As I reflect upon my most halcyon days of youth, playing and frolicking in damp autumn garlands in the tranquil rural town in which I was raised, my current affinity for all things natural seems almost preordained. It is for this reason that I recently volunteered as a counselor for an overnight camp for disadvantaged youth that my gymnasium hosts perennially. When I received the gymnasium's email requesting that I, personally, engaged these raggamuffins giving them their first ever iota of hope for being something other than a crass drill-and-shovel person (or worse, prison denizen!) it was my most generous wont to aid these yet unspoiled youth. I saw myself as a wise Indian chieftain of yore (they say that my great-great- grandmother was a real Cherokee princess!) guiding these wretched children on a journey of self discovery, much like my favorite movie Dead Poets Society. But unlike the movie, it would be held in nature's original University; nature. In lieu of a cruel professor who distributes bad grades and shames creativity, it would also involve a wise Indian chieftain, yours truly.
There was something of a struggle as the person whom I had sign me up for a volunteer counselor position insisted the email I had received was inviting me to donate and not counsel. But Katie has been earning very little extra money ever since she met that Ricardo, and my suggestion that I donate my own literature to the effort was met with a roll of the eyes. But after much genteel insisting and some not-so-genteel name-calling on my part, the promised volunteer opportunity was secured and my thumbprint along with my signature was submitted to the Washington State Patrol, no doubt to be added to what I imagine to be an enormous plaque with the names of good citizens on it.
When the much anticipated day arrived, I solemnly packed my native garb I had secured in early November at a Halloween store, with a pair of Uggs I had deftly converted into moccasins by shaving the fuzz off the rims of the boots. I loaded up my prius with the few tools a genuine scion of a Native princess would ever need, a fishing rod, a knife, and an axe (though my people prefer to call it a "mohawk.") Being at one with nature allows for light travel, and I left behind most of the items on the ridiculous packing list furnished by my gymnasium. Tent shment, I say!
The convoy to the campsite was eventless, save for the other alleged Indian Chieftains having to stop for gas at one point because - shocking! Their SUV's weren't fuel efficient! I made a most genteel point by waiting in the parking lot and loudly honking my horn as they gassed up their ferrous behemoths.
The arrival is where things started to go seriously awry. The campers assigned to me, "braves" as I called them, seemed more interested in acting like little shits rather than disadvantaged youth interested in reform. None of my ploys worked, not the "talking stick," not sitting in a circle Indian style, not even showing them my handgun or my mohawk. They all just exclaimed "Can I see that? Do we get to shoot it!" They refused to listen to my lecture on the wisdom of trees that Dan and the bikers had found so fascinating just the week prior, opting instead to blankly munch on the NON-ORGANIC snack foods, some kind of concoction of graham crackers, marsh mellows, and chocolate heated in a microwave in the trunk of one of the faux-cheiftains large-carbon-footprint SUV. I mentioned that I could use my Mohawk to dig up ample roots for the braves to chew on, which apparently was enough to earn me a contemptuous glance from the biggest, dumbest poser there, an oafish galoot who went by the moniker "Rick."
"You mean tomahawk, but's that actually a hatchet, guy." I wondered who the hell he thought he was. Here we were, in nature, and he had the nerve to disrespect me, the chieftain? This large stupid oaf in his flip-flops with wool socks? He wasn't even in proper native garb, meaning the children would learn nothing. And what of referring to me as "guy?" What manner of disrespect is this? I had introduced myself as "Energy Tree" at the impromptu "Meaten Greet" ceremony held in the parking lot prior to the convoy, and was even wearing a nametag to that effect. I explained that the snacks were neither natural nor organic, and that the tree roots would be organic by default. He scoffed and shook his head and turned his back towards me to load another toxic dose of marsh mellows into the microwave. I felt rage well up within me and my lower lip begin to quiver.
Then I stepped back. This was not about him, nor me, nor the braves nor even the trees. This was about communication, and a wise chieftain always opens the lines of communication. So I used my best move, and removed the pistol from my belt. "Hey Rick, look what I've got!" Certainly this would open him up to further discussion. Rick turned around with a sneer but his eyes widened in delight as he realized he was staring down the barrel of a real-live .45 pistol! Feeling a sense of calm come over the camp as everyone stopped talking and came to a peaceful presence with all of us, I decided, as a wise cheiftan is wont to do, to make peace thunder.
"Richard, I am going to make thunder." I said solemnly, as an Indian chieftain is wont to do. Richard begin to say "Vuh vuh vuh - vf - vfff v-v-v-v" in a high pitched voice as my spiritual power embraced him. I then raised my pistol high and "BOOM!" I triumphantly loosed a single round into the air! The report echoed through the trees and the forest, birds taking aloft in celebration and veneration of my spirit medicine as a wise Chieftain. Richard, in an exuberance of joy began running, but sadly couldn't see in the lingering twilight and stubbed his toe, falling and hitting his head hard on a large forest-boulder. Feeding him several medicinal roots I procured with the aid of my mohawk did little to awaken him.
So now here I sit, in the emergency room typing this tale of wisdom while Richard is put into traction. I was the only one with sufficient fuel left in his car to efficiently transport him to the hospital. I made an sacred indian oath before I left that I would be the first person Richard would see whence he awoke from his slumber. And so I wait, ready to greet him when he returns from his trip into the spiritual wilderness, an awakened enlightened. I have with me two chamomile teabags along with tea mugs, that we may drink the peace tea upon his return.
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