The Chest Part 3

Time passed.

The years the Man struggled with what to do with the Chest came to outnumber the years he'd spent struggling with what to do with the Burden. His daily routine had shifted. For many years, he would wake up in the morning and study the Burden in the mirror, and then do the same before going to bed. Now he rarely took the time to look at the Burden. Instead, he spent hours a day studying the chest and contemplating what to do with it.

Standing at the mantle, idly rubbing the brass latch of the Chest with his thumb, had become his morning and evening habit. Even after years of touching and rubbing the Chest, it bore no evidence of his contact. The polished wood and brass still gleamed as clearly and brightly as the day he'd received the mysterious box. The only evidence of the uncounted hours of contact was a callus on the side of his thumb from rubbing, rubbing, rubbing...

One time the Man had actually gotten up the courage to throw the Chest into the fire. His family had been visiting, and a debate over the Chest, and why it had remained unopened for such a long time, resulted in some hard words and hurt feelings. His family had left with a sense of alienation and heartbreak over the Man's intransigent regarding the Chest (Da, just OPEN the damn thing. There can't be anything inside that'll do you more harm than obsessing about it every day!) Gripped with guilt over having let the Chest cause such a breech among his relations, he snatched up the box and tossed it into the fire.

He stood there watching the flames lick at the edges of the dreaded box for nearly ten seconds before a feeling of icy panic erupted within his gut. He desperately grabbed up the tongs and pulled the Chest out and gently, reverently it back on the mantle.

He examined the Chest closely and saw that it was completely undamaged. Gingerly he reached out and touched it, expecting at least the brass fittings and latch to have been heated up, but was surprised to find them as icy cool as ever, and the wood no warmer than the familiar, living temperature he knew so well.

As he stood there rubbing the Chest in his usual, unconscious way, he found himself muttering apologies and explanations out loud. He stopped himself in shock. There it is then, he said to himself, the blasted thing has driven me insane. I'm talking to it like it was a pet cat or a neighbor come by to borrow a cup of sugar. I might as well..

The Man stopped in mid-sentence as he thought he'd heard the box say something. He leaned forward, nose to latch with the Chest and glared at it, eyes narrowed, as though daring it to speak up. He turned his head and placed his ear against the Chest, listening breathlessly.

I said DA, open the door please!

The Man nearly fell over in surprise as he realized his son was at the door, banging away, and had been for several moments. He took a deep breath, shook his head and marched to the door, and opened it as though he were going to be confronted with the constable come to report a complaint about his grass being overgrown (which it was). Instead he saw his son standing there, a worried look on his face.

Da, are you feeling all right? You look a bit pale.

The Man stared at his son for a moment, as though he were trying to remember what to say. Ah, uh, well, YES, I'm fine. Couldn't be more fit. He stared imperiously into his son's eyes Now, what is it? The Man felt a pang of guilt that the question had come out sounding like he was asking a solicitor why he'd come knocking at the door.

I...uh...forgot my scarf, his son replied as he slowly edged past and into the house. He glanced between his father, the box, and the tongs that were still in his father's left hand.

The Man loosened up. It's right there about your neck, you careless boy. Did you have too much of my home made huckleberry wine today? He glared at his son, as though he'd caught him getting into the wine at too young an age, and then laughed. He went to clap his son on the back, then realized he still had the tongs in his hand. He looked at them in surprise, then ceremoniously set them into the umbrella stand by the door.

The Man cleared his throat and looked expectantly at his son, knowing there was some other reason for his return visit so soon after leaving in a huff.

The Son looked at the Chest for a moment, then turned to his father. Da, I'm sorry I was so pushy with you regarding this, this..the Chest. It's not really my business what you do with it. I just don't want to see you, see you...

See me become some crazy, obsessed old man who threatens to shoot the newsboy?

The Man smiled at the irony of his interruption. He was obsessed with the Chest, had just contemplated the idea that he was crazy, and had been tempted to shoot the newsboy for years for his habit of tossing the paper so it landed behind the hedge next to the house where it was difficult to reach.

The two men, elder and junior, smiled warmly at each other. They stood awkwardly for a moment, then briefly embraced, clapping each other's backs, the way men do when they aren't sure how showing what they really feel deep down inside would be received by the other man.

