A Thousand Voices

by Lisa Wingate

  By the time I’d come back to my senses, I’d soaked his handkerchief, and he was leaning on the car, listening and nodding, probably wondering if he should haul me off to a crisis intervention center. Finally, I stopped babbling and sat with my fingers pressed to my eyes, feeling like an idiot.

  “Ma’am, I didn’t need to know all that,” he said finally, seeming as embarrassed as I was. Being new on the job, he’d probably never encountered anything quite like this. “I’m going to give you a warning. Let someone else do the driving until you can get back home and have that license renewed. Don’t get stopped around here again, all right?”

  Nodding, I wiped my eyes one more time, then handed the bandana handkerchief back to him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go into all that…stuff. I guess I’ve just been a little stressed.”

  He tore a sheet off his ticket pad and handed me my license and the warning, smiling slightly behind the mirrored sunglasses. “Well, I hope that skunk’s gone when you get back to the campground. That’d help cut down the stress level a little, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Did I tell him about the skunk? “I’m sorry,” I said again.

  “It’s all right.” He closed his pad and he looked down the road in the direction we’d come, his glasses reflecting a miniature mountainscape and a thin ribbon of highway that seemed to go on forever. “Take a minute to settle down before you pull onto the road, all right?”

  I nodded, and he patted the window frame, then stepped away. “I hope you find what you’re looking for here. My sister and I are adopted. She’s been through a lot of the same stuff.” He strode off toward his patrol car, and I sat watching him go, feeling an unexpected sense of kinship. In any given place, there were others experiencing the same things I was experiencing. You couldn’t tell who was who, just by looking.

  In the rearview mirror, I saw the police car make a U-turn and drive off.

  Leaving the window down, I pulled away from the shoulder. The breeze lifted my hair, drying the nervous perspiration on my neck. The music of Dillon’s reed flute floated through my mind as if it were coming from the rocks, and the hills, and the trees themselves. The melody was an earthy, tribal one I couldn’t name, the song that had drawn me to the Reids’ camp last night.

  In my mind, I was back in that place again, the quiet sanctuary where all the music was.

  I heard music in everything—the whir of the breeze, the hum of the tires, the whistle of air through the hubcaps, the rhythmic tapping of a seat belt against the doorframe, in Dillon’s flute music playing in my head. A symphony. Everywhere. Just the way it used to be.

  I was filled with a peace that was beyond understanding, a contentment that made no other thoughts necessary. I wanted to drive, and drive, and drive.

  By the time I reached the festival grounds and parked among what was now a sea of cars in the back lot behind the baseball fields, my sense of peace was starting to fade. Other things were crowding in. I was late for the tour. Would it be best to interrupt or wait until Jace was done? Should I show him the birth certificate and the form with my father’s signature on it? Was it too private to share?

  I considered my options as I walked toward the council house, passing the baseball fields, where a sign read:

  TRADITIONS TO HONOR

  NO ALCOHOL OR DRUGS

  NO SOLICITING

  NO POLITICKING

  NO HARD FEELINGS, AS WE ARE ENTERING NEUTRAL GROUNDS

  Beyond the ball fields, a row of horseshoe pits buzzed with activity, kids tried their luck on a man-made rock climbing wall, and a carnival offered games and rides to families wandering by with cotton candy and snowcones. Bright banners and hand-lettered signs advertised everything from Indian tacos and arrowhead jewelry to glowsticks and flashlights that came with a tiny generator inside and never needed replacement batteries. There was even a fortune-teller sitting in front of a makeshift tepee, wearing a fringed leather dress and a Middle Eastern turban. She wanted to tell my fortune, but I passed on by.

  “Big changes are coming,” she said. “How can you prepare, if you don’t know what they are?”

  We’re not to know, only to go on faith, Grandma Rose answered in my head. Grandma Rose didn’t believe in fortune-tellers. She made sure to tell me that often, because my real granny was into horoscopes. Granny would send me three miles to town on my bike just to pick up a paper if it was horoscope day.

