Fall 2007 TCJ STUDENT EDITION
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STUDENT EDITION
I Know This Man By Lumhe Micco Sampson
Rabbit’s Tale of River By Angel Brady
The Best Stickgame Tournament of My Life By James Edmond Jackson, Sr.
Rain Song By Daniel Remmenga
The Mirror of Cultural Identity By Shana Trottier
I Will Go to Tsoodzi lBy Kyerin Bennett
Knowledge and Wisdom By Miranda Manheimer
A Person I Really Know By Corrine Tsoodle
 Lumhe Micco Sampson |
By Lumhe Micco Sampson
I know this man
who knows me more.
It is through my blood
he again walks this earth—
in muddy sneaks, not boots
—and nears a vision
of showing the world
what “Native American”
really means.
Like a photograph,
his image lives in me.
I carry his voice,
his trouble,
his glee.
His towering persona
is all that is me.
I weep, he cries and comforts.
I triumph, he puffs with pride.
He sings, yet I cannot hear.
He dances, yet I cannot see.
If only I could hold his hand—
his monstrous, embracing hand—
and rejoice together
under the endless barrage
of twinkling delight.
Last night I saw
this star, this star
winked at me—
it made me shiver.
Just then, a brisk black breeze
gave a voice to the trees
and the tallest pine
seemed to whisper,
“I know this man;
this man is a younger me.”
My father spoke
to me.
Lumhe Micco means “Eagle King” in Muscogee Creek which is a name given to Lumhe Micco Sampson by his father who passed on when he was still an infant. His mother, Darice, raised him, his brother and sister. They have lived in many states where they met wonderful people and acquired many experiences. Currently the family resides on the Cattaraugus reservation in up-state New York while Lumhe Micco and his brother attend Haskell Indian Nations University in Lawrence, KS.
Lumhe writes: I am 22 but I still feel like a kid with my child-like voraciousness. I plan on accomplishing a lot with the time I have on this earth. I am involved in the arts and I have dabbled in the film industry. Performing is a big part of my life. I plan to incorporate the knowledge I’ve acquired to advocate for what I believe in. I hope to give voice to Native people, letting the world know who we really are and that we are still here.
Rabbit’s Tale of River
 Angel Brady |
By Angel Brady
It was a good day to relax in the woods. Everyone felt the warm sleepy breeze from the south. In this place of dreams and slumber, it was a well-known fact that time ran backwards; instead of aging things, it gave a child’s call to come out and play. In this place, there was also a wind that loved to play, and it loved to blow in the best dreams–dreams that children and bunnies have. Not only did the wind play with the children and bunnies, it gave Old Gray young, fresh dreams. The bouncy breeze brought carefree cheer, giving friendly tugs on the branches as if to say, “Hello!” The trees seemed to stretch as the sun shone a bright green through their shimmering leaves.
The old oak, weathered gray, groaned and yawned. Mother Rabbit was telling a story to her little ones. She started out wistfully, “This was a different life in the forest. A life bigger than all the animals who watched them the way parents watch their children grow. The water, much older than the trees, was the mother of all who drank from her–and the trees knew this.”
Old Gray awoke suddenly, still tired and a little grumpy at being disturbed from his slumber by the chattering sparrows. Restless, they dove at everyone who passed by. They never left the old guy alone, who could do nothing but listen. Until that day….
“Tell us where the trees come from, Momma!”
“I was just coming to that part,” said Mother Rabbit, rocking in her chair. She slowly leaned forward to continue telling the story, in front of her little gray bunch. They leaned forward, anxious to hear more.
“Old Gray was so tired, he twitched. The sparrows were so startled that they all jumped at once, then settled once again. They listened silently.” Momma Rabbit stopped, then whispered… “And the old tree began to speak.”
“Oh, I don’t like this,” one little rabbit said as he scrunched up next to his brothers and sisters.
“It’s not even scary–just listen–it’s a legend,” said one of his awe-struck sisters, mesmerized by Momma’s story.
Mother Rabbit continued, “The sparrows, curious, for they had never heard a tree speak before, gathered around. Old Gray began to tell the story of the trees and how they came to be. All he wanted was for the sparrows to find another tree. He was getting too old for this.”