The Man looked at the Chest, sighed, and then back at his son. I admit it has become an obsession, perhaps even more so than my obsession to be released from my Burden. The note that came with it says the solution lies inside the Chest, but I've never had the courage to open it. Perhaps one day... his words trailed off as he reached out and began absently rubbing his thumb along the latch. He caught himself and turned to his son.

Well, the scarf has been recovered, amends have been made. Do you want some huckleberry wine to take home with you?

The Son smiled as he held up the bottle his father had given him earlier that evening.

Ah yes, of course. Now see, there it is: I AM becoming a bit of an absent-minded curmudgeon, and so as your father I do expect you to allow me my eccentricities. He noticed his son's expression and realized he was talking to him as though he were an eight year old being told not to get into the cookie jar.

At that moment, the Man realized the man standing before him was someone different than the boy he saw, and that it was important to acknowledge that. He just wasn't sure how. He opened his mouth, but no adequate words formed. His son looked back, and expression of hope on his face, as though he knew his father's thoughts and the man-boy he was was waiting for the words he needed to hear.

Howwww...about some muffins to go along with the wine? I made far too many for me to hang on to. They'll go stale before I eat all of them? It was all the Man could manage to say.

Sure, Da. I'd love some muffins.

The Man scurried into the kitchen and in short order, returned with a basket filled with muffins covered by a linen cloth. The Son's melancholy was only slightly apparent as he took the basket of muffins from his father's hands. The Man clasped his son's hands as he handed over the basket, and wouldn't let go for just a moment.

Be sure to return the basket when you are done. And, oh yes, don't forget to return the bottle either, said the Man as his son walked toward the door and opened it.

The Son paused and turned in the doorway. I'll be back with both of them soon as I'm finished. Both men looked at each other for an endless couple of seconds, both men realizing something vitally important needed to be said, something for which years had been leading up to this very moment, as inevitably as a glacier inches toward the sea.

And then the moment passed.

The Son nodded as he turned and closed the door. The Man nodded as he turned and picked up the newspaper, and sat in his chair. He glanced at the Chest on the mantle as he opened the paper, and idly brushed a few leaves from the hedge off the page.

End of Part Three.

Native On. Native Off.

“When did you start being a Native American?”

“When did you stop being a Native American?”

These sound like odd questions, but they're honest ones. They're also realistic ones in modern American society in which “being Native” means many things to many different people. They deserve honest and realistic answers. I'll give mine, and along the way surely anger some people who would give different answers to these questions.

I was asked the first question some time ago by someone who was listening to me talk about my journey as a person reconnecting with my Mohawk heritage. That journey involves adoption, discovery of some facts about my birth parents, and a period of time during which I was led to believe I had to forgo my Native heritage. As such, the question is a valid one.

I was adopted by a mixed blood couple (Mother: Mohawk, Father: Cherokee) who spoke little of their Native American heritage, mainly out of concerns about racism. In fact, I was told to always put “White” or “Caucasian” on forms I filled out to avoid possible discrimination. My mother was a little more open about her Mohawk father, and she even had a photo of him with a frame that displayed a Native American motif. About all I heard about the Cherokee side was I had a couple of great aunts living on a reservation in Oklahoma.

Growing up, I didn't know I was adopted. I took pride in my Native American heritage. In first grade, the first day of school the teacher asked us about our various family histories and heritage. I happily declared my Indian roots.

That was the first time I'd ever heard the term “Prairie Nigger”.

I grew up with darker skin, hair and eyes than most of my friends. None of them seemed to make a point of it, at least not to my face. I occasionally uncovered the bias of some of my friends' parents. (“Mom said she won't allow me to go to a party with no redskins” was the response I got as to why a friend couldn't come to a birthday party.) Growing up, I was more or less oblivious to such things. It wasn't until adulthood, when I looked back on certain incidents in my life with a better understanding, that I realized I encountered a degree of latent prejudice without even realizing it.

After deciding to follow Christ at age 13, I was told by a mixed blood Cherokee pastor that Native traditions and belief in Jesus were incompatible. That's when I "stopped" being Native and tried very hard to fit into mainstream church thinking and attitudes. I wasn't very successful.

Years later I found out I was adopted, and so let my identity as a Native American fall by the wayside completely. It would be another two decades before I had access to adoption records that showed that my birth father was indeed Native American. Talk about a curve ball. (To do my birth mother honor, I will recognize her Lebanese, Maronite Catholic heritage as being important to me as well, but not in the way my Mohawk heritage is.)

