The Song of Native American Day . . . at Long Last

By the shores of Sacramento

By the murky Delta water

Stood the office of Pete Wilson.

Son of Rightness, Peter Wilson,

He whose right hand is his pen hand.

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Bright before him lay the paper,

Lay the clear, official wording

Making one day for the Indian

One day hallowed to the Indian

Out of all the long year’s passage.

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Wilson signed it for the Indians,

Called them “our first Californians,”

Set aside a harvest Friday

Fourth of each September’s Friday

To remember our red brethren.

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Late and little comes the honor

To the vanquished native thousands.

Grass has grown across their grave sites

Malls and homesteads hide their grave sites

Gone from memory as from living.

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Like the California grizzly,

Living only on the state flag,

Only hallowed in extinction

Safely captured by extinction,

Martyred by its very killers.

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Who then does that Friday honor?

Ghost of Ishi, our last Yahi,

Dead of TB, and of heartbreak.

Tens of thousands, killed by heartbreak

Surely as by guns and virus.

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Mission people, mass converted

To the Spaniards’ cross and credo.

Living in the mission compounds,

Dying in the mission compounds,

Scythed like wheat for their salvation.

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Chumash, with their painted cave walls,

Miwok, skilled in herbs for healing,

Hoopa and Ohlone people,

Throve for years unnumbered, people

Done to death in less than fifty.

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Gold Rush settlers, 49ers,

Tapped a deep, rich vein of bloodshed,

Ushered in the natives’ twilight,

Launched their swift and certain twilight:

Not for them, this El Dorado.

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More than just a three-day weekend,

This new law approved by Wilson

Also wants to teach the children

In the classroom, give the children

Lessons of the native people.

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Let’s not sugarcoat the history,

Let’s not teach them cartoon legends.

Not just Pocahontas fables,

Not just sad “Ramona” fables,

More than noble braves and maidens.

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Tell of Pomos, trapped and murdered,

Wiped out north of San Francisco,

One more slaughter in that history,

Wounded Knee and Sand Creek history,

Massacred like pesky vermin.

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Teach about the Bellflower clinic:

“Pocahontas” in one weekend

Made more money at the movies--

Thirty million at the movies--

Than this little Indian clinic

Had to spend since 1970.

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On the day that Wilson signed it,

Made the holiday official,

Polls of California voters

Found that more than half the voters

Favor Indian-run casinos.

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This is a defining moment--

Many years of bland betrayals,

Pledges made and pledges broken,

Bones and arrows smashed and broken,

May avenge themselves in this way:

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Holidays are fine and welcome

But like treaties, only paper.

Something else can turn the tables:

Five-card stud and blackjack tables

Could redress a mighty grievance,

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Could make up for lands and status,

And restore a balance toppled:

Taking back in bits and pieces,

Winning back by two-bit pieces,

What was taken from their forebears.

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Cannot bring back lives and birthrights

But redress can be exacted

From the ghosts of two-armed killers

(Wild for gold and land, those killers)--

Buck by buck, by one-armed bandits.

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Next September 24th, then,

Make a restitution gesture.

Expiate this guilt by gambling,

Lose your shirt to them in gambling:

Living well’s their sweetest vengeance.

Patt Morrison’s column appears Wednesdays. E-mail her at patt.morrison@latimes.com