I initially intended to write a single book of historical fiction about Benjamin Fox’s grandson, Ephraim, who crossed the Oregon Trail in 1852. As information came together it became clear I needed to relate the entire true story without embellishment. Someone may write a fictional story someday about these facts, but I feel strongly it is necessary the truth has been established as a baseline. The truth matters.
When I was a little boy I loved cowboys, but I especially loved Indians. I was probably eight when I found a book about Geronimo in the Beaver Elementary School library. Couldn’t tell you how many times I read it. Then one at a time, I read every book the little library had about the Apache; all three! I read them time and again, over the next couple years. These were historical fiction, but I was too young to know what that was, or ask.
Geronimo, Cochise, Mangus, I knew them all intimately. In my imagination I rode with them as they conducted raids on settlers in Arizona Territory and escaped in a trail of dust into Mexico to steal herds of horses. I could see the smoke from their rifles and pictured their villages. I saved photos from Old West magazines and newspapers featuring the Apache warrior. He was my hero.
During a conversation whose original topic is forgotten, my fourth grade teacher was talking with class when he made the off-hand remark, “Well, you know, Geronimo fell off his wagon and died drunk in a mud puddle.” Being in a wheelchair I couldn’t leap to my feet but instantly incensed, I shot up and fired back, “That’s a lie! He did not!” The teacher laughed and told me to look it up. I told him I had read everything in the library on Geronimo. He answered, “I don’t know what you were reading, but try the encyclopedia.” I flushed hot. I was too old to cry but I couldn’t stop my tears that squeezed out as the lump in my throat grew to nearly gag me. The class turned on me of course. It was an unusually emotional response, but they didn’t know how much I looked up to Geronimo.
Later when I was alone I made my way to the library when no one was watching. I went to the big red and black set of encyclopedia’s near the librarian’s desk. I couldn’t avoid her and when she spotted me trying to find something, she asked if I wanted help. Nonchalantly, as if I didn’t give one damn about Geronimo, I told her I was doing a book report and wanted to look at Apache’s, then admitted specifically, “Geronimo”. Incidentally I used that excuse to pester that poor woman until I left grade school to high school and when I got there, I found the library and looked up books about Geronimo.
My ploy worked and my heart began to race as the librarian picked out the correct tome and handed it to me. I kept my cool until she went back to her desk. Rolling away some distance between rows of books to maintain privacy, I raced though the pages until I came to the entry about my childhood hero. I scanned to the last paragraph. My heart sank. I felt sick in stomach. It was true. Suddenly all the poetic battles and romantic speeches faded away as I contemplated what had brought my hero to that place. I scorned the soldiers. Damn the settlers! I wished I could pick up the sword and fight too. But the battles were over and I was left with the truth and more tears that at least this time, remained hidden.
The truth is from that point forward I have had little interest in historical fiction. It blends the truth with dramatic license until the mix becomes taken as generational fact. Proof of that is that an entire generation sees Oliver Stone’s ‘JFK’ as the definitive story of the affair. The truth is important to be established before we fill in blanks with poetic fiction to satisfy a particular end. I did not lose respect for Geronimo after I found out the truth about his final demise, but felt the sting of loss that he felt. That said, I never felt attacking a statue would even the score.
I don’t know what has happened to our educational system in the last forty years, but it is highly ironic the current generation crowns itself ‘woke’ when in fact, they are the least well educated and most ignorant. They have not evolved, they have regressed to a primitive state. If our life on this planet is a journey of discovery and knowledge, how do we excuse or explain destroying statues and rewriting history to reflect progressives current cultural disdain for traditional Christian American values? We don’t. It’s simply disrespectful and the physical manifestation of narcissistic ignorance. Perhaps many need to read Patrick Henry’s, Common Sense, for it is in political, literary and societal forms in sharp decline.
I feel fortunate for my 1970’s education and that in fourth grade I learned that history is not there for us to approve of. It is not there to make us feel good. It is not there to be rewritten to make us feel one way or another. History is like Joe Friday admonished, “Just the facts ma’am, only the facts.” Those remembered with statues accomplished something great. My answer to those vandalizing historical monuments and statues, is perhaps you might work to build another statue and add to the narrative; add knowledge so to promote a fuller story.
It is a sad comment on current culture that it has lost historical common sense and displaced it with shame, guilt and self-loathing. Unfortunately despite the fact most were supposed to have attended K-12 they have much yet to learn, that is if they don’t destroy all facts and knowledge before they figure that out.