Vol. 15, No. 2, Winter 2001/02

Editor's Notes

Jacquelyn Ross

As I write these words, in mid-November, a huge storm has just whirled through the Sacramento Valley. During the night, the wind started breathing harder, pushing through and against the trees with great force. Somewhere around mid-dream, I heard the window panes shake steadily, but drowsily thinking it was just an earthquake, I bundled down tighter in the blanket and drifted away again. It was a great howling that finally woke me up, the wind wailing hugely as hundreds of leaves swirled up and smashed against the windows. From then until dawn, I kept waking up to see silver threads of rain being blown about and increasingly bare tree branches scratching at the sky.

The thunk came about 6:15 a.m.: the unmistakable sound of a power line hit and dying. At 7:30, I went outside: leaves everywhere, small branches down here and there, water backing up against the curb just down the street, the beautiful birch tree across the way mortally wounded. And everywhere, neighbors with rakes, sweeping the debris into neat piles, asking "Is your power out, too?" The air smelled so good. There was a delicious greenness you could almost taste. The calm after the storm. Yes. The calm, the relief among neighbors. The thankfulness for rain. The peace.

There is a great temptation not to bring up that other storm, the one that hit in September and continues to hurl itself against life in so many places. But so many good words have come from Indian Country, so much pithy, thoughtful commentary. I was struck by the words of two of our men in particular, who came right to the point. Don Coyhis (Mohican), in a speech in late September, said the following: "I was thinking that if ever there was a people who knows what they [the victims] are going through, if there are any people who understood about that hurt, people who know about the massacres, and the many walks and trails of removal, it is we who know about that." And Preston Arrowweed (Quechan), at the California Indian Conference in October, echoed the same painful knowledge and had some advice as well. He recalled talking to someone about how Indians would have provided advice and help in the aftermath, if only we had been asked. Then someone asked, "What would you have done?" Preston responded that we would have come together, bringing songs and prayers, and would have mourned properly before taking any other action. If it had been asked of us.

If there is again a time of need, will there be someone wise enough to ask?