“The Crow Story”
by antoinette nora claypoole
order book
Ed Little Crow
came into my life at a time when genocide as an ongoing threat to the Diné (Navajo) near Big Mountain, Az. became a serious counter culture
focus—in the early 1980’s. Many of us in the Northwest were rallying to support
the Diné Grandmothers who were in
resistance to forced relocation. And in that support for future generations
movement. There was always Crow. A
quiet force, like Winter water. That freezes and splits the white man’s asphalt.
His resolve and shapeshifting nature swift and solid, elusive and
ever-vigilant. Clear,
translucent. Yes. You see he is everything of inspired
paradox, untired strength. Courage
and poetic grace. Open space and resonant contradiction of time and place. His
poems, memories etch infinity. As Eddie is equally an enigma and a man of
stamina. He has survived Indian
Wars only he can describe. With
all the emotions being a father has nurtured. Reflecting the endlessness of our
quest for life’s significance.
For many years some folks in Ashland, Or. called him “that Chinese man” and he liked that. The ways a white world mixes up faces
and places was/is humorous to Eddie.
We decided it was just because he has always had that long dangling chin
hair going on. O my. That people
couldn’t quite know if he was Lakota, Laotian or downright intergalactic. But
we, his family, knew he was born on the “rez” in South Dakota, a Lakota, Dakota
man through and through. His
stories about Gramma days explain that. Along with the only photo he has of his
mom. Who passed away soon after the snapshot on the front cover of this book
was taken (Crow
rarely talks of how he lost his Mom but on a good day he will tell you of Tommy
the dog, also in that picture). And so. The
thing about Indian Country that Crow taught me was resolve. And feeling the
heartbeat. Simoultaneous keys to
survival. Folded into serious
reflection of connection. To
Earth. To Sky. All wrapped up in
rainbow colored paper for everyone to open. At the same time.
An Indian piñata in the madroned watershed of time. He welcomes everyone
inside the dusty road to camp.
Ed Little Crow, in the 30 years I have known him has
never flinched from speaking truth.
He explains in these pages:
I am an Indian soul
Trapped blocked by concrete forms
And chaotic carelessness
Listen and you can hear my ancestors
Voicing their discontent at the broken hoop
A
tribe with out a golden dream
This collection, this book, is fused with lament, necessary rants and poetic integrity,
testament to Crow’s unwavering belief that the flaws of humanity are
universal. And skin color resolves
nothing that the human soul hasn’t already either forgotten or surmounted. As you read his words, you can hear ravens and yes a gaggle
of crows. Over head. Over heart. These are realities that
life gives Ed. And he then shares
with us. All the while. He.
Dreaming. Over all these years
readily sharing with all who meet
and have loved him. No one is
forgotten. Everyone is included in
Crow’s world everyone’s inside the dream.
Together. Dreaming of a true world. In his language that is... A opchine wala ohkon.
October 8, 2009
on my way back to Oregon
