Long, long ago, it was said that all the people spoke the same language. This was in the days when things on the earth were as the Creator had intended. Each kind of people had its own language, of course, but it was also possible for the Bear People to understand the Hawk People, the Badger People to understand the Elk People, and so on. Even the Two-Legged People, those that call themselves humans these days, could understand and be understood. This did not mean that life for all things and beings was easy. It did not mean that some people were not enemies with others. Speaking the same language meant that they could get along now and then if they chose.
As any elder knows, life has a way of teaching lessons. Sometimes those lessons come in the most unexpected ways, and to those who expect them the least. So it happened for two beings whose peoples did not like each other at all.
There were two kinds of people who had spread over much of the earth: the Raven People and the Wolf People. It was not that they were the most numerous; rather, they had abilities that others did not. They could and did adapt themselves to live in many places, such as the prairies, the desert, and the forests, and even the frozen north lands, which were under snow and ice much of the year. But there the similarities ended. The Wolf People were among the greatest of the hunting peoples, which included the Hawk, Eagle, and Short-Tail and Long-Tail Cat Peoples. Hunting people were feared and respected by other people. Then there were those, such as the Raven People, who made their living by scavenging and were not feared. It could be said that they were looked down upon, at times even ridiculed because they depended on the efforts and skills of others, mainly the hunters. So it is easy to understand why the hunting peoples looked down their noses at scavengers, and the scavengers stayed out of the hunters’ way.
Furthermore, where the wolves were swift, strong, and silent, the ravens were not the swiftest among the flying peoples and had—as far as many were concerned—the most annoying and unpleasant voices of anyone. Their raucous squawk could be heard over great distances and wake even the diggers who lived in dens in the ground.
So it was that on a fine autumn day one of the Raven People, known as Screech, landed on the bare branches of a mountain aspen tree, his black feathers glistening in the sun. He saw a wolf feeding on the succulent meat from his successful hunt. The wolf’s name was Long Runner, for he was known for his endurance among a people who prided themselves on their ability to run tirelessly.
Long Runner had seen the raven and even heard the whoosh-whoosh of the air passing beneath the bird’s wings as he flopped his clumsy way through the forest. He knew one scavenger or another, such as the brown buzzard, would be along. They had their ways of knowing when hunters had had a good hunt and food was at hand. So he was not surprised to see a raven perched in a nearby tree.
Screech had not eaten for several days, and he was hungry. Flying high above the forested slopes of the mountains he had seen a large herd of grazers—deer—being stalked by a large wolf. Wolves, he knew, were persistent as well as skilled hunters. So it was only a matter of time before the hunt was over and food available. He knew wolves could not climb trees, but he stayed on a high branch, just to be certain he was safely out of reach.
Screech saw other wolves appear out of the forest and guessed they were the hunter’s family. His stomach growled as he watched them feast, hoping they would leave a little something for him. Hunters always did, not because they were generous but because they would eat so much they could eat no more. So the hungry raven waited, hoping that no other scavengers could catch the tantalizing scent of fresh food.
The raven watched the hunter, the wolf who had brought down the deer. He was bigger than the others and looked very strong. His coat was gray but flecked with black and his eyes were yellow. After he ate, he sat back and let the smaller and younger wolves eat as well. Finally, when Screech’s stomach was beginning to sound like thunder, the wolves had their fill and left. The raven left his perch and flew above the trees to make sure the wolves were indeed leaving. Then, gliding back down into the forest, he tore hungrily at the carcass. It had been stripped nearly to the bones, but it was food nevertheless, and such was the life of a scavenger.
Screech was able to eat his fill until other opportunists arrived. First it was the big brown buzzards, the black and white magpies, and then the little wingeds, like the flies. But no matter, Screech was satisfied and food would not be a worry at least for a day or two. He found a hidden perch in the branches of a big cedar. There, beneath layers of wide, flat needles, he took a nap.
Two days later he was hungry again and had the brilliant idea of looking for that one wolf, the big gray hunter with the yellow eyes. Screech suspected that the forested mountain slopes over which he flew were that hunter’s territory. If so, it would be good to find a place to live here as well. There was no better benefactor a scavenger could have than a skilled hunter.
As luck would have it, he spotted a wolf trotting through the trees. Screech followed above, staying high.