Old Gray could not pass this up, so he interrupted Mother Rabbit, politely asking, “May I?”
“Why, yes. It has been so long since you spoke.” Mother Rabbit was a gracious being.
He began, “One time long–a–go.” He paused, “Ah horuhgh!” He coughed and leaves shook. “Uh hmm, ex…cuse me.” He started once again, “Long ago, the forest did not exist. The world beyond was only a void and water. With no one to drink from her, River called on her brother, the Sun, to bring Earth and all his children. Each one had lived without the other, until that day…. River gave her children, the fish, beautiful wings and called them bird, but without a home on dry land, they were unhappy with nowhere to sit for miles and miles. Beneath Sun, they grew tired.” Old Gray yawned.
Momma Rabbit continued with the tale, “Sun called on his little brothers, the clouds, while River called her sister, Rain. Rain felt sorry for the birds and began to cry along with the clouds; together they covered the birds from the heat throughout the desert.”
Momma Rabbit jumped up, “Suddenly!” Old Gray shook, and leaves fell on the gray bunch of babies–who gasped then giggled with delight. Momma Rabbit sat down gently and continued, “The ground softened and branches sprang from it. Sprouting green leaves grew fast and tall, filling the desert with lush colors.”
Old Gray spoke slowly, “The Pines grew to be some of the tallest, having the best view of everything that the sun touched.”
“Wow,” said the littlest one, who wasn’t scared anymore; he sat in front looking up with his mouth open.
“Now,” said Mother Rabbit, picking him up, “are you ready for bed?”
“But–but you’re not done yet, are you?”
“Yeah,” the others chimed in, “what about the Sparrows?”
“Ah, yes, the Sparrows.” She smiled and sat back in her chair. It was made from pine, the softest wood, a gift from beaver last spring. He was a great friend of the family. Momma rubbed the arms of the chair with her paws. The wood was really so soft.
She picked up her little one and began to rock back and forth. “Old Gray told the Sparrows that they should appreciate River because, if it weren’t for her, no one would be here now. He also warned them that if they didn’t, and if they weren’t quiet, River would turn them all back into fish.”
Old Gray rustled his leaves gently as the branches softly creaked. “CARPS!”
he roared, then chuckled as all the little rabbits jumped and then squealed with laughter.
The commotion frightened the Sparrows so much they flew from Old Gray’s perches. Old Gray yawned and laughed to himself quietly, relieved the chatterboxes had finally left. Mother Rabbit sighed and smiled softly.
“Funny little birds,” Old Gray said. Closing his eyes, he contently found his slumber once again. Momma Rabbit patted her baby’s head as he nestled closer to her. Finally asleep, she thought.
“Thanks, Momma. That was a very good story,” one little rabbit said, yawning. Mother Rabbit lay the little one down and kissed her good night. She kissed the rest of her little bunnies and tucked them all in.
“CARPS!” one yelled as he jumped on his bed. “What are carps?”
“They’re the fish,” Momma Rabbit said as she puffed up her cheeks in imitation, “that don’t talk too much.”
“Why?” one girl rabbit asked.
“Their mouths are full of rocks from the river bottom,” replied Momma.
“Were they bad birds?” one baby boy rabbit asked, nestling against his pillow.
“Hmmm, maybe.” Mother Rabbit answered, raising an eyebrow.
“So that’s why the Sparrows were scared,” he whispered as he raised an eyebrow. “Goodnight, Momma!”
“Goodnight,” whispered Mother Rabbit, as she closed the door, leaving just enough light to let the good dreams find their way in.
Angel Dawn Brady, twenty-six years old, has lived on the Fort Berthold Reservation all of her life. She is a member of the Three Affiliated Tribes (Hidatsa) and is also Chippewa. Brady has a daughter, Aris D. White Owl (2), and a baby boy named Roger White Owl, Jr. Her parents are Perry Brady and the late Sylvia Great Walker from the Turtle Mountain Tribe. Her step-mother, Judy Coffee, and her father encourage her to write.
