Winter
with Scratches Loud
by Renee Rallo
My first morning on the reservation I woke
up to the sound of tiny teeth chewing. Without stirring, I opened
one eye and saw that small ball of fur and tail topped off with pink ears
and beady black eyes. The mouse saw me watching him build his nest
in the corner of my room and let out a squeak that sent a chill up my spine
and set my arm hairs on end.
“Go away!” I shrieked at the mouse while
I sat up in bed and banged the wall to scare him away. He scurried
under the floorboard and gave another faint squeal of defiance as I ran
out of the room to find my grandmother.
I have been on the reservation since August,
when my mother left me here to work in Rapid City. We had come together
in the summer, as we always do. But this year, she left alone.
“Just for the winter, Lillian,” my mother
told me at the bus station. She stood there, stroking my hair with
one hand and clutching her only suitcase with the other. “I’m going
to work all day and night at the hospital this winter and save up money
so that you can live closer to school next year.” As she pushed me
towards my grandmother and stepped on to the bus she said,
“Don’t worry child, when I come back, you’ll
be a winyan, a woman, like me. Respect your grandmother and
know that I love you.” She blew me a kiss off her pudgy brown hand
and left me there, baking in the August sun.
As the snow built up outside, the mouse
chose my room to stay in for the winter. This house of Grandma’s
isn’t closed up enough to keep him out. This is one of the
Sioux 400 the BIA built years ago and gave away for free. I had thought
to myself that it had to be free because no Indian would pay for such an
aluminum shack. The reservation was so different than Rapid City,
where I grew up with my mother. No furnace to sit by, only wood that
must be gathered, cut and built into a fire which only signals more mice
to come inside and get cozy.
“It is wani yetu wi, November, Moon
of Starting Winter,” my grandmother said. “The mice have come to
us for shelter and friendship”
“I hate that mouse. There are no
mice in Rapid City.” I grumbled.
“Lillian, come here now. I want to
braid your hair.” With a nod of her head, Grandma motioned for me
to sit between her knees. I shuffled over, upset that she didn’t
care about my mouse problem. As she tugged on my knots, she told
me a story.
In the Black Hills, there lived a mouse
who began, one day, to hear a roaring in his ear. “Do you hear that
roaring noise?” He asked the other mice. “No, there is no noise,
pay no mind to what you think you hear,” the others replied. But,
for days the mouse heard the roar and finally, his curiosity pushed him
to find the source of the noise.
After three days of crawling, the noise
kept getting louder and louder. Until finally, it was all he could
hear. He came upon a giant river, and found the roar he had been
searching for. He sat next to the river and thought about how beautiful
it was and wished his other mice friends had come with him to see the sight.
Suddenly, he heard the noise of paw steps and the mouse turned to his right
to see a raccoon staring at him.
“What are you doing here?” asked the
mouse.
“I have come to drink from the river,
what are you doing here?” asked the raccoon.
“I have followed the noise of the river.
Now that I see it, I realize it is the most beautiful thing I have ever
seen” .
“This is the most beautiful?” asked
the raccoon. “Well, if you want to see something spectacular, then
you must squeeze together and jump as high as you can. When you reach
the peak of your jump, open your eyes and then you will see the most beautiful
sight”.
The mouse was afraid, for he had never
jumped very high before. But, he worked up his courage and did it.
He gathered himself together, and jumped up as high as he could.
At the peak of his jump, he opened his eyes and saw the vast mountain
range, covered in greenery and graced with streams all over. The
mouse was so entranced by what he saw, that he didn’t look where he was
landing and fell directly into the river. After much struggle, he
rescued himself from the current and floated on a piece of wood toward
the riverbank. He had floated far away from the raccoon. Even
though he felt fear, he decided that he was going to find the mountains
he saw in his jump. He roamed along until he came to a field.
At the edge of the field, he came across
a huge black, furry being with dark brown eyes, full of pain and wet with
tears.
“What are you and what is the matter,
great being?” asked the mouse.
“I am ta tan ka, buffalo, and
I am dying. The only thing that can save me is the eye of a mouse,
but there is no such thing as a mouse, and so, I will die”, cried the buffalo.
“I am a mouse, I will give you my eye
so that you can live” offered the mouse.
With that, the mouse’s eye flew from
his head and into the great buffalo and the buffalo was healed. Ta
tan ka rose up and thanked the mouse.
“I am indebted to you, where are you
going now?”
“I am going to find those great mountains
that I saw, but I am afraid to cross this field, afraid an eagle will swoop
down and eat me”.
The buffalo thought for a moment and
then said, “If you walk beneath me, I will lead you across the field to
the foot of the Sacred Mountains. The eagle will not be able to see
you. I am a sacred buffalo and you will be safe under me”. And so
they set out and made it safely across the field to the foot of the mountain.
