From Red Earth Drive: Do you boys believe in flying saucers? Part 2
“They all knew how to read, Pat had said, because the white teachers had drilled holes into their skulls and with funnel poured in the liquid sustenance known as the English language, the real ‘alphabet soup.’ In dejection they had read from the musty-smelling books aloud, enunciating and uttering words that were essentially meaningless. Magellan. Magna Carta. Michelangelo.”
Remnants of the First Earth, Grove Atlantic, 1997
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“Do you boys believe in flying saucers?”
Through a question asked by my uncle in 1968, we begin with a novel excerpt regarding the Weeping Willow Day School. While tribal elementary school might seem extraneous from UFOs, there are moments when Hinterland polarities are seamlessly intertwined. This dichotomous cohesion of interdimensional realities began long before I understood being Meskwaki would be different. Yes, witnessing four flying saucers at the powwow grounds with my uncle and high school classmate was unreal. Visually, however, it was spectacular and memorable. Then, in the fall of 1980, another non-ordinary event transpired. That story was published in 1997 as “The Supernatural Strobelight.”
Within this cohesion and when the moments are viewed collectively, there’s antecedence, where everything started.
As a child, Animistic events, experienced or perceived, were accepted because nobody said they didn’t exist. That mindset, of course, would arrive later through the vestiges of education via the Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria. With cultural differences on the table, we’ll focus today on two events that they may or may not be related. Like lucid dreams, they’ve been kept as memories too long. For whatever reason, they’ve eluded publication, much less discussion. Through the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, these can finally be shared. Granted, they’re brief scenarios as seen through younger eyes, but nearly a lifetime has elapsed between them, if not a world.
This essay—bear paws down, easily—would not be, were it not for Julie Gammack. I’m grateful for being included. Anymore, given America’s political upheaval, that’s a rarity. For the past eight months, before tribal court placed two grandsons, ages 2 and 4, in our custody, Julie has shared our moments. My first good rest was yesterday. Before the boys awaken, this narrative is done. That’s close to a miracle, considering.
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For most readers, these events will reflect ostensible manifestations. To me, they’re a series of non-ordinary events experienced in the company of others. Meaning eyewitnesses can verify these stories albeit on a local level. Not only is there a semblance of credibility, but antecedence manifests like a songbird at daybreak. From the darkness, with a blanket of stars above, a song welcomes the pending light. Such is the time for creative writing after half-singing words to the bird-singers that we, too, are awake. That includes anything else present but unseen on Dragonfly Hill. The intent is to minimize any unplanned interactions. Especially on a otherworldly level. In the course of sharing my thoughts, which can be an icy, narrow channel, I often assume the reader, whether here or elsewhere, is on track. Akin to a Stugna rocket visibly spiraling towards release of my work, I tend to forget we each live in separate realities. Thus, if you’ve never caught a rabbit to become someone’s friend, hey, don’t fret. Elvis and I haven’t either. And if you don’t read books regularly, that’s OK, too. I don’t either. I’m too busy trying to write them. Never mind the other books; creative writing is difficult. As a tribal member who writes, in colonial English and Meskwaki, my first language, it can be problematic stopping a train to ask, to whom is this narrative being written? So, if there are presumptions popping up unexpectedly, this train may have crossed the mountain pass by then.
Typically, when a single person claims he or she sees things others don’t, one wonders, is that person OK? I’m not against listening while the logic determiner scans the Hinterland horizon. Arguably, through the prospect of witnesses, there’s no reason to mislead anyone. Nothing is gained other than perhaps an awareness most people will either react mockingly or they’ll become curious. Ever since I walked down the creaky steps of the Sac and Fox Day School stage, after reciting what “S” represents in the word Christmas, that letter I often think should’ve been a “P” for Phenomenal. There’s a possibility my thoughts were elsewhere as I stood on the stage, wondering what had happened minutes earlier. Yes, had I known such a word, I would’ve recited instead: “P is for my reaction to winter fireflies, Phenomenal!”
