Dakota Dream (18 page)

Authors: James W. Bennett

I introduced him and Barb; the two of them shook hands and said how happy they were to meet each other. We all sat down at Chief Bear-in-cave's kitchen table, where he had a lot of papers and folders spread around.

He asked me, “Is it time to go?”

“Yeah,” I said. “It's time. Let's be realistic, I can't pick up campground litter for the rest of my life. Besides, the
hanblecheya
has helped me get into a new head.”

He smiled. “I was expecting you today. I thought it would be time.”

“Why?” I asked.

He was still smiling. “Dakota wisdom,” he said. “I'm glad you did come, because there are a couple of things for us to discuss.”

I asked what they were.

“Item number one, I make you a suggestion. Next summer, why not come here and work on the reservation? We have summer staff jobs for teenagers. Unfortunately, all the jobs are filled for this year. The work would be monotonous and the pay would be low. But you would spend the summer living and working among the Dakota. It might take you around another bend or two on the river, which might teach you more about your destiny.”

“Sign me up,” I said, with no hesitation.

“Not so fast. Think it over and talk it over with this lady.” He nodded in Barb's direction. “I think she is a good person who will not stand in the way of things that are beneficial to you.”

“I can't tell you how much I appreciate this.”

The chief held up his hand like a stop sign. “Now the second thought. Remember, I had two. I have something to show you. Please follow me.”

Barb and I both followed him into the den part of the trailer. Chief Bear-in-cave put on his glasses. I wondered if the right side had a lens in it or just clear glass. Anyway, he got three ledger books from the bookshelves, and sat at a small desk nearby.

He said, “We keep records of everyone who is enrolled in the tribe. As you can see, our records are kept the old-fashioned way, in ledger books. The records aren't perfect, but I daresay they are more accurate than the records in the Bureau of Indian Affairs, even though they keep theirs in a computer.”

Barb said, “The Bureau of Indian Affairs sounds like another one of those serpent trees that Floyd has nightmares about.”

“Most definitely,” said the chief. “A monster with many heads.” He waved his arm at all the books on the shelves and continued, “We also have our history stored here. It isn't organized quite the way it ought to be, but it's all here if a person wants to take the time to find it.”

He looked up at me and said, “You have said you want to be a Dakota. These are my thoughts about it. Years and years ago, it was easy to know who was a red man and who was a white man. For that matter, I suppose it was simple to know who was a black man, who was a Jew, and so on.”

He got another book from the shelf. It wasn't a ledger book, it was one with a regular black binding. “Things are different now from what they were in the old days. It isn't easy now to identify Indians, as anyone who tries to take an Indian census knows. The government knows it better than anyone. This book is a publication of the Bureau of Indian Affairs.” The chief stopped talking and started leafing through the pages, looking for a certain passage.

When he did find the passage, he read only a few sentences out loud: “In the eyes of the government, the identity of an âIndian' is often blurred. If a man says he is an
Indian
, and can prove it, he is an
Indian.
To be counted as an Indian, a person must prove that he is an enrolled member of a tribe, band, or group recognized by the federal government.”

Then he closed the book. He took off his glasses, looked at me out of the good eye, and said, “Do you understand?”

“I think so,” I said. There was a lump in my stomach.

“A more folksy way of putting it would be, what a man is in his heart, that's what he truly is. Anyhow, every enrolled member of this tribe pays twenty-five dollars a year to maintain his tribal status. It's sort of like paying dues. If you pay your twenty-five dollars, and I write your name in the tribal enrollment book, who is to say that you are not Dakota?”

“My money's low,” I said quickly. “I'll have to send you the twenty-five bucks after I get home.”

“No you won't,” said Barb. “Here's the money, right from your own account.” She handed me the money, and I passed it over to the chief.

I felt really fulfilled and extremely warm inside. At that moment I felt so close to the one-eyed old chief and my social worker, I thought that maybe, if you knew your parents, and if you truly loved them, this might be something like how it would feel. There were tears forming in my eyes, but I had to blink them back, because I had a last request. Even so, it took a few moments.

Finally, I got enough composure and I said to Chief Bear-in-cave, “When you write my name in the book, please write Charly Black Crow, and not Floyd Rayfield.”

The chief answered that if that's the way I wanted it, that's the way he would write it.

Before I left, Chief Bear-in-cave and I exchanged the Sioux embrace, gripping the backs of one another's upper arms. “I'll be seeing you next summer,” I said.

The chief smiled, but he didn't speak.

EPILOGUE

Barb dropped me off at the shop so I could pick up the bike. I put the spare cans of Pennzoil in her car, along with my backpack. She left and said she'd meet me at the main gate.

I was in luck; Donny Thunderbird was in the shop, which gave me the chance to tell him goodbye. He helped me push the bike outside the shop. He said be sure and write, and I told him he could count on it.

“When you get your Stone Boy legend all written out, I'd like to have a copy of it,” he said.

“Of course,” I said. Real proud. I told him thanks for everything, and then the two of us exchanged the Sioux embrace.

Barb and I spent just a few minutes in one of the souvenir shops before we left. I bought a package of postcards, so I'd have some pictures of the reservation. Barb bought a copy of
Black Elk Speaks.
“I'll read this and then maybe I'll have some idea what this famous prophet was all about.”

Then we went on out to the main parking lot. It was crowded with people and vehicles, just the way it was when I first saw it. I was about ready to climb on when Barb said, “This bike isn't even licensed, is it?”

I smiled at her. “The bike's not licensed and neither is the driver.”

“Perfect. Is there anything else?”

I couldn't help laughing. “I don't have a helmet. That's against the law.”

“I think I hear the limb cracking. If there's anything else, don't tell me.”

“We'll only be on back roads. You don't attract much attention that way.”

“Just don't lose me. And if we do get stopped by an officer, let me do the talking.”

“You'd know what to say, wouldn't you?”

“Maybe yes, and maybe no. Let's hope we don't have to find out.”

Then I climbed up onto the Kawasaki and fired it up. I headed on down the road with the wind whipping me in the face. The sky was big and blue; I had Barb's car in my rearview mirror. I felt real free.

I guess you could say there were a lot of loose ends. There were the placement interviews Barb was arranging, the baseball team back in Joliet, and the big log was probably still there, waiting to be finished. I wondered about coming back to the reservation in a year. I was hoping Nicky wouldn't be too pissed about the bike.

But mostly, I just thought about the one thing I was really sure of, and it gave me that peaceful, easy feeling: I was now an Indian.

About the Author

James W. Bennett's uncompromising, challenging books for teens have earned him recognition as one of the nation's leadingâand most provocativeânovelists for young adults. His fiction has been used in curricula at the middle school, high school, and community college levels.

His 1995 novel,
The Squared Circle
, was named the year's finest by
English Journal
and the
Voice of Youth Advocates
.

Bennett has served as a guest author at Miami Book Fair International, as a featured speaker at the Assembly on Literature for Adolescents of the NCTE, and as a writer in residence (a program he established) for secondary schools in Illinois. He has also been the director for the Blooming Grove Writers Conference.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion there of in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or here in after invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Mimi Bark

ISBN: 978-1-4976-8402-7

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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New York, NY 10014

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