This revelation came at a time when I had been questioning my walk of faith. Not my faith itself, but rather how much of it was truly what Jesus wanted for me, and how much of it was just following the status quo. An event called a Many Nations, One Voice gathering hosted at my church helped clarify things and answer many questions I had. In the most blatant act of Divine Provenance in my life, I received the paperwork confirming my Native American heritage the day before the MN1V gathering began.

The Many Nations, One Voice gatherings were intended to educate people about how Natives can maintain our traditions and still follow Christ in a way that is compatible with Biblical teaching. For me, the first sound of the Big Drum, and sight of the dancers in regalia, was a life changing epiphany. I heard and saw a way of life, the Good Red Road and the Jesus Way, that I knew in an instant was what I had been seeking my entire life. It's what I was meant to be.

That was when I started being Indian again. More specifically, that's when I started the journey of learning to be a Mohawk Jesus Lover. (According to the Great Law, since I was adopted by a Mohawk woman, I should consider myself Mohawk.) It's been a wonderful journey, realizing more each day that, in honesty, I never stopped being Indian, no matter what I thought of the matter.

I wish I could say this was the case with everyone, but it's not. One thing I noticed at that gathering was how many people from my church suddenly had Native Pride. People who had made no mention of Native heritage showed up wearing moccasins (cute how people would buy those comfy, fur lined Minnetonka bedroom slippers and think they were wearing traditional footwear) or little feathered roach clips in their hair. They would flock to the merchandise tables and buy chokers and CDs and flutes and books, talking about how their great grandmother was a Cherokee princess, or their grandfather was an Apache.

Some of them were utterly sincere, and, like me, discovered they didn't have to suppress their “Native Side”. Others, however, were Natives for the moment, getting caught up in the glamor and novelty of the event. After it was over, the moccasins and feathers went back into closets and drawers, along with the chokers and other bead work items. The CDs got some play time, the books were read, and that was about it.

As for me, I continued my walk along the Good Red Road, connecting with many Natives who helped educate, encourage and guide me along that road. Along the way I met as much resistance as I did encouragement, but I knew I was on the right Path, as my faith in Christ was becoming stronger and purer than it had ever been. As I shared my thoughts with various Native elders, I was told that the reason why I never seemed to quite fit in with the mainstream churches I attended was because I was Native, and saw the world and thought like a Native. There's a spiritual reality there that cannot be dismissed.

Eventually my walk led to departing that church, not under the best of terms. The leadership wanted to encourage my walk as a Mohawk Jesus Lover, but only so much. I simply reached a point where what they had to offer me in my journey left too many questions unanswered, and I told them so. The pastors didn't like hearing that.

After that MN1V, the church leadership did spend a few weeks talking about developing a Native outreach program,and partnering with the leadership of the nearby Meskwaki nation, but nothing ever came of it. Most of the interest in things Native disappeared after a few weeks. I was saddened to see friends who had embraced their Native heritage let it fall by the wayside in favor of the Next Thing that is always coming about in mainstream churches.

I have observed over the years that for so many people, their “Native-ness” doesn't last. They start being Native when it helps them feel special or significant, and they stop when that is no longer the case. Certain people start being Indian when it's entertaining to do so, or fulfills some longing they might have. Then they stop when being Native no longer offered anything in their lives of value.

We see that a lot, not just among churchgoers, but in American society as a whole. Celebrities brag about being Native. People rush to support Native causes. Respecting the earth is suddenly cool again and movies that portray indigenous people as heroes fighting against evil colonists are huge hits. Nearly everyone who comments on the current controversy regarding the Washington R*dskins and other Native mascots claim some sort of Native heritage, regardless of which side of the argument they favor.

Meanwhile, the “true” Indians continue dealing with the ups and downs of life in Indian Country. The people who never started being Native (because they always have been) still deal with unemployment, poverty, health issues, suicide rates, alcoholism and domestic and sexual abuse rates that are far higher than any other people group in the USA. They still have to deal with others appropriating sacred objects or traditions, of stereotypical representation in the media, and a government which has done little to fulfill treaty obligations, and in fact still has a pogrom in place intended to make the First Nations disappear either by assimilation or attrition.

They neither started nor stopped being Native. They just are. Therein lies the real answer to the questions above. A person either is or isn't Native: it can't be turned on and off like membership to Netflix. A person may be disconnected from his Native heritage, then reconnect, as happened with me, but in essence never stops being native. (Sadly, some never reconnect). That connection is permanent, lifelong and life affirming, because it is made by Creator at a spiritual level, not by some government issued card or entry on a list of names.

