One Little, Two Little, Three Little Natives

“When the world insists on listening to only one story, I slip rotten banana peels beneath its feet. Beware the straight path—sometimes the shortest distance between two hearts is a well-told joke.” ~The Clown

Fort Berthold Indian Mission School was magnificent. At least it was to wealthy evangelicals from the East. Tribal members had other thoughts. Sending their children into the clutches of the Congregational Church meant shorn hair for their sons and the latest in White hair styles for the daughters. Moccasins were trashed. New lace up and button up shoes were issued, but few actually fit. Girls got dresses; boys got military style uniforms. The die was set early, and it was set hard. Teachers punished students who spoke Mandan, Hidatsa, or Arikara.

“Exactly what should happen. I hope those kids enjoy that hot dish, especially them with that Viking blood,” Odin shook he head sideways.

Families looked on in despair. They might have been hopeful that their children and grandchildren would gain something of value from being demeaned. Teachers and administrators reflected the times, and they believed they were doing the Lord’s labor. Indians were to be altered, and humiliation was the first step. For students, there was never enough sleep, enough food. 

Every young pancreas took a beating on a diet of refined white flour and sugar. Type 2 diabetes was just another regrettable step along the trail to genocide. Each day began before dawn. and the daily regimen was always the same. Eyes were everywhere. There were no secrets except for the songs carried by ghosts.  Every day was monotony and drudgery. Only the very brave rebelled.

Families were allowed into the school but once a year, in the spring, for the annual talent show. A mainstay was the silly ditty composed by an unknown author from the post-civil war era, Ten Little Indians. It was seared in the memory of all students. 

Ten little Injuns standin’ in a line, one toddled home and then there were nine. 

Nine little Injuns swingin’ on a gate, one tumbled off and then there were eight. 

Eight little Injuns gayest under heaven. one went to sleep and then there were seven. 

Seven little Injuns cuttin’ up their tricks, one broke his neck and then there were six. 

Six little Injuns all alive, one kicked the bucket and then there were five. 

Five little Injuns on a cellar door, one tumbled in and then there were four. 

Four little Injuns up on a spree, one got fuddled and then there were three. 

Three little Injuns out on a canoe, one tumbled overboard and then there were two. 

Two little Injuns foolin’ with a gun, one shot the other and then there was one. 

One little Injun livin’ all alone, He got married and then there were none.

Some families bore the insult and sang along. Some hummed the melody. Others sat in quiet desperation, bemoaning the days after the missionaries that descended on them like Biblical locust. Ten Little Indians, indeed.  The Clown chuckled, “fuddled? I’ll show you some fuddled.

Odin mouthed the song with delight, “Serves those Indians right to die like that” he thought, “none of them Ten Little Indians had valor. Never would be Valhalla material! Well, maybe the Little Indian who shot the other one. If he was a blonde Arikara, maybe I’d let him in. That last Little Indian must have been sterile. No room for him in the Inn.” 

Only Man turned his back on this sacrilege and began singing an ancient song of encouragement. Some in the audience heard the quiet song wafting in the breeze.  The headmaster couldn’t hear a note.

Above the earth I walk

On the earth I walk

Part the clouds. The sun I summon.

So that my people can see what’s been done to them

Don’t let those evangelicals steal our kids. Don’t let them.

Bounding Out of Grandma’s Basement

“Some are born to greatness, some achieve it, and some just keep failing the bar exam. But even a mamzer can catch a train to destiny—provided he doesn’t lie himself clean off the platform.” ~ The Clown

Mamzer Hearsay was more crazy than usual. He had always been convinced of his impending doom. Living in his grandmother’s basement and memorizing the names of law cases and authoring legal briefs had fed brought him to self-loathing. After graduating at the bottom of his unaccredited night school class at Midcontinent Law School two years ago, he still held on to the elusive dream of practicing law. That he failed the Minnesota bar exam four times– a Gopher state record—might disqualify him disappeared in the layers of disappointment in which he lived.

