Trail of Tears
BY STEPHANIE MCKINNEY
When I was a child, my favorite thing to do was to visit
my great-grandmother. She had so many neat things in her little house to play with. Mammaw
King used to watch old western movies all the time. Growing up, the only thing that I knew
about Indians was that they yelled a lot, dressed in little short skirts, wore funny paint
on their faces, and killed innocent people...keeping their scalps. They were the "bad
guys" in every movie. Little did I know that the grandmother I loved so much was one
of these "savages."
My cousin, Lori, who was just a year older than me, was at Mammaw's house quite often
too. This just meant that not only did we have each other to play with, but we also had
two brains to think of ways to get into trouble. One day, while playing in Mammaw's
bedroom, we stumbled upon a hidden treasure. There was a little silver box with beautiful
engravings, strange green rocks glued on it (turquoise), and red velvet lining inside. In
this little box was a strange looking rock. It was flat, gray, cold, and considerably
ugly. This rock, however, intrigued me. It was shaped like a tear drop. When I took the
little silver box into the kitchen, Mammaw saw me and got VERY ANGRY. Never had I seen her
really mad before. She took the box away from me and said that I should be ashamed of
myself for being so nosy. I apologized to her and gave her back the pretty little box with
the ugly rock inside. Mammaw had gotten so angry that I didn't want to make her any
angrier by asking her of the significance of the stupid little rock. When my mother came
to pick me up, Lori told her that I had been snooping through Mammaw's things and had
gotten into trouble. Thanks to Lori, I had then been in trouble twice over that rock.
That night as I lay in bed, I couldn't stop thinking about that little rock. Why had
Mammaw gotten so upset? What was so important about a rock? The possibilities were endless
in my child's mind... maybe it was Mammaw's gallbladder. I had heard that sometimes people
had to get their gallbladders removed. That must have been it, it was her gallbladder! No
wonder she got so mad at me! I could hardly wait to apologize to her for touching it.
Actually, it was pretty gross to think that I had even touched her gallbladder to begin
with!
The next day, my mother let me go back over to Mammaw's if I PROMISED to stay out of
her room. When I got to Mammaw's, I walked over to her, wrapped my arms around her neck,
and cried. "I'm sorry, Mammaw," I sobbed, "I won't bother your gallbladder
again — I promise." Then, Mammaw burst out laughing. "What in the world are
you talking about, Stephie?" she asked. When I told her my theory on the little rock,
her eyes softened and she pulled me up onto her lap. The story that was to follow is one
that I will never forget...
As she told me the story, my mind wandered away to the place and time that she was
talking about. The story went something like this..."We are Cherokee Indians. My
grandfather was a great leader among our people. We do not live in teepees, we do not have
red skin, we do not scalp people, and we are not savages. The Cherokee people are from the
mountains of Tennessee and North Carolina. Today, many of your ‘relatives’ still
live there. My family decided to leave the reservation when I was a very young girl. My
family wanted for us to have a better life. That rock you found was a rock that my
great-grandfather made and has been passed down to me. You see, people wanted for the
Cherokee people to leave their land and move to Oklahoma "Indian Territory" to
live on reservations there. When some of the Cherokee refused, the government forced them
to leave. They walked all the way from North Carolina to Oklahoma in the winter time. Many
people got sick and died on the trip. They now call it the ‘Trail of Tears.’
Many of the people hid in the mountains until the soldiers were gone so that they wouldn't
have to leave their homes. Unfortunately, our family walked the Trail of Tears. My
grandmother was old and too weak to make the trip. She died on the trail. They had to
leave her there and keep walking. My grandfather carved a tear from this piece of flint
rock. He did this in the memory of his wife and all of those who suffered and those who
died on the long trail. So, this rock is very important to me. It is rich in the culture
of our family and our heritage. That is why I don't want you and Lori to play in my
personal things, ok?"
When the story had ended, I could only nod. I was only eleven years old. I didn't
understand all of what I had just heard, but I did realize that I had just listened to
something profound. I knew right then that I would never forget what she had told me. Now,
fourteen years later... I can still remember the way her voice changed when she was
telling me this story.
As the years went by, I began to understand more and more of Mammaw's story. I also
began to see how the Indian culture engulfed me when I was at her house. From the way she
did her hair, to her singing, to the way we wrote letters to Santa, my heritage was all
around me. I also began to read and learn more about the Cherokee people. I wanted to know
as much about my heritage as I could. After that day, the once "ugly" little
rock looked somehow more attractive to me. Mammaw would sometimes let me hold it too, but
only if she helped me. After Mammaw died, she passed the little silver box down to my
grandmother. She now keeps it hidden high on a shelf, where no one will be able to bother
it. Some day, I hope that my children will be told the beautiful story of the little flint
rock in that box. I can only hope that its legacy will live on in memory of all those who
suffered the Trail of Tears..
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