My friend wrote me from across this grand ol fuckin land this past February and the letter included a story...
Nameless... By L. Rawson
Even though we are not allowed music I have found ways to hear it by singing aloud or writing down my favorite songs so they play in my head as they are appearing on the page. I met this guy, we call him Cook. He is about five foot seven, wiry but strong, and he is half Cherokee Indian and half Black. We call him "Cook" because he sings Sam Cooke songs all day long and they are right on key!
He has taught me a lot in only a few days. His father, The Cherokee, was aptly named "Crazy Horse". That was his legal name. He was born on a reservation in Oklahoma to alcoholic parents. Growing up he had no schooling whatsoever. He spent his time roaming the reservation looking for good places to fish and getting into small trouble with local boys. When he was twelve he whitnessed his father's murder at the hands of his mother. He did not understand at that young age but later learned that she killed his father because he was a vicious drunk and it was "only a matter of time before he would have killed her".
Crazy Horse grew tired and frankly bored of the reservation and its chaotic, drunk society and decided to leave when he was only fifteen. He felt great remorse because he would be leaving his three young sisters behind but reasoned that he would go insane if he did not discover the rest of this great country that once belonged entirely to his people. It took him a long time to finally end up in Philadelphis, for he had no car and little money. IHe would hitch-hike his way to different cities - to St. Louis to chicago, to Cleveland, and all the small earthly towns in between. Whereever he could find work he would settle for awhile and save his money until he wanted to move on.
One cool night, while in a a seedy Southside Chiacago motel room, Crazy horse grew tired and frustrated. He was nervous and confused like he had never been before in his life. Though he was still young, only nineteen, he recalled back on his four years of travel and could not recalled when he was uneasy or unsure. He knew he had to leave oklahoma at fifteen, it was very cut and dry. And in ever town or city up until that cool in night Chicago, Crazy Horse felt that he had reason and purpose to be where he was. but that night in his motel Crazy Horse could not pull his racing mind and so he ventured downstairs to a local bar. He had seen first hand the destruction of alcoholism on his reservation and he knew firsthand the sorrow and loss cause by it yet he simply never connected the two ideas in his head; the action of drinking and the reactions of death and destruction. He simply thought, perhaps, that these who did bad were that way by their nature - and the alcohol was neither here nor there. Forgetting his upbringing and his family heritage's history, he stepped into the corner bad, fascinated by its lights and the noises of jubilation emanating from the doors. He sat down inside and drank beer until he was warm. After that he drank ever day for the next fifty years. He eventually made it to Philadelphia and married a beautiful black girl named Sherry. He settled down and worked hard. He raised Cook and six other children in South Philly. one day when cook was only fifteen his father took him and his older brother, Marcus, back to Oklahoma, Crazy Horse told Sherry that he was old and tired, and by the time the alcohol had taken a horrendous toll on his body and mind. He wanted to take his two eldest boys back to the reservation so they could claim their "head rights" before Crazy Hose died. Cook did most of the driving from philadelphia to "The Land of Green Rivers", Oklahoma, while Marcus slept in the back. After almost five days, they graced upon the reservation. Crazy Horse was asleep in the back seat at the time, but he awoke immediately as they arrived on his land. He directed Cook to where he grew up but they came to find that it was no longer there. The reservation had changed drastically in the time that Crazy horse had been gone. All the marvels of Technology and Progressive Society were in place everywhere - casinos, new cars, clubs, nice restaurants - everything. After stopping at a local bar that Crazy Horse recognized as owned by one of "his own" Cook and MArcus learned that everyone was just like their father - old, disgruntled, and drunken Indians wrung dry by working the tired earth and by years of drinking alcohol everyday. After hours of drinking and associating with old indians, Crazy Horse directed the boys back to the car and out on a long drive into the lower Ozark Mountains. This time Crazy Horse drove. Cook and Marcus passed out on the, but on they both reasoned that they must have been driving for hours, for the place they found themselves in was different from anything they had seen anywhere - let alone in Oklahoma so far. In front of them was a steep mountain, but it was covered in rolling grass and had a river running down and through it. Outside of the car the boys stood at the river's edge with Crazy Horse beside them. He told them that this was his land, and the land of their people, he told them to care of his children, their brothers and sisters, and that he was in fact, sorry. Then he jumped into the river and let it take him away.
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