Brady is a Liberal Arts major at Fort Berthold Community College (FBCC) in New Town. Her aspirations are to be a writer and a teacher. She writes for children and has a complete series in the works. She intends for her children to read her published work to their children one day.
Brady says, “Being at FBCC has helped me grow as an individual through the many interactions I have with professors and students. I write, live for and love my fiancé, Roger D. White Owl, and my family. They keep me going.”
The Best Stickgame Tournament of My Life
 James Edmond Jackson |
By James Edmond Jackson
A stickgame tournament was scheduled at the Nespelem Colville Confederated Tribes powwow at the Colville Tribal Indian Agency near Nespelem, Washington, and I wanted to get in. The powwow is held during the 4 th of July Independence Day every year. There is a big free feast on the 4 th at the powwow grounds and hundreds of people attend. They bus the tribal elders from the Colville Tribal Convalescent Center to the dinner. There are thousands of Native Americans that attend the powwow from many different reservations.
The first few days of the Nespelem Powwow are slow because there are a lot of different powwows going on at different reservations during the 4 th of July. They have bingo the first few days. Some tribal members run concession stands, and other people set up as vendors and there is a carnival. The people start coming to the Nespelem Powwow when the dancing begins. Usually between 50 and 100 teepees and camps are put up unless there are a lot of deaths on the reservation. There is a tradition here that family members are not to attend a powwow if a close family member dies until a year after the death.
The dancing competitions, stickgame tournament, baseball tournament, foot race, Indian Parade, and rodeo don’t start until the last few days of the powwow, when all the people come in from the many different reservations.
The stickgame tournament was about to begin, and I was looking for a team to get on. I asked the team that I like to play on if they needed a player, and they said they had enough players. I saw some other people looking for a team to play on and got the idea to get them all together to form our own team called the “LEFT OVERS.” Before long I had 10 people for a team. Some I did not know because they were from different reservations. We decided to take turns pointing and hiding the bones. We had to let the other team know who the pointer was and who had the bones.
I will explain the stickgame rules used on the Colville Indian Reservation. There are 10 sticks, 5 to a team, and a kick stick. There are two sets of bones with a solid white one and a white one with a colored stripe in the middle. Each team gets a set of bones to start and the pointer for each team guesses the bones. The kick stick is stuck in the ground between the teams. The pointers, one on each team, guess until one pointer guesses the white bone and the other pointer guesses the striped bone.
The pointer that guesses the white bone wins the kick stick and both sets of bones to begin play. All sticks are stuck in the ground, five on each side, and are considered alive. The team without the kick stick designates a pointer to guess the white bones of the team that has won the kick stick. If the pointer guesses either one or both of the white bones, the pointer wins the bones, or a set of bones, depending on which was guessed. The team that hides the bones sings songs, pounds a stick in front of the team, and drums while the other team guesses and does not sing, drum, or pound their stick. The guessing team can make hissing sounds, yips, or wave around pretending to guess, so it is good to know who the real pointer is so you will not be deceived and throw the bones over by mistake. If you throw over the bones by mistake, you lose the bones.
The pointer must give the other team a stick for each bad guess or kill one of the live sticks for each bad guess by laying it down. The game goes on until one team gets all 11 sticks. Before the game begins, each team takes a collection of money and it is matched by the other team and put in a pot in the middle. The winner wins the pot of money. In tournament play there are a number of teams competing and many games are played until a winning team is declared. If any team is caught cheating, the team is automatically disqualified and loses.
At the Nespelem stickgame tournament, we played many games. We played one game for 8 hours straight. I lost my voice singing and got laryngitis. Both my arms felt like they were going to fall off from pounding the stick, and I wore a hole in my new blue jeans from kneeling on the ground. It was the hardest I ever worked in my life, but it was worth it to win the tournament. It took a lot of endurance because we almost lost a few times when we were down to our last stick and felt like giving up. It had been one of the goals of my life to win a stickgame tournament, and I fulfilled that goal.