On this day, things were very still in the forest, no breeze to carry sounds and scents. Far ahead of the wolf, a large grazer was resting in the deep shadows provided by the thick trees. Grazers, such as deer and elk, usually rested in the day when the sun was out and did their feeding at night. This grazer was an elk, and he was counting on a calm day to stay hidden from hunters with keen noses and sharp ears. Screech saw that the wolf was likely to pass by the hidden elk, given the direction he was taking. If the hunter could not find the elk, that meant both he and the raven would go hungry.
An idea came to the bird—from where, it did not matter. It was there and very intriguing, especially to a being who was very hungry. Screech could never be a hunter. He would be hard-pressed to catch anything. Even chasing and catching mice was next to impossible for him. It was exceedingly frustrating for him to be above everyone and everything, to have that vantage point and not be able to use it. Perhaps these were the reasons the idea came. Whatever the reasons, there it was, so he decided to use it.
Gliding down through the trees as silently as he could manage, Screech alighted on a branch directly above the elk. When he guessed the hunting wolf was close, he let out the most annoying squawk he could muster.
“SQUAAAWWK!”
Screech startled even himself, and he certainly startled the elk. The grazer leaped up and ran, not wanting to know what sort of creature was capable of making such a frightening sound. He crashed through the trees and underbrush, making more than a little noise himself. Screech flew up through the trees, squawking at the top of his lungs, making as much noise as he could to keep the grazer moving. The first part of his idea was working.
Rising above the treetops, the raven looked for the hunting wolf. No one was happier than he when he saw the wolf sprinting through the trees after the elk. Nevertheless, it was only the beginning. After a long pursuit the tireless wolf finally wore down his prey in a clearing, and took him down. Then he paused and called his family, his resonant howl floating across the mountain valleys.
Screech knew he had to wait his turn, but he knew how to be patient. Such was the life of a scavenger. He watched enviously as the wolf ate, along with the other members of his family as they arrived. When the hunter had his fill and moved off to wait, Screech saw his chance.
Long Runner watched with mild interest as a raven descended clumsily from tree to tree, branch to branch, until it was near enough for him to see its reddish-brown eyes. Those scavengers seemed always to be the first to appear after a successful hunt. A few were even bold enough to come close, to push their luck in order to get food. The wolf sighed and turned disdainfully away, until the bird spoke.
“I did that,” it said.
All the wolves paused for a moment, surprised that a raven would dare speak to Long Runner. Since there was no danger from the scruffy-looking bird, they returned to their feast.
“Did what?” Long Runner scoffed.
“I frightened that elk, there. Made him run,” asserted Screech. “Otherwise you would have gone past him, past where he was hiding.”
Long Runner chuckled. “What does that mean to me?”
“I thought perhaps a succulent piece of meat,” ventured the bird.
“You know how it is,” the wolf reminded the raven. “Scavengers wait their turn. You can have what is left, if we leave anything at all.”
“I thank you for that,” Screech said, trying a diplomatic approach. “I know how it is. But I think there is a way I can help you. In return for a bigger share, of course.”
Long Runner chuckled again. “You think you can help me. That is almost something to laugh about. How can a scavenger help a hunter?”
“Since you ask,” the raven replied, keeping a courteous tone in his voice, “I can do something that you cannot. Something that no four-legged hunter can do.”
The wolf was beginning to be annoyed. He did not like scavengers of any sort, be they furred or feathered. “I know one thing,” he said haughtily. “You cannot hunt.”
“True,” allowed Screech. “But I can fly, and up there I see things. I see trees, rocks, creeks. I see hunters, I see grazers. I saw that elk hiding and I saw you passing it by.”
“So you came to ridicule me? Is that it?”
“No. I came to say I can help you.”
“I do not see how that is possible,” retorted the wolf. “I have never seen a raven take down an elk.”
“True. But I have never seen a wolf spot a grazer from above, in the sky,” Screech pointed out.
Long Runner saw that the raven was up in the tree well out of reach, even if he were to jump as high as he could. On a whim, he decided to follow along with what the bird seemed to be suggesting.
“So,” the wolf said, “are you telling me you will find grazers for me?”
“Yes,” the raven replied confidently.
“What happens after you find them? You scare them and I give chase?”
