| From the Publisher... Winds As with other themes we have explored, Native Americans was one that fell from the sky, driven by a few submissions at first. Our current Senior Fiction Editor, Patti Kurtz, suggested Joseph Bruchac and he graciously offered two of his poems for publication. After attending the 412 Conference in November, I requested Diana Hume George's book, The Lonely Other, and the subjects of her essays melded with the theme as well. Kimberlee Medicine Horn's "My Homeland" became in my mind a centerpiece for the issue immediately after I read it the first time. The real face it gives to reservation life stays with the reader long after the last word is read. Carleen Phillips graciously returned with another poem with native flavor, and "Four Winds" could almost be considered a prayer to the gods she illustrates. Finally, at literally the very last minute, Linda Ballou's "Bringing It Home in the Big Hole" rounded out the themed pieces for the issue, with her account of her travels around Wisdom, Montana. This theme although born of chance, is one I would have eventually explored, and probably will again, because of the mystery and taboo surrounding the culture in my own community. There are many in and around my community who can claim their part of the culture by merit of their ancestry, but here there is an imaginary line drawn between those who would show pride, and those who would seek to hide that blood. My own family was not in America when the white man was intermingling with Native Americans, but I do understand the concept of stigmatism attached to admitting the existence of certain ancestors - to this day, many within my family refuse to acknowledge Irish roots intermingling with Scottish. As with any other racial prejudice, the shame some families I know have shown about their Native American ancestry is one of the ugly side effects of intolerance. It would not be so unsettling to me if the motives for this shame were rooted instead in acknowledgement of the destruction of the Native American culture for the sake of acreage. A conquering force rarely admits to the illegitimacy of its actions. My own family, while implicitly denying its own roots, was long fascinated with the culture of the Native Americans, particularly in the |
knowledge to be found in the native medicine. Some of the women of my family had been healers, and passed the traditions down through the generations back in Scotland, continuing to do so when they made the passage to America. Unable to make use of some of the remedies they had readily available to them across the Atlantic, these healing women actively searched for alternatives in their new home. I was raised in a family that had its particular prejudices, but one in particular was never shared with our neighbors - bias against the peoples who called this land home before the white man ventured here. A kindred spirit was fostered between at least the women of our family and the Native Americans from nearly the beginning of our time here. I remember my grandmother talking of the winds, and how they were the same on both sides of the Atlantic. "The names are different, but we speak to the same," she would say, as she taught me the similarities between our own traditions and those of our Native neighbors. Even though we respected the culture of the Native Americans, we would hide that attitude from many of our white neighbors. "The winds speak to us, and we speak to them," my grandmother would teach, "but we do not speak of those conversations to those who cannot hear." The Anglos - whites that would not show tolerance to other cultures - as grandmother called them, were always outsiders to us. It was acceptable to help outsiders with minor problems, but she always discouraged letting them know any of our best secrets - particularly any healing arts that were not already known to the old pharmacists who didn't just dispense pre-made medications. We have almost lost a grand treasure, because of the mistakes of many Americans' ancestors. Native American culture has its place in our collective histories, even if we do not share a drop of blood. Those winds I learned about as a girl still speak to those who will listen, and any who hear them have great gifts to offer. I am honored now to offer a small place for those traditions to be explored, and commend every individual with knowledge of that rich history who commits it to written words. Elizabeth Ross |