James Edmond Jackson, 59, has lived on the Colville Indian Reservation all his life and attends Northwest Indian College. He has attended college on and off for 40 years. He hopes to earn his first degree in business management and start a business to employ his children. Prior to his retirement, he worked over 20 years as a power operations specialist at the largest dam in the United States, Grand Coulee Dam.
Jackson is thankful to the following teachers for their mentoring at Northwest Indian College: Roger Jack (his cousin-in-law), his English teacher, Stuart Rick Gillespie, his Algebra teacher, and Jerry Heber, his Speech teacher.
Rain Song
 Daniel Remmenga |
By Daniel Remmenga
I heard a whisper
in the very ground
and in the sky
A faint call in the thickening
wind is how the Wankias tell me
that the newer rain comes
Seeds will explode
and paint the land in sun
yellow and violet
like the ribbon shirt
my Grandfather wears
I hear it in the air
closer still
The herds tremble
stirring their sweltering bodies
when the spring breeze moves
and a great dark tower sits
waiting above
rumbling as the Wankias do
A roar encircles the earth
when the Wankias finally sing down
their tears
The ground sings back
with loud flowering
and old women laughing their thank-yous
A great roar fades
having soaked our ears
and glistened our hands
Daniel Remmenga (Northern Ponca) is a student at Haskell Indian Nations University in Lawrence, KS. He is also an artist and participates in an advanced poetry writing class.
The Mirror of Cultural Identity
By Shana Trottier
On a sunny March afternoon, I awakened from a dreamy cat nap. I had fallen asleep on the leather sofa to which my back was now stuck with sweat. But it wasn’t the sweat that had awakened me. It was the chatter coming from the kitchen a few feet away. My grandfather, a Sioux Native, was hosting a Native American drumming session. They started off with small talk and laughter in the kitchen, while sipping on coffee and nibbling on donuts. Soon, they would move into the living-room where my grandfather had set up the large group drum.
To avoid being forced into the drumming circle, I quietly and swiftly made my way to my bedroom. Although I am Native American, I wasn’t about to join a drumming group. What would a girl with short spiked hair, dark make-up, and chains and zippers on her pants be doing in a Native American drumming group? Besides, I had to get ready for a party.
I began putting on my dark maroon lipstick. The drumming group had begun pounding loudly on the drum with their leather tipped drumsticks. They sang in Native tongue. I thought the neighbors might think the drumming group was some kind of cult. However, even trying not to listen to their songs, I found my body bouncing to the beat of the drum.
When I had finished putting on my dark morbid make-up, I sat before the mirror trying to figure out who was staring back at me. The person in the mirror looked like a vampire straight out of a horror flick—a lost person hiding from something, angry and confused.
The pounding of the drum and the singing echoed in my ears. My heart began to pound to the rhythm of the drum. I could feel the vibrations from the pounding throughout my whole body. I punched the girl in the mirror in the face. The mirror cracked. I ran into the bathroom and washed off the frosting of textured make-up.
Then I dug my way to the back wall of my closet. There hung the Indian dress my grandmother had made for me. As I laid the dress on the bed, the sun caught the glistening colors of green, purple, gold, and pearly white in the beaded pattern, making the dress glow. I have never seen anything so beautiful. Although I had looked at that dress a thousand times, it was like I was looking at it for the first time.
I began to peel away the punk rocker clothes I’d disguised myself in. As each piece fell to the floor, the bars of my prison cell broke. I put on my glowing Indian dress. I felt free and warm.
I looked in the mirror, and tears fell from my eyes. They were tears of happiness. Slowly, I walked into the living-room where the drummers were still pounding out our Native songs. The room smelt of fresh burning sage and sweet grass, a scent so sweet it purifies the air and the soul. I smudged myself with the sage smoke to cleanse my body of all negativity.
The drummers stopped. They all turned to smile at me, and I nervously smiled back. I took a seat next to my grandfather, who looked so proud to see me in my dress and ready to drum. He handed me a stick and asked, “Do you want to sing with us?”
I nodded as he kissed my forehead. As we pounded the drum and sang the words of our ancestors, I felt pride, happiness, and freedom from the prison of society. I might have been living in the modern world, but I wouldn’t let it make me forget, be ashamed of, or hide the fact that I am Native American.
