The land in which my people have dwelt in for generations is now the backdrop for their stories.
Where are the stories of the land, of the people? They are not found in their paintings and writings.
We are the “bad guys”, they are the heroes, the “good guys”.
We are the Indians, they are the cowboys.
This land is their wild west, and they are here to tame it and us in the process.
I don’t know anyone who has scalped another person. I do not have a warcry. I am not your stereotypical Indian - who or what is an “Indian” anyways?
In your paintings, so picturesque and sublime, where are the Indians, the real Indians? All I see are dark figures made to look savage or noble.
You saw us as different than yourselves, therefore you assumed we must be lesser than you and your people.
You shot at us with your poisonous darts. For what? Entertainment?
In your paintings are your desires and hopes for what this land could be, how this land could be an extension of the world from which you came from. Your paintings are beautiful, yes, they are beautiful because this land is so. But in your visualized dreams, you removed us from the picture. With your paint strokes you tamed the land and us.
The idea of the wild west did not exist before you came to this land - the west was made wild because you made it so.
note: This is part three of a short story for the Summer 2013 Writing Challenge. Each day the genre wil change, this part is a "western".