With only one eye, the mouse went on alone and soon came across a large
being with gray fur, shaking and panting in great pain.
“What are you and what is the matter?”
asked the mouse.
“I am sung manitu tan ka,
the great wolf, and I am dying. The only thing that can save me is
the eye of a mouse, but there is no such thing as a mouse and so I will
die.” The mouse thought for a moment. This great wolf’s life
could be saved by giving his eye, but he was so close to the Sacred Mountains
and without his eye, he would not be able to see its beauty. But
the wolf was so beautiful and fine that he deserved to live and so the
mouse said,
“Oh, but there IS such a thing as a
mouse. That is what I am and I will give you my eye so that you may
live.” With that, the eye flew from the mouse’s head and into
the wolf and the great wolf was healed.
“I am indebted to you. Where are
you going and how can I help you?”
“Well, I was going to find the Sacred
Mountains but I am afraid that an eagle will swoop down and eat me on my
way, and now I can not see,” replied the mouse.
“Climb on my back,” offered the wolf.
“Your fur will blend with my fur, the eagle will not see you and I will
carry you to the top of the Sacred Mountains”.
And so they set out and made it to
the top of the mountain and the mouse got off the great wolf’s back.
The mouse roamed around for a while
until he ran into a frog.
“To ka ho? What’s wrong?” asked
the frog. The mouse told his tale of his jump and his journey and
the buffalo and the eye and the wolf and the eye.
“Now I am on the Sacred Mountains, and
I can not see their beauty.” The frog felt badly for the mouse and proceeded
to describe the surroundings to him in great detail. Neither
one of them noticed the shadow that crossed over them. The mouse wanted
to show the frog how high he had jumped in the first place and so he tried
again. He scrunched himself into a ball and jumped up with all his
might and at the peak of his jump, wam bli, the eagle that had been
circling, swooped down and devoured the mouse.
The mouse felt himself at the peak and
realized he did not fall back to the ground. Instead, he felt himself
going higher. Slowly, he began to see again and looked down towards the
ground. He saw the most spectacular sight, the Sacred Mountains,
from above. The mouse and the eagle became one and soared in the
clouds and finally, the mouse was able to see the Sacred Mountains through
his eagle eyes.
I turned to look at my grandmother who
had long since finished my two perfect braids and looked past the tears
that had welled up to see a great depth behind her eyes. I realized
that I too, had tears in my eyes and wondered if I had that kind of depth
within me. I looked, but found no words in my throat.
As she stood up, she whispered,
“The mouse comes to you for friendship.”
I remember the next three months in white
as the blizzards blew through and kept me, grandmother and my mouse huddled
by the fire. The mouse told us his name was Scratches Loud and we
all had a good laugh about how much I hated him when we first met in my
room that November morning. The days of that winter were long and I spent
most of my time playing with my new friend. Scratches Loud
told me stories about his clan and mouse tribe. On the coldest
days, we sang for my grandmother the songs that make springtime come.
“When you sing about the sun and the June
berries, you call for them to come to you. And the more you sing,
the quicker they come,” Scratches Loud said that singing produced
the warmth that filled our small tin home. Smiling broadly, my grandmother
agreed with him.
During the day, Scratches Loud and I would
go outside to gather wood from the pile and make paths through the snow
banks. We would pretend to be lost and play a game of survival but
we always found our way back home just before dark. During the night,
grandma and I would concentrate on our beadwork by the faint light of the
lamp. Keeping what she was working on a secret, she sat with her
back to me. She turned around only when she taught me a new pattern.
I was making a dress for my mother to wear when she came back for me in
the summer. Grandma showed me how to make a pattern of the hills
where we lived. Scratches Loud was my main subject and model.
As May, the Moon of Green Leaves, came
upon us, the snow began to melt. Grandma started telling me to hurry
and finish my mother’s dress, for she would be coming for me soon.
Tears well up in her eyes when she speaks of my mother coming back and
so that makes the tears well up in my eyes, too.
On a warm Friday, Grandma handed me a bag
and instructed me to say goodbye to Scratches Loud and walk with her. I
kept asking her where we were going but she would not answer me.
We walked to the bus station that I had
been to five months before to see my mother off.
“Kun si, grandmother, where are
you sending me?” I cried. I searched her deep eyes for an answer,
my own eyes pleaded with her to tell me.
“Your hair has gotten so dirty this winter,”
was all she said to me. “You have to wash it before you can go on.”
With that, she pushed me on the bus and turned to walk back to our home.
As I wondered where I was being sent off to, I saw from the bus window
two of my uncles come out from behind the station and join her. Why
hadn’t I seen them earlier? Why were they hiding from me? Where was
I going? I cried and cried until I fell asleep.
I spent that weekend at my mother’s small
apartment in the city.
