History repeats itself.

Not long ago, while visiting the Long Barracks Museum at the Alamo in San Antonio, Texas, we came across this statue. It’s not a big statue, only 18 inches high or so, and displayed in a clear plastic box. There are other statues of a similar size throughout the short tour of the Long Barracks. This one depicts a padre—a priest or clergyman of some sort (we didn’t get his name) from the long-ago days before the Alamo became the Alamo and was known as the Mission San Antonio de Valero.

What intrigues me about the statue is that it proves beyond doubt that history repeats itself; that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Because what the statue clearly depicts is a padre with his handheld digital device. And he is doing, way back then, the same kind of thing you see happening everywhere, all the time, today.

Maybe he is engaged in a phone call on speaker. Perhaps he is sending (or reading) a text message. It could be that he is using the camera function to take a photograph—maybe even a selfie.

Could he have gotten an alert on one of his social media platforms? Is he responding to something on Facebook or Instagram or TikTok or the wreck formerly known as Twitter?

Since he is some kind of Catholic clergyman, it is probably a safe bet that he is not perusing a dating site or matchmaking service. I suppose he could be checking the weather forecast. Or he might be watching cute cat videos on YouTube.

By way of full disclosure, I don’t have any kind of handheld digital device myself, so this is only totally ignorant, wholly uninformed speculation on my part.

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)