It has to be, because the reality of being Native in today's world involves struggles on both a personal and community level that most people really don't want to deal with. It's about far more than hanging dream catchers or posting memes on Facebook about respecting the earth or which feature Native American sayings. Being Native is about realizing that we are an endangered people, and keeping our identities alive takes quite a toll on us spiritually and emotionally.

As for me, I spent many troubled years trying to turn off being Native, and happy years of late coming to understand I never really turned it off, and never could if I tried.

The Chest, Part 2

Continued from June 25:

The Man let his hand rest upon the Chest for some time. He rubbed his thumb along the latch, noting that it was quite cold, as though the box had been sitting out for hours on a winter's day. As he rubbed the latch (why did it feel somehow...”rewarding” to do so?) he studied the grain of the wood itself as myriad thoughts about what might lay within the Chest flooded his mind. He had no idea how long he'd been standing there, rubbing the icy brass of the latch, when he realized with a start that the wood itself was warm to the touch. Quite warm in fact: much warmer than the contact from his hand could have made it.

He snatched his hand from the Chest with a start, looking at the tips of his thumb and fingers as though searching for an injury or stain. He rubbed his thumb and fingertips together and stepped away from the mantle upon which the Chest rested. It was darned peculiar, a box like that in which the metal was so cold to the touch while the wood was so warm. A slight chill went up his spine as he thought about the nefarious possibilities of the Chest. What if it were simply some cruel trap intended to do Godonlyknowswhat harm to him should he open it?

Well, whatever it is, it will be there tomorrow, thought the Man. He crossed over to his favorite chair and stiffly sat down, picked up the newspaper and went about fussing with it as though he were going to read it. As he glanced at each page, he kept peering over the top of the pages, half expecting it to open on its own at any moment. He wished it would do just that, saving him the burden of making the decision himself.

He spent as much time glancing at the box as he did reading the paper. He was torn between the giddy prospect that once it opened, some miraculous solution to the Burden would come flowing forth as light streaming from a candle in the darkness, and the concern that some evil pestilence might instead issue from it like noxious fumes from a garbage fire.

Eventually he realized it was time for bed. He neatly folded up the paper, then rose and looked about the room as though checking for something he had mislaid. He walked up to the Chest and leaned so close his nose was almost touching the latch. He squinted as he looked at the details of the metal and wood, and realized he was expecting to feel either cold or heat emanating from the unusual container, and felt neither. The Man frowned, stood up straight and hesitantly reached for the Chest. He pulled up just short of touching it. He turned smartly away, took a deep breath and marched into his room.

He climbed into bed thinking that the thoughts filling his mind about the Chest would keep him awake all night. Instead, he fell into a deep slumber almost the moment he laid his head down on his pillow.

He awoke with a start, with a sense of dread and alarm clenching at his gut. He sate up and looked in bewilderment around his bedroom, wondering why he didn't wake up in the leisurely, almost languid way that was his fashion. Something had startled him awake, but there was no sign of what it was in his room. He rose quickly and looked out the window, wondering if perhaps it had been thunder or some disturbance outside. The early morning sunlight filled his backyard garden. He opened the window and heard the usual, comforting symphony of birds and street noises that indicated all was normal. What had jolting him awake?

Then he remembered the Chest. He bolted toward the door, stopped, turned and grabbed his bathrobe and hurriedly put it on (as though the Chest were company come to visit unexpectedly) and dashed to the mantle. The Chest stood there, unassuming and harmless in the morning almost-darkness of the main room. 

The Man had an idea. 

He crossed to the bay window and slowly drew back the curtains, flooding the room with sunlight.

It wasn't quite the time when a ray of direct sunlight would reach the mantle, so the Chest remained in shadow. He stood watching a fleet of dust specks dancing in the beams of morning sun (I really must dust more often) as he waited for the nearest sunbeam to fall upon the chest. He suddenly realized he'd been holding his breath and let it out with a profound huff (exciting the dust motes into a tarantella of swirling activity) and shook his head.

What are you so afraid of?  he wondered out loud, and shaking his head like a schoolboy who finally came up with the answer to an easy problem he'd struggled with, he crossed over to the mantle. Just as he reached out to touch the Chest, a ray of sunlight fell across it. The Man heard a distinctly musical tone, a single note, as pure as any note an angelic trumpet could play, quiet as from a great distance, lasting but a moment so brief he wasn't sure he'd even heard it at all.

