The Mock Dock

One of my closest, dearest friends recently challenged me to let go of my dislike for turquoise jewelry and the turquoise-jewelry wearing lifestyle as a way to lighten my “soul’s burden”. I have never backed down from a challenge but will struggle to get over such hatred…it runs too deep, cuts too close.

It all began in a simpler time.  As I lay out under the stars, my tepee flaps slightly open (read that however you wish), I needed to find a way to make my tribe, The Potiwantforme, more productive.  Historically we were known for laying low, staying around the house and making general statements about existence and our place in the universe while eating the baked goods from our squaws, Dolly Madison and Sara Lee.

But, if my tribe were to survive, we must infiltrate the hierarchal hypocrisy of corporate Indian-hood.  So I determined that the Potiwantforme would be artisans, craftsmen if you will, of fine jewelry, even in a service based capitalist economy.  So we set out to create wearable art made from the bosom of our own Mother Earth.

I packed my rucksack and carefully placed my meat helmet upon my head and trundled off to find success in the mainstream Native America.  Once I donned the traditional uniform of tan Dockers and blue button up shirts, it was hard to turn back to my tribe.  Ten years of hard liquor and gambling excessively had turned me away from the simple, unfocused, often hungry beginnings that I left in the Potiwantforme people.  I was no longer one of them, but not one of these.  Each night, under God’s canvas, a single tear would roll down my cheek.

Having lost who I was, and finally knowing that we weren’t existing in toy box of some greater being, being tossed and turned like bok choy in the wok of life, I knew I must tarry home to my people, to replant the herb of my youth and burn the weeds that had been rolled over the time away.

Upon my return to my tribal land, I found one tepee remaining…that of my family.  Inside my sister was prostituting herself to make a mere living and feed herself and my mother, who lay, frail in the wet corner of the bison-hide hut.  I could not face them, as I had let them down and forgotten of their plight.  So, I selfishly did not tell them who I was.  I instead offered them one dollar I had proffered from toiling in the fluorescent lit halls and walls of corporate Native America, if they would allow me to sleep in their tepee (according to the sign they had color TV and free Wi-Fi)

They accepted my offer.  As I lay in bed, they crept toward my bed roll and attempted to slit my throat, but stumbled over the rucksack.  As its contents spilled across the dirt floor, they saw a shiny, silver and turquoise ring that I had brought with me from my travels.  With greedy hearts, they stole that turquoise ring and continued their murderous plot.  As each approached with knives in hand, I was forced to run wearing only my boxer shorts, my meat helmet and yellow sunglasses. (traditional PJs for the Potiwantforme tribe)

I have never been able to go home.  I cannot return to corporate Native America.  I am a lost son of no one.

So, though I think it very selfish to ask me to simply put my hatred aside, for you, all of you my friends whom I hold so lovingly close in my heart, I will try….

With much love from this battered stranger,

Holmes