Screech decided to take a risk and flopped down to a lower branch, so he and the wolf could be eye to eye. “No,” he said. “When I see anything, one or many grazers, I will fly in a circle above them. That will tell you where they are. If they are moving I will swoop down at them and point them out. Then you can move in and bring them down.”
Long Runner realized that the raven was serious. “Really? You would do all of that in return for a meal?”
“You will not be giving me anything I do not earn,” replied Screech.
The last thing Long Runner expected from a scavenger was common sense. But he was not about to be taken in by something unexpected, even if it did seem sensible. “I will talk with my wife and family,” he said. “What you are offering seems to be a good thing. But these kinds of things must be discussed.”
“Yes, speak with your family,” the raven agreed. “I will take this up with my family as well. Perhaps we can meet two sunrises from now. My name is Screech.”
“My name is Long Runner. There is a rock-covered ridge not far from here. If I am not there two sunrises from now, you will know my answer.”
The wolves finished their meal and left. Screech moved in and ate as much as he could, then carried a large piece of meat back to his mate. When he told her how he had helped the wolves with their hunt, and his idea to help them in return for food, she laughed.
“All of the hunters, the wolves, the foxes, the big cats, the hawks, the falcons, all of them laugh at us because we are scavengers,” she reminded him. “We wait to see what they leave behind. If they leave nothing or not enough, we dig for grub worms. What makes you think you can change the way things are?”
“I am not trying to change the way things are,” he replied, wilting slightly in the face of her logic. “I am simply trying to strike a bargain between us and one family of wolves so we can have food. I do not think that will change how things are.”
“I do not see the wolves agreeing to this thing,” she said. “They do not need us to help them. Wolves, of all people, are likely the best hunters anywhere. Besides, they think they are better than we are.”
“I do not care what they think,” Screech told her. “I care about the bargain I want to make with them. If we strike that bargain, I will do my part, they will do theirs. I will keep my opinion to myself and I will not care what they think.”
The conversation that took place in the home of Long Runner and his wife, Gray Legs, was not unlike the one between Screech and his wife.
“Do you think we are poor hunters because of what one raven said?” she wondered. “Everyone knows we are great hunters. Even the Bear People think so.”
“Tell me,” Long Runner said patiently. “Do we bring down a grazer every time we hunt?”
“No,” she said. “Many times we do not.”
“Yes,” he reasoned. “Even great hunters do not succeed each time. We fail more than we succeed. So what if the raven can do what he says he can do? With his help, perhaps we can be better hunters.”
“What will others think?” Gray Legs fretted. “What will our relatives think, the foxes and the coyotes?”
“Perhaps I will ask them,” decided Long Runner.
And ask them he did. He met with his cousins, Lives in the Hill, the coyote, and Black Whiskers, the fox. Long Runner told them of the raven’s offer.
“I have never known ravens to be anything but bothersome,” Black Whiskers said. “And loud, very loud.”
“I have never spoken to one,” snickered Lives in the Hill. “They are nothing but scavengers. They benefit from our hunting. Why do they not hunt, like many of us do? Perhaps it is because hunting is not easy, and it is much easier just to wait. If it was not for us, they would starve.”
“I would have nothing to do with them,” advised Black Whiskers. “A scavenger can never be a friend to anyone, except another scavenger. Scavengers are what they are, we are what we are, and that is the way things are. It is not our place to change anything.”
Long Runner was neither pleased nor disappointed by what his cousins had to say. After all, he truly wanted to know their thoughts. But, unfortunately, coyotes were not known for keeping things to themselves. So on his way home Long Runner was accosted by Stone Roller, the biggest bear in the forest. The distinct hump on his back, common to big brown bears, was the mark of enormous strength. Stone Roller’s people were powerful hunters and afraid of no one, and he had earned his name because he was so strong he could roll large boulders with ease.
“My friend,” called out Stone Roller. “Is it true what I heard? Are you teaching ravens how to hunt?”
Long Runner laughed. “No, that is not true. It is true that I have spoken to a raven, and he made an offer to help me hunt.”
It was the bear’s turn to laugh. “You? A raven will help you hunt? That is the funniest thing I have ever heard!”
Long Runner waited for the bear to have his laugh.
“I have not heard that you are losing your skills,” the bear continued. “Unless there is something I do not know. The only one who is a better hunter than you is me. What can a scavenger teach you, or me? This is a funny thing indeed!”
