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If you happen to follow
my column, you'll
know that I
"redux" quite
often: to update a
prior piece, enhance
it, or simply because
for me it is important
and timely again.
The "redux"
that follows
couldn't be more
timely. The dream that
was America is sinking
in a swamp of Christian
nationalism led by an
ignorant orange fat
boardwalk hustler. The
original sins are still
with us: the horror of
Afro-American slavery
and the equally
horrifying destruction
of Native American
culture.
Black Elk Sings-redux
She was an actress and Native American. I saw her at Red Earth,
one of the largest and
more prestigious Indian
Art Festivals in
Oklahoma City (a rather
commercial pow-wow,
if you will). Her name
was Pola and she was
Cherokee (I don’t
remember her Indian
name; I haven’t
seen her in a long
time). She was
also a recovering
alcoholic.
If you don’t know
– alcohol is the
number one drug problem
in the U.S., in the
world for that matter.
It is highly addictive,
powerfully
mind-bending, and more
deadly to the human
physiology than
cocaine, marijuana,
heroin and nicotine put
together. But it is
big, big business in a
conspiracy of
double-think that
sponsors sports and
arts and patriotism.
Drink alcohol with your
kids on America's
most important Family
Holiday, the Super-Bowl
of Football, but do not
ogle the hidden-nipple
breast of Michael
Jackson's
sister.
The drug, alcohol, is
the number one
problem... not just
drug problem... the
number one problem...
in Indian
Country. Now
follow this twist...
one of the largest and
most influential
patrons of the arts in
Indian Country is the
Coors Brewing Company.
Guilt? I don’t
think so. Hypocrisy, I
think so. Big business,
we know so.
Before she nearly
drowned, Pola had
acquired some credits
– some theatre, a
few commercials, some
television, a film. She
was not particularly exotique.
She was pretty, petite,
a woman of color and
she had a good, full
voice. People liked her
on stage, the camera
liked her. As she
emerged through
recovery from her
addiction, she began to
focus on her Indian
self... who she was and
what she was becoming.
On this night, the
first night of Red
Earth, she was
going to perform at a
small theatre space,
downtown from the
pow-wow arena. It was
to be her version of Black Elk Speaks.
Black Elk was a Lakota
Sioux holy man. Born in
1863, he watched the
famous battle at Little
Big Horn, he witnessed
the genocidal invasion
and destruction of
Native American people
and culture during the
next 25 years and
beyond. In the
1930’s, John
Neihardt persuaded
Black Elk into a long
series of conversations
which he wrote down and
published into what
became an important and
popular book, Black Elk Speaks.
It was eventually
adapted into a stage
play which was
beginning to gain
notice when Pola
created her version,
her adaptation of the
book. She called
it: As Black Elk Speaks Alfred Coors Sings.
In her not-so-innocent,
determined way, she
stepped straight into
an Oklahoma windstorm.
Understand, this was a
small actress
performing a one-woman
show in a tiny theatre
space in a big city (as
cities go in Oklahoma)
amidst a huge festival
and all of its spinoff
hustle-bustle. Who
cares? Well someone did
because that morning
during her final
rehearsal she was
visited by an attorney
who demanded that she
“cease and
desist” using
material for which she
had no
performance
rights. He threatened
her with an injunction
which proved to be
unnecessary because
another somebody
appeared, an official
somebody who informed
her that her
performance was
illegal, immoral and
would be shut down.
That afternoon, someone
who knew someone who
knew somebody who owned
the space shut it down.
Why? Evidently, she
struck a chord and
“they”
didn’t like the
music they heard. It
had something to do
with the title. If it
had been called:
“Time Out For
Ginger”, she
might have at least had
an opening night, but
nothing further when
“they”
discovered what was in
her performance.
As I said, Pola was
determined, she had
acquired a bit of pluck
from time spent in New
York and LA. And, she
had a vision of who she
was and what she was
becoming. So that night
she convinced a pub
owner to let her
entertain the crowd,
free, with a roving,
rolling rendition of
her work. She was about
twenty minutes into it
when another somebody,
this time a deputy
sheriff, appeared and
arrested her for
performing without a
permit (a regulation
that didn’t exist
in Oklahoma City at
that time). He dragged
her out through the
kitchen into the alley,
gave her a couple of
kicks in the ass and
scared her home.
That’s where the
story should have
ended... no one would
have known about it.
But it didn’t.
The next day, Pola took
herself to Red Earth, found
a friend of hers, a
not-too-successful
Cherokee sculptor who
had a small booth
tucked away outside of
the main exhibit hall.
He took off the booth
awning, cleared away
his work, put some
boxes in the center to
make a platform, pulled
out a drum, and gave
her a performing space.
No permit required.
That’s where I
first saw her. She wore
a deliberately torn
Indian dress that was
created by a friend of
mine who was a
successful Cherokee
artist and was a
successful exhibitor in
the main gallery.
Pola heeded the
warnings and did not
speak any words for
which she had no
performances rights...
she sang them! Her
voice was strong and
clear. And she
moved in that slow,
deliberate, mesmerizing
flow of Native American
dance. With all of the
sounds and noise and
activity of the pow-wow
around her, she drew an
audience that grew into
a crowd. She was a
small actor, a woman,
and she was not an
activist, she
wasn’t spouting
political dogma, she
wasn’t doing
comedy. She was
an actress giving a
performance. The
audience was quiet,
entranced, some people
were crying. Just
before the end, a group
of men (some with
badges) pushed through
the crowd. Pola reached
down and pulled up a
shawl at her feet. She
wrapped herself
tightly, around and
around like a mummy.
Only her face remained
uncovered as she
continued to sing. The
men grabbed her and
awkwardly tried to
figure out how to
handle this figure.
So... in the bright
Oklahoma sun they
carried her off upright
as if they were
removing a statue from
an exhibit. She
continued to sing for a
moment, then her
performance was over.
The audience quietly
applauded.
I saw her again on the last night of Red Earth. My friend, the Cherokee designer, invited a few of us up to her hotel suite for a drink. Pola was there. That’s when we learned a little about her and what had led up to the astonishing performance at the pow-wow. One of us said that he wished he had been able to see the original theatre performance. She asked if he would like to see it “now”. We all wanted that, so she did it... in the diminished space of a hotel room for an audience of seven, all with drinks in their hands. Her piece was built of selections from the Black Elk text interspersed with stories and anecdotes of contemporary Indian life and statistics. It was about suffering and health and despair, with emphasis, of course, on alcohol, alcoholism, and fetal alcohol syndrome. And, of course, there were stinging references to Coors and beer and hypocrisy. It was a good piece that needed work and hers was a good performance that needed work, but as an performer, she was compelling, quite beautiful.
I don’t know whatever happened to her.
So why do I tell you
this story? For one, it
has much meaning for
those who are addicted
to the arts and the art
of life. For another,
here was an actress who
demonstrated the truth
and beauty of the fact
that she was the stuff of theatre. And for me, it is sharing with you a moment I will never forget — the image of a statue performing in the arms of blind men, freely, in the bright Oklahoma sun.
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