserved to dance.
I didn’t feel Indian enough to dance.
But, wow, looking at those new moccasins made me feel like a super Indian. They were deerskin with a thick sole. And lightly beaded. Just a few rows of beads—yellow, blue, and red—forming the outline of a five-pointed star. I still wasn’t courageous enough to dance, but I pulled on those moccasins and ran through the powwow grounds. Soon enough, I saw a group of other Indian kids running and laughing. So I ran with them. That’s what kids do.
In my memory, the Arlee powwow grounds were bordered on one side by a creek. Looking at Google maps, it appears that creek is farther away from the grounds than I remember. But I would swear that some Indian folks were camped almost next to that creek. I could easily fact check this geography by emailing my friends who live on that reservation. But, emotionally speaking, it feels more accurate to think of that creek as being a part of the powwow grounds rather than flowing a football field distance away.
I ran with those Indian kids to that creek, which was maybe two feet deep and flowing fast. The creek was perhaps five feet wide. And I remember running back and forth across a pedestrian bridge. A bridge across a creek? If my memory is true, then that creek must have been a popular destination. I remember those other Indian kids kicking off their sneakers and socks and splashing into the creek. It was only two feet deep. But I didn’t know how to swim. And so I was afraid. But then, bravely and irrationally, I pulled off my new moccasins, set them on that little bridge, and stepped into the water.
The water was so cold that I gasped. And it was moving fast. Looking again at Google maps, it appears that creek flows into the Jocko River, so that might account for the speed of the current. The other Indian kids, stronger and more graceful than me, ran with and against the current. But I could only carefully and clumsily walk with the current. I remember the feel of the slippery rocks on the creek bottom. If my memory is correct, then that creek must have been flowing fast for many years in order to smooth those rocks. It was a very hot day, so the water felt good. And I splashed the cold water at the other kids as they splashed water at me. We laughed. It wasn’t easy for me to make friends. But I thought these kids, who were nondancers like me, might become my friends for the rest of the powwow and help me forget my loneliness.
And then I heard a commotion behind me. A different kind of laughter. And I turned around to see an older Indian kid pick up my new moccasins from the bridge and drop them into the creek. I don’t remember if I said anything. If I cursed or shouted. But I distinctly remember those moccasins floating and flowing down that fast creek toward me. More than that, I remember that eight or ten or twelve Indian kids stood still in the water and watched my moccasins pass by. And then it was just me, unsteady in the current, as I crouched like a soccer goalie and tried to intercept my moccasins. I reached for them and missed. And then I dove after them as they floated away. But I missed again. I was briefly submerged in the shallow creek, and when I got back to my feet, I watched my moccasins disappear around the bend and then presumably flow into the Jocko River.
I know this is a sad story. In the context of a different and better and calmer childhood, this sad story might not even be all that sad. It might be worth a sigh or two. But this sad story has mythic power for me. In fact, this story is so painful for me that I almost didn’t include it in this book. Indeed, I added this chapter at the last possible moment before publication.
I vividly remember watching my new moccasins disappear. But I don’t remember stepping out of that creek. I don’t remember walking back to my aunt’s campsite. I can only recall stepping into the tepee and telling my aunt that I had lost my moccasins.
And then she slapped me hard across the face.