B
y halfway home, he had made his decision.
“Mac,” he said at breakfast one morning, “I've figured it out.”
“Good,” said McGregor. It's about time.
What
have you figured out?”
“I'm goin' back to the blanket.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It's an expression the old-timers use,” John explained. “They've tried white man's ways, and have figured they don't work very well. So they just go back.”
“Back to
what?
”
“To the old ways. It's hard to explain, Mac. It's something that you learn as a child ⦠A mixture of religion and spirit and life and death and faith and trust ⦠You don't know what I'm talkin' about, do you?”
“I haven't got the faintest idea,” mumbled the startled McGregor.
“Well, I'm afraid it can't be explained,” said John. “Some whites find it ⦠I think you have to find it for yourself. Nobody can really tell you about it. Maybe it's what whites call our âmedicine,' though there's really no English word for it.”
He paused and took a deep breath. McGregor was still staring at him in astonishment.
“We're taught in the âIndian' schools to be ashamed of it,” John continued. “I never realized what they took from me, till now.”
“So, what are you gonna do?” asked Mac, looking as if he expected to be scalped.
“I'm goin' home.”
“To where?”
“To the reservation. Or some other one. I'm qualified to teach. I'll find a job, teaching my own people. Give 'em back some of their pride.”
“That's good, John. At least, I guess so. But you always were a good teacher.”
“Thanks, Mac. I knew you'd understand.”
Mac chuckled.
“At least, I understand the joke.”
Â
It was years since he had seen the prairies and far horizons of the northern plains. His heart quickened at the sight of familiar-looking landmarks.
John rented a horse at the livery and rode out across the prairie toward the Agency. He drew in great lungfuls of the clean air, scented slightly with sage and sweetgrass. His chest expanded and his shoulders straightened.
It was good, to be astride a horse in the country where he now realized that he belonged. Here was
home!
Â
At the Agency, he introduced himself.
“I am Little Bull, son of Yellow Bull. You may have me on your rolls as John Buffalo.”
The white secretary rummaged through a dusty file folder from an ancient cabinet, and came up with a sheet of paper.
“Yes, here it is. You went off to school and never came back. Your parents are dead?”
“Yes ⦠I'm back now.”
“To
stay?
” she asked in astonishment.
“Yes. I'd prefer to resume my own name, but ⦠Well, I'm a teacher. I'd like to teach in a reservation school. How do I go about applying?”
“I guess you'd contact the schools. We don't have many teachers who apply here, you know.”
She was a little sarcastic.
“You know where the school is?”
“The one where I went? Sure.”
“Try there, then. The principal's name is Ranier. Mrs. Ranier.”
“Thank you.”
Â
The buildings hadn't changed much. Some repairs were needed, but he knew that the Depression was being felt everywhere.
He walked down the hall to the principal's office, feeling the dread he had felt as a child. Any reason for a trip here must be bad.
A woman was bending over a file cabinet, searching in a lower drawer. He could see that she held a yellow pencil in her teeth as she used both hands to aid her task.
“Mrs. Ranier, I'd like to apply for a teaching job if you have one. Phys ed or athletics.”
“Yes, yes,” she said, her voice muffled by talking around the pencil. “Just a moment, here.”
This was a far cry from Old White Horse, he thought with amusement. Hers was a trim figure, with well-shaped hips. Well-turned calves and slim ankles were visible beneath a skirt that came a few inches below the knee. She'd have to be his own age or older, he figured, but certainly well shaped. Maybe she'd have a face like a horse ⦠. That would be a pity!
The silence was uncomfortable. He felt a need to say something.
“My name is John,” he began, then hesitated. If he wanted to be Little Bull, now was the time. “John Little Bull,” he said.
The woman straightened and turned, a stack of papers in her arms. She looked toward him and gasped. The yellow pencil dropped unnoticed to the floor.
“John Buffalo!” she said.
John was equally astonished. Could it be?
“Jane? But they said âRanier.'”
