by Zitkala-S̈a
“My Country ’Tis of Thee”; and the exhortatory “Letter to the Chiefs and Headmen of Tribes,” advising Indians to keep hold of their tribal lands while at the same time participating in education programs and learning English. Soon after Zitkala-Ša stepped down as editor, the magazine folded.
The Indian’s Awakening ( January-March 1916)
I snatch at my eagle plumes and long hair. A hand cut my hair; my robes did deplete. Left heart all unchanged; the work incomplete. These favors unsought, I’ve paid since with care. Dear teacher, you wished so much good to me, That though I was blind, I strove hard to see. Had you then, no courage frankly to tell Old race-problems, Christ e’en failed to expel?
My light has grown dim, and black the abyss That yawns at my feet. No bordering shore; No bottom e’er found by hopes sunk before. Despair I of good from deeds gone amiss. My people, may God have pity on you! The learning I hoped in you to imbue Turns bitterly vain to meet both our needs. No Sun for the flowers, vain planting seeds.
I’ve lost my long hair; my eagle plumes too. From you my own people, I’ve gone astray. A wanderer now, with no where to stay. The Will-o-the-wisp learning, it brought me rue. It brings no admittance. Where I have knocked Some evil imps, hearts, have bolted and locked. Alone with the night and fearful Abyss I stand isolated, life gone amiss.
Intensified hush chills all my proud soul. Oh, what am I? Whither bound thus and why? Is there not a God on whom to rely? A part of His Plan, the atoms enroll? In answer, there comes a sweet Voice and clear, My loneliness soothes with sounding so near. A drink to my thirst, each vibrating note. My vexing old burdens fall far remote
“Then close your sad eyes. Your spirit regain. Behold what fantastic symbols abound, What wondrous host of cosmos around. From silvery sand, the tiniest grain To man and the planet, God’s at the heart. In shifting mosaic, souls doth impart. His spirits who pass through multiformed earth Some lesson of life must learn in each birth.”
Divinely the Voice sang. I felt refreshed. And vanished the night, abyss and despair. Harmonious kinship made all things fair. I yearned with my soul to venture unleased. Sweet Freedom. These stood in waiting, a steed All prancing, well bridled, saddled for speed. A foot in the stirrup! Off with a bound! As light as a feather, making no sound.
Through ether, long leagues we galloped away. An angry red river, we shyed in dismay, For here were men sacrificed (cruel deed) To reptiles and monsters, war, graft, and greed. A jungle of discord drops in the rear. By silence is quelled suspicious old fear, And spite-gnats’ low buzz is muffled at last. Exploring the spirit, I must ride fast.
Away from these worldly ones, let us go, Along a worn trail, much traveled and, Lo! Familiar the scenes that come rushing by. Now billowy sea and now azure sky. Amid that enchanted shade, as they spun Sun, moon, and the stars, their own orbits run! Great Spirit, in realms so infinite reigns; And wonderful wide are all His domains.
Hark! Here is the Spirit-world, He doth hold A village of Indians, camped as of old. Earth-legends by their fires, some did review, While flowers and trees more radiant grew. “Oh, You were all dead! In Lethe you were tossed!” I cried, “Every where ’twas told you were lost! Forsooth, they did scan your footprints on sand. Bereaved, I did mourn your fearful sad end.”
Then spoke One of the Spirit Space, so sedate. “My child, We are souls, forever and aye. The signs in our orbits point us the way. Like planets, we do not tarry nor wait. Those memories dim, from Dust to the Man, Called Instincts, are trophies won while we ran. Now various stars where loved ones remain Are linked to our hearts with Memory-chain.
“In journeying here, the Aeons we’ve spent Are countless and strange. How well I recall Old Earth trails: the River Red; above all The Desert sands burning us with intent. All these we have passed to learn some new thing. Oh hear me! Your dead doth lustily sing! ‘Rejoice! Gift of Life pray waste not in wails! The maker of Souls forever prevails!’ ”
Direct from the Spirit-world came my steed. The phantom has place in what was all planned. He carried me back to God and the land Where all harmony, peace and love are the creed. In triumph, I cite my joyous return. The smallest wee creature I dare not spurn. I sing “Gift of Life, pray waste not in wails! The Maker of Souls forever prevails!”
A Year’s Experience in Community Service Work Among the Ute Tribe of Indians (October-December 1916)
We began our Community Center1 work in the fall of 1915, by starting sewing classes among the women. There was no time to consult the fashion books. We met one day each week, devoting it to charity work for the aged members of the tribe. Plain, warm garments cut in the loose style they are accustomed to wear, were made for those who could neither see to sew nor buy their clothing ready made, with money they did not have. Sometimes members of the sewing classes helped one another with their necessary sewing. Later they learned very rapidly to crochet little caps, jackets and bootees for their babies. Old comforters were repaired; new quilts were pieced and quilted quite creditably by the women.
