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21
May
On
3 November, after a night of close calls with drug dealers and an
early morning encounter with a mama black bear, I was on the
road by the time the sun
was barely showing above the horizon.
I
walked out on the highway and started heading west, Klondike taking
point. Within moments I
was standing on a small bridge, where I stopped to enjoy the scene.
Mist was still rolling across the bayou, and the sun was
glistening gold off the water as it snaked through a glade and out
to the ocean.
As
I stood there looking out onto the peace and calm, I wondered how
many of the drivers passing me actually noticed the beauty around
them: the bayou water slowly swirling on its way to the ocean;
blades of sawgrass gently swaying in the lazy current; a golden sun
blazing through the mist that wafted across the glade -- everything
so bright, almost overexposed, almost dream-like.
I remembered how it had been so easy for me to get caught up
in my daily life, and forget to simply stop sometimes, and just . .
. be.
Now
I was just "being" and the world rushed on around me.
I didn't have to worry about meeting with a client, I didn't
have to worry about deadlines.
I didn't have to rush off to a job I hated.
All I had to do was walk, and survive another day on the
road.
And
I still couldn't believe that I was finally "on the road,"
after years of planning and dreaming.
I
was ready to get into East Point and get settled in a campground.
"Ok, Klondikester!
Let's be on our way!" I said, and she instantly headed
down the road in the right direction, her own pack gently rocking
back and forth with her easy stride.
Such a smart dog, she was.
I
figured we had made it about seven miles the day before, and if I
kept pushing, we should make it into East Point sometime around
noon. Time enough to
find a campground, wash some clothes, make that ominous phone call,
and settle in and relax for a day or two.
The
morning was glorious. Most
of the road wound along the shoreline. On my left, pelicans soared and swooped and gracefully
crashed headlong into the water as they hunted breakfast in the
shallow waters of the tidal flats.
On my right was a lot of undeveloped land, with a few old,
small homes nestled among pine trees and palm trees and palmetto
bushes.
At
one point the road curved sharply to the right as it followed the
shore. From the curve,
out across the water several miles away, poking out from pine and
palm trees, I could see what looked to be the beginning of a town
– East Point, I assumed.
The
area I was passing through was so peaceful and serene.
But there was a large sign on the corner, clamoring out of
the trees, proclaiming, "BUY NOW!
Lots Still Available! Development
to begin SOON! ONLY 150
units – ACT FAST!"
It
was so strange, but as I read the sign, some part of me deep inside
began to ache. Never
before had I felt that way when faced with the specter of
development. As the
words sank in, I slowly realized that in a few months, none of what
I was looking at, none of the beauty and wildness, none of the sand
and trees, would be there anymore. If I walked this road again, even in only six months,
buildings and signs and side streets would be were I know walked.
150
UNITS! MY GOD!
WHERE? There would be no room left for anything but buildings and
displaced birds!
It
was now about 10:30 and the sun was starting to make the sweat role
off of me. Of course,
in the mornings, I never felt as bad as the heat usually made me
look -- in the afternoons, the reverse was usually true.
According to my map, East Point was about five miles away —
not quite two hours' walking.
About
that time I heard a car pull off the road and role up behind me.
As it got closer I turned to find a white sedan with four
middle-aged ladies in it. It
pulled up beside us and the driver, in a flowery "Sunday"
dress, giggled out her window, "Oh, don't worry, I won't run
you over." Everyone
else in her car giggled, too.
I
felt hardly reassured as her tires crunched past my toes.
Even K's expression was "HEY, I'M WALKING HERE!
BE CAREFUL WHERE YOU DRIVE THAT DARN THING!
I'VE GOT TEN MORE TOES THAN YOU DO!" as she back-stepped
and swirled around on her leash.
"You
look pretty hot," the Sunday Dress Lady said, and her friends
giggled again, regarding me with a mild, suburban curiosity from
behind their windows. I
didn't know whether to feel like an unexpected male guest at a tea
party — or a bug.
"It's
not too bad, yet," I answered politely, wondering what she was
leading up to. Once I
got a pace going, I didn't like to stop in the middle of the road.
But, a stranger's generosity was always welcome.
