A march for the rights of indigenous peoples came unexpectedly. On finding out I have Taino blood, they encouraged me to join them. I found a drum in my hand and was told to follow their lead.
I handed the drum off to someone else.
Their leaders and spokespeople were all pretty. Too pretty.
I was forced to the edges of the march but kept from leaving entirely. They wanted to count me as a participant but didn’t want me to be seen in publicity shots. They wanted the works of my hands but didn’t want to give me credit. “For the good of all.”
But the pretty ones were paid to speak, paid to take photos, paid to play the Noble Savage. While in the ranks the different tribes and nations fought each other for ranking order and thievery abounded.
“Why aren’t you playing the drum? If you can’t do anything, get out!”
I was helping a little girl collect the scattered pieces of her doll that her grandmother made for her. It was all that she had of her grandmother. I did not answer but continued silently putting the doll back together.
“You [Tribe] talk so much about unity! Fulla shit you are! Look! The Dog is doing what the Eagle refused to do!” A member of a different tribe started ragging on my confronter for choosing to give me shit instead of helping the girl from her tribe.
Ashamed, the girl’s tribe helped gather up the last pieces of the doll for me. As I put it back together we were raided by white authorities. All the pretty leaders and pretty spokespersons were gone.
They had traded our freedom for their celebrity.
As we sat on the ground under watch of asked guards, I realized this march was doomed from the beginning. It wasn’t the work of the peoples. They had been suckered by pretty faces and pretty voices. They believed the pretty faces to be the ultimate expression of who and what they are. But the pretty faces were white inventions.
The captive peoples argued and blamed everyone else but themselves. Divided, just like our captors wanted.
“You. [Mongrel]. You don’t belong with these [indigenous peoples]. Sorry about getting you swept up.” The white guard was sincerely apologetic. He helped me to my feet and released my hands. He asked me if I had all my things. I mostly did. I was missing my crafting bag. An off-white canvas tote bag with red handles.
The people around me claimed to have not seen it even as their faces betrayed knowing who stole it.
I suppose I should have looked harder for it. Since it carried an unclean doll that had a devouring spirit in it. But my instinct laughed heartily and settled with the notion that this was where the doll was supposed to go anyway. Package delivered.
The little girl with her grandmother’s doll would be safe. Everyone else, not so much.
The guard escorted me out of the area and I was released with genuine concern.
Being the Mongrel at the Gate has perks at times. But my conscious is going to be in knots all day for it.