Saturday, August 26, 2006
It's just a game?
At center court, Eugene anticipated the start of the basketball game with the excitement, maybe more, of all the fans. He had the best seat in the house, front row, center court.
His body was tense and ready for the ball to be tossed into the air by the referee.
On the sidelines were the cheerleaders in their red and white uniforms. They were beautiful dark skinned Indian women. They seemed more like warriors than sex kittens like all the other cheerleadrs. "Go Native! Kill Whitey! Go Native! Kill Whitey!" they cheered and cheered.
The tension was so thick in the air as all the fans waited for the start of the game!
On one side of the brown center court line on the wooden floor were Indians with dark faces and long hair flying loose. Uniforms of red and white. On the other side, toe headed white guys with their hair cut short and tight and wearing beige uniforms.
The crowd started to almost scream as the referee in his black and white striped shirt stepped between the two groups of young men facing each other off. In his right hand he held the ball like a crystal ball between the two teams and it was as if they were going to read the future in the brown/orange orb somewhere between its black longitudinal lines. With his free hand he placed the whistle between his lips.
"GO NATIVE! KILL WHITEY!"
Then, it was all in slow motion. The referee's right hand dipped the ball down slightly, his lungs filled with air to blow the whistle for the beginning of the game. Up his hand went, and the long drone of the whistle announced the start of the game.
The white guys slowly dipped to jump for the ball as the Indians reached into their shorts and pulled out pistols which they started to aim.
But Eugene's focus was suddenly on the ball, watching it spin in slow motion as it reached for the stars, and he could see none of the action as gunshots reported repeatedly...
Then there was a voice yelling out over the speakers in the arena, above the roaring of the crowd and the cheer of the Indian women. The voice was becoming soft and faint, but the words were perfectly clear...
"THE INDIANS HAVE WON! THE INDIANS HAVE WON!"
Eugene woke slowly to the sound of a cheering crowd. The cobwebs cleared from his mind as his soul made the transition from dream world to physical world. He realized he had fallen asleep on the couch while watching TV and a baskeball game was just finishing to the roar of the crowd. He fumbled for the remote and turned the damned thing off.
"Basketball? I hate basketball," Eugene spoke outloud as he sat up.
"And why do I miss all the good parts in my dreams?"
"Cynthia," Eugene said to get the attention of his friend as she prepared to do her cable access "Native Healing" show.
"Hey!" she said and gave her friend a hug.
"Hey," Eugene greeted. "I know you only have a minute or two before your show but I had the wildest dream last night..."
"You didn't have another one of your "Kill Whitey" dreams did you?"
Eugene's eyes started dashing around, embarassed and exposed to his friend. His head hung down a little... "um..." [pause] "...yes," he almost whispered.
Cynthia cupped his head in her hands and looked him in the eyes. "What are your friends going to think?" she teased.
"Hey," Eugene said, pulling his head away from her hands and teasing back. "Some of my best friends are white!"
Cynthia laughed.
Jim, Eugene's producer for "Native Nations" stepped up behind him and greeted him with a pat on the shoulder. Jim, an older white man, looked something like Custer's older and much wiser brother. "How's it going you two?" he said from beneath his thick mustache.
"Eugene was just telling me about a dream he had last night," Cynthia explained.
"Was it a "Kill Whitey" dream?" Jim asked. There was an all knowing pause. Jim shook his head and laughed. "You're scaring me, Eugene," Jim teased.
"Hey! It wasn't me doing the killing. I was getting to watch. But I never get to see any of the action."
Cynthia walked to the studio where she was about to start her show, shaking her head and giggling.
"Have any guests?" Jim asked.
"Yeah," Eugene said. "A Native vet from WWII. He's gonna talk about all the white people he killed in Germany."
"Really?"
"No. But it sounds good, doesn't it.
"Actually, we have Rick Bartow coming down with some of his art. We're going to discuss art, politics, and Revolution."
"You really have Rick Bartow coming down? How'd you manage that?"
