THE WINDS OF CHANGE By Debbie Wills The character of Johnny doesn't belong to me, and therefore I am only borrowing him for a short time. This story is from Johnny's point of view, and it takes place just after he graduates from the academy. The mountains that surround the city of Los Angeles hold a majesty all their own. Towering evergreens in multiple shades of green blanket the rocky landscape, with the scent of pine and cedar beckoning me onward up the steep terrain. In solitude, I move step by step in an uneven rhythm to maintain balance and continue my upward journey. Finding direction for my life in the great outdoors is as natural as breathing, yet the tranquility of the San Gabriel's doesn't mask the turmoil going on inside me. Hiking has always given me a means to evaluate my life, but the path I have taken this far is clouded with uncertainty. I walk the rough landscape, sweat from every pore soaking the red plaid shirt and faded denim jeans I am wearing. Every muscle in my body aches not from exertion, but from stress built over three months of training at the fire academy. Heart pounding and legs on autopilot, my mind races over events that brought me here to this mountainside. At the academy, I found the classes full of exciting challenges: from pulling hoses, to working ladders. Whatever the task was, I thrived on it. Working with the other trainees and my instructor wasn't so positive. There wasn't any one incident I could put my finger on that made me realize I didn't belong. It was more like... I don't know... maybe a lot of small events that added up to the uncomfortable sensation of being alone in a crowded room. Hair wet with perspiration and legs burning from exertion, I continue up the mountainside towards the top, pushing hard, forcing my body to it's physical limit, only slowing to quench my thirst with the occasional sip from my canteen. The mountain terrain mirrors the internal struggle I face. Ravines and underbrush slow my upward climb, each obstacle reminding me of my time at the academy. Chief Riley was a good - no, great instructor - what I learned from him will stay with me throughout my career. His direct manner and no nonsense attitude let me know the discipline he had as a firefighter. It was his stares I couldn't get past; he watched me intently as I worked a hose or studied a manual. Whatever I did, he seemed to be scrutinizing me, not with an expression of pride, but one of suspicion. Other times it was questions he would ask me, only to look surprised I knew the answers. When I needed help with a task, he was there to lend assistance, yet his eyes were distant and indifferent, leaving me with a knot in the pit of my stomach. Those who trained with me like: Carl Lacy, Rich Barton, and Tim White were the guys I got along with at the academy. We joked around, and pulled pranks on each another, although most of the pranks were directed at me. Carl could, at times, get on my nerves. Once, amid the snickering of his friends, who were amused by the empty shaker and pepper mounded in the middle of my chili, Carl asked: "Hey Chief, what kinda Indian are you anyway? I tensed; I knew where this conversation would head. One of his companions laughed. "Carl, you gave Gage a promotion. Remember he's a lowly trainee scum like us." "Speak for yourself, I'm no scum," Carl said as he returned his attention to me. "Hey Gage! I asked you: what kind of Injun are you?" he repeated. "Lakhota," I answered in a soft controlled voice. "Excuse me?" he demanded again. "Never heard of that kind of Indian." "Sioux...I'm Sioux." His ugly grin broadened and sarcasm evident in his voice he replied, "Aren't you the guys who slaughtered Custer and his men?" Somehow, he made my people's desperate act to survive a malice act of vengeance. I braced for the taunts of 'wagon burner,' 'savage,' or worse. Pride made me hold my ground. "My ancestors did," I said boldly. "So why aren't you back on the reservation with a squaw and a couple of dirty brats living off the Government?" I forced down my rising anger and shrugged. It wasn't worth a response, just to make a point he could never understand. Carl and his friend laughed in victory as they left the room, satisfied they had put the Indian in his place, and I suppose I should be glad he had so little exposure to Indian people or that conversation would have gotten really ugly. Yet, on some level it was worse than what I heard as a kid. Hell, I had done everything necessary to be one of the guys and out performed most of the trainees in numerous drills, that included Carl and his friends. Why was skin color so damn important? Again a wall separated me from them. When graduation came, I was relieved it was over, yet worried I would face once more the isolation, covert stares, and subtle remarks I had experienced throughout my life. California was different from the reservation, but prejudice still remained, geography hadn't changed that malady. My uncertainty left me to wonder if I would ever trust a group of guys with my life. That insecurity shook me to the core. As I reach the top of the mountain, I drop to the ground from exhaustion, lying on my back I can see the clear blue sky. Closing my eyes, I hear the birds fly by singing a merry tune, leaves rustling in the wind, while the sun is high over my head. It's good to be alive in such a peaceful place. Finding this same peace in my life isn't as easy; in one culture I am an iyeska, a breed, in another I am a dirty Injun who needs to know his place. In either culture, I'm a filthy outsider, not by choice but by birthright. Opening my eyes, I glance at the sun, realizing it brings with it the dawn of a new day. Could life be this simple? I'm not sure, but I recognize that life decisions can't be based on ignorance and the opinions of others people. Yesterday is gone and so are my academy days; my tomorrows are what I make of them as a firefighter and as a man. Thanks to Rose for a great editing job on this story and for the encouragement she gave me. Feedback for Debbie |