Trees and Indians.

Years ago, I lived on Oak Street. Living there always brought to mind the old joke that when real estate developers start a project, they cut down all the trees and then name the streets after them.

Something similar, only infinitely more tragic, has taken place since the first Europeans set foot on land that was to become the United States of America: our forefathers—government, military, business interests, and ordinary citizens—all but exterminated the Indian tribes that already lived here, then named things after them. States, counties, cities, towns, rivers, lakes, mountains, canyons, valleys, and more carry names derived from Native American languages.

Of our United States, 27 of them—27!—carry names that come from the languages of the tribes that occupied the land before being forced off by one nefarious means or another.

Here in my home state of Utah (named for the Ute Indians) there are five counties with Indian names, along with three cities and towns, at least one mountain and two mountain ranges, and a whole lot of other stuff. And Utah is not unusual—in fact, there are many, many states whose maps are marked with many, many more names borrowed from Indian words.

I suppose in some sense it is a sign of respect. But it is impossible to believe that whatever smidgen of honor is involved in any way scratches the surface of the damage we have done—and still do—to the people who lived here when our ancestors arrived.

(ABOVE: The Indian riding through the trees is a work of art by Bev Dolittle)

 

A healthy obsession.

For several years now, I have been obsessed with the Massacre at Bear River. I can’t say for sure when this obsession took hold, but I do remember why.

The history of the American West has always been of interest to me, and that interest has always included our growing nation’s history of eliminating any competition for the land and its resources. In other words, the systematic exclusion and eradication of the native tribes that occupied the land.

At some point in my education, after years of study, I learned about the Massacre at Bear River where, on 29 January 1863, the United States Army launched a dawn attack on a Shoshoni village and killed some 250 to 350 men, women, children, and babies. Most of the dead were noncombatants. And the annihilation included rape and torture, as well as the destruction of food, clothing, lodges, and the theft of the horse herds on which the people relied. It was the deadliest massacre of American Indians by the Army in all of Western history.

I was astounded—dumbfounded—that such a pivotal event had largely escaped notice in American history. Little had been written about it, and most of what had been published was incomplete at best, and inaccurate at worst.

Thus began my obsession. The result, to date, is represented above. I have written a lot about the Massacre at Bear River. Most recently, a novel. Before that, in no particular order, a nonfiction book and shorter pieces of nonfiction included in a book and for a magazine. Short fiction for an anthology, and published in my own collection of short stories. Poems in an anthology and a chapbook. And a poem that became a song.

There may well be more to come, as the Massacre at Bear River continues to haunt me.

When January 29 rolls around again, as it will in a few weeks, I hope to be at the site of the Massacre at Bear River to once again join the Northwestern Band of the Shoshone Nation in honoring their departed ancestors, who have yet to claim their proper place in history.