  The capitol building loomed ahead, and when I finally cleared the carnival and food booths, I could see a tour group on the lawn, the tour already in progress. Shading their eyes with their hands, they were looking up at the old building. Jace stood in front of them, pointing at something on the mansard roof, the style of which I wouldn’t have recognized had I not just been to Europe. The building, with its three-story brick walls, arched windows, and rounded dormers in the roof, looked as if it belonged in France rather than in the mountains of Oklahoma. It had the feel of something very old and grand, a structure conceived to make a statement about its creators, to survive the trials of time and the elements.

  Walking up the hill, I heard Jace answer a question, then laugh at a response from someone in the group. I instantly felt a sense of lightness. When he saw me, he smiled and waved me in. He caught my eye and winked as we continued around the building, and my pulse quickened.

  “The capitol building, as you see it today, was completed in 1884, as a permanent capitol for the Choctaw Nation. Prior to that time, various locations, including a frame structure a few miles from this site, had served as the capitol. This site was named Tushka Homma, meaning red warrior. At the time of its construction, a building of this size so far from any large city represented a monumental engineering challenge. Lumber was both milled on-site and hauled in via oxcart. The rounded attic windows”—he paused to point at the attic windows, and the tour group gazed upward again—“were hand-carved, while others were hauled in from nearby towns. The red brick was molded on the capitol grounds using clay hauled from the Potato Hills, and the sandstone window and doorway trims were also derived from the area. The structure housed the tribal Senate, House of Representatives, Supreme Court, Executive Office, and various other national offices. The Choctaw Light Horsemen occupied an office in the building and served as law enforcement for the nation, sometimes using the third floor as a jail. Following statehood in 1907, the tribal government was dissolved and the building lapsed into disuse. After being saved from the wrecking ball, the capitol has undergone several renovations and today houses a museum, art gallery, education center, the tribal court, various staff offices, and, of course, a well-appointed gift shop, where each and every one of you are invited to purchase high-quality souvenirs of your visit to Tuskahoma.” Jace grinned, and members of the tour chuckled at the shameless sales pitch.

  I stayed in the back of the group, enjoying the chance to watch him work. He was patient and friendly, willing to answer the most trivial questions and take time to explain details. The questions ranged from further architectural inquiries about the capitol and modern-day tribal government to inquiries about the social programs and business interests operated by the tribe, including the new Choctaw casinos and resorts, designed to lure tourists off the highway and bring money into the tribe.

  “Today, the Choctaw tribe provides many services for its members,” Jace said as we entered the front of the building through large double doors, “including community health programs, housing programs, job training, educational opportunities, food, nursing homes for the elderly, and economic development programs designed to aid small businesses as well as to promote larger factories owned by the tribe and employing its members. The tribe also operates several schools for Indian youth, which provide residential care for children, as well as education, character-building activities, and cultural events throughout the year.

  “There are, of course, many difficulties in promoting the wellbeing of a tribe, now numbering nearly one hundred thousand. The Choctaw as a people have long stru
ggled to balance modern advancement with traditional values. We remain determined to insure that as the tribe grows and changes, we remember our roots and the legacy of our grandfathers.”

  Jace caught my eye and grinned. I had a feeling he knew what I was thinking—those words were almost a direct quote from Nana Jo. Did she ever come along on his tours? She’d be proud. He was perfect for the job, articulate, charismatic, with a quick sense of humor that made the tourists laugh and put them at ease. As we passed a photo collage of Choctaw chiefs in the front hall, the tourists chuckled at Jace’s story about a tribal election scandal fifty years ago. Moments later, the group members were silent and somber as we moved to the second-floor museum and stood before the exhibit detailing the horrors of the removal of the Choctaw tribe from Mississippi to Indian Territory in Oklahoma.

