Our town, Freefall, probably has more people than populate the aisles of the average Wal Mart. Of these, about half are Navajo and half Anglo, including a single black Anglo.
Despite being size-of-audience challenged, we have poetry readings, art shows, dances, talks both important and self-important, and other good events. The state arts and humanities councils take pity on us.
Several summers ago we had a reading by some Native poets. Instead of reading poetry, one poet, a Shawnee, went on a rant. He spoke thunder and lightning about the mass killings and other crimes against red people since Pilgrim days, arriving due time at the story of the Long Walk, the forced march of the Navajo to a concentration camp.
The gentleman was telling the truth—those things happened, and they were wrong, wrong, wrong. (My Cherokee ancestors had their own version of the Long Walk.) However, we Freefallers who live by choice among the Navajos are well-informed about such matters, and most of us are notably sensitive about red-white issues. So Mr. Poet had misjudged his audience. We wanted poetry, not a bunch of old news.
When Mr. Poet came to the Long Walk, which happened to the ancestors of local people, a Navajo voice called out from the rear. We were shocked. Our Navajo neighbors do not attend cultural events unless other Navajos are performing, and they do not interrupt.
We all saw that the speaker was a very young man, standing. “Excuse me, Mr. Poet,” he said. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I’m from Monument Valley, and my ride is leaving.”
Silence from Mr. Poet. Bated breath in the audience.
Then the young man introduced himself as a senior in high school and a filmmaker—he said he’d just completed his first movie.
“What I want to know is,” he said in a gentle voice, “are these things personally oppressive to you?”
Suppressed gasps in the audience. This young man was asking what a lot of local Anglos had long wanted to ask, but couldn’t.
“If you feel victimized by these things, maybe you should do some thinking. I suggest reading the works of the Dalai Lama.” He was too considerate to add what the rest of us were thinking—all this stuff happened centuries ago. Then, having trumped all with his dramatic line, the youngster slipped away.
Mr. Poet sat down. We refrained from cheering.
On the way home, later, Sarita and I couldn’t stop talking about the young man. Being excited, and not Navajo, we interrupted each other constantly, but chimed our way to agreement. That young man represents the hope for better relations between Navajos and Anglos. He is not interested in guilt. Or revenge. Or victimhood. He’s simply focused on the possibilities for creating a good life. And that is the way out of our dilemma.
Take a deep bow, young man, and acknowledge your standing ovation.
