The Tale of Tears

Though I am young, I am old enough to know that we are being wronged. I have seen more pain in these last few months than I have all my life. 

Even though my people, the Cherokee, have been on the move for three months, it feels as if our departure from our home was only yesterday.

The United States Army soldiers came at the break of dawn, pointing their rifles at those who refused to give up the land. Chaos broke among us. Half of the tribe hesitated, yet accepted the orders while the other half refused in rebellion. The Cherokees who remained were rushed out after their houses were set afire. The revolt lasted for hours until the majority of the tribe was apprehended. The last memory I had of my land was that of smoke and blood.

Leaving the home of my infancy was beyond belief. I walked in silence as they escorted us to the outskirts. Every few moments, mother caressed my head as she sobbed. I felt that she did this more for herself than for me, but I let her go on. The truth is I felt so numb that not even her familiar touch distracted me from the devastation. 

Days after we began the relocation, my people started whispering about my father’s reaction to the soldiers. Though they were quiet in his presence, I witnessed some of my people sneering at him behind his back. Yes, he gave in to the White Man without rebelling, but he did so with my mother and me in mind. My father was not a coward, he was just looking out for his family. He understood that his role as a father outweighed his role as a man in the tribe.

Several of my tribe’s strongest men revolted against the union’s soldiers. Some were killed on the spot by guns, others were taken to federal prison. I am not sure what I have done if I was of age. Would I have stood my ground with dignity and die with honor or surrender in defeat...I am not sure.

As we headed West, the sky cried along with us. She attuned to our sorrow and sympathized with our loss. 

Now, we are miles away from home in a territory not known to us.

The wind has been howling and the snow has been biting. Each winter night is colder than the last. At times, blizzard conditions are so harsh that I can not see those in front of me. The Hell I heard of is said to be an eternal fire. The Hell I feel is a never-ending freeze.

Our feet ache in the day and our stomachs rumble at night. How many have wished for death to come, yet it was those who wanted to live who have passed.

So many brothers and sisters have fallen and more will continue to fall. The soldiers along the trial have forbidden us from burying our dead. It is as if the fallen’s final resting place offered more rest and comfort. 

Last week, a little boy, much younger than me, was overcome by gangrene. Everyone in my tribe begged his mother to amputate his frost-bit arm. She refused. When the boy did die, the scene that unfolded was all too common.

The weeping cry of the mother escaped through the trees as if searching for the child’s soul that dared to leave its body. At that, I could only close my eyes shut, remembering the fall of my own father. Sickness got him a few weeks after the departure, almost as revenge for not defending the land of our ancestors.

The bacteria ate my father’s flesh the same way the disease of Manifest Destiny swept the continent. In the end, neither could be controlled nor stopped. 

My father’s death awakened my numbness. My wails drowned out my mother’s sobs. If it was not for the irritating soldier that threatened to shoot me in the mouth, I would have cried all night.

They stripped us of our land, then expected us to comply. The White Man calls us savages when they were the ones who exiled us from our home. In our nation, a Cherokee who acts as evil as the White settler would be put to death.

The White man called it an exodus with new opportunities. What exodus? The people of their God were taken to the Promised Land. We were taken to a place no one wanted. We were given the leftovers. 

My father would not want me to think this way. I am sure he loved our land more than me, but he saw every change as a new opportunity. The relocation was in fact a change forced upon us, but my father was certain our people could flourish anywhere.

Yes, my heart does cry for my home, but I am hoping my people with continue to survive as we head into a new land. We may have been the victim, but we must not play the victim card. We must continue to stay strong. I must continue to stay strong.

The snow has engulfed me mid-thought and I shiver uncontrollably. I, too have a sickness, a sickness of the heart, an emotional sickness. My legs fail to continue forward. At this point, my only motivation is my mother. The only thing worse than a widow is a parent who has lost her child. But every night is colder than the last.

 I am frozen in time and space. My thoughts are all morphing together. Am I the one with frostbite now? Am I the one hearing my own mother cry now? I feel my legs give out.

“Wohali!, Wohali!” I could hear their voices in the distance calling for me. 

I then soar up no longer bound by my body. The sky becomes clear. My soul is enveloped with warmth. I turn East, then fly to the home I know. 

After an hour of traveling, I noticed a multitude of lights that hovers over the hillside. As I get closer, I realize that the lights are the souls of my ancestors. One of the lights approaches me then takes the shape of a man. 

“Welcome home, son.”