So, as David Bowie once eloquently sang, “take your protein pills and put your helmets on.” Welcome to my world. Here, while it’s tempting to contemplate drafting one, you won’t find editorials on high-altitude surveillance balloons entering America’s air space. Yes, those balloons were embarrassing, but we have nothing to do with “national security.” No fiction will be found here either, like the kind that’s written by NDN monolinguals. We can think, speak and write in Meskwaki, however, while writing fiction.
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This narrative as a river with stars as its tributaries runs on another wavelength, an interdimensional kind. While such words can be conjured, harnessed and issued, few will understand. On that merit, it’s impossible to stop the train over a treacherous mountain pass. Thus, on a Map of Non-ordinary Events, that proverbial bottle with a message has been pried opened. Finally. When the map asterisks are connected with a line, a pattern emerges of The Limestone Shelf. Hypothetically, after half a century of wondering why unexplained phenomena occurs here, a unique geologic feature might hold a clue. We speak of glaciers and their impact to the present. According to Tama County geology records, limestone exists next to the Iowa River. This river passes by the Meskwaki powwow grounds. How the river got there is unimaginable. One thing’s for sure, none of us were here.
The tribal homeland’s founding in 1856 is based on mythology, the kind believed to be true. It’s said three female deities appeared long ago to a Meskwaki hunter travelling by canoe. From the banks of the river, they beseeched Kiskikatta, Cut Foot, to join them beneath the Earth. They spoke of a place of endless beauty and wonder. The hunter, citing a family was waiting back home, respectfully declined. This is where this story might begin. Like the meandering river itself, there’s an ancient history where it has reshaped its shape as well its direction.
For this writer, life started 73 years ago. My Meskwaki Bear Clan name is Kah-kah-toh. My parents named me after a big band leader of their era, Ray Anthony. For Sprite/Z, a quizzical presence that’s neither singular nor plural, as theorized, life began when Hinterland was submerged in waters near the equator. This could’ve been yesterday or 350 million years ago. On Dragonfly Hill, behind the home we presently occupy, there are fossilized seashells in limestone that sleep in the ancient tranquility of coral reef currents. For someone else or another reason, they might awaken.
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There are exceptions, of course, but most Americans discount “things that go bump in the night.” That particular mindset, being skeptical, is almost a trait. If it’s a Hollywood portrayal, however, like a movie or TV show, then it’s OK. Theatre tickets and TV remotes are harmless. But when the lights suddenly quit, will the pilgrims freak in the darkness? Of course, they will; the dynamics have changed. And not just for them. Inevitably, modernity creates dependence. So, if the power isn’t restored after thunderstorms have rattled the walls, is there fear? Yes, because Derechos or land hurricanes weren’t fabricated as conspiracies. Else what would I have entitled the cover photograph on the Iowa Review?
In a topical but related context, Americans are conditioned to deny UFOs exist. Arguably, E.T.s share cloaking abilities with Senator Orangutan, a prominent conservative from Klopstokia. As a former lawyer he excels in kemotesiweni, secrecy. Tops in his class this ol’ boy. My wife’s late uncle, a war veteran, would’ve called the senator’s mendacity “bullshit.” That said, when a mere reference regarding “things that go bump” minimizes unexplained phenomena, a presumption is established nothing happens “in the night.” For some Meskwaki people, darkness is respected. Non-ordinary reality, as personified by nature, exists. Often, it’s closer than one thinks.
In recent social media posts, I’ve changed Gilda Radner’s (SNL) term from “It’s always something” to “There’s always something.” The intent is to suggest some life-related events might stem from otherworldly factors. More so, if a person was taught to believe all things, from animals to rocks, possess living spirits. It’s called Animism. Meskwaki cosmogony imparts all things have agency. More so, when mythology is an inextricable part of the landscape. A tree or a river is therefore a spirit capable of interaction as the occasion warrants.
