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It ain't easy being indian
Friday, July 08 2011
 
Written by Ricey Wild,
Average user rating    (0 vote)
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THE MOOSIE CHRONICLES CONTINUE - THE RETURN TO REZBERRY

After months of miserable weather Rezberry is finally enjoying summer. The Sun gently warms my golden skin and the soft breezes that wind through jack pine stands keep me cool and refreshed by the scent they carry. Wild flowers and pretty weeds delight my eyes, and the smell of freshly cut grass is delicious. Life is good. But wait! What is that new odor? All of a sudden I feel an electric vibration over my entire body. I smell sweet grass combined with deep, rich, loamy earth and Red Stripe.
OMG! Moosie! My love is on his way back home! OMG! He is for sure coming up this time; I can feel it with my supernatural Indian sense! In my mind's eye he is riding a massive Appaloosa stallion; its mane and tail are decorated with feathers, ribbons and beads. Under the sun Moosie's hair has the sheen of a raven's wing and is longer than ever, parted in the middle, of course. He is not wearing a shirt either, but for him that's okay, preferable in fact. I don't know why some Indian guys don't like wearing shirts but they should seriously consider it. No one wants to look at faded old tats on a basketball belly covered in sparse grey hairs.
Now let me continue… Moosie is carrying an intricately beaded staff in his left hand that documents his bravery in battle and his many daring acts of love. Vividly colored pictographs are carved in it so Moosie can keep track of his astonishing volume of progeny and what days the mother's get paid. He is all dressed up for the reunion wearing patent leather, black fringed leggings with a formal black velvet breech cloth. Heavy silver bands studded with priceless turquoise surround his muscular upper arms and a flashy silver belt is slung low on his strong hips. MMMMMOOOOSIEEE in Tha House!
Now that I think of it, he was tryna' let me know he was on the way home but I, in my misery at his absence, was not exercising my Indian powers at all. I remember now that a wolf serenaded me with a plaintive love song as I sat in Moosie's old powwow chair (it still bears the imprint of his fine hind end) the other night under the stars, just missing him. I saw a sign too - it had a picture of Moosie on it and "Do you know this man?" was written on it. Apparently he owes for some double-horse parking fines and not picking up after his horses' business ends. How Chippical. But since no one can predict where he will ever show up, no one turned him in to the Rezberry Riders who surely have better things to do, like swarming a Rez house where there was an alleged 'mooning' of the neighbors.
Everything was in place for my love's arrival. I dyed my roots but I had accidentally picked the 'Dot Indian Black' instead of 'Feather Indian Black' in my excitement. I hope he won't notice right away, but of course he will later and tease me about where my caste mark is located? At that thought I began to tremble in anticipation and almost passed out hyperventilating. I used my inhaler so I could breathe again. Calm down, I say to myself. Moosie is only a man.
But he's not just a man. Moosie is the model for most Indian man/white woman romance novel covers, cans of wild sockeye salmon, "authentic" Indian greeting cards and Fakington statues of him - complete with his hair blowing around his body, even when there is no breeze. It just likes to do that.
In the past he has found work playing the axe in a rock-n-roll band but we wives got all jealous and snaky as to what song was sung for us alone. We rioted and that was the end of that. No one would book him anymore. Then Moosie opened a couple fry bread stands around the country so he could be supported in style. Trouble was, the wives who were cooking the frybread had a war as to whose fry bread was best and asked that he be the judge. I think that's when he took off for Amsterdam.
It is now evening and I hear the deep thrum of someone beating a hand drum approaching me from the direction of the woods. Fireflies begin to appear, mosquitoes beat it out of the glade I am standing in, the last rays of sunlight frame my long straight hair in an ethereal halo while my Indian senses are picking up the physically powerful presence of Moosie.
I see him now. Actually…no. It's just that darn Sasquatch that stalks me, he don't get that NO means NO! All of a sudden, for real this time, I am enveloped in a hot embrace that promises much more….

Users' Comments (1)
Posted by chaddillon, on 09-07-2011 14:50,
1. Sad, were is our guidence
With only reading the title of this article it stuck my soul. As a native i see that in fact that being native is like a fading bloodline we are, each generation it seems less and less our people stop following our culture. why cant we unite?
 
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