Without waiting for a reply, Stone Roller ambled away, chuckling to himself.
Long Runner trotted home to his den and told his wife what his cousins and the bear had to say about the raven.
“All hunters think that way,” she told him. “What have you decided?”
“My cousins do not hunt for us, neither does the bear. We take care of ourselves; that is our way. What others think does not feed us or keep us warm or safe. We do those things for ourselves as well. So I think I will go and talk to the raven.”
In spite of her own doubts, Screech’s wife flew with him to the rocky hilltop, and there they found Long Runner and his wife. And the bargain was struck.
“I cannot help you when you hunt at night,” Screech pointed out. “But I am awake and flying when the sun rises. If you tell me when you are hunting, and where, I will find the grazers and point them out to you.”
Long Runner raised his nose to the sky and emitted a series of yips and a howl. “That is my signal to my family that we are on the hunt,” he said. “Other wolf families do the same, but you will know my voice.”
“On the way here we saw a herd of grazers resting in a gully, that way,” Screech said, pointing. “I think they spend the nights there and will likely be there tomorrow when the sun comes up. Gather your family and bring them. If the grazers are there, we will be circling above them.”
So in spite of the opinions of other hunters still burning in his ears, or perhaps because of them, Long Runner kept his bargain. The next morning he and Gray Legs led their children and a cousin, seven hunters in all, on a hunt. True to his word, Screech and his wife and several members of their family were circling high above the gully. The hunt was successful and Long Runner left enough meat to feed Screech and his entire family.
It was a good beginning to an arrangement that served the two families well. Not every hunt ended successfully, because grazers were just as adept at eluding hunters as the hunters were at pursuit. But Screech and his family never failed to find something for Long Runner and his family to chase. The arrangement proved especially necessary when winter came with deep snow and powerful winds. When that happened, the grazers were even more difficult to find and pursue. In spite of harsh conditions Screech and his family proved to be strong and resourceful.
In the beginning, many of the other peoples warned that it was not wise to change the way things were. “Who knows what might happen?” some said. Other hunters, and some other scavengers as well, ridiculed Long Runner and his family for befriending the ravens. But neither Screech nor Long Runner paid any heed to the laughter often ringing through the forest—derisive laughter taunting the strange relationship.
One autumn day, after many years of keeping their bargain, Long Runner and Screech sat together on a rocky pinnacle overlooking a broad valley. The raven was no longer afraid of the wolf, and the mighty wolf no longer looked down on the bird. As a matter of fact, they were good friends.
“I have found, lately,” admitted Long Runner, “that my strength and endurance are not what they once were. I cannot run as far as I once did and it is easier for some grazers to elude my bite. I am getting old.”
The raven chuckled sympathetically. “Yes, I know what you mean. My arms become tired more quickly now,” he agreed. “I cannot keep my wings outstretched as long as I once did. Now I find I must rest more often and it is harder for me to get high into the sky. I fear I am getting old as well.”
“Our bargain has served us well,” said the wolf. “But I am afraid there are some things we truly cannot change. Like getting old. There is no bargain we can make with life to keep us young and strong.”
“True enough,” agreed the raven. “Several days ago I spoke with Stink Head, the buzzard. He is still angry with me for helping you. According to him, scavengers and hunters are as different as night and day and should keep their places. I do not think he is complaining because he is wise and knows something I do not. He is complaining because he is afraid.”
“Yes,” Long Runner replied. “He is afraid of something he does not know. As I was in the beginning. But I am still a wolf and you are still a raven. Our bargain has not changed that. Since you and I are getting old, what will happen to that bargain?”
“I have considered that,” Screech assured him. “I think we should pass it on to our children. They will reap the rewards of what we have done. Perhaps they will pass it on to their children, too.”
So it was that a simple bargain became one for the ages, one that is honored to this day.
For those who have not separated themselves from the realities of Grandmother Earth, the relationship between the Wolf People and the Raven People is still there to see. Sadly, the Wolf People are not as many as they once were. That is because the Two-Legged People took it upon themselves to change the way of things. They stepped out of the realities that all the other kinds of people still honor and became the most feared hunters of all. As such they hunted because they could, not because they must. The two-leggeds turned on the Wolf People because of ancient misunderstandings, and they still cling to that misunderstanding.