Shana Trottier ( Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa) is also named Dancing Rain. She was born in Belcourt, ND, on July 4 th, 1980. In 1996, her family moved to Portland, Oregon to live near her grandparents, Barb and Max Defender.
She is currently working on an associate of science degree at Turtle Mountain Community College in Belcourt, ND, and plans to continue her education at the University of North Dakota with a major in physical therapy. She enjoys playing guitar and the fiddle, and also writing short stories, and poetry.
 Kyerin Bennett |
By Kyerin Bennett
Traveling over red sand, ruptured earth
Traveling against howling whirlwinds
Singing traveling songs
Meek and muffled by wind hands
Sunflower heads sway
I see Tsoodzi l among rain clouds
Its peaks, sharp arrowheads,
Stream rain and snow water
Down its backline, purifying
Its body’s boundless reach
Lays like a slain giant
Black limbs stretching, four directions
I will go to Tsoodzi l
Sunflowers bloom westward
Bowing sideways to Tsoodzi l
I see Tsoodzi l among lightning
Tsoodzi l echoes
Roiling thunder
Tsoodzi l braces
Lightning strikes
I will pray to Tsoodzi l
Rains claying
Hand and feet bottoms
I am at Tsoodzi l
Tsoodzi l, arched by a faded rainbow
Tsoodzi l, hazed in thick white mist
Tsoodzi l, touched by lightning arrows
Tsoodzi l, guarded by Turquoise Boy
I will sing to Tsoodzi l
Hear Tsoodzi l echo:
Hey ya nay ee yong ah
nay yo woah
Kyerin Bennett (Din é), 21, is from Haystack, NM, and attends Haskell Indian Nations University in Lawrence, KS. His clan is Water’s Edge. Bennett’s goal is to obtain a doctorate in anthropology at Harvard University. He eventually wants to travel around the world, helping with the preservation and protection of ancient cultures.
Bennett says he is always looking to improve his writing ability to express himself better. He wants to write short stories, children’s stories, and even novels.
Knowledge and Wisdom
 Miranda Manheimer |
By Miranda Manheimer
After the Fourth World was created and the sacred mountains were in place, First Man created the times of day, he created the seasons and everything needed for the people. With him he kept wisdom and knowledge. He kept them all in a pot. He wanted knowledge and wisdom to be shared with everybody in the fourth world. He did not want to have all the knowledge and wisdom to himself.
First Man contemplated how he was going to distribute the knowledge and wisdom to everyone. He decided to walk among the people to decide how
wisdom and knowledge would go to each person.
In the Fourth World the people had only common sense to go about their lives. First Man knew that without wisdom and knowledge the people would not be able to comprehend the teachings set forth by the Holy People and that disorder would remain as it was in the lower worlds. The wisdom and knowledge contained in the pot were essential to the people of the Fourth World. Without it the people would not be able to live a full life, they would not reach old age properly.
The task proved to be impossible, for First Man still had many other things to do. First Man then turned to his wife, First Woman, for advice. “What should I do with this pot of knowledge and wisdom, how will I distribute this equally among the people?” First Woman had no answer to this question, but she had a solution. “Give the pot to me; I'll worry about the problem while you continue to finish this world.” That was her solution for the time being. First Man had second thoughts about this solution, but he was not about to argue with his wife because of what had happened in the lower world when the sexes separated among the people. Even so, First Man gave the pot to his wife and went about his business.
As soon as First Man was out of sight, First Woman called for a council with all the other women in the Fourth World. First Woman took the pot out of her blanket and showed the other women. “This pot contains all the knowledge and wisdom of the world. My husband does not know how to distribute this equally among the people.”
First Woman told the council, “I think we should keep this knowledge and wisdom among us women, to show that we are superior.” The women talked among themselves arguing about the good and bad sides of this plan.
As they were arguing amongst themselves, Coyote was passing by and decided to listen. He saw them waving the pot in the air. He said to himself, “What a pretty thing those women are holding, I wonder what is in it? I better go down there and see what's going on.” Coyote got close enough to hear but he remained hidden, for he was not a favorite among the women.