He froze, his hand mere inches from the Chest, and waited. Nothing else happened, and the sunbeams with their dancing dust motes continue their oblivious waltz across the room. The Man stood there, hand hovering above the Chest, head cocked as he listened for any more sounds that might occur.

Slowly. Very slowly. He laid his hand on the Chest.

Nothing happened. 

The metal latch was still icy cold, the wood still warm, but no more musical tones. He half hoped that the box would be vibrating, or some other indication that it was going to do more than just sit there, but he felt nothing. He found himself rubbing his thumb across the latch again, and stopped, determined to open the latch and see what was inside the mysterious Chest. Yet again, he refrained, shook his head and proceeded to the kitchen to fix breakfast.

This routine happened each morning in the days, weeks and months to come. He would wake up with a start, then go into the main room to observe what happened when he opened the curtains to allow the sun to shine directly on the Chest. Each day the sun struck it he would hear that single, achingly pure tone. (On cloudy days he'd hear the tone as soon as he parted the curtains). Each day he would place his hand upon the Chest, rub the latch, conjecture about what might be inside, then decide not to open it.

He'd become used to the whole sequence of events, though much less so to waking up startled. It took some uncustomary and imaginative introspection for him to realize what caused his jarring awakening. It was because of a dream he was having about the Chest, about what he discovered once he opened the Chest. He could never remember the dream, only that it startled him awake. The palpable sense of dread he felt every morning was enough to dissuade him from opening the Chest.

He spent many moments each day struggling with whether to open the chest or not. Minutes, perhaps even hours he stood at the mantle, rubbing the latch and trying to sort through thoughts he'd never had to sort through until the Chest arrived. This became his new daily routine.

It was not a routine he enjoyed. Waking up in the morning with a start, spending what he considered wasted time contemplating the Chest, caressing the latch, trying to decide whether to open it or not, was not his idea of a productive routine. At least the Burden was something he had dealt with all his life, and knew so many others had to deal with. This Chest thing: as far as he could tell his was a unique situation, and in its uniqueness made that much more challenging.

Why me? He would ask himself. Then he would glare at the Chest which, laying on the mantle in mocking silence, seemed to invite the obvious answer: Because you asked.

Eventually he'd become used to this routine in his life in the same way he'd come to tolerate, barely, the Burden. Weeks of this stretched into months, then months into years. All the while the Burden remained in place as it had always been, just as the Chest now found its set place within the Man's life.

Ah, the Burden. It seemed that since the arrival of the Chest, the Man had given much less thought to it than he once had. He still felt it, still saw it in the mirror, but he didn't dwell on it almost obsessively as he once did. One day he thought:

Perhaps that IS the solution? Perhaps the mere presence of the Chest is causing the Burden to shrink, and eventually it will disappear.

With that thought he stood up from his chair and crossed over to the mantle. As he laid his hand on the Chest and rubbed his thumb across the latch, he studied the reflection of the Burden in the mirror. He compared it to his memory of past inspections, looking for any sign it was diminishing. It was the same size it had been for as long as he could remember. The dull gray straps still dug into his shoulders and chest as though they were some horrid, mutated appendages he'd borne since birth.

The Man shifted his gaze from the reflection of the Burden to the Chest and back again. Back and forth, back and forth his eyes darted as he sorted through all the thoughts he'd had regarding the Burden and the Chest. He worked to build of his resolve, determined to finally put an end to years of this routing and open the damned Chest and get it over with once and for all.

Still, the Man feared what might lay within the Chest.

No, that wasn't it...

He feared what might not lay within the Chest. He feared that whatever it contained would not actually relieve him of the Burden. He feared having to deal with the crushing disappointment that the wondrous, mysterious, cursed Chest did not contain anything of use, that he would henceforth not only have to bear the Burden itself, but also the hopelessness that there was no release from it.

With a sigh, he removed his hand from the Chest, crossed to his chair, sat down, and picked up the paper. As he gave a cursory glance at the various headlines, the Man muttered to himself that he would put an end to this whole absurd routing by getting rid of the nuisance Chest. Yes, that would put his life back in order. He would toss the Chest out with the trash. Better yet, he would throw it into the fire.

Still, it was too warm for a fire today.

Tomorrow...

End Part 2 of “The Chest”