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CounterPunch
March 15,
2003
Indian Museum
By ADAM ENGEL
"Welcome to Indian Museum, where
all the villains of the past are preserved for your enlightenment,"
said our Guide.
He was a tall, serious man with silver
hair. He wore the somber blue uniform of Indian Museum.
"The Indians were fierce, alright.
Real tough customers. But what force can withstand the righteous
anger of the Nation?" said the Guide. "The Indians
were vanquished so that the Nation might thrive."
The tour Guide told the sad tale of the
Indians, how they couldn't adapt to the ways of the Nation and
were eliminated for the good of all.
"But the Nation must preserve its
past. So the Indians are kept for posterity in their climate
controlled glass coffins."
The Indians wear suits and dresses like
ordinary Citizens. Infants were enfolded in their mothers' arms.
Like all the Indians, the children were lifelike, perfectly preserved.
"Why do they do this?" asked a child on the Tour.
"Look around you. See how many Indians
are on display," the Guide smiled proudly. "The Indians
of Indian Museum are the living lifeless. Gaze sternly upon them.
Though they were vanquished long, long ago, they appear to have
'gone to sleep' just yesterday. There is the infamous Geronimo!"
the Guide pointed to a glass case containing the corpse of a
middle-aged man in a finely tailored suit. "There, the nefarious
Crazy Horse! And Sitting Bull! And what would Indian Museum be
without its beautiful Pocahontas?"
As the visitors gawked at the Indians
and viewed video-taped reenactments of Indian battles, I approached
the Guide.
"Welcome to Indian Museum, Mr.--"
he paused to read my nametag. "-Engel. It is my pleasure
to host such a hard-working citizen as yourself."
I acknowledged the Guide's professional
flattery with a quick nod, then asked the question that had been
burning in my mind.
"What is this place? These aren't
real Indians. They aren't Indians at all."
"Of course not," says the
Guide with equanimity. "Indian Museum is for the children.
This is a place of education. The icons and metaphors we present
to the children are far more...potent than some old headdresses
and buckskins on wax statues."
"Who are they?" I asked, pointing
to a cluster of glass coffins.
"Terrorists for the most part. Bodies
of derelicts unclaimed at the morgue. Executed prisoners. Though
they were parasites in life, Indian Museum has given them a chance
to contribute, in death, to the growth of the Nation. To become
part of the culture which they, for whatever reasons, mistakenly
eschewed."
"Why are they dressed in modern
clothes? Couldn't you have at least put them in traditional garments?"
I asked.
"The Indian of the tomahawk and
tom-tom drum is irrelevant. Extinct. The modern Indian, the Indian
that these children will experience in their lifetimes, is the
Terrorist. Indian Museum has gone through great lengths to impress
this reality upon the Nation's young."
The snack bar at Indian Museum offered
Genuine Indian soft-drinks, sandwiches, hamburgers, fries, frozen
yogurt and bottled water.
The concession stand sold Genuine Indian
artifacts: pens, paper, wallets, Palm Pilots, lap-tops, pocket-books,
house-keys, car keys, pipes, cigars, cigarettes etc. I bought
a Genuine Indian rubber band and a box of Genuine Indian paper
clips.
I returned to my tour group and fired
the paper clips at our Guide as fast as I could break and load
them. Guards came at me from all angles. Alarms sounded. The
entrance and exits were sealed.
It was inevitable, once I shot off that
first paper-clip, that my status at Indian Museum would change
from "guest" to "resident."
"I thought you were an Indian the
minute I set eyes on you, Engel," said the beet-faced, raging
Guide, once the guards had me pinned. "I can spot you people
a mile away."
"Well, I must admit, I'm pretty
handy with a make-shift bow and arrow," I offered. "But
honestly, I swear, 'I will fight no more forever.'"
"We'll put you on the second floor,
third row, by the window. Next to Tonto," said the Guide.
Adam Engel
will never leave Indian Museum. He can be reached in his glass
coffin at asengel@attglobal.net
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