Mamzer’s father fled before he was born, and his mother vanished six weeks later, leaving him in the arms of his grandmother. Yet another soul taken from the Jewish people, she became both his anchor and harshest critic, burdened with raising a mamzer—a status passed through generations according to Halakha. Amid her tears, she recognized that her grandson, owing to or running alongside his mamzer status, was on the spectrum between what would later be termed autistic and likely a full blown sociopath.

“Mamzer, it’s time to go to work,” Grandma prodded in the early, unredeemable hours of a Minneapolis winter. “You’ve been late a lot and that’s no way to keep a job.”

“Grandma, I’m a law school graduate. I shouldn’t have to be selling shoes to pay you rent.”

“You’ve never paid rent, Mamzer. That’s just a flimsy excuse and you’re lying to yourself once again. You’ve got to pull yourself together and fly straight.”

Mamzer winced. He hated being told he wasn’t straight. “Sorry. You’re right about me fibbing to myself. I’ve got to get better. But I do have rare skills. The dean said I had by far the best critical thinking skills in my class.”

The dean had said no such thing. In fact, he had told Mamzer that he lacked the critical thinking skills needed to sell shoes much less be a lawyer. After graduation and after Mamzer’s check for his final tuition bill had cleared the bursar’s office, the Dean pulled leveled with him.

“Nobody at Midcontinent School of Law can or will recommend you as a competent lawyer to any employer, sad to say, Mr. Hearsay. You only see what’s in front of your nose and nothing else. The faculty also sees in you a jealous little boy, one who refuses to play by any rules. They also see that you’re idiosyncratic. Nobody else sees what you do and while that can be an asset under the right conditions, you’re a permanent resident of that state.  You’re sneaky.  That’s simply not acceptable for a member of the legal profession. It’s more fitting for a warlock.”

“What? Of course, I have my opinions! All good lawyers do! I know I can be snarky, but I always apologize afterward. Some call it is groveling. But, why did you wait until now to tell me this? You took all my tuition money!

“We needed your money, Mamzer. Running a law school for second and third-rate lawyers, clerks with green eyeshades, legal wannabes, and other misfits who have learned to disguise themselves as intellectually potent isn’t easy,” the dean replied. “Even so, we tolerated your outrageous demeanor and behaviors, hoping that you’d change. But you seem not to be able to detect cause and effect relationships and that’s deadly for a lawyer. It’s not just your lack of critical thinking, it’s that you blurt out the first thing that comes to your mind at times when a wise men would hold their tongues. You’re more than impulsive and that can’t be tolerated in a member of the legal profession.”

The dean was true to his word. After talking to Mamzer’s faculty, no law firm, real estate office, government agency, public defender’s office, offshoot of the Ku Klux Clan, Minnesota mafia outpost, or any business in need of even part-time and cheap legal advice would hire him. Even when he omitted his law degree on his resume, his sweaty hands and hyper speech patterns scuttled every interview.

Catching Mamzer’s downward spiral out of the corner of his eye the Clown thought, holy Toledo, this guy would make a great congressman. Pulling a weathered notice from the cosmic bulletin board he launched it into the cosmic ether with a hard blow.  He was satisfied when it caught Mamzer’s downward descent and settled into his moist hands.

“Grandma, I found an advertisement for a lawyer job in North Dakota. On an Indian reservation. I’m working on getting an interview. Trust me, I’m trying to get better. After I get the job, I’ll pay you all the rent I owe you.”

“I’m so happy for you, grandson. But just quit fibbing to yourself. Be real. I never asked you to pay rent. Get that interview.”

After what seemed like an eternity a letter from the Three Affiliated Tribes in Elbowoods arrived in mid-January. It was short and included instructions about what to do when his when train arrived in Bismarck. It was signed by Chief Judge Albert Antelope Ears. Mamzer Hearsay’s travel would be reimbursed when the interview was over, upon departure from the Rez.  That can’t happen quick enough, the Clown sighed to no one in particular.