Yet, understanding these distinctions is separate from experiencing them.
Thus, within this framework, there are tribal members well-versed in the pillars of sovereignty—language, culture, spirituality and history—who are engaged in preserving tribal identity. To anyone who can carry these pillars forward as clan obligations sans hypocrisy, we wish you success in sharing knowledge to others.
Depending on one’s upbringing, this structure can be complicated. For instance, a Meskwaki person who only speaks English may lack the linguistic and cultural wherewithal to understand separate realities exist. For some, these distinctions, ranging from frustration to apathy, can morph to untenable situations. And it’s not just here. If a person is convinced tribal language isn’t necessary, often through humor, ignorance or sarcasm, the pillars of sovereignty can weaken, creating or adding to concerns on our very future.
How can these pillars stand in unity when language, as predicted, faces atrophy? Without language, how can one effectively teach Meskwaki principles? It can be challenging. More so, when language within these dynamics acknowledges a spiritual, otherworldly existence. Typically, monolinguals are bereft to such perceptions. No matter how well they speak English, it will never be enough.
Will that prevent me from encouraging their pursuits?
Nay, in fact, I wish all monolinguals more power. May you thrive financially in your English-only life, while returning gift$ to your respective tribal communities. What you didn’t have by choice or circumstance, please consider donating to a tribal language camp or a year-long afterschool project, like translating NDN cartoons. Something! Don’t just languish ad nauseum in jet travel selfies and meals many can’t afford. Last but not least, bilinguals like me aren’t responsible for anyone’s inability to speak NDN. People as individuals determine their destiny. To embrace colonialism or not is indeed the question.
Historically, when most Americans require rational explanations for unexplained phenomena, there’s only rhetoric. And trying to convince society the opposite is true can be frivolous. To me, non-ordinary reality permeates regardless of one’s grounding. Some are able to recognize it, while others cannot. My intent is to document existential diversity through English, the language we were subjugated by—in the best possible way. Metaphorically, that’s where a paper cocoon was started. From there, while collecting and pasting unfamiliar words, decisions were issued on what to accept and reject. These might be debated one day regarding my indifference to a place I call Hinterland, often in jest. Thus, from these capacious prairies dotted with monolithic grain bins and wind-catching farms, the word-collector’s metamorphosis, from its birth to its departure, is nearly complete.
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The year was 1958. On a cold December night and under faint porchlight, a woman stood on the small makeshift porch, locking the house door. Nearby and waiting were stood two boys. Then, while issuing quick instructions, they began walking through the snow-covered yard. Once they got past the apple tree and porchlight’s reach, the only light was snow on the ground. Keeping together, they trudged gingerly over the narrow creek bridge. After passing by the wood pile, the chimney smoke from the home of neighbor, Carl Jefferson, lingered visibly in the air above the corn stalks. Once the gravel road was reached, they walked west in a medium pace, staying in the middle of the road.
To the north, as shown in above photograph, a tall, dark outline of pine trees dominated the area. The only sounds being made were boots shuffling over the sparse gravel and crunchy snow. In stopping to rest, each was breathing heavily. In the distance some dogs responded briefly by barking. After passing the first hillside grove of pines, another hillside grove stood to the south past the creek bridge. If there were any cars on the road, I don’t recall any.
My specific task that evening, other than showing up, was walking to the gymnasium stage with one of the letters that spelled Christmas. Included was a short recitation, like “S is Santa Claus who says Ho-ho-ho.” Whoever that was. In rehearsals, as I can only assume, I was instructed to hold a large letter up to my chest and speak loudly.
At five and eight years in age, Alan and I lived with grandmother and her sons, Charles and David. Our “star-crossed” parents lived akameheki or across the Iowa River miles away. Thus, on that fortuitous evening when grandmother got us dressed for a cold, brisk walk, nothing prepared us for what we saw. Granted, the tribal school wasn’t far, but midway enroute things became perplexing. Grandmother probably corroborated what we saw minus an explanation. And it’s debatable whether we understood insects don’t fly after sundown during the winter months.
