From whence the storytelling, the contributions of a young Caddo maiden was honored by a river, a forest and a county. They bear her name: ANGELINA…
Caddo Indian Mounds – Deep East Texas
May you enjoy the story and may your Christmas shine full of holy light and love and joy,
Carmen Goldthwaite
ANGELINA: TEJAS’ Keeper of the Mound
by Carmen Goldthwaite
A story from the history and folk tales of Texas and what could have been the beginnings of Christianity in Texas, as Spanish Priests converted Angelina’s people. A gifted linguist, able to speak and interpret her Caddo tongue to Spanish and French explorers and priests, she played a significant role in the tri-cultural settlement of Southeast Texas. (Biblical messages referenced include Heb. 13:2. Luke 2:7)
On a dark night, long after autumn harvest, the moon soared over tall, long leaf pines. Angelina’s moccasins rustled through stiff and brown grass on the way to her son’s. Her breath punctuated the air with puffs of clouds at each step. She paused at the footpath to her people’s “great mound,” a spiritual center for Caddos. Here, she was the “Keeper of the Mound” a title earned because she could converse and interpret the languages. And she welcomed strangers in the long-standing tradition of her people.
After the communal pot and while gathered around the blazing fire, the Caddo’s supreme leader summoned chieftains of the Nation tribes, and Angelina, to gather around to warm from the weather and toward each other. Angelina invited the wives and mothers accustomed to taking part in tribal decisions. She must tap into their mother’s love as well as the feared Caddo tradition that when a wife faced her husband and cried, he would fall in battle.
“Are they necessary?” the chief asked, pointing at the women.
“Oh, yes, Great Father. I urge you to listen to me, to your wives and mothers. We will be the ones to carry on alone if you are killed.”
She stood and swept her gaze around the circle, pausing chest high on each chief. When she returned to the principal chief, she continued.
“As I fear you will be.”
He pulled on his pipe, shaking his head. “You will need to convince a great many, my daughter. I have always honored your gifts. Today, they bring trouble.”
“I know you believe that.”
Angelina sat by him while each chieftain rose and spoke of the troubles in their lands, tribes from the long Red River, the twisting Sabine where they were now, and her own people further south, on the yet to be named, “Angelina River,” amid the forest that also would be named for her.
She did not interrupt. Their wives and for some their mothers were friends with her mother. We’re family.
When the last spoke and the ceremonial pipe circled the gathering returning to the chief, she rose, her hands reached out in welcoming. “Tayshas,” she said, calling out the ancient greeting.
“Let me tell you a story from the Europeans whose history is as ancient as the Caddo. Maybe more.
“A babe was born in a manger in this far away land many, many, many years ago. His parents, a young Mary and Joseph had traveled to a city, Bethlehem, for the birth of their child. When they arrived, an innkeeper—not a welcoming one like us Caddo—said: ‘there’s no room here. You can sleep with the donkeys and chickens out back. No room,’ he repeated.
“And she (Mary) gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in ‘the inn’.” That baby was born in a stall, in the cold, among the creatures, not his kin.”
Angelina noted the women rocked in rhythm with the wind. “Little children need care and comfort as I’m sure their mother and father provided, but they also need shelter. They need to be warm.” She shuddered when a cold blast hit. “How could this child be warm? More importantly, how could he know he was loved by a greater family?” Her voice broke. She struggled for composure for this is what brought her to believe Jesus was a strong God to overcome such a barren beginning.
“We in the Caddo provide not just a mother and father but a tribal family, a nation. We bring children into the world to play and be loved first.” The women moaned their assent. “Years later, they will grow into sturdy braves and wise women. Without this playground of love and support, what would happen to them?
“Yet, the child Jesus…” she lifted her eyes following the flecks of fire rising above the timbers while she spoke and said again, “Yet, the child Jesus, despite his poor beginning, grew strong and wise and powered by miracles. Yet, he continued to experience struggles and torture. “Yet, the child Jesus brought forth a community that spans nation boundaries, rivers, and seas and all the peoples.”
Women shouldered each other and murmured. They knew what a baby needed and without that, one would struggle, perhaps be weak. But this one was strong. Holy. So Angelina continued: “That is why I have joined these Christians in worshipping their one God who has dominion over all.” While she spoke, her conviction grew, doubts slipped away, as if being fed by the spirit.
