The Wake

The “ohs” used to cascade down the bleachers like a wave. Arms flailed in unison. And the traditional war chant of Native American tribes was heard on a television in front of millions of people.

“We are the Fighting Sioux,” one man shouts, beer in hand. There is an emptiness to his statement, like someone had taken the plug out of a drain.

“You were the Fighting Sioux,” another man corrects him. “Times have changed, buckaroo.” The two men sit down to reminisce over their past.

“It just sucks,” the beer-holding man says. “That name was ours just as much as it was theirs. For god’s sake, I graduated as a Fighting Sioux, not some fairy Orchid.”

“Now Randy,” the other man says. “There’re nothing wrong with orchids. They happen to be quite a beautiful and powerful flower.” His positive spin on the situation is nauseating. Everyone knows that orchids aren’t powerful, and their beauty is debatable.

“All I can say,” Randy continues, “is that my son ain’t gonna dress in no sissy flower costume when he should be dressed in full Indian regalia, and using his right arm as a mock tomahawk to intimidate his opponents. Just like the Fighting Sioux of this land did thousands of years ago.”

The other man mutters under his breath and leaves Randy alone with his beer. The TV cuts to breaking news.

“Three men dead after a clash between university traditionalists and protesters,” the TV says. “A statement from the university reads: ‘We regret the unfortunate incident that has occurred on our campus. We expect these types of episodes to arise regularly as the University painstakingly appeals the decision of the NCAA to ban schools like ours from NCAA championship competition. Do not doubt our resilience. We will be victorious. For as an orchid will eventually wither and die, the spirit of the Sioux lives on and on.’ ”

Randy claps at the university’s statement. He thinks there is too much history in his alma mater’s mascot to just throw it down the drain at the whim of some complaining Nancy.

All of a sudden, Randy’s TV cuts to the image of mounted cavalry massacring an unsuspecting Native American village. Then he sees a young child wrapping herself in a blanket infected with small pox. He then sees 38 men standing on a platform with nooses around their necks in Mankato, Minn. A bearded man in a black hat utters a quick prayer, says a word to a bloodthirsty crowd, and oversees the largest mass execution in United States history.

Randy turns the TV off and closes his eyes, trying to forget what he just saw. He tries to think about what’s really important to him. He thinks about beer, football and big-breasted women.