On the Map of Non-ordinary Events, a line travels west from E-49 Tama County highway through Meskwaki Road. The gravel road parallels a set of railroad tracks about a mile. At the crossings by “The Cave,” the line banks right, going north until an asterisk marks a garden where a daytime meteor was seen, exploding. The year was around 1956. The next asterisk shows the road turning left or northwest on a creek bridge where a UFO once divided into different colored lights above grandmother’s home. Her home still stands. From there, the line continues past the first pine tree grove, going over another bridge. That bridge is now a culvert marked by another asterisk. This spot is the telephone pole in photograph where Stella Lasley-Young Bear, my companion, stands with our grandchildren. Alan and I were there encountering a manifestation. Else what could that have been? we’d ask in endless self-wonder.
With scrutiny on grades 1st through 6th, my thoughts might’ve been elsewhere: what are we going to sing? Fearing failure, did I cop a Milli-Vanilli, pretending to sing? The Christmas program demonstrated children could learn. Was I deemed per chance by school staff as least likely to learn? After all, I was supposedly “held back” a grade for being “too young.” Yet that could also mean I failed. And no one told me.
Interestingly, as above questions attest, few memories exist of tribal elementary. They are either vague, purposely evasive or nonexistent. We were kids, after all, subject to daily harangues from white operatives called teachers. Their objective was pouring A-B-C soup into our craniums. At what cost was this regimen to our tender psyches? No one knows, but inurement eventually replaced any trauma.
One classmate bravely challenged a male operative once.
With his diminutive frame, an unorthodox boxing stance was assumed on the playgrounds. We froze. Exasperated, Mr. Teacher’s necktie flew right back into the school for help. After spitting to the ground, Terry cooly strolled back to our softball game. One day we heard he was taken to Ottumwa, Iowa, for “foster care.” An American flag, on one of five flag poles, now flies in his memory. PFC Terry Roberts was fatally wounded on December 20th, 1967, in the Quang Nam Province.
In the cascading realm of American novelties, we’d also learn grandmother had no qualms about Christmas. How could this contradiction even exist? It was disconcerting. More so, since she was a devout Fox Clan member. Yet was it our place to ask: are you this or are you that? Nay, due to respect. Her knowledge of English was limited, but she worked at the Tama Dry Cleaners. She switched worlds after a four-mile walk to town. On weekends, she’d hop a Greyhound bus to shop in Marshalltown, Iowa, 15 miles away. At Kresge’s she’d order a “hot beef sandwich, coffee and apple pie.” Those words were issued in perfection. Today, with the last beams of daylight stretching shadows over the landscape, I’ve made a similar walk. Each moment, in fact, brings me closer to my childhood home. Hopefully, the first memory of my grandfather should surface when the daylight ceases. And Thor, Honky and Herb Albert, dogs, might welcome me. Next, after turning the doorknob, will Jack Old Bear be there, sitting and waiting? God, I dearly hope so, Dear Grandfather.
Believe it or not, the small unpainted house had books that intrigued me. As a kid, philosophy books were placed on my lap. Then, far ahead in time, at the University of Iowa library, in longhouse diagrams, my grandmother’s names were read. At 21, I learned she was documented as a woman humming or singing with the longhouse songs. Yes, from the early 1900s, she was immersed in the principal religion. Often with us in tow. These doings were close by, on the sand hill overlooking the Blackcloud family home. On some Sunday evenings, after day-long clan ceremonies, grandmother went to church. Once, I recall wearing a white sheet as a robe and standing between the pews with a staff in hand. On the floor was a blue-eyed plastic baby in a basket. The Presbyterian folks called me John, and Fontaine, my cousin, was Mary.
