Indian Love
Writtten by Gordon Johnson
THE SAN IGNACIO INDIAN RESERVATION ISN ’ T ON A MAP . IT ’ S A DREAM , A FICTION , A NOSTALGIA , A METAPHOR .
But in many ways , San Ignacio , or San Iggy , as some like to call it , represents many Southern California Indian reservations , and by extension much of Indian Country .
This being SoCal , San Ignacio winters aren ’ t so harsh , more like suggestions , and Spring tiptoes in on squirrel feet . Dead leaves , soggy from morning dew , carpet the ground , but new leaves sprout green on winter-bare sycamores — you can feel rebirth .
Fruit trees blossom pink and white in the yard next to the potential classic he promises to restore some day , but today rusts on cinder blocks . And folks who walk into yards groan at the ugly inevitability of weeds , the bane of Rez life , knowing that many hours at the wrong end of a grubbing hoe are in store . And you think maybe it ’ s time to finally break down and buy that weed whacker you ’ ve lusted after .
Spring bursts electric onto the Rez . Butterflies wriggle free of cocoons , cottontails emerge blinking in the sunlight from winter dens , Indian women take more time and care in shaving their legs and scraping their heels .
Old , grizzled , battle-scarred Rez dogs get a little frisky when a slender , shy pointer saunters by on leash . Young guns wear slingshot T-shirts while playing basketball on the outdoor courts . Teen girls , cat-eyed and petulant , pretty as any God put on this earth , walk by the game , giggly and whispery , their young hips learning about fluidity . In their presence , jump shots get a little higher , the drive to the basket a little more determined , the blocked shot batted away with more umph .
You know Spring is in full bloom when wild lilac turns hillsides purple , and the scent is headier than any perfume shop . Spring causes men in T-shirts to suck in their guts as they walk into the Rez store — just in case . Women exchange winter sweats for tight jeans , shorts , or even , for a brave few , yoga pants .
The ballfields , quiet for most of winter , resume activities , and kids chewing wads of bubblegum swing at balls thrown by patient coaches . Adults too have oiled their mitts after a winter in the closet and turn out for pickup games during the day . They play co-ed for fun , and linger in the parking lot as dusk turns to night .
Funny how after the games , the bed of a pickup truck , loaded with a cooler of beer , becomes such an aphrodisiac . The ballfields go dark , and the stars shine white . The night air turns sultry , Pacific breezes carry whiffs of eucalyptus , the love potions kick in . The players , men and women , lean on truck beds to talk and laugh and tease . Eyes meet across the bed , conversations without words occur , women become a little more animated , quicker to laugh , men unnecessarily flex muscles when reaching for a beer .
In the 1970s , eight-tracks played George Jones , Fats Domino , and Etta James through tinny speakers . Today iPods are plugged into fancy car stereos , and the young have a different music , a lot of rapping going on , but amid the hip-hop and thump you ’ ll still find a good stash of oldies . These newer generations have grown up with “ I Found My Thrill on Blueberry Hill ” via parents and grandparents , and teen girls still learn to two-step from dads and granddads .
In the old days , the truck cab might smell of Brilliantine , Old Spice , and Marlboros . These days his car interiors might smell of store-bought air freshener , Axe body spray , and vape lingerings .
As the night progresses , it ’ s not unheard of for couples to peel away from truck beds to wander off for a time on their lonesome , maybe to explore each other ’ s lips behind a cactus stand and give vent to shared feelings . It is , after all , spring , and love is in the air .
Teenagers meet each other on corners to walk dirt reservation roads , hand in hand . Grandmother moon ascends , white as a hen ’ s egg nesting in clouds . Moonglow lights the way , her skin absorbing the glow , and she walks in beauty in the night .
But as they pass the cemetery , she picks up the pace and squeezes his hand a little tighter , because you just never know what spirits are about . Once past graves , the talk is low and slow , she dreaming of college , maybe being a teacher someday . He talks of signing up , being a soldier , like his dad
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▼ NEWS FROM NATIVE CALIFORNIA