Finally one woman stood up, as she was the eldest of all the earth surface women. “We are arguing amongst ourselves. We shouldn't keep all the knowledge; we should share with the men.” First Woman did not like this idea, and she began to mention every reason she could think of not to share with the men. The other women agreed
with the old woman.
One woman said, “My husband and I finally got back together. I don't want to see him leaving across the river again. I love eating fresh meat, and I don't want to settle for anything less ever again.” (She was referring to the separation of men and women in the Third World). The other women agreed with her, they too had reconciled their differences with their husbands.
“What shall we do with this pot of knowledge and wisdom?” First Woman asked, “How are we going to share it equally with everyone, as my husband had said?” They were back to the same question.
As soon as First Woman asked this question, Coyote jumped up from his
hiding place. “I know what to do with it!” he said with a big grin across his face. As Coyote was approaching, the women all covered their noses and eyes, because he smelt bad and he was not very handsome. Coyote took this as a compliment, “Wow, I must be so handsome that all of you women feel as though you are not worthy to gaze upon my magnificence.” First Woman stood up. “What are you doing here, Coyote? This meeting is for women only.”
“I just happened to be passing by when I saw that pretty thing you've all been waving around.” Coyote drew attention to the pot and stared at it with a mischievous grin on his face. First Woman noticed and held the pot behind her back. “What are you talking about, we don't have anything.”
In a blink of an eye Coyote ran around her and snatched the pot from her hands. “What is in this little pot?” Coyote said as he shook it and placed his ear against it. First Woman reached for it, but Coyote pulled it out her reach. “Give it back,” First Woman demanded, “That does not belong to you. It should not belong to a single person, but should be shared with everyone.” Coyote pleaded with First Woman to tell him what was in the pot. First Woman finally gave in and told him not only what was in the pot, but their little dilemma.
Coyote said, “I should be the one to distribute this to everyone in the Fourth World. I've been to every corner of this world; it was I who brought fire to the people. I should be the one to decide who should get what.” After several hours the women decided to make it Coyote's problem, while they got back to their own business.
As soon as the women went over the hill Coyote opened the pot carefully and took out a piece of knowledge. He then came up with the numbering system. Then he pulled out another piece, this time wisdom, and with that he came up with four directions. “Wow, this is very important, I should keep this for myself so I can be the smartest and wisest person of the fourth world,” he told himself.
“Where should I hide this precious gift?” Coyote looked around for a suitable
hiding place for his new prize. Everywhere he looked there was someone there to see him hide it. Finally Coyote found the perfect place. “I know where to hide it, I'll place it on top of the highest rock,” he said to himself. Coyote began to climb. As he was climbing, he held the pot in his arms but found that too awkward. After struggling for a few hours, he gave up and sat at the base of the rock thinking.
While he was sitting there, Horned Toad came up to him. “Grandson, why were you climbing up the rock with that pot in your arms?” Coyote looked at Horned Toad, “I want to hide this pot on top of the rock where nobody can get to it but me.” Horned Toad looked up at Coyote and laughed, “Why don't you use this rope to tie it to your back?” Coyote was surprised at how Horned Toad was able to solve his problem using only common sense. He did what Horned Toad suggested and learned that it was a lot easier to carry the pot.
It wasn't long before he reached the top of the rock. He looked down and saw that Horned Toad had left. He kept thinking about what Horned Toad had suggested and it bothered him. “I have all the knowledge and wisdom and yet I couldn't figure out how to make my job easier.” He stood there staring at the pot. “How did my grandfather use only common sense to solve my problem?”
“It looks as if I'm not the only one with wisdom in this world.” Coyote got upset at this thought, and he began to lose his temper. “If I can't have all the knowledge and wisdom in the world, then no one can.” Coyote stood up and tossed the pot off the
rock, sending it crashing to the ground.
As he did this, all the knowledge and wisdom flew everywhere in all directions. People began to find bits of knowledge and wisdom everywhere. This is how to this day nobody has all the knowledge and wisdom, but it can be found everywhere.
Miranda Manheimer is a student at Diné College in Tsaile, Arizona.
