For nearly 100 years, a large boulder has been on public display in Lawrence as a tribute to the white settlers who founded the town. Efforts are now underway to return it to the Kaw Nation, which has long considered it sacred. Guest Commentator Charlee Huffman says her people have waited generations for the return of their sacred red rock.
Guest Commentator Charlee Huffman is a poet, theologian and Citizen of the Kaw Nation. She lives in Colorado.
A guided tour and workshop will be held at 2pm this Sunday at Robinson Park, where visitors can learn more about the Sacred Red Rock Project. This will be one of the last opportunities to visit the park before it's closed in preparation for the boulder's move to tribal lands near Council Grove in late August. Learn more about the Sacred Red Rock Project.
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(Transcript Edited for Radio)
By Charlee Huffman
Hawé Kóya wíta. Hello my friends. Zházhe wíta che Charlee. My name is Charlee. I am a citizen of the Kaw Nation of Oklahoma, a poet and a theologian.
Our ancestral Lands, Lands to which we belong now and always, are in the middle of this continent, in the beautiful basin of the plains, in what is now called Kansas, a name to which we belong, Kanza níkashiⁿga, the Kaw people.
I would like to tell you a story, in my mind this is a love story.
In‘zhúje’waxóbe is one of many boulders who traveled over eras, moving, pushed by glaciers, moving at speeds at which we do not. In this way, he came to be at the confluence of Shunganunga Creek and the Kansas River. Here is where he sat for hundreds of thousands of years. Listening. It was here he met Kanza people and together they prayed in the way living things do. This went on for a very long time.
If any of you are familiar with Shakespeare, then you will know that with true love, complications can arise.
Kanza people were forced to move, time and time again by European settlement. Our maps are drawn smaller and smaller, we draw closer to the center of our world. As Yeats says, “the center does not hold” and we are flung apart from our Land in 1873 when the families who survived the genocide, the disease, being overrun, when those survivors, make the walk to what was, at the time named Indian territory and an uncertain future, we leave behind the bones of our ancestors, our plants, our Rock.
In‘zhúje’waxóbe remains there. And perhaps, over the years, we go back there, to visit, to pray, to collect familiar food. I hope we would visit him; I know he was not far from our minds.
What we do know, is that by 1929, there was a race between settler town and settler town and in the dark of night, the leaders of the town of Lawrence came and kidnapped In‘zhúje’waxóbe. They came with a train, and a crane, and chains, and they hoisted him dripping from the river and took him and stood him up and nailed a plaque to him, proclaiming him to be a monument to the settlers founding the town of Lawrence. Land which already was. Is. No one prayed with him. And there he stayed for 94 years.
But when you belong to a Rock, you do not easily forget, and so over the years we would see him, out of the corners of our eyes, or a grandfather taking a young boy to meet him, chills up the spine. We waited and waited and waited. And then one day, there was movement, in the way that things move when you are least expecting them to.
In this way, two people met each other, for Rock had been talking all these decades and some of the settler people had heard him too, whispering.
One of them, an artist by trade, listened, and listening, made it his business to meet one of the women who belonged to In‘zhúje’waxóbe. This woman had known of his kidnapping and had grieved and, being who she was, hoped. The two came together and realized, when dealing with governments, that they were “Between a Rock and a Hard Place.”
Like a boulder rolling and growing, they collected more people. Shokhi, to see him return home. Now, it is no easy feat to move a 22 ton boulder, and as my teacher tells me, we are “polite people.”
So, we did not come under the cover of darkness to take back. Rather, we asked in broad daylight, out loud, for the return of our kin. And eventually the town apologized and we were told, yes indeed, he is yours. He is yours if you can take him.
And so began the struggle to find the money to ransom him, to move him home. The money was asked for, and granted and he is coming home to where he will hear the sound of our drums, and the beating of our feet, and the whispers of our prayers.
This is our heritage and our right. This is love, returning home. Gágohná.
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(Original Transcript of Essay)
By Charlee Huffman
Hawé Kóya wíta. Hello my friends. Zházhe wíta che Charlee. My name is Charlee. I am a citizen of the Kaw Nation of Oklahoma, a poet and a theologian.
Our ancestral Lands, Lands to which we belong now and always, are in the middle of this continent, in the beautiful basin of the plains, in what is now called Kansas, a name to which we belong, Kanza níkashiⁿga, the Kaw people.
I would like to tell you a story, in my mind this is a love story. I hope you will enjoy it.
In‘zhúje’waxóbe is one of many glacial erratics, great quartzite boulders who traveled over eras, moving, pushed by glaciers, moving at speeds at which we do not. In this way, he came to be at the confluence of a river and a creek - Shunganunga Creek and the Kansas river. Here is where he sat for hundreds of thousands of years. Listening. It was here he met Kanza people and together they prayed in the way living things do. This went on for a very long time.
If any of you are familiar with Shakespeare then you will know that the course of true love never did run smoothly and so it should come as no surprise that complications arise.
Kanza people were forced to move, time and time again by European settlement, our maps are drawn smaller and smaller, we draw closer to the center of our world. As Yeats says, “the center does not hold” and we are flung apart from our Land in 1873 when the families who survived the genocide, the disease, being overrun, when those survivors, made the walk to what was, at the time named Indian territory and an uncertain future, leaving behind the bones of our ancestors, our plants, our Rock, all that was familiar to the eye