Since World War 2, when her son, Roy, traveled overseas, grandmother sought to strengthen her prayers. If Jesus Christ was another god, she rationalized, who could watch over her son overseas, asking for additional help wasn’t an anathema. Young men perished defending America. In practice and subsequently her belief, there was justification. We also came to understand most tribal members viewed the church as being oppositional. When the war stopped, her attendance didn’t wane. There was Johnny after all, wearing a towel around his head in a church skit.
At the very beginning of my education, I couldn’t fathom there were two worlds. Most students, like me, were lost. Fortunately, we had school staff providing help: one was a kind Meskwaki lady named Rose, the cook for school lunches. Rose would emerge from the kitchen, to look at the kids in the hallway. Once or twice, she combed my messy hair. “Byano-ayo-kipenahakoni, Come here, I’ll comb your hair.” Another time she explained the chocolate pudding I was asked to eat wasn’t mud. “Mamakattike-kimitti, You have to eat it,” she softly implored. “Aki-mahini, It’s dirt,” I may have replied. Enduring its repulsive taste, I gained release from the library. There was also a Meskwaki janitor named Dewey. He made mandatory showers hilarious, waving his bristle brush as if to whack us. In reference to pending puberty, he’d say who’s a man today? While dashing to the shower stall, we’d point to one another, amused. We were still young to experience bodily changes, but the prospect indirectly lessened our anxieties.
Occasionally, Rose and Dewey told us in Meskwaki what teachers expected. “Nemasoko-ina-nawatti-koni-nimakwatesiyeko, Stand there briefly and be quiet” or “Kata-kettipenokeko, Don’t run.” And if they weren’t there to translate, we struggled. At some point, perhaps through teachers’ hand gestures or classmates keen on English, we understood. But only in increments. Pedagogical imbrication formed each day we boarded the orange bus, expanding thereafter like reptilian scales that were cut from construction paper, sewn together and thickly varnished to weather the elements of modernity. Each day I walked into the school a scale grew, to ossify in my defense.
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While enroute to the tribal elementary school, we encountered a presence embodied in a cluster of wasesihaki-byettisattiki, fireflies flying toward us. We had just passed the creek bridge when tiny sparkling objects appeared from high atop the pine trees. In slow motion the cluster of lights spiraled downward at us. Once grandmother recognized them, she quickly directed Alan and I fend the anomalous visitors off with snowballs. Mix the snow with gravel and dirt, she instructed. A clump of Earth is known as a natural defense against supernatural elements.
“Akona-awoko-bakameko, Use the snow, hit them!” We quickly grabbed snow off the road, shaping it to snowballs. The fireflies flew down in a circular motion and stopped close to the road before U-turning back up to hover in place. At first, the fireflies seemed oblivious of snowballs. The flickering manifestation was orderly and hypnotic. They were about 12 feet away and approaching closer. Through grandmother’s directives, the snowball volleys continued. What happened next is unknown or irretrievable as a memory. Maybe it was the prospect of cookies that erased how the fireflies let us pass. In retrospect, I think I now know why they or it flew down from the treetops.
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It was 1956 when I stood in grandmother’s garden. Attired in cowboy boots and a holster with a toy six-shooter, I was pleasantly surrounded by green, wooded hills in every direction. A dome of blue sky filled the view. After a gust of warm wind brought excited birds behind me, the clothes began to flutter loudly on the clothesline. There was a semblance of solace. With their shiny wings, dragonflies ascended from the creek and then nose-dived back down, while others raced with each other. Suddenly, from the east hills, a bright, flying object broke the scenery. In a silver iridescent color, it came over the forest canopy in an arcing motion. As the object started to approach and align where I was looking, a trail of sparks marked its rapid travel. Once the object was directly halfway in my field of vision, it disintegrated from its silent explosion. From high above, the falling star began scattering its fiery self to earth.
I would love to see the Map of Non-Ordinary Events if you have made it. And your dog looks like our blue-tick hound Sally, the sweetest companion ever.
Thank you, Ray Young Bear. I always look forward to your articles on Substack.❤️