Many funny little stories were told at these sewing classes. With laughter they stitched away upon the article in hand. As the autumn advanced into winter and snow, we found new work to do in addition to our weekly sewing.
Every Monday, Indians from far and near came to the Government office. Some came to receive their monthly subsistence checks, others to sign papers or to give testimony in an heirship hearing. There was no rest-room to accommodate these “Monday Indians.” All day the mothers with their babies, stood outdoors in the snow. There is nothing so tiresome as waiting. At noon the “Monday Indians” flocked by the tens and twenties to the homes of the Indian employees. Now the salaries of the Indian police, Indian interpreter, janitor and sta bleman are the smallest in the Government service—scarcely enough to support the families of these employees. This enforced hospitality of the Indian employees was very unfair. The longer an Indian employee stayed in the Government service, the deeper into debt he got. Yet since there is no employment by which ready money may be earned, they are tempted to try the Government jobs, thinking to get a few dollars thereby.
The wives of these Indian employees agreed with me that by locking up their homes and donating their services to prepare and serve a simple, wholesome lunch to these “Monday Indians,” a mutual benefit would be gained to all concerned. The Monday lunch and rest-room were started. The soup, pies and coffee were prepared by the Indian women under my supervision. This was really a practical demonstration in domestic science. The women learned improved methods of preparing food in their own homes. The Indian men hauled the wood and cut it up for us. They were good enough to carry buckets of water for us, too.
At the close of the day enough provision had been saved in the homes of the Indian employees to last them a whole week. Moreover, the visiting Indians had been provided a legitimate accommodation. They had a comfortable place to rest without imposing upon any one.
We are grateful to Superintendent Kneale for his kindness in allowing us the use of a Government building, and encouraging us by sometimes coming to our lunches. Mrs. Kneale was always there to help us serve the lunches. There was a great rush at the noon hour and each of us wished we had more than a single pair of hands.
With the coming of springtime, when the Indians were busy with their farming, their trips to the Agency being less regular, we changed our plan. Then we ceased our sewing classes and lunch and rest-room work. We organized a local branch of the Society of American Indians which met once a month.
Our programs were both instructive and social. We spent part of the evening in a study of local conditions. We read papers upon selected subjects. We argued in favor of sending all Indian children to school. We talked also of the innumerable benefits to a tribe that held its annual fairs. We mentioned here the good work started by the Commissioner of Indian Affairs in emphasizing the vital importance to the future race, by the saving of the babies. We encouraged co-operation in this, for it was so unmistakably in th
e right direction. The evening’s discussions were interspersed with music and readings in a lighter vein.
Throughout the entire year I made regular visits to the Indians at their camps. The territory is great and much time and energy is lost on the road.
During the year, three donations were made to the Community Center work by members of the Society of American Indians, which totaled $23.00. I wish to submit this itemized account:
Dishes purchased for the Community Center work were:
There remains on hand a credit balance of $1.30.
During the summer the Community Center property was carefully packed away. With our acquired wealth of dishes and experience the first year, we are better prepared for the second year’s work.
The lunch and rest room should operate in such a way as to furnish wholesome lunch to the Indians at a minimum cost, allowing only a small margin of gain, that the work may sustain itself.
Under the direct supervision of the Society of American Indians, I made my effort in Community Center work. There were no funds to carry on this experimental work; nor was there any salary attached to my assignment of duty.
I mention these merely as interesting items though they are only incidentals after all. “Where there is a will there is a way.”
The field chosen for my work was not a new one. There were others who had already devoted years to the uplift of the race. They were not lacking in time-tested experience nor means either.
The Government had its salaried employees here. The Church had also provided for its self-sacrificing missionaries too.
The question naturally arose as to the advisability of the National organization of Indians diverting their energy upon a line of work already taken care of by able bodies. And perhaps there would be some to whom such an endeavor might appear as an interference with the workers in the field, more especially, since there were phases of our problem that urgently demanded our undivided attention.
The thought of interference with any good work is wholly foreign to our high motive; nor do we presume any superiority to those already in the field.
We have awakened, in the midst of a bewildering transition, to a divine obligation calling us to love, to honor our parents. No matter how ably, how well others of God’s creatures perform their duties, they never can do our duty for us; nor can we hope for forgiveness, were we to stand idly by, satisfied to see others laboring for the uplift of our kinsmen. Our aged grandparents hunger for tenderness, kindness and sympathy from their own offspring. It is our first duty, it is our great privilege to be permitted to administer with our own hands, this gentle affection to our people. There is no more urgent call upon us; for all too soon these old ones will have passed on. It is possible, indeed, to combine with practical systematic effort, a bit of kindness and true sympathy.
Our Community Center work is non-sectarian and non-partisan. For this reason we are in a position to lend unobtrusively, very beneficial aid toward uniting and welding together the earnest endeavors of various groups of educators and missionaries.