A Person I Really Know
By Corrine L. Tsoodle
Lieutenant Victor Trenton was a United States Marine, a decorated veteran of the Korean and Viet Nam Wars. He was from “The Old Corps”-- hard, unyielding, and fair but just.
The Lieutenant was in his late 40s. He was my friend, and I had known him for a long time. Lieutenant Trenton stood almost 6’3”. He had broad, lean abdominals that looked like a six-pack of brown dinner rolls, and he had a great-looking ass. Although he was serious most of time, he did show a great smile. He was a cordial gentleman and knew how to treat a lady. His short hair, cropped military style, was graying at the temples. He looked like a million dollars in his dress blues. When he walked into a room, his stature and swagger demanded attention from everyone, but mostly from the ladies.
Once, when Trenton was speaking at an official Marine Corps function, I happened to be in attendance. His voice carried into the great hall as he spoke. The enunciation of each word came from deep within his diaphragm. Each melodious bass sound was perfect, without a stutter or stammer. Once I asked Lieutenant Trenton, “Did Vice-President Cheney take speech lessons from you?” If Vice-President Cheney were Indian, he would be almost as good-looking as Lieutenant Trenton, but the VP would need more hair.
Even in civilian clothes, he was all ‘spit & polish,’ and starched stiffer than a board. He shook hands with a strong grip, in a matter of fact style: once, firm and with a slight pause, then release. When I stood next to him, there was a hint of Ralph Lauren’s Polo entwined with the fragrance of “man” that caressed my nasal passages. He wore starched khakis, with a crease sharp enough to inflict a slight wound. His shirts always matched and never failed to be color-coordinated with his shoes and socks.
Sometimes he wore a jacket that looked like a pilot’s jacket. Over the left pocket, it read “Gunny Sgt. V. Trenton.” The jacket was leather and still had a new fragrance to it. When I saw this jacket, I told him, “I bet you had aspirations of being a jet pilot, didn’t you?” He asked, “How did you know?” “I can tell by the way you wear your jacket,” I concluded. “You wear it proud.”
In any unofficial setting, he was more relaxed, but not by much. That is just the way he is. He doesn’t let his hair down, so to speak. “Only once in a while and only with you,” he once confessed. I told him, “I like to hear you laughing. I can tell it is genuine when I know you are truly affected by something humorous. I like to see your expression when the dimple shows below the little scar on your lower right lip.” It was at those times that I felt I had finally broken the barrier. He has a robust laugh, a real sincere laugh. It makes me feel good, and I know I have experienced his real being.
During our visits, he told me of his travels all over the world. He didn’t talk of the wars. Real Marines don’t. Some say, it is because their experiences were so horrific that it would be too traumatizing to mention them again in civilian life.
On our rare visits, it was like we were the only two people in the world. He was the first to make that statement. It was like we were of one mind, thinking in a similar pattern. Once the door closed, nothing else mattered. I think we both cherished the little time we had together.
When it was time to depart, he would tell me, “Haw-Gawi-Aim-Boin-Tah,” meaning “until we see each other again.” In Kiowa language, there are no words for good-bye.
Several years ago he asked, “Would you do me the honor to be your escort to the Marine Corps Ball?” Now, for those unaware of the Marine Corps Ball, let me tell you, it is just about the most prestigious formal event of the year. It is held to celebrate and honor the Marine Corps’ birthday on November 10 of each year. (By the way, November 10 is my birthday, also). His statement could have blown me away. Holding my tears of joy back and with much delight and happiness, I accepted his invitation with grace and dignity, like a lady. I did not let him see my eagerness.
In anticipation of the event, I had a decision to make. What to wear? Not only did I want to make an impression on Lieutenant Trenton, I wanted him to be proud to have me on his arm. There were two weeks to make my preparations. I visited every store I knew, but I didn’t like anything I saw. In the end, I decided to have a custom-made frock fashioned by one of my designer friends. For such an auspicious occasion, anything less then perfect would not have been good enough.
