Linn Bennett, OWP 1998
Geronimo
Geronimo
When Robin Park was built in 1959 , I was seven years old.
I thought I was a lucky kid because my house backed up against the
park's softball field. All I had to do was climb over the fence and I
could join the fun. Every summer a new park leader would arrive in
mid-June wearing her crisp green and white striped uniform to begin
the season's program. Every year I counted on the freshly painted
plywood box to be filled with brand new sports equipment and arts and
crafts supplies. After paying my ten cent materials fee, I too would
be making key chains from plastic gimp, playing softball, and
competing in box hockey. The park had an almost carnival atmosphere
as dozens of kids came from blocks away to be part of the hippest
action in the neighborhood.
But more than all the other activities , l anticipated
Indian Week. During this week we could live, eat, and drink the
Native American lifestyle. We could chose to be any Indian we had
ever known. After several years, I had sole rights to being Geronimo.
My mother insisted I wear a shirt, but I had other ways to
be an authentic warrior. My vision of a true Indian was one who was
aggressive, bold and courageous. Now I just needed to look the part!
My first move was to spend the three dollars for a chamois cloth from
a nearby Sprouse-Reitz store. I inhaled the luxurious smell of
leather, relishing the sweet fragrance. After fashioning a sort of
loin cloth (shorts underneath of course), I proceeded to design a
headband, complete with a bird's feather. I tinted my face, using my
mom's dark foundation make-up, (how I envied their dark skin).
Choosing from some 20 tubes of Revlon lipstick, I drew war paint on
my cheeks and forehead. I repeated this ritual every morning for five
days! I felt transformed.
Searching around our many filbert trees I was able to
select the finest wood for my bow and arrows. Bending slender shoots
I produced a fairly powerful bow. With filbert shoots for arrows, my
attacks were realistic, so much so that the park leader banned my
homemade weaponry from the park. My target shooting was relegated to
my backyard. I would have to participate in more peaceful activities,
like teepee building, story telling and dancing.
Twenty-five years later I helped my young daughter make
her own bow and arrows, from the still ubiquitous filbert tree. I
daydreamed as she whooped with glee, running bare-chested around our
backyard. The spirit of Geronimo had come upon me once again.
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