Enigma

I bet that when you
started to read this you thought
that it was a poem.

Isn't it funny how people
will go on reading even if
they know they
are being fooled?

~R.L.

99 Red Balloons

When people are forced into extreme situations, bravery must be measured in different ways. There was bravery of all kinds taking place in the concentration camps of World War II.

The courage it must take to see your 12 year old daughter on the other side of a chain link fence lined with razor wire must be incredible. It's the closest you can get to her, but the distance might as well be comparable to the moon's. You might never see her alive again, but would you want to miss the chance?

Or the desire to escape your prison so completely you come up with a whole new way to teach mathematics to children. You have no paper, no type writer, no calculator. The only technology you have access to is the few inches or so of grey matter inside your skull. Wetware.

A woman gathers up colored bits and pieces the Nazi guards might have thrown away and arranging them so she could show the children around her what flowers look like.

The gypsy who danced in the dark of the night, then collapsed because she was too weak to keep it going.

The 10 women who saved the fat clinging to the gruel they were fed. Then finding a Rabbi so they could light the candles of Chanukah. Fellowship. There is strength in numbers. Even small numbers

The American soldier who found the strength, both physical and emotional, to walk across the compound and steal a pot of broth for the starving inmates in his unheated barracks and the frigid cold of winter.

And the Nazi guard who "didn't see" the desperate act of said soldier.

They were all humans determined to keep hold of their humanity in spite of the fact this radical regime insisted on treating them like contaminated animals who deserved nothing better than to be put to death. Or worse, to be experimented on like rats in a laboratory.

Today is Yom Hashoah.

Native Pride

As a girl, I remember sitting in front of mother as she sprayed water onto my hair to tame the fly-aways, ran sharp combs through my hair and braided my hair as tightly as possible to get a smooth and clean look to support elaborate beaded barrettes and hair ties. It was all part of a routine, a preparation process that was the norm on the Powwow Trail.

Teasing out the snarls in hair that is so thick its weight alone can inflict headaches is not easy for a small child to live through, but what you learn as you're growing up is that it's all part of weaving a spell. Haven't you noticed the fascination with Native Americans since Columbus landed? Lots of times it's been expressed negatively, but it's also been a positive thing. Especially lately. People want to be Natives.

"I'm Cherokee, but I can't prove it."

I also remember wearing jingle dresses and elaborate shawls. Later, as I matured, beautiful cloth outfits decorated with shells or coins entered into my wardrobe. A couple times I was even privileged enough to wear a full buckskin with beadwork that would have done any nation proud. They all look good and most who see them look in wide-eyed wonder at the work that went into the creation and its stunning effect.

But jingles and shells and beads are heavy, and wool and buckskin is hot. Powwows are notorious for being held in the summer months so it's not uncommon for these elaborate outfits to be worn in 95-plus degree heat. Large quantities of cold water are often drunk to keep the body moving, but after a while, hot is just hot. Native Americans have been known to suffer for the spells they weave.

It's pride, in its most basic sense.

I sat at my mother's feet while she pulled and tugged and manipulated my hair into tight fitting, elaborate braids. I clenched my teeth around the sharp pains as she anchored those elaborate barrettes and sometimes beaded crowns into my hair so that I could show all who looked that I am proud to be from the Lakota tribe.

I wore outfits made from wool, stitched with beads and shells and flaunted buckskin proudly in 90-plus degree heat in various powwows because I wanted to show off who I am. Sure, I look Native American with my long, long black hair and my high cheekbones and dark skin, but look at me now! My heritage and personal family culture is stitched in this outfit.

I might not have been able to articulate it at five years old, but somehow I knew, KNEW, even then, that I had something to be proud of.

I come from the proud nation of the Lakota, can claim familial ties with a distinguished line of medicine men, strong women and prominent people.

The women of my line are among the very, very few who have the right to carry and wear a chief's blanket.

Power? I have it.

Dignity? I was born with it.

Spells?

You're Cherokee, aren't you?