It was a river town built up on limestone quarries and factories manufacturing corsets. They once claimed to be the first city to have electricity. They have a lot to claim, and claim they did what was not theirs.
There’s a historical house filled with tired tour guides who talk about the history, but the kids in their bones feel a mystery. Here lived the fire-keeping Potawotamie, the Algonquin, the Ojibwe. Children grow up on the Fox not knowing about the Fox clan or thinking about the lungs that once breathed and swam in the river or felled trees on the land.
A look down the road, the great big busy butterfield on the way home to the big house in the burbs. But it was once a vast wooden palace with torches lit and forest all around. There was stuff here, there were people here, there were stories here, there was something here.
The wind howls here.
Children who sit here and listen to it will hear the story of the plains, of the Chikaukwa roots growing in the swamps outside Chicago. The kids will feel it at the bbq when they’re rolling through the manicured grass. The big Swedish family on this golf course, who settled here like the records show, a hundred years ago; they came in as servants, “we used to be enslaved in Sweden. They don’t talk about that,” an uncle spouts.
Another retells the tale of an old aunt who just shouts:
“Swedes is the white -BLEEP-”
And, while the records show, the Swedes and the Norwegians of the region went on from servitude of the upperclass folk who lived in villas out here an hour train ride from Chicago where the money flowed, they too grew to take up ownership of the stolen land, not thinking of the Fox clan who once fished the fox, and the fire which the spider once stole for her people.
The child feels it in the dark when the wind howls over the plains and they stare out.
The child feels it and knows there’s something more in that darkened barn in the field.
The child feels it when they see the only image of an indian in their social studies book and they say, “Wait he just looks like a regular dude!”
The teacher doesn’t explain the raping and pillaging and bloodshed which came before her and which even she was withheld from with blocked ears.
Mothers cover their children’s ears after entering the historical house where the tour guide tells them about racism.
The mother is upset. She didn’t want her child to learn about slavery yet. She never wanted her child to learn about slavery. The mother is white, her child is white.
Everyone in this town is white, except for the woman who sits outside the library and you can hear her speaking to demons.
Everyone is white, except for my one black friend who was adopted by a white couple who didn’t know how to do her hair.
Everyone is white, except for all the Mexican immigrants who you shun and lash out at, you claim they’re stealing your land, the fire you stole from the Fox, you haven’t even washed your hands.
“Can you believe that until 50 years ago black people weren’t allowed in town after 7pm?” said the white pastry chef to the room full of other white people.
“Wow, that’s messed up, I never knew that.” We all murmur and we pat each other on the back.
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(In the Historical House) The Child: “What was this house for mommy?” The Mother: “Well a mommy like me probably lived here with all the kids in that painting! they all chuuurned butter!” The Tourguide: “The symbols in that painting point to Mr. Johnson’s position as an abolitionist. this house was a stop on the Underground Railroad.” The Mother: “Choo choo! A railroad!” The Tourguide: “For escaped slaves.” |
The child stares.
The tour guide strokes the bandaids on her cuticles.
The mother glares.
“I was going to wait until he was older to tell him.” She complains to the manager.
The trail of tears.
“Is that the same road as Indian trail that’s over by the pool?” Young Jessica asks.
“It’s… not,” the teacher declares.
Another museum is established on the river. It is for the Gustafson family. Geneology is a popular subject amongst old white ladies.
The Fox River begins to flood and, the old limestone, buildings built by settlers, it all sinks in the ground. One day the bridge over that river will be flooded and the museum too. What will become of the land which upon three fires burned? Will the spider have to fetch the fire again?
The children see it when they bike down the river and pass the old woman with a pyre. The jaded tour guide feels it in the house when she tends the fire. The big bonfire sends smoke up into the night and in the fall these things are celebrated, but not remembered.