"Grandma doesn’t hug as strong as you do,
mom.” I told her.
I wondered when I would go back to the
reservation. I had left the beaded dress I made for my mother there,
I had left Scratches Loud there and left my grandmother there without any
real goodbye.
Saturday, my mother spent a lot of time
cooking more food than the two of us could have eaten. I was surprised
that after I had been gone for so long, my mother now only spoke to me
in commands.
“Lillian, don’t mash the berries so long
. . . make the balls of dough flatter for the fry-bread, girl.”
When the food was done she wrapped the pemmican, wozapi and
taniga
soup and put it in the refrigerator. Later that night, she washed
my hair and sat me down to create two perfect braids on my head.
And she did not speak. What happened that weekend to inflict my mother
and grandmother with the same unusual silence?
Sunday morning we woke before the sun and
once again boarded the bus. This time, the walk to my grandmothers
house was tiring. I was full of confusion, weighed down with packages
of food and frustrated by the silence. As we walked up the path,
I couldn’t help but notice all of the cars parked nearby. I saw many
people mingling around, saw my uncles from the bus station gathering willow
branches near the south side of the house, saw smoke rising from a freshly
built Inipi, sweat lodge, saw my aunts busy cooking over the fire
and finally, saw my grandmother in a newly crafted dress with intricate
beadwork. I walked over to her and a broad smile came over her deep
brown face. She bent down and I expected her to kiss my head, but
instead, she took a deep breath of my clean hair.
“Now you are ready, wi cin.
The Inipi is waiting to tell you the path of your life and I have
spent all weekend dreaming your name.”
In the Sweat Lodge, I sang my winter songs,
and the wichasha wakan, medicine man sang his songs of prayer.
“Brothers and sisters, each of you is asked
to pray: Pray for what you desire in this life. Appreciate the life
giving air. We must be aware. Someday, each of us will take
our last breath. This cool air rushing inward Reminds us to appreciate
Our Breath, Our Life.”
I soon felt the direction of my life call
to me.
When the ceremony was over, my relatives
moved into the house to eat the feast that had been cooking since Friday
when I left. I saw my mother inside, dishing out the wozapi,
berry pudding.
“Lillian helped me make this.” She proudly
declared to everyone who tasted it.
“That wi cin? That girl?” They replied.
“No,” my mother said as she caught my eye
across the distance. “That winyan, that woman.”
Grandma came towards me and removed my
clothing which was soaked with sweat from the Inipi. The cool
towel felt good as she stroked the heat from my skin and murmured prayers
in her deep Lakota voice. She handed me a dress, and I knew it was what
she had worked on all winter, sitting with her back to me. Our house,
the fire, the reservation, Scratches Loud and the deep white snow was all
there in the design. It was beautiful. Tears welled up in her
deep eyes and I felt the warm water well in my eyes, too.
She put the dress over my head and pulled
it over my body. Then she stepped back and admired the fruit of her
winters work.
“You came here with sadness in your heart.
Missing your mother and in fear of the winter mouse. But, you learned
from Scratches Loud how to make a nest your home, you learned how to sing
to invite the warmth and you kept me company during the Moon of Hard Winter.
Your breath kept us warm and alive when otherwise I would have frozen from
loneliness. Your song kept my fingers warm enough to bead the dress
you and I wear. Now, you are a woman, a winyan like me and your mother.
You have gone to your first Inipi , have found the direction of your life.
And so, you are renamed. Within this home you are Warm Song Woman.
Your name is your power and when I call you by it, you gain more power.
You tell Lillian to say goodbye to Scratches Loud and I invite Warm Song
Woman to come out and join the feast.”
My grandmother left the room and my eyes
searched the floor for Scratches Loud’s nest. I called to him, but
he did not respond. In the west corner of the room, an eagle tail
feather caught my eye and it was then that I knew Scratched Loud was gone
forever. I walked to the corner where his nest used to be, picked
up the feather lying there and fixed it in my braid.
It was dusk, my first night as a woman.
Before joining the feast, I walked outside and looked to the sky.
And I saw Scratches Loud soaring above the treetops, his first night as
an eagle.
The short story, "Winter with Scratches
Loud" was written with two goals in mind: the first to serve as an example
of the distinctive writing and storytelling style of Native Americans,
the second to address issues of acculturation and ritual within the Lakota
tribe.
In his article, “’No One Ever Did This
To Me Before” Contemporary American Indian Texts in the Classroom”, J.
Purdy writes that five distinct elements of Native American literature
must be present to distinguish this form from other styles of writing:
Landscape, Literature, Language, Ceremony/Ritual, and Community/Communal
Identity. In “Winter with Scratches Loud”, I tried to incorporate
all of these elements to establish a believable Native American voice.
