This is just one story
from the trail. Who was the savage?
Who the civilized? How can
we question where hate
comes from?
"SunRae"©
The Trail Of Tears
Between 1838 and 1839, 17,000 Cherokee
Indians, were rounded up by the
Government.and forced from their homes.
They were jailed until boats could be
found
to take them by river to Fort Gibson, in
Indian Territory.
Not enough boats could be found and
Those
left behind had to travel overland to
the
Indian Territory.
They were put on 645 wagons and on a
rainy
day in October they started marching
through
Nashville, Tennessee, and up to
Hopkinville,
Kentucky.
They crossed the southern part of
Illinois
into Missouri, then finally reaching
Indian
Territory, now known as Oklahoma.
On the way 4,ooo died from exposure and
fatigue.This is why this trail is now
known
as the Trail of Tears..
My Great Grandparents left the trail in
Southern Illinois.. Many were able to
escape
and hide in the woods until the soldiers
had
left..This is where our family still
resides
today..
True Story
BY
Samuel Cloud
Samuel Cloud turned 9 years old on the
Trail
of Tears.
Samuel's Memory is told by his
great-great
grandson, Michael Rutledge, in his paper
Forgiveness in the Age of Forgetfulness.
Michael, is a citizen of the Cherokee
Nation
in Oklahoma.
It is Spring. The leaves are on the
trees. I
am playing with my friends when white
men in
uniforms ride up to our home.
My mother calls me. I can tell by her
voice
that something is wrong. Some of the men
ride
off. My mother tells me to gather my
things,
but the men don't allow us time to get
anything.
They enter our home and begin knocking
over
pottery and looking into everything. My
mother and I are taken by several men to
where their horses are and are held
there at
gun point.
The men who rode off return with my
father,
Elijah. They have taken his rifle and he
is
walking toward us. I can feel his anger
and
frustration. There is nothing he can do.
From
my mother I feel fear. I am filled with
fear,
too. What is going on? I was just
playing,
but now my family and my friends are
gathered
together and told to walk at the point
of a
bayonet.
We walk a long ways. My mother does not
let
me get far from her. My father is
walking by
the other men, talking in low, angry
tones.
The soldiers look weary, as though
they'd
rather be anywhere else but here.
They lead us to a stockade. They herd us
into
this pen like we are cattle. No one was
given
time to gather any possessions.
The nights are still cold in the
mountains
and we do not have enough blankets to go
around. My mother holds me at night to
keep
me warm. That is the only time I feel
safe. I
feel her pull me to her tightly. I feel
her
warm breath in my hair. I feel her
softness
as I fall asleep at night.
As the days pass, more and more of our
people
are herded into the stockade. I see
other
members of my clan.
We children try to play, but the elders
around us are anxious and we do not know
what
to think. I often sit and watch the
others
around me. I observe the guards. I try
not to
think about my hunger. I am cold.
Several months have passed and still we
are
in the stockades. My father looks tired.
He
talks with the other men, but no one
seems to
know what to do or what is going to
happen.
We hear that white men have moved into
our
homes and are farming our fields. What
will
happen to us? We are to march west to
join
the Western Cherokees. I don't want to
leave
these mountains.
My mother, my aunts and uncles take me
aside
one day. "Your father died last night,"
they
tell me. My mother and my father's clan
members are crying, but I do not
understand
what this means. I saw him yesterday. He
was
sick, but still alive.
It doesn't seem real. Nothing seems
real. I
don't know what any of this means. It
seems
like yesterday, I was playing with my
friends.
It is now Fall. It seems like forever
since I
was clean. The stockade is nothing but
mud.
In the morning it is stiff with frost.
By
mid-afternoon, it is soft and we are all
covered in it.
The soldiers suddenly tell us we are to
follow them. We are led out of the
stockade.
The guards all have guns and are
watching us
closely. We walk. My mother keeps me
close to
her. I am allowed to walk with my uncle
or an
aunt, occasionally.
We walk across the frozen earth. Nothing
seems right anymore. The cold seeps
through
my clothes. I wish I had my blanket. I
remember last winter I had a blanket,
when I
was warm. I don't feel like I'll ever be
warm
again. I remember my father's smile. It
seems
like so long ago.
We walked for many days. I don't know
how
long it has been since we left our home,
but
the mountains are behind us. Each day,
we
start walking a little later.
They bury the dead in shallow graves,
because
the ground is frozen. As we walk past
white
towns, the whites come out to watch us
pass.
No words are spoken to them. No words
are
said to us. Still, I wish they would
stop
staring. I wish it were them walking in
this
misery and I were watching them. It is
because of them that we are walking.
I don't understand why, but I know that
much.
They made us leave our homes. They made
us
walk to this new place we are heading in
the
middle of winter. I do not like these
people.
Still, they stare at me as I walk past.
We come to a big river, bigger than I
have
ever seen before. It is flowing with
ice. The
soldiers are not happy. We set up camp
and
wait. We are all cold and the snow and
ice
seem to hound us, claiming our people
one by
one.
North is the color of blue, defeat and
trouble. From there a chill wind blows
for us
as we wait by a frozen river. We wait to
die.
My mother is coughing now. She looks
worn.
Her hands and face are burning hot. My
aunts
and uncles try to take care of me, so
she can
get better. I don't want to leave her
alone.
I just want to sit with her. I want her
to
stroke my hair, like she used to do.
My aunts try to get me to sleep by them,
but
at night, I creep to her side. She
coughs and
it wracks her whole body. When she feels
me
by her side, she opens her blanket and
lets
me in. I nestle against her feverish
body. I
can make it another day, I know, because
she
is here.
When I went to sleep last night, my
mother
was hot and coughing worse than usual.
When I
woke up, she was cold. I tried to wake
her
up, but she lay there. The soft warmth
she
once was, she is no more.
I kept touching her, as hot tears stream
down
my face. She couldn't leave me. She
wouldn't
leave me.
I hear myself call her name, softly,
then
louder. She does not answer. My aunt and
uncle come over to me to see what is
wrong.
My aunt looks at my mother. My uncle
pulls me
from her. My aunt begins to wail. I will
never forget that wail.
I did not understand when my father
died. My
mother's death I do not understand, but
I
suddenly know that I am alone.
My clan will take care of me, but I will
be
forever denied her warmth, the soft
fingers
in my hair, her gentle breath as we
slept. I
am alone. I want to cry. I want to
scream in
rage. I can do nothing.
We bury her in a shallow grave by the
road. I
will never forget that lonesome hill of
stone
that is her final bed, as it fades from
my
sight.
I tread softly by my uncle, my hand in
his. I
walk with my head turned, watching that
small
hill as it fades from my sight.
The soldiers make us continue walking.
My
uncle talks to me, trying to comfort me.
I
walk in loneliness.
I know what it is to hate. I hate those
white
soldiers who took us from our home.
I hate the soldiers who make us keep
walking
through the snow and ice toward this new
home
that none of us ever wanted.
I hate the people who killed my father
and
mother.
I hate the white people who lined the
roads
in their woolen clothes that kept them
warm,
watching us pass.
None of those white people are here to
say
they are sorry that I am alone.
None of them care about me or my people.
All
they ever saw was the color of our skin.
All I see is the color of theirs and I
hate
them.
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