The Raven People seem to be flourishing still, though surely they are saddened to see what has happened to their old friends, the wolves. Yet wherever they find one another, the wolves and ravens still honor their ancient bargain. The wolves still watch the sky whenever they hunt, to see what the ravens see that they cannot.
One day, back in the mists of time, Screech climbed into the sky and soared on tired wings until he found his old friend. Long Runner was basking in the warm sun of a fine summer day, to chase away the ache in his old bones.
“I came to ask you a question,” Screech said to his friend. “I have wondered these many years.”
“Ask,” replied the old wolf.
“Long ago, you accepted my suggestion that we help one another. My question is: why?”
“Oh,” said Long Runner, after a deep sigh. “Because I was curious. There was only one way to learn if we could help one another, and that was to try, to walk a road that others were afraid of. In doing so, I learned something. I think you learned it as well.”
“Of course,” Screech said without hesitation. “Tolerance. I learned that you are not bad, as hunters go.”
“And you are not the needful creature everyone says you are. You are good and wise, as scavengers go.”
Laughter filled the forests. The laughter of old friends laughing with each other.
Woicu
(woh-ee-choo)
to tolerate, to accept
THE ROAD OF TOLERANCE
Experience has taught me that there are two kinds of tolerance: that which comes out of genuine fairness and that which comes out of a need to survive. I have known both.
An Indian reservation in the period from the late 1940s to the mid-1960s was a cross section of social and racial attitudes and emotions. By the time I was a freshman in high school I began to understand that we Lakota were not in control of our lives. Even though I had experienced my share of racial epithets and attitudes in elementary school, I did not fully grasp their underlying cause. Not until late in high school did I realize that it all came from a sense of impunity on the part of whites because they were in control. The fact that we lived on Indian land, a place called the Rosebud Sioux Indian Reservation, was not relevant. It was still a white world, an uncomfortable reality that we Lakota had to tolerate in order to survive in it. Thus it was in high school that I learned about survival tolerance.
Survival tolerance kicks in anytime one realizes one is outnumbered, or when the prevailing attitudes or rules or expectations are too powerful to challenge, much less overcome. As an eight-year-old in a Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) school I learned almost immediately that punishment was the consequence of any misbehavior, real or perceived. I also learned there was nothing I could do to change it. In the interest of survival, I learned to go along with the program, no matter how ridiculous, distasteful, or embarrassing I thought it was. Practically from my first day of school I learned to be afraid of those who were in control of the school—white adults.
For me as a young student, teachers were symbols of white authority. They were in control of me, my time, and my activities from the moment I set foot on the school grounds until I left (escaped) it. Riding the bus to school on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation was nearly an hour of dread because there was very little in the approaching school day that I could directly control. I could raise my hand and ask to go to the bathroom, and I could choose who to play with during recess. Beyond that I was powerless. During lunch I went through a line carrying a metal tray, and food was placed on it. Some of which I did not like, such as stewed tomatoes. The rule was that every student was to eat every morsel on his or her tray and could not leave the lunchroom until that happened. On the days stewed tomatoes were served, I was one of the last students, and often the last, to finish eating. Every bite of stewed tomato was an adventure in the exercise of willpower. I had to force myself to eat it while a teacher stood nearby, watching with a stern expression.
I learned to tolerate stewed tomatoes, though it was frequently a stomach-turning tolerance. Sometime during the school year I realized that a day without stewed tomatoes was a good day, and I could tolerate whatever else happened that day. Survival tolerance at its best.
It would be misleading for me to say that there were no positive experiences in those years in school from kindergarten to 12th grade. There were, but few and far between. Overall, those years for me were more moments of being suspicious, guarded, defensive, and uncomfortable. And in order to get through it, I was the one who had to be tolerant. But while I exhibited survival tolerance there was another kind on the other side of the issue. I describe it as tolerance of privilege.
The tolerance of privilege is exercised by those people who are of the ruling or controlling group or class. They are aware—sometimes painfully, sometimes grudgingly—that there are people who are different for various reasons or circumstances, such as race, religion, physical handicap, poverty, or sexual orientation. The ruling group may not like anyone who is different, or they may dislike only some who are different. In any case, if they cannot remove anyone who is different, they tolerate (often under protest) being part of the same community, or riding on the same plane or train, or being in the same building, or working for the same company as those they perceive to be different. This may be tolerance, but it is not acceptance. People guided by this kind of tolerance avoid or limit contact with the different ones, all the while thinking they are better somehow.