By incorporating the seasons and alluding to the hills area the where the
story takes place, a landscape is established. The effect of literature
is made created in the oral tradition of storytelling illustrated when
the grandmother relates the story of Jumping Mouse to Lillian. Lakota
language is used by the grandmother and mother throughout the story.
Ceremony/Ritual is obviously addressed during the sweat lodge and naming
process. Finally, a community/communal identity is established in
the gathering of friends and relatives at the end of the story.
While doing research for this assignment,
I noticed a fifth element present in most Native American writing, the
use of magic realism. While magic realism has no concrete definition,
it can be explained as a style of writing which incorporates both the real
and unreal, the possible and impossible. Literature written in the
style of magic realism does not depend on linear storytelling or chronological
recounting of events. The use of magic realism is found mostly in
non-Anglo literature, reflecting minority culture’s recognition of the
idea that magic is a part of reality, that spirit is part of the body and
that human beings are not separate from each other or other elements of
nature. Thus, I gave the mouse, Scratches Loud, a speaking role,
acknowledging the belief in the possibility of communication with animals
recognized in native American culture.
In this tale, Lillian is in the process
of being acculturated as an Indian by spending a harsh winter on the reservation.
The first element of acculturation is shown through storytelling.
The story of Jumping Mouse obviously serves to “humanize” the mouse to
allay Lillian’s fear of it, but it teaches much more than that. The
story subtly teaches about persistence, the give-away, the sacred stature
of animals and the idea of an afterlife.
The second element of acculturation is
the act of beading, a traditional art among Sioux tribes. The end
result of the beadwork is not only a functional item, such as a dress,
but the design is also symbolic of an experience and, in this case, an
artistic representation of a phase of life.
Traditional food is cooked by the mother
in this story, Lillian participates in the preparation which is another
method of acculturation or “Indian education”.
Finally, the sweat lodge experience and
naming ceremony serve to initiate Lillian into her Indian culture and gives
her a concrete ritual experience to mark her official entrance into the
Lakota tribe.
All in all, I attempted to include many
subtle and overt cultural traditions and behaviors into the development
of Lillian’s character. I portrayed her as humble and quiet, which
seems to be characteristic of behavior valued in the Lakota tribe.
I also found that the tradition of naming an adolescent is not accompanied
by a set or specific ritual. Although the time one is named is distinct,
special and ceremonial, it is not structured and conducted in the same
way each time. I found this aspect different than most other Native
American rituals which seem steeped in structure and specific, repeated
steps.
I was hesitant to write a story in the
first person, attempting to assume the role of a Native American.
However, in preparing to write, I read many short stories and books about
culture and behavior, and I feel the end result is true to the culture
and a fair representation of a young native American girl.
Annotated Bibliography
Erdrich, Louise. The Antelope
Wife. New York: HarperCollins Publishers,1998.
This novel served as an excellent
example of Native American literature.
I specifically drew from the non-linear
style of storytelling. I got the idea
to incorporate beadwork from this novel.
Grimes, Katherine. Personal Interview.
25 September 1999.
This four hour interview/discussion was
conducted on “sacred time”.
Katherine shared the story of Jumping
Mouse with me and contributed enormously to all of the ideas on which the
story is based. My conversation with her was fascinating and gave
me a deep understanding of Indian-ness and the virtue of humility.
I would not have felt comfortable writing this story in the first person
if I had not been able to pick Katherine’s brain for so long and on so
many different subjects.
Grobsmith, Elizabeth S. Lakota of
the Rosebud: A Contemporary Ethnography.
Fort Worth: Harcourt Brace College
Publishers, 1981.
This ethnography gave me an understanding
of modern life on the Lakota Reservation from an anthropologists point
of view. Grobsmith’s description of naming ceremonies prompted my
interest in this practice.
“Lakhota Language.” Compuserve.
Online. www.lakhota.com. Access date:
10 October 1999.
This website provided me with
all of the Lakota words and definitions I incorporated into the story.
Purdy, J. “’No One Ever Did This to
Me Before’ Contemporary American Indian
Texts in the Classroom.” American
Indian Quarterly. 16.1 (1992): 53-62.
I found this article through a
classmate who did a presentation for another course on the distinguishing
characteristics of Native American literature. Purdy’s article outlines
five characteristics which I decided to include in my story.
Riley, Patricia, Editor. Growing
Up Native American: An Anthology. New York:
William Morrow and Company,1993.
I read this anthology of Native
American short stories about childhood so that I could gain a deeper understanding
of the distinct rhythm and linguistic pattern of Native American literature.
Rosen, Kenneth, Editor. The Man To
Send Rain Clouds: Contemporary Stories
by American Indians. New
York: Viking Press, 1974.
I read this collection of short
stories and poems to aid me in acquiring an Indian voice.
Return to Top.
Return
to Index Page.
|