“Yes ⦠My married name. Jane
Langtry
, when you knew me.”
She hadn't changed much. The blue eyes, the golden curls â¦
“So you're married?” He tried to remain calm.
“I
was
. A disaster. I was too young. Divorce.”
“You kept the nameâ”
“So my father couldn't find me.”
“I saw your brother once.”
She laughed. “He didn't know where I was, either. But ⦠I
did
look for you, John. That's how I landed here. They didn't know where you were after you left school, but offered me a teaching job. I figured if you ever turned up ⦔
Now she was embarrassed.
John smiled. This was possibly the best day of his life. So far, anyway.
“Jane,” he said, “we have a lot of catching up to do.”
I
really hadn't wanted to attend the reception, held at one of the local hotels. Basically, I'm a rather private individual. But it was a civic duty, I figured, to put in an appearance and support the Chamber of Commerce at such a function.
My wife and I entered the hall and began to make small talk with friends and acquaintances. I picked up a couple of cups at the punch bowl and delivered one to my wife, who was busily engaged in conversation.
A woman waved at me from across the room and began to make her way through the crowd toward me. I'd known her for a number of years, though not very well. A friendly, speaking acquaintance. Our paths had crossed occasionally at social gatherings like this one. She was a stylish professional woman, fortyish, and capable in her field.
She walked up, spoke a brief greeting, and then gave three quick motions which I recognized as Indian hand signs.
“Do you know what this means?” she asked.
“Sure. That says you're Sioux â¦
Lakota.
”
“Yes! But I didn't know that!” she went on excitedly.
I was a bit confused, but she laughed and began to explain. She had always known that she had some Indian blood, but her family would never talk about it.
That wasn't surprising. A generation ago, Native American parentage was something to be ashamed of. Children in Indian schools had their knuckles rapped with a ruler for speaking a few words of their
own language
. They were taught to reject their heritage, not to take pride in it.
“How did you find out?” I asked.
The woman then began to unwind a bizarre tale, one in which I was proud to have a small part. She had heard me lecture, several months ago, she said, on the Humanities Council circuit. I had been relating some of the research I had done in the American Indian cultures, and she began to think that she
should try to discover her own roots. She had only one fact to go on: the hand sign.
“Wait!” I interrupted. “How did you know that?”
Well, she related, her father was the Indian connection, but he always completely refused to talk about it. However, his mother lived with them for a while. The old woman would take her little granddaughter on her lap every day, hold and rock her, and every day repeat the hand signs over and over.
“When you grow up, and someone asks who you are, you do this!” she told the child.
The woman repeated the signs as she had learned them, with quick slashing strokes. She went on to tell how, only a few weeks before, she had gone over to Haskell Indian Nations University and found someone who could tell her what the signs meant.
“Now,” she went on with excitement in her eyes, “I know who I am! I am Sioux! Lakota!”
Although certainly no expert in hand signs, I was picking up something here that told a little more than she realized. It is possible to express one's tribe or nation with two hand signs: First, a circular touch with the forefinger of the right hand on the back of the left indicates “the nation of ⦔ The sign for the individual group follows this. It can be done very calmly, a bland statement of fact. That was not the way this lady was performing the signs. Her motions were sharp, quick, and slashing, with a great deal of decisiveness. And she was adding an extra sign at the beginning, the sign for “mother.”
My mind reached back to imagine an old woman, her culture falling apart underneath her. No one cares. Her son has rejected his heritage. She has one thing left, a tiny child. Every day, she takes the little girl on her lap, and over and over repeats the hand signs that will become the magic key to that child's heritage. And the
way
in which she teaches it: Not bland and quiet, but with a defiant slash that fairly crackles with pride and rises to a screaming challenge: “
The mother nation is Lakota!
”
I explained this and saw the realization dawn in her eyes. The two of us stood, oblivious to the crowd around us, the tears welling up in mutual understanding ⦠.
And from somewhere on the Other Side, Grandmother looked down and smiled.