Over the last month, so many folks had pulled off the road,
or waited in parking lots for me to pass, to hand me crackers and
fruit, or bottles of water, or a can of Alpo for K and a cold soda
for me. Through this
kindness I was slowly being reminded that there were a lot of
generous, caring people in this country, who still knew how to give
the right way -- without expectation of anything in return.
Over the years, I had come to be quite cynical about such
things. Friendship and
kindness, for whatever reasons, always seemed to come with a price
tag.
"Well,"
she said, getting right to her point, "when you take a break,
this will help quench your soul."
And she shoved a piece of paper in my hand, waved, giggled
with the rest of her friends, and left me standing in a cloud of
dust, which instantly started to settle in my open mouth.
I
looked at my hand and found what I expected: a pamphlet telling me
that eternal salvation was mine, all I had to do was admit that I
was a no good lowly worm and ask for forgiveness. Well, that's not exactly what it said, but it's close.
I chuckled as I folded the paper and put it in my side pocket
to dispose of properly, later.
Maybe I would use it to help start the fire I hoped to have
that evening.
I
stood there watching the car disappear around the bend, Klondike
blinking and shaking herself as the dust settled.
Then I took a swig from my water tube, swished it around and
spit out the muddy film and grit that had formed in my mouth.
At least the fellow on Highway 27 had offered K and I water
and a snack while making sure that we had been "saved."
From whom? though, I
wondered.
For
many years I have pondered the ramifications of unconditional love.
There had been a low tolerance for prejudice in my family:
all people, no matter what color, deserved the same treatment and
respect. Oddly, though,
there was a lot of judgement, and in that I came to discover what
one might call "the white man's point of view." A subtle arrogance -- that barely
perceptible
attitude that says, "Well, if they were more like us, they
wouldn't have the problems they are having."
As
I walked, thinking about the Sunday Dress Lady, I found myself
pondering unconditional love again; such a deep and multifaceted
concept. For years I
have worked hard to learn how to move beyond my own shortcomings
that ultimately leads to judging others.
Now I was trying to move beyond my growing irritation at her.
It
wasn't so much the way she had acted toward me.
I have no qualms about telling someone to please mind their
own business — that is, if they don't leave me standing in a whirl
of dust before I can speak. What
bothered me was what about the people in distant lands who don't
know how to see through the hypocrisy and tell the Sunday Dress
Ladies (and men) to mind their own business, thank you.
For
me, I guess, it is hard to believe that people like that still exist
in the year 2000. With
all the advancements the world has made, in some ways we are still
no different than we were thousands of years ago.
That is not only saddening, it is inexcusable. It is the Sunday Dress Ladies and their beliefs that have
caused untold pain, death and destruction for how many millennia?
And it still continues today, in one form or another.
The
more I have come to know Robert Tree Cody, his family and other
Native Americans. The
more I hear the stories about how they were physically beaten by
supposed upstanding, church going, teachers for speaking their own
language -- a language that has been around longer than English. The
more I learn that this has taken place in my lifetime, not a hundred
years ago, but in
the 39 years that I have walked this Earth.
The more that I realize that this abuse was taking place at
the same reservation schools, at the same times, that my family
performed at them, the more I find myself struggling with the
concept of unconditional love for the purveyors of such atrocities.
Worse
yet, how can they continue to force their beliefs on others when
they can't even agree on their beliefs themselves?
I
went to one church before my family started touring the country
doing our acrobatic health and fitness programs in schools.
From the time I was six, till I was 12, we were on the road
performing. Often, we
were invited to attend Sunday worship — the denominations varied
greatly. And I remember
it didn't take long for me to become confused about three things: If
the base religion was Christianity, how come didn't any of the
churches agree with each other?
How could they preach about love, and yet attack each other
in the mean and spiteful ways they did?
And since none of them could agree on anything, then who was
"right"?
Since
then, and after a year of Confirmation class when I was 13, and
countless sermons and Wednesday night Bible studies spread over
nearly 20 years, my questions, still, go unanswered.
And
I am left with an incontrovertible conclusion: one person has no
right to tell another what to believe.
Period.
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