  Jace stood by the wall, allowing the group to view the exhibit of clothing and materials used by Choctaws on the forced journey west. “The years of removal, lasting from 1831 to 1833, remain the darkest chapter in tribal history,” he said. “The Choctaw were the first tribe removed to Indian Territory, the theory being that if a tribe as large and successful as the Choctaw could be relocated, other eastern tribes could be coerced into moving as well. The Choctaw were forced to leave behind livestock, land, and nearly all personal belongings. The first migration began in mid-October, and was plagued by mismanagement, lack of food and supplies, floods, and an unusually harsh and early winter. Diphtheria, dysentery, typhoid, and pneumonia raged among the people, and along the trail literally thousands succumbed to starvation, disease, and exposure. Having come from a mild climate in Mississippi, the Choctaw possessed little in the way of warm clothing, and young children were often not clothed at all until the age of seven or eight.”

  Pausing, Jace took a wool blanket from the exhibit barrier and held it up. “Imagine yourself as a young parent, camping in open fields with your children, confronting subzero temperatures, with nothing for shelter except a single hand-woven wool blanket. Imagine it’s snowing. Your children are cold and hungry—no clothes, no food, no shoes. Imagine how quickly the snow soaks through the blanket, how the wind forces its way through the cracks to bare skin underneath.”

  Members of the tour group wrapped their arms around themselves, feeling the chill. Beside me, a woman picked up her little boy and cuddled him against her chest. “Imagine that your child is limp in your arms, yet you’re forced to travel. Picture your parents or grandparents walking beside you, old, lame, fording icy rivers on foot and wading for days through rain-swollen swamps. Imagine having to leave the bodies of your family members along the trail. No marker, no funeral ritual, little chance you’ll ever come back to see those final resting places again.

  “Imagine all of these things in the context of your own family, paint the faces of your loved ones into these pictures, and you can understand the brutality of the march westward. In the first year of removal, one-third of the party, nearly two thousand men, women, and children, died along the trail. Removal in 1832 was equally devastating, owing to a cholera outbreak. Upon reaching Little Rock, one of the Choctaw chiefs was quoted as saying that the removal had been a ‘trail of death and tears.’ The phrase became synonymous with the forced removals of tribes to Indian Territory. While this museum was created to celebrate the lives of a people who persevered in a new and hostile land, it also memorializes those whose voices were forever silenced along the trail. Their lesson is one we must remember. The darkest hours of history have always been born of the efforts of one people to dehumanize another.”

  Backing away from the exhibit, Jace allowed the tour group to flow through. I moved along with the crowd, my eyes traveling among the small signs and hand-lettered quotes scattered throughout the exhibit.

  …Many of these children…had nothing under heaven to protect their naked bodies from the pitiless storm…Major Francis W. Armstrong, Removal Agent

  …Etotahoma’s people had stopped…they said…he was old and lame and they were unwilling to go on and leave him behind…Lieutenant Jefferson Van Horne

  …Few moccasins were seen among them. The snow has been on the ground here without diminution…If I could have done it with propriety, I would have given them all shoes…William S. Colquhoun

  …I gave the party leave to enter a small field in which pumpkins were. They would not enter without leave, though starving. These they ate raw with the greatest avidity…Joseph Kerr, farmer near removal route

  …The Indians had been six days without food…New York Observer

  …Two large deep streams must be crossed…in the worst time of weather I have seen in any country—a heavy sleet having broken and bowed down…timber. And this…under the pressure of hunger, by old women and young children without any covering for their feet, legs, or body except a cotton underdress…Joseph Kerr, farmer

  Death was hourly among us…Major Francis W. Armstrong

  Amid the gloom and horrors of the present…we are cheered with a hope that ere long we shall reach our destined home…Chief George Harkins

  Sadness and awe spread through me as we moved from the Trail of Tears exhibit and passed displays depicting early Choctaw schools, towns, and farms, forged in a raw land as members of the tribe sought to rebuild their lives. At the far end of the museum, I stood face-to-face with an enlarged photograph of the World War I code talkers from Nana Jo’s story—proud soldiers who used the language of their ancestors in yet another struggle of good against evil.