"Kidnapped him, drugged him, and stuck him in the trunk of my car."
"You don't have a car."
"Oh, yeah."
His body was tense and ready for the ball to be tossed into the air by the referee.
On the sidelines were the cheerleaders in their red and white uniforms. They were beautiful dark skinned Indian women. They seemed more like warriors than sex kittens like all the other cheerleadrs. "Go Native! Kill Whitey! Go Native! Kill Whitey!" they cheered and cheered.
The tension was so thick in the air as all the fans waited for the start of the game!
On one side of the brown center court line on the wooden floor were Indians with dark faces and long hair flying loose. Uniforms of red and white. On the other side, toe headed white guys with their hair cut short and tight and wearing beige uniforms.
The crowd started to almost scream as the referee in his black and white striped shirt stepped between the two groups of young men facing each other off. In his right hand he held the ball like a crystal ball between the two teams and it was as if they were going to read the future in the brown/orange orb somewhere between its black longitudinal lines. With his free hand he placed the whistle between his lips.
"GO NATIVE! KILL WHITEY!"
Then, it was all in slow motion. The referee's right hand dipped the ball down slightly, his lungs filled with air to blow the whistle for the beginning of the game. Up his hand went, and the long drone of the whistle announced the start of the game.
The white guys slowly dipped to jump for the ball as the Indians reached into their shorts and pulled out pistols which they started to aim.
But Eugene's focus was suddenly on the ball, watching it spin in slow motion as it reached for the stars, and he could see none of the action as gunshots reported repeatedly...
Then there was a voice yelling out over the speakers in the arena, above the roaring of the crowd and the cheer of the Indian women. The voice was becoming soft and faint, but the words were perfectly clear...
"THE INDIANS HAVE WON! THE INDIANS HAVE WON!"
Eugene woke slowly to the sound of a cheering crowd. The cobwebs cleared from his mind as his soul made the transition from dream world to physical world. He realized he had fallen asleep on the couch while watching TV and a baskeball game was just finishing to the roar of the crowd. He fumbled for the remote and turned the damned thing off.
"Basketball? I hate basketball," Eugene spoke outloud as he sat up.
"And why do I miss all the good parts in my dreams?"
"Cynthia," Eugene said to get the attention of his friend as she prepared to do her cable access "Native Healing" show.
"Hey!" she said and gave her friend a hug.
"Hey," Eugene greeted. "I know you only have a minute or two before your show but I had the wildest dream last night..."
"You didn't have another one of your "Kill Whitey" dreams did you?"
Eugene's eyes started dashing around, embarassed and exposed to his friend. His head hung down a little... "um..." [pause] "...yes," he almost whispered.
Cynthia cupped his head in her hands and looked him in the eyes. "What are your friends going to think?" she teased.
"Hey," Eugene said, pulling his head away from her hands and teasing back. "Some of my best friends are white!"
Cynthia laughed.
Jim, Eugene's producer for "Native Nations" stepped up behind him and greeted him with a pat on the shoulder. Jim, an older white man, looked something like Custer's older and much wiser brother. "How's it going you two?" he said from beneath his thick mustache.
"Eugene was just telling me about a dream he had last night," Cynthia explained.
"Was it a "Kill Whitey" dream?" Jim asked. There was an all knowing pause. Jim shook his head and laughed. "You're scaring me, Eugene," Jim teased.
"Hey! It wasn't me doing the killing. I was getting to watch. But I never get to see any of the action."
Cynthia walked to the studio where she was about to start her show, shaking her head and giggling.
"Have any guests?" Jim asked.
"Yeah," Eugene said. "A Native vet from WWII. He's gonna talk about all the white people he killed in Germany."
"Really?"
"No. But it sounds good, doesn't it.
"Actually, we have Rick Bartow coming down with some of his art. We're going to discuss art, politics, and Revolution."
"You really have Rick Bartow coming down? How'd you manage that?"
"Kidnapped him, drugged him, and stuck him in the trunk of my car."
"You don't have a car."
"Oh, yeah."
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