Several of the white teachers in my BIA school set a powerful example of the tolerance of privilege. There was another kind of authority figure who exhibited it, too: a priest. Several white Episcopalian priests, to be specific, whom I had personal experience with—though I daresay in the 1940s, ’50s, and ’60s (and perhaps to this day) there were probably men of the cloth from several denominations with intentions of “saving” native souls who took the same attitude toward us.
Priests had two ways of treating us. One was a sort of gentle condescension. These priests treated and spoke to everyone—including elders—as if we were children. The others were like stern fathers, quick to scold us for the sins (according to them) we had committed and would surely commit in the future. Of course the scolding sermons were delivered in English that was better suited to a formally educated non-native congregation, not one whose grasp of the language was intermediate at best. During the years of my childhood, English was a second language for everyone in my generation and before.
I compared this behavior to that of Lakota men who were lay ministers or ordained clergy. My paternal grandfather was among the first Lakota men to be ordained—he was a deacon—and in 1957 my mother’s younger brother was ordained a priest. None of the Lakota clergy—lay or ordained—were ever condescending or scolding, and all treated elders with the utmost respect. The inherent values of their ethnic heritage and culture were apparently much too strong in them for an adopted set of beliefs to alter. Furthermore, they conducted services in the Lakota language.
In retrospect I am still appalled at how a few younger priests spoke to and treated my grandparents and their age group. These were not isolated incidents of ill-mannered individuals; it was a pattern of behavior for many of them, probably because they felt that sense of impunity I mentioned. Yet I am not surprised that those elders—though taken aback at such discourtesy—handled the situation with graciousness. They always demonstrated the utmost civility and courtesy toward the priests. I heard many elders, including my grandparents, rationalize disrespectful or discourteous behavior with the comment, “He does not know our ways.” They were being tolerant, in a genuine way, in a spirit of fairness. And they were able to hear the message in spite of the messenger.
To be sure, not all Episcopalian priests were condescending or stern. There were those who considered their calling to work among the Lakota (and Dakota) a privilege. A few took the trouble to learn the Lakota language. And it must be noted that a Dakota priest, Creighton Robertson, was elected Bishop of South Dakota Diocese of the Episcopal Church in 1994 and served in that post until he retired in 2009. But many of the priests I observed as a child were authoritative and paternalistic in their relationship with Lakota congregations on the Rosebud Reservation. That was the same as white teachers with native students, all enduring examples of the tolerance of privilege.
I learned, however, that even that was preferable to intolerance.
Intolerance is the common thread that weaves its way through ethnocentrism, homophobia, arrogance, anthropomorphism, and racism. It is a tendency to feel uncomfortable with anyone or anything that looks, acts, or thinks differently than we do. Under the right conditions it is the fuse that ignites the powder keg. And just as dangerous and damaging as intolerance on the part of individuals is institutional intolerance. At the age of nine I recall hearing a voice over a loudspeaker in a small South Dakota town just before a Fourth of July parade. The voice said, “No Indians allowed on Main Street.” I remember asking my father what that meant, and I recall that he and one of his brothers-in-law (my uncle by marriage) both chuckled, shaking their heads. Survival tolerance to diffuse institutional intolerance. Though my father was three-quarters Lakota and one-quarter French blood, in appearance he was a throwback to his French paternal grandfather (Joseph Marshall I), with blue eyes, lighter skin, and sandy hair. In defiance of the announcement (and much to my mother’s angst) he mingled with the white crowds on Main Street, purchased treats for my cousins and me and a six-pack of beer for himself and my uncle. No one was the wiser. If my uncle, with his dark skin and classic Lakota features, had dared to do the same, he would have been spotted at once.
Later I asked my mother why the white people did not allow Indians to watch the parade and walk on Main Street. She shrugged and said, “It is the way they are.” Not until years later, as a young adult, did I begin to give serious thought to that incident. I have pondered it many, many times since and still do. The same question was and is always there: why?
The answer was and is always the same: because they can.