  In the center hallway, I stood for a long time taking in a collection of sepia images celebrating the slow rebirth of the tribe in Indian Territory—classes of children in mission schools, a dark-haired bride dressed for her wedding, a Choctaw stickball team, a mother with a little boy and a round-faced baby girl, the proprietors of a general store in a Choctaw town, a soldier dressed in uniform, two young girls posing in a freshly tilled garden.

  So many faces with brown eyes and prominent cheekbones, cinnamon-colored skin and raven hair like mine. Proud, determined people, forging new lives from the ashes of the past.

  Chahta Sia Hoke, the sign read in the middle. I am Choctaw.

  The idea settled fully into my mind, into my sense of being for the first time in my life. I am Choctaw. Chahta Sia Hoke.

  I was not an accident, dropped on earth by two people who may or may not have cared about me when I was born. I was the product of a long and proud history, of a people who fought to survive, to persevere, to move forward when adversity stole everything they had, everyone they loved. I was not a flash on the screen of history, an independent entity connected to nothing but an adopted family. I was a member of the tribe.

  CHAPTER 17

  I waited in the entryway as the tour group dispersed. Jace patiently answered a few final questions from a California couple, retired stockbrokers who’d bought motorcycles and taken to the open road. The husband was writing a book about their experiences. He’d been monopolizing the question-and-answer sessions throughout the tour and scribbling frantically on a notepad. I couldn’t blame him. Jace had a way of making the past vibrant and real, of making it live and breathe with the souls of the individuals who had lived it. I could tell he was a good teacher.

  “Thanks…uhhh…Jace,” the stockbroker said, glancing at Jace’s name tag as they turned to leave.

  “My pleasure,” Jace replied. “Hope I make the book.”

  The broker was pleased. “I’ll let you know when it’s published. Is there an address I can send the information to?” Walking backward, he pulled a pencil from his Harley-Davidson headband and prepared to write down the information.

  “Just send it to me, care of the museum,” Jace answered, lifting his hand in a casual wave. “They’ll pass it along.”

  “Will do.” The stockbroker tucked his pencil back in place. “We’re headed to the harvests of the Great Plains next, so it’ll be a while before I have the book all together. Indian Territory will probably get a chapter all its own. We�
�ll be stopping by the Five Civilized Tribes Museum in Muskogee on our way north tomorrow, then visiting the Will Rogers Museum in Claremore, then moving on up the Jim Thorpe Highway, since he was the first person of Native bloodline to win an Olympic medal. Thanks for the research material on the Choctaws and the tribal government issue.”

  “No problem.” Jace gave me a quick sideways smirk as the couple walked away. I knew what he was thinking. If the book was as obnoxious and long-winded as the writer, it wouldn’t be very good. “I’ll give it to Shasta. She’s always wanted to tour the country.” Jace motioned me in the door, and we stood alone in the center hall, surrounded by art show entries that were placed on easels to advertise the show upstairs in the gallery.

  “She should,” I said, glancing absently through the open door at a group of Choctaw dancers gathering to perform on the lawn. “Shasta should travel. She’d love it.” Unfortunately, the truth was that Shasta was about as far from touring the world as I was from eating lunch on the international space station.

  “Not very likely, with two kids and Cody.” Jace’s pleasant tour-guide mask cracked, revealing a powerful layer of emotion beneath. Obviously, Gwendolyn wasn’t the only one who thought Shasta was headed down the wrong path. “Seems like all Shas does is wrap more rope around her neck, and nothing anybody says can talk her out of it. The minute our family fell apart growing up, she started making plans to have one of her own. Before my dad left, she was into sports, and art, and horses, and someday she wanted to be either a veterinarian or a wildlife biologist. It was like she had all the time in the world. After Dad left, all she could think about was finding some guy to be with. With her SAT scores, she could have gotten into any college around here, but she didn’t even want to talk about it. She knew Mama and Nana Jo would go ballistic if she got pregnant in high school, so she waited until the day after graduation to run off with Cody, marry him, and get pregnant.”