this was posted to an alternate rootsweb forum >Date: Wed, 21 Dec 2005 13:47:24 -0700 >From: Dan M <wb@wvi.com> >Source: CHEROKEE-L@rootsweb.com >Subject: Re: [Cherokee Circle] Manatory read out loud > > >I got this years ago >Reading this out loud > is the only way to get the real life effect from the story. > I know == I treid it == I cried. >If you too have enough compasion to cry then you are one with the Creator as >well. >================as follows=========>> >read out loud to family or a friend if you dare = >this is a very compelling writing, very strong, once read, you<>will be a >different person - I think that is inevitable = >=======continue ======== power is in the words here- remember I warned you >========>>> >========================================> >Cite =Samuel Cloud: > >Samuel Cloud turned 9 years old on the Trail of Tears. Samuel's Memory is >told by his great-great grandson, Micheal Rutledge, in his paper Forgiveness >in the Age of Forgetfulness. Micheal, a citizen of the Cherokee Nation of >Oklahoma, is a law student at Arizona State University. > >It is Spring. The leaves are on the trees. I am playing with my friends when >white men in uniforms ride up to our home. My mother calls me. I can tell by >her voice that something is wrong. Some of the men ride off. My mother tells >me to gather my things, but the men don't allow us time to get anything. >They enter our home and begin knocking over pottery and looking into >everything. My mother and I are taken by several men to where their horses >are and are held there at gun point. The men who rode off return with my >father, Elijah. They have taken his rifle and he is walking toward us. > >I can feel his anger and frustration. There is nothing he can do. From my >mother I feel fear. I am filled with fear, too. What is going on? I was just >playing, but now my family and my friends' families are gathered together >and told to walk at the point of a bayonet. > >We walk a long ways. My mother does not let me get far from her. My father >is walking by the other men, talking in low, angry tones. The soldiers look >weary, as though they'd rather be anywhere else but here. > >They lead us to a stockade. They herd us into this pen like we are cattle. >No one was given time to gather any possessions. The nights are still cold >in the mountains and we do not have enough blankets to go around. My mother >holds me at night to keep me warm. That is the only time I feel safe. I feel >her pull me to her tightly. I feel her warm breath in my hair. I feel her >softness as I fall asleep at night. > >As the days pass, more and more of our people are herded into the stockade. >I see other members of my clan. We children try to play, but the elders >around us are anxious and we do not know what to think. I often sit and >watch the others around me. I observe the guards. I try not to think about >my hunger. I am cold. > >Several months have passed and still we are in the stockades. My father >looks tired. He talks with the other men, but no one seems to know what to >do or what is going to happen. We hear that white men have moved into our >homes and are farming our fields. What will happen to us? We are to march >west to join the Western Cherokees. I don't want to leave these mountains. > >My mother, my aunts and uncles take me aside one day. "Your father died last >night," they tell me. My mother and my father's clan members are crying, but >I do not understand what this means. I saw him yesterday. He was sick, but >still alive. It doesn't seem real. Nothing seems real. I don't know what any >of this means. It seems like yesterday, I was playing with my friends. > >It is now Fall. It seems like forever since I was clean. The stockade is >nothing but mud. In the morning it is stiff with frost. By mid-afternoon, it >is soft and we are all covered in it. The soldiers suddenly tell us we are >to follow them. We are led out of the stockade. The guards all have guns and >are watching us closely. We walk. My mother keeps me close to her. I am >allowed to walk with my uncle or an aunt, occasionally. > >We walk across the frozen earth. Nothing seems right anymore. The cold seeps >through my clothes. I wish I had my blanket. I remember last winter I had a >blanket, when I was warm. I don't feel like I'll ever be warm again. I >remember my father's smile. It seems like so long ago. > >We walked for many days. I don't know how long it has been since we left our >home, but the mountains are behind us. Each day, we start walking a little >later. They bury the dead in shallow graves, because the ground is frozen. >As we walk past white towns, the whites come out to watch us pass. No words >are spoken to them. No words are said to us. Still, I wish they would stop >staring. I wish it were them walking in this misery and I were watching >them. It is because of them that we are walking. I don't understand why, but >I know that much. They made us leave our homes. They made us walk to this >new place we are heading in the middle of winter. I do not like these >people. Still, they stare at me as I walk past. > >My mother is coughing now. She looks worn. Her hands and face are burning >hot. My aunts and uncles try to take care of me, so she can get better. I >don't want to leave her alone. I just want to sit with her. I want her to >stroke my hair, like she used to do. My aunts try to get me to sleep by >them, but at night, I creep to her side. She coughs and it wracks her whole >body. When she feels me by her side, she opens her blanket and lets me in. I >nestle against her feverish body. I can make it another day, I know, because >she is here. > >When I went to sleep last night, my mother was hot and coughing worse than >usual. When I woke up, she was cold. I tried to wake her up, but she lay >there. The soft warmth she once was, she is no more. I kept touching her, as >hot tears stream down my face. She couldn't leave me. She wouldn't leave me. > >I hear myself call her name, softly, then louder. She does not answer. My >aunt and uncle come over to me to see what is wrong. My aunt looks at my >mother. My uncle pulls me from her. My aunt begins to wail. I will never >forget that wail. I did not understand when my father died. My mother's >death I do not understand, but I suddenly know that I am alone. My clan will >take care of me, but I will be forever denied her warmth, the soft fingers >in my hair, her gentle breath as we slept. I am alone. I want to cry. I want >to scream in rage. I can do nothing. > >We bury her in a shallow grave by the road. I will never forget that >lonesome hill of stone that is her final bed, as it fades from my sight. I >tread softly by my uncle, my hand in his. I walk with my head turned, >watching that small hill as it fades from my sight. The soldiers make us >continue walking. My uncle talks to me, trying to comfort me. I walk in >loneliness. > >I know what it is to hate. I hate those white soldiers who took us from our >home. I hate the soldiers who make us keep walking through the snow and ice >toward this new home that none of us ever wanted. I hate the people who >killed my father and mother. > >I hate the white people who lined the roads in their woolen clothes that >kept them warm, watching us pass. None of those white people are here to say >they are sorry that I am alone. None of them care about me or my people. All >they ever saw was the color of our skin. All I see is the color of theirs >and I hate them. > >================ >more here >http://www.cherokeebyblood.com/trailtears.htm >I have not heard from Jerry Wright Jordon for a long time. >She used to be here. Wish she was now. l;-) >Now if you can - >remember just what the >seasons mean to those of the past. >Dan M