Our chief thought is co-operation with all constructive uplift work for humanity. Therefore, in our attempt to do our very own duty to our race, we so with a full appreciation of all kindness and gratitude for all that good people have done and are still doing in behalf of our race.
The Red Man’s America2 ( January-March 1917)
My country! ’tis to thee, Sweet land of Liberty, My pleas I bring. Land where OUR fathers died, Whose offspring are denied The Franchise given wide, Hark, while I sing.
My native country, thee, Thy Red man is not free, Knows not thy love. Political bred ills, Peyote in temple hills, His heart with sorrow fills, Knows not thy love.
Let Lane’s Bill swell the breeze, And ring from all the trees, Sweet freedom’s song. Let Gandy’s Bill awake All people, till they quake, Let Congress, silence break, The sound prolong.
Great Mystery, to thee, Life of humanity, To thee, we cling. Grant our home-land be bright, Grant us just human right, Protect us by Thy might, Great God, our king.
Chipeta, Widow of Chief Ouray3 with a Word About a Deal in Blankets ( July-September 1917)
A year ago this fall it was my special privilege to be the guest of Chipeta. I had gone to her for a heart to heart talk about the use of peyote, a powerful narcotic, used by the Ute people. Within her nephew’s tepee where she gave me audience were gathered friends, relatives and neighbors—for word had gone out that I was coming to talk about matters of large importance with Chipeta. And Chipeta is an honored woman for she is the widow of Chief Ouray, a red patriot who had many times saved the lives of white settlers and who had in many an emergency saved his tribe from disaster.
Our conversation drifted pleasantly to the days of Chipeta’s girlhood. It is an old time custom among Indians to enter upon a subject slowly and not rush to discussion at once, nor try to say all one desired to voice in one breath.
Chipeta was not boastful. More often she sat silently smiling and nodding her assent to the stories one related of her wild rides through the hills, risking her own personal safety to give warning to her white friends of impending raids. With these stories told, came the plunge into the talk about present day conditions. I told of the rumors that she and her brother McCook had been deceived into the use of a dangerous drug and that they were being fleeced by the mercenary traffickers in peyote buttons.
Earnestly she scanned my face as I told them of the inevitable degeneration that follows the habitual and indiscriminate use of narcotics. Frankly she told me that peyote eased her brother’s rheumatism and hers. Admitting the truth of my statements she said, “I have noticed that the pains return when I stop the use of the drug.”
McCook then spoke. Terse and deeply significant was his reply: “When the Great White Father in Washington sent a letter to me telling me that whiskey was bad, I stopped our people from its use. When the Great White Father sent a letter to me telling me that gambling was bad, I forbade our people to play cards.” There was a momentary pause. I wondered what he would say next. I hoped he would say, he now decided to give up the drug peyote and stop its use among his people. He concluded briefly:
“Now the Great White Father has sent me no letter telling me peyote is bad. Therefore, as long as he permits its use, we will continue to use it.”
It was with a sad heart that I returned to the Agency. All along the journey questions presented themselves to my mind. Did you ever try giving a serious talk or lecture to an audience that was more or less under the influence of a drug? In such a case what results may you expect? Did you ever hear of an evangelist addressing a class of drug users who in their abnormal condition were helplessly unable to receive his message? What do civilized communities do with their drug victims? Do not they legislate for the protection of society and for the protection of the drug user? A great longing filled me for some message from the Great White Father telling his red children that peyote was bad for them and asking them to refuse to use or sell it. Federal action is needed. Chief Ouray, friend of the white man, would that your old friends might befriend your aged widow and the people whom you loved. Would that federal action might be taken before it is to late. These were the burden of my thoughts as I rode back from my visit with Chipeta.
Some time later, while conversing with a friend who had been interested in my visit I heard an amazing story. It was about my friend Chipeta. It was like a tale in a night-mare and I could scarcely believe it. For Chipeta, for Chief Ouray and his people my indignation arose but I could not speak. This is what I heard told:
“In some way the idea was started that the Government ought to give a gift to Chipeta in grateful memory to Chief Ouray, faithful friend of the border settlers and loyal advocate of obedience to Federal orders. It was to be a token of regard also to Chipeta for the valuable service she, too, had rendered. The plan was presented to the Great White Father in Washington and was approved.
“The questions then came up as to the kin
d of gift that would be useful to Chipeta and at the same time suitable as a memento.”
I heard the story of the discussion and light streamed into my heart. My fancy moved ahead of the story and I thought of the kind of gifts that were within range of possibility. What if the gift should be a genuine guarantee of water rights to the Ute Indians, or the title to their 250,000 acres of grazing lands to be held intact for the future unallotted children, or a message from the Great White Father giving news of Federal action against the peyote drug? All these things and more were needed and any one would have been a royal gift to the royal Chipeta. Then dimly in my ears the story went on.