Sunday, November 6, 2011

My son! My only son!

I shall never forget the day the white man took my sons lives! I am Peace Chief Big Deer of the Shawnee. For over thirty years, I have led my village. I have sought peace among the white nation but this hasn't always been easy. In the days of my forefathers, the Shawnee have only depended upon Our Grandmother to supply for our needs. We made own weapons, cooking supplies, and other neccesities. That all changed when the French entered our lands. Generations later, we find ourselves dependent upon the trade goods the white man supplies. We are at the mercy of the white traders.
My hope for a better future lies within my sons. Yet even they, the white man stole from me. Before the war between the French and British, I adopted a French trader as my son. For many years, we traded with him then he introduced his wife, Anna, to our people. She gave birth in our village to Calico and Rose. I was a happy man. A few years later, I adopted Anna's brother, Alexander. Life was good. My three sons and daughters loved thier white siblings. My grandchildren quickly accepted Rose and Calico. In my thinking I thought if the white man saw I had adopted two of their men then they would leave us alone. Life would be for the better. We would trade within our family. But this didn't satisfy the white man. White men want what they can't have. Our lands.
War came to our lands soon after. The British and the French wanted to lay claim to our lands. My people sided with the French. In that war, my two youngest sons were killed and my youngest daughter, Creek lost her husband. They had only been married for a week. It broke her heart. Francios white brother, Pierre, almost died. I felt sorry for him. My father - in-law, the great shaman, Yellow Oak, healed his wounds. Pierre claimed Creek as his wife.
When the war ended, the white man's destruction did not cease. Just a few days ago, word came to me from Little Owl and Pierre our missing trading party had been found. They were all dead. Smallpox had taken the lives of my sons Brave Deer and Francios and many other sons of our elders. Alexander claims the blankets were infested with smallpox and the British traded them to all native populations with the intent to kill us! When will this all end? Do not they not understand I want peace? I signed a peace treaty!
Oh, I do not know how much longer I can take this. I remain strong for my people. My last remaining son, Alexander, lies before me in his bed. He is dying. Without a son, my people will be without a leader. The leadership of the tribe is handed from father to son. Only a war chief is not. Alexander is plaqued with demons of his past. The white man destroyed his spirit and his mind. He is a good man with a good heart. The white nation taught him to lie, steal, cheat and murder. None of that matters to me. To me he is my son. My only surviving son. The fate of my people lie in his hands. This fire red haired, pale skin, green eyed man is my people's only hope. Yet here he lies, demon possessed with a strong fever that our shaman says might kill him. Oh, what am I to do? My son. My only son.

No comments:

Post a Comment