Family History: The Skirmish

            My English mother’s story began in the desert heat of Phoenix, Arizona, my Anishinaabe father’s in the north woods of Lake Huron, Ontario. Their stories met during youth in Hollywood, California and from there would grow old together. As I look back on their lives, myself now an old woman, I wonder how much of growing old happens precisely because we do it together.

“Una! Have you finished the moccasins yet? It’s already been two days, we can’t be filming this forever.” The 20 year-old woman’s piercing blue eyes looked up briefly towards the costume director, his brows furrowed waiting for a response. Una gathered the various buckskins, feathers and beaded regalia she had made and handed them to her boss. Fumbling for a cigarette and without examining even a stitch he called out, “Josh! Come try this on!”

The young man was laughing with some of his friends next to the horses. It had been a few days since Una had first noticed the one the director called Josh, and the other actors called ogimaa-gaakijiwan. The trip from Phoenix to the set in Hollywood had been fascinating, though tiring. The beauty of the red rock canyons, silver mountains and green valleys were still settling in her bones. For one week she had watched the land flow by from the back of a truck. Her imagination painted scenes of animals and people that would have lived there—strategic skirmishes between the warring Apache and Navajo, famished Spanish explorers and groups of Mormons with handcarts and songs of God appeared before her as she watched. She gained a deeper understanding of the stories the old people shared of settling the town now called Phoenix in the 1850s. Her father had always been a proponent for naming the city Phoenix.

“What a name,” he would say, “a mythical bird that rises from the ashes, this land will be reborn too. You, my love, are a resilient Phoenix.”

Una knew she was born on dry ground, and when she heard about the need for seamstresses in Hollywood, she saw it as a rebirth into blue waters.

Upon arrival in Hollywood her face looked like a reversed night sky—dark crescent moons under her eyes contrasted against her glowing pale skin. She was immediately put to work. This was the ‘30s, and any job was better than none. Una thought of her parents back in that hot, dusty town she tried hard to call home. She sewed for the movie-industry with the same determination she saw in those she had conjured in the desert.

A couple days after arriving, she worked to secure the last few beads onto a belt. The colorful triangles and lines transferred effortlessly from the image in her mind to her fingers, working nimbly over buckskin. She worried what the people there would think of her work. She was already a master seamstress sewing dresses and suits for her acquaintances in Phoenix. Secretly she loved the bold lines and intricate yet no-fuss flow of the Indians’ clothes.

Josh moved through the set like a hunter in the woods, quick and silent. She jumped a little when he had stood before her. She quickly recovered and handed him the belt she’d made, then noticed his pants were around his ankles. He smiled politely and said “thank you, Madame. I’ve been needing one of these” winked and left before she could respond.

The days turned into weeks and Una continued to produce the headdresses, leggings, and shirts that characterized the success of the Hollywood Westerns. They continued to watch each other.

“Alright everyone into place! Three, two, one, action!” the director’s voice never seemed to tire despite its constant tension. The cowboys came from the left of the stage, ropes swinging in loops over their heads, buildings disappearing quickly in the background as they gained speed and approached the Indians who came from a backdrop of wilderness.

“We’re coming so you injuns better run for it!” The cowboys all cried out in unison “Whopatee-ay-yo! Ayayayay!”

 The first few days and perhaps even weeks, Una had watched in fascination. The muscles of the horses and glean of their coats captured her and inspired reverence for the creatures. She even began to use the their movement in her own sewing. The story was always the same. The cowboys would be outnumbered. They would nobly go forth and fight the Indians to secure land for their pretty wives and dimpled children. A sneaky Indian would play dirty and come from the side, hurt one cowboy, then justice and vengeance would cause all the Indians to die. The pop of the fake bullets almost seemed comical to Una, but she had watched the final products on the big screens. The music and sound effects transformed something so simple into a captivating scene. 

Josh always led the Indians. He spoke Anishinaabe, Cree and had learned some Navajo during his time in the southwest. His best friend was Eagle Eye Cody, who spoke Chickasaw and came from Oklahoma. The stuntman Indian business marked a new age for many tribal Nations. Old wars and skirmishes were remembered but set aside as they worked together and laughed at the growing industrialized world and its obvious shortcomings. Eagle Eye had said,

“I think the Depression will be good for these people. Now they’ll know what its like to be an Indian living on the reservations. We went from having a lot to very little. Our bowls have been filled with dust for too long because of them. Like we’ve been taught though, still when any visitor comes and you don’t have enough to share just throw some more water in!” The men would all laugh.

While placing the headdress on Josh one afternoon Una inquired, “I see you Indians laughing so much when you’re all together. Why?”

Josh said, “you’ll know why tomorrow.”

If she had been less frustrated with his indirect answers to everything, she might have inquired further. Instead she finished her day’s work and waited for the following day.

“Three, two, one, action!” The men took off on their horses, running towards each other. Una watched with indifference now that she had seen the same thing happen time and time again. The cowboys formed their ropes into ‘o’ shapes and yelped with mock bravery. After several minutes, they finally had the Indians circled again and they shot their guns with a pop. This time though, none of the Indians fell.

There was a moment’s confusion. The director stood with a surprised face, his voice for once unable to shriek through the room. The cowboys’ ropes slackened and fell. As if synchronized, each of the Indian horses dipped out of the circle that had been formed around them and they quickly formed a larger circle around the cowboys. They proceeded to pull out bows and arrows and pointed them directly at the pale faces. No one made a noise. The now defeated men in the middle shifted uncomfortably. They had never wondered what it felt like to be on the losing side, or what their ancestors really felt like out on the land. Life wasn’t always Hollywood: scripted to win. It is a hard lesson to learn. Josh cried out “Wiisinidaa!” and the men lowered their arrows, dismounted their horses, and went home for the evening. Una understood now what their laughter was about. The plan had worked perfectly. A lesson had been taught.