Although blue is not my favorite color, the fabric I chose was the lightest powder blue chiffon, lined with cloud taffeta. The only reason I chose that color was to coordinate with his dress blues. A single diamond drop necklace and diamond earrings were the accessories I chose. My dress was mid-calf length and it billowed out at the hem. My mid-high heels were hand-dyed to match, and elbow-length Chinese silk gloves finished out the entire ensemble.
This particular Marine Corps Ball was held on November 10, 1969, four months before the troops were being sent back to Viet Nam without even a reasonable time of notice. We had talked earlier about time and pickup arrangements. As he had to be a part of the opening ceremonies at the ball, he “sent a car” for me. I felt like Cinderella.
Arriving at the Marine Corps Ball, everyone looked so formal. The Marine officers certainly are gentlemen. Lieutenant Trenton sent an escort to accompany me to our table as he was occupied with last minute details for the banquet introductions. The escort, Sgt. Tim O’Malley from Boston, MA, engaged me in courteous conversation. “Would you care for a drink, madam?” he asked. I responded, “Yes, a martini please, shaken not stirred, would be nice.” I thought to myself that sounded sophisticated enough for this Oklahoma Indian girl. No sooner had Sergeant O’Malley brought my martini than Lieutenant Trenton came to our table. At that point, I remembered to hold out my pinky while holding my martini. I hoped Lieutenant Trenton and Sergeant O’Malley noticed how classy I was. Sergeant O’Malley excused himself and bowed to say, “It was nice to have made your acquaintance, madam. Have a good evening.”
Throughout the banquet, the numerous speakers and the formal boring conversations with our dinner partners at the table were almost all we could take. The Second Lieutenant’s wife seated next to us seemed like she had had several drinks before she even came to the ball. She sprayed food particles on everyone, trying to make conversation. The Second Lieutenant didn’t pay any attention to her. Maybe he was used to her heavy drinking. She may have been a General’s daughter that helped the Lieutenant’s rise in rank and career.
Most of the couples at our table seemed so humdrum in their dinner conversations. During this time, Lieutenant Trenton appeared to be in anticipation. I thought maybe he had more details to carry out for the ball. Every so often, our hands would unintentionally touch during the meal, which made him jump.
Later, he leaned over and whispered in my ear, “It’s traditional for all Marines to dance the first dance in respect to the Commandant. So we will dance, but as soon as we can, we’ll get out of here, if that’s okay with you?” He looked me square in the face and must have seen I didn’t need to answer, that it was okay with me. I darted my eyes downward and hoped he didn’t see them. I knew it wasn’t the martini because I had only one. I knew it was the foregone conclusion that this would be our last night together before he went back to Viet Nam.
I knew it was at this point, he could finally be his real self. Right after the first dance, as the music was just coming to an end, without even a moment’s notice, he took my elbow and ushered me through the crowd of mostly older officers and their wives. We went out to the curb to his little red Honda. Before he sat down, he took off his saber and white gloves, and then unbuttoned the neck collar of his dress blues.
As he drove away, he looked at me and said, “We matched well and you look beautiful in your blue gown.” I was glad we were not in the light. I could feel the hot sensation of total delight filtering over my face. This Oklahoma Indian girl was not accustomed to such compliments, especially from such an Officer and a Gentleman. I said, “Thank you, sir, and you look like my Prince Charming in your dress blues,” while reaching over to touch his hand on the steering wheel. This time, he didn’t flinch from my tender touch. We drove on to the mountains.
We both have found the mountains a favorite place over the years. That night the moon was out and it was full. I felt like it was smiling down on only us. It was on that night that we declared our love for each other, and it has remained the same for all these years.
Corrine L. Tsoodle (Sauk and Fox Nation of Oklahoma) is enrolled at Comanche Nation College in Lawton, OK. She also attended the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe, NM where she majored in museum studies.
Tsoodle retired in 2000; she was education director for the Sauk and Fox Nation. Her goal is to assist with the establishment of a museum for the Sauk and Fox Nation. She is interested in teaching, preserving and restoring tribal traditions and culture.
Through the positive encouragement of Juanita Pahdapony, art instructor, Comanche Nation College, and Delores Twohatcher, education director, Comanche Nation, Tsoodle continues her education at the tribal college.