long before the memories of the grandfathers of the oldest men.
Grandpa looked uneasily at Unchee, back at me, back at Unchee. Finally he said, “This Pipe belonged to Unchee’s father. She wants you to have it. When the time comes for you to carry a Pipe, you may carry this one. In the meantime, take care of it.”
No, I was not a Pipe carrier—not old enough. I wanted to be. And I wanted to go on the mountain and get a vision that would guide my life.
I put the bowl and stem in the Pipe bag and wrapped them both in the deer hide. O yes I will take care of it . I looked around at the dusty, nowhere town. I made a point of not tearing up. It is my connection to you, and to being Indian .
“I have something else to give you,” said Unchee.
I waited respectfully.
“You will not understand yet, but it’s important. From this day take a new last name—Blue Crow.”
I felt conked on the head.
Unchee waited.
“I take the last name Blue Crow,” I said respectfully, but I felt confused.
“So today we enroll you in school as Joseph Blue Crow.”
Right away they took me to the boarding school. It was a Saturday, but we walked through the half-dark corridors, hoping to find someone. A white man with white hair and a sweet face, kind of like that guy Dave in the Wendy’s commercials on TV, he was working in the main office, said he was the principal, Mr. King. (These days employees of the Bureau of Indian Affairs are mostly Indians, but not in 1967.) He asked some questions about who my family was, where I’d been living, and what my schooling was. Unchee had to answer, on account of she had the onlyEnglish. Mr. King did a double-take when she said I hadn’t been to school, and a triple-take when she said I didn’t speak any English. She treated him the way she treated all white people, like he was a worm. I didn’t know what it was she had extra special against the whites, not yet I didn’t.
Nevertheless, Mr. King enrolled me, said I could go home for Christmas. Christmas! my mind screamed. I couldn’t go that long with seeing Grandpa and Unchee—it was months away. Besides, it wasn’t any holiday of ours. “I’ll come to see you at the half-moon,” said Grandpa to me softly. Mr. King scowled at hearing words in Lakota, though he didn’t know what they meant.
“This is a BIA school,” said Mr. King. “That means it’s free, devoted to helping Indian children make better lives for themselves.” (When Unchee translated that word “children,” she put a little stress on it, underlining the implication.) “We’re not like Red Cloud Indian School,” which was near Pine Ridge, “or St. Francis,” southwest of Rosebud, both run by Jesuits. “Kyle is a U.S. government school and promotes no religion.” He emphasized the last phrase with a smile.
“No religion?” Grandpa asked through Unchee. His tone was surprised.
Unchee and Mr. King back and forthed a little. “No particular brand of the Christian religion,” she summarized to Grandpa. She added her opinion. “It’s better to get an education without the white-man religion.”
Grandpa eyed her and said, “Both religious and secular are basically an attempt to nub the red out, so it doesn’t make much difference.”
Silently, I agreed with Grandpa.
Mr. King stood, came around his desk, and stood next to me, sort of like saying we’d talked among ourselves enough. “Everything is going to be fine,” he said. That was the first of a thousand lies. “You’ve made the best decision.”
He put his hand on my shoulder, and I knew I was trapped.A schoolboy for the first time in my life. Not a student for the first time—my whole life was learning—but a schoolboy. My skin jumped under his touch.
Because Mr. King looked like Dave Thomas, to this day I can’t go into a Wendy’s.
Grandpa and Unchee got an early start home. They’d shared the last of their food with the family, had no money, and would go hungry until they got
Grandpa looked uneasily at Unchee, back at me, back at Unchee. Finally he said, “This Pipe belonged to Unchee’s father. She wants you to have it. When the time comes for you to carry a Pipe, you may carry this one. In the meantime, take care of it.”
No, I was not a Pipe carrier—not old enough. I wanted to be. And I wanted to go on the mountain and get a vision that would guide my life.
I put the bowl and stem in the Pipe bag and wrapped them both in the deer hide. O yes I will take care of it . I looked around at the dusty, nowhere town. I made a point of not tearing up. It is my connection to you, and to being Indian .
“I have something else to give you,” said Unchee.
I waited respectfully.
“You will not understand yet, but it’s important. From this day take a new last name—Blue Crow.”
I felt conked on the head.
Unchee waited.
“I take the last name Blue Crow,” I said respectfully, but I felt confused.
“So today we enroll you in school as Joseph Blue Crow.”
Right away they took me to the boarding school. It was a Saturday, but we walked through the half-dark corridors, hoping to find someone. A white man with white hair and a sweet face, kind of like that guy Dave in the Wendy’s commercials on TV, he was working in the main office, said he was the principal, Mr. King. (These days employees of the Bureau of Indian Affairs are mostly Indians, but not in 1967.) He asked some questions about who my family was, where I’d been living, and what my schooling was. Unchee had to answer, on account of she had the onlyEnglish. Mr. King did a double-take when she said I hadn’t been to school, and a triple-take when she said I didn’t speak any English. She treated him the way she treated all white people, like he was a worm. I didn’t know what it was she had extra special against the whites, not yet I didn’t.
Nevertheless, Mr. King enrolled me, said I could go home for Christmas. Christmas! my mind screamed. I couldn’t go that long with seeing Grandpa and Unchee—it was months away. Besides, it wasn’t any holiday of ours. “I’ll come to see you at the half-moon,” said Grandpa to me softly. Mr. King scowled at hearing words in Lakota, though he didn’t know what they meant.
“This is a BIA school,” said Mr. King. “That means it’s free, devoted to helping Indian children make better lives for themselves.” (When Unchee translated that word “children,” she put a little stress on it, underlining the implication.) “We’re not like Red Cloud Indian School,” which was near Pine Ridge, “or St. Francis,” southwest of Rosebud, both run by Jesuits. “Kyle is a U.S. government school and promotes no religion.” He emphasized the last phrase with a smile.
“No religion?” Grandpa asked through Unchee. His tone was surprised.
Unchee and Mr. King back and forthed a little. “No particular brand of the Christian religion,” she summarized to Grandpa. She added her opinion. “It’s better to get an education without the white-man religion.”
Grandpa eyed her and said, “Both religious and secular are basically an attempt to nub the red out, so it doesn’t make much difference.”
Silently, I agreed with Grandpa.
Mr. King stood, came around his desk, and stood next to me, sort of like saying we’d talked among ourselves enough. “Everything is going to be fine,” he said. That was the first of a thousand lies. “You’ve made the best decision.”
He put his hand on my shoulder, and I knew I was trapped.A schoolboy for the first time in my life. Not a student for the first time—my whole life was learning—but a schoolboy. My skin jumped under his touch.
Because Mr. King looked like Dave Thomas, to this day I can’t go into a Wendy’s.
Grandpa and Unchee got an early start home. They’d shared the last of their food with the family, had no money, and would go hungry until they got
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