Some bristled, including the Principal Chief, but Angelina continued. Time now to appeal to the danger while the women were with her. “If you war with these Europeans, I have seen the horror of their weapons. Our men will be killed.” Great numbers of women wept, the custom when their men went off to war, signaling that the loved one of the weeping woman would be slain.
Angelina stamped her feet, almost a dance as bone amulets tinkled in the silent night. Her voice rose to carry above the swelling clamor. “It does not have to end like that. We must continue to be Caddo, continue to welcome strangers to our midst, continue to look upon them as brothers and sisters of a larger family, not strangers. We Caddo must never be the ones to usher a pregnant mother to a stable, to shut a newborn out of the cabin or mound or village.
“We must be Caddo. The Robes (Spanish priests who arrived) have taught: `Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.’ If we welcome, as our tradition commands, we will find wisdom to help with our plight.”
Angelina, the mound keeper sat. The Principal Chief passed her the pipe of peace and their tradition continued into the next century.
Why I Write
Everyone who writes arrives at the page with a story.
As a writer, crafting an essay about why write is a good way to sort things out. I’ll do so every 2, 3 or 4 years. Because I change. It’s fun to see that change percolate to the top in what I write afterward. It’s a way to reflect on where I’ve been and where I’m going. As a teacher, I encourage students to write such an essay for their benefit, their sorting out.
But here I am writing about why I write a “why I write” essay. It’s time to get down to the basic question. A shy bookworm as a child, more comfortable with books and adults who liked to talk than kids, I wrote. Sometimes I scrawled stories, fantasies to escape; word pictures to dramatize my dreams; sometimes I wrote about myself. But however the words uncoiled, writing allowed me to express my feelings, what I couldn’t talk about but wanted to.
Today in maturity such expression is shared more in conversation than in younger days. In younger days, I listened. A lot. Sometimes when I pretended to listen, I daydreamed. And then, I’d write.
Today, it’s the stories that propel me to write, beginning early in my journalism career if not before. I loved to watch people, and really listen to them, to learn how they thought and felt and lived. Sometimes it was a measure for me. Sometimes I learned how to do what they did, whether it was tie up a boat or dance the twist. Always the people, though. SO, today I write stories about people, sometimes historical folk I’ve researched, sometimes everyday folk, fiction and nonfiction, and sometimes – as in recently – I write about myself, a somewhat jarring admission for a former journalist. But I like the reflective process it engages. Right now, I’m writing a cross between a journal and an essay about the death of a loved one. It helps select grief from depression and “take the next right step,” even if it’s back to bed for a bit. As I write, I’m more able to talk about it, grief, and best of all, to laugh through memories, though tears may fall on the next breath. Emotions. Feelings. Writing. Maybe, I haven’t changed that much after all. I just talk more.
Why do you write?
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FAVORITES: There’s a trend now to illuminate “favorites,” so mine are…
BOOKS AND AUTHORS: John Jakes’ Bicentennial series. He got me started on this path toward fiction. Willie Morris’ North Toward Home and Gay Talese’s Kingdom and the Power introduced me to the story fascination of creative nonfiction.
Ralph Waldo Emerson. As a high school student I pondered, “how could an old man reach out and touch me across the generations?” His essays spoke what I wanted to say.
Today, Peter Heller, because of his lyricism, intrigue and humor, the ability to “take me away,” particularly with his novel Celine.
MOVIES: As a teen, James Dean in Rebel without a Cause. As a sort of sappy senior, or maybe it’s the times, “American President.” Laughter may be the most important requirement today.
SINGERS/MUSICIANS: Jazz saxophonist Charlie Parker. His notes tapped a tune on my teenage heart…and still do and so do later musicians–Cellist Yo Yo Ma, and Trumpeter Winton Marsalis. Let me not forget C&W story singer and philanthropist, Dolly Parton, her care about people and their stories.
FOOD: “Mama’s home cooking” and then enchiladas! And next, Pad Thai.
HOBBY/SPORT: Sailing, sailing, sailing. Water is my home.
FAVORITE HIKES: Weminuche Wilderness, Colorado; Lost Maples State Park, Texas, for their delicate beauty amid hardy ruggedness.
That’s enough for now. But you see how it’s easy to get carried away with writing? Try it. Ask yourself your favorites…and then the most important question, WHY? And see when/where you stop writing, if you can.