The power of forgiveness is the subtitle to this story. It happened in 1971. I have a reminder of it every day. What a young man wrote about his dreams and perceptions hangs at the entrance to my workplace. I see his document every morning as I open the door. You’ll find why I treasure his writing so much.
1971, a time of turmoil, and in some lives a time of fear and terror. The war in Vietnam was tearing hearts apart. The war across neighborhoods was tearing us apart. It was during this time that this young man became my hero.
There were neighborhood concerns that no one was addressing. Parents were confused by their children coming home crying. “That girl called me dirty. I’m not dirty, am I momma?”
“No, my girl, but don’t let what that little girl said hurt you. You have other little friends. They will play with you.”
We met wherever we could, in any space that we could rent or get rent-free, for instance in the rear of the REA building. One evening our meeting had ended and a man came and stood at the door. “What’s this?” “Some folks are meeting about school concerns.” “Where are these people from?” “They are from here in town.” “Citizens?” “Yes,” I said.
“Well,” he said, and his voice rose so all could hear, “if they are citizens, they have a right to meet in the city hall. You don’t have to go looking for a place. I am the mayor and when you need it, you can have the City Hall meeting room.”
It was our first step toward “respectability”.
A young man, a junior in college, was in our group. He is the silent type, collected and thoughtful. That evening, after we had talked to the mayor, he stopped in a bar to listen to the talk there and to test whether he would really be at home with other adult “citizens”.
A man approached, tall foaming glass in hand. “You’re Indian!” Our young man just nodded. “You’re talking about Indian Power.” This time the youth slipped back off the stool. “You got Indian Power,” the man said, slurring it. “I’d like to know how much Power you got. Show me how much Power you got. I don’t think you got any Power at all. Try this.”
He growled in his throat and filled his mouth with beer. Then he spat it all on the bar room floor. “Let me see you lick that up. You don’t have any Power to lick anybody. Show me. Show everybody here.”
Grady’s knees buckled, he strove to keep his balance. Fury and shame weakened him. He knew he should not give in, neither now or ever. He should take the insult and in the face of it show his Power.
He stumbled out of the bar and came rushing to Sister Mary John’s home. We were still sitting at a table. He burst through the door sobbing, weeping, crying out at the hurt, the embarrassment, shamed by his own tears. We held him and held him. The women took over. It is their duty, their gift, to heal Wounded Warriors, at length he stilled.
But he remembered.
Months later, when his junior year had passed, he came home, and he came to the monastery with a sheaf of pages. “Father, you remember what happened. I thought and I prayed. Then I began to write. Here is what I think. This is the way I want to live. See what you think about it.”
“Indian Power:
‘We only want the right to live as other people live,’ Chief Joseph.
“Indian Power means pride in my Indian heritage, pride in my Indian ancestors and pride in my Indian parents.
“Indian Power means a way to a richer, healthier way of life.
“Indian Power means a way to a better education and a better economical and social standard for the Indian.
“Indian Power means a desire to change from the way things are now.
“Indian Power means a renewed spirit in Indian dignity.
“Indian Power means that our remaining land will not be used at random.
“Indian Power means a quiet social change in the Indian.
“Indian Power does not mean anarchy, militancy, civil disobedience. It is not a Communist plot. It is not a riot from outside agitators; nor is it a movement to destroy American values.
NO ONE CAN HELP US AS MUCH AS WE CAN HELP OURSELVES.”
He’s living that kind of life, with courage.