If by happenstance someone who knew my father had recognized him for who and what he was and reported him to the authorities, he would have been escorted off of Main Street at the very least, and perhaps even arrested and thrown in jail. Most of the white people in that small town would probably have thought it was acceptable to punish an Indian person in some way for violating a rule established for that day. On July 3rd and on July 5th and on every other day, Indians could walk down Main Street without any repercussions. On July 4th, we were not welcome because that was what law enforcement officers, or the city council, or the mayor decided. They could do that because they were in control.
It was immaterial to them that my father and my uncle were combat veterans of World War II, both having served in the Pacific against the Japanese. They probably would not have cared that my father’s younger brother had died at age 19 as a result of wounds suffered in combat in June of 1945, on the island of Luzon in the Philippines. The town fathers of that small community would not have cared that my paternal grandmother was a Gold Star Mother (a mother whose child had been killed in a combat action). It was more important to them that Main Street be free of Indians. Intolerance sanctioned and empowered by the community.
As human beings we are shaped by our experiences, especially those out of the ordinary. Survival tolerance is still part of my nature and always will be. For me, and likely other native people, it’s a learned mechanism that is hard to shed.
But tolerance is positive as well. My grandparents were extremely tolerant of me, especially in my early childhood. They were tolerant of my moods, behavior, and habits because they cared about me. They had raised my mother and my uncle, after all, and understood how children were. My moods and my behavior were nothing new to them, just part of the reality of childhood. They were part of what I was in those years, and they were not (as I recall) overwhelming or constant problems. The point is that my grandparents sometimes (probably often) had to be tolerant of unacceptable behavior, but never did they have to be tolerant of me as a person. It did not enter their minds, or later mine, that they had to “tolerate” the part of me that was white, my one-eighth French blood. That seemingly innocuous reality opened a window to a broader understanding for me; it taught me that tolerance for any reason is a good thing because it can be the first step toward the absence of prejudice.
To take this first step, it is not necessary to like one another, as long as we know that we all have the same right to exist. After all, the story that opens this chapter begins with the words “Long, long ago it was said that all the people spoke the same language.” If they had not, the wolf and the raven would not have been able to communicate. And perhaps that language has nothing to do with words after all, but with the simple act of tolerance.
The wolf and the raven disliked one another for reasons that were right and logical for each of them. Their initial tolerance was very limited, based on what each could gain from the other. As their relationship progressed they both learned that they stood to gain much more from each other than that practical exchange. In the end they became friends. They did not tolerate each other in spite of what the other was. As far as I am concerned, they tolerated each other because their friendship far exceeded the perceptions and limitations of “not as good as” or “less than.” Those factors no longer mattered. What mattered was the value each saw in the other as a fellow being who was part of the world.
Recently my oldest son texted a photograph of his son, my grandson, who is five and in kindergarten. The caption was “Tokahe and his kola.” Kola is “friend” in Lakota. In the photograph my black-haired and brown-skinned grandson (Lakota and Navajo) is standing with his arm around his best friend, who has blond hair and light skin. I doubt that either of these good friends realizes that they are exhibiting unconditional tolerance. At their age, being friends is not a matter of race, creed, or color. It is two kindred spirits forming a bond and having the adventure of kindergarten. For them there is absolutely nothing about each other they need to tolerate. For them it is total acceptance of what the other is. No more and no less.
Innocence is the power that children have, one that we all have but lose when the world shows us what life is really all about—or so we are told. But the memory of the sanctity of innocence should motivate us to strive for it: a full circle back to a state of mind when we could and did look at the world around us without the burden of prejudices. Sadly, many of us cannot divest ourselves of the prejudices we have acquired and learned. We are not strong enough, or courageous enough, to consider that something, or someone, or some situation or circumstance could be different than we believe. We would rather be comfortable with our perceptions, even if they are wrong.
Most of us who have been kicked around by life (and who has not been?) probably think that innocence has no place in the world as we know it to be. Consequently we limit ourselves by looking at life and the world through the small window of our reality. We find a certain amount of security in that. Innocence, though, was the realm wherein we had the ability to see without limits and perceive without prejudice. If we had that ability as adults, we could look at the world as it really is with all its foibles and endless variety. That is tolerance. To be tolerant we do not have to be innocent, we simply have to remember what it was like to be innocent.