byAnita Endrezze
- Part One: Rogue River. Oregon 1856
"I promised to give you some of our experience in hunting Indians--
a kind of game not often treated of in your journal--
and as the sport has become rather universal
on this coast, every bit of experience will be of service
to the amateur or professional hunter...
A large herd crossed the mountains last winter...
We have caught a great many females or squaws and young,
but the bucks have generally made their escape...
You must [as a hunter] vow vengeance
against every Indian you meet,
but never molest any
except peaceable Indians,
who are unarmed,
and expect no danger;
thisis a gallant thing,
when done in the face of public opinion,
law and order.
If an Indian is a prisoner
and charged with some offense,
you go up to him very fiercely
and say, "You'd d-d scoundrel,
why did you steal my pantaloons?"
The Indian does not understand
a word of English, but thinks
its something terrible, looks scared,
and shakes his head. This is proof
positive
of his guilt
and you haul out your revolver
and blow his brains out.
He can't help himself,
for his feet and hands
are tied.
You have done a determined thing,
and henceforth
a made man."
from an newspaper editorial, Porter's Prairie, 1856
May 28, 1856
Part Two: Rogue River 1956
We live not far from the Rogue River
where Indian babies were thrown into bonfires.
I'm too young to know this.
Every night, though, I hear the black snakes in the grass
sliding through the meadows towards the river,
their long black bodies gliding, glistening like tears.
Under the pear-shaped stars, in the orchards of womb-like fruit.
I hear cries, weeping. I hear Sally Bell's voice:
Soon...some white men came.
They killed my grandfather
and my mother
and my father.
I saw them do it.
Then they killed my baby sister
and cut her heart out
and threw it in the brush
where I ran and hid.
My little sister was a baby,
just crawling around.
I didn't know what to do.
I was so scared that I guess
I just hid there
a long time
with my little sister's heart
in my hands...
Part Three: Rogue River in review 1996
I have a baby sister.
I have a daughter.
I have a mother.
I have a grandmother.
I have felt their hearts beating
under my cupped hands, against my cheek
as I loved them as I slept.
A long time have we hid
with our hearts in our hands
with the soft red rivers
flowing
from one to the other.
You can't say you didn't know.
Not now. Not now.
And though some have died
not hurting anyone,
they are this voice, this poem
untied, and henceforth,
determined
that the truth
will blow your brains out.
Note: We lived outside of Grant's Pass, Oregon for a few years, my parents logging their land for a living. Sally Bell was a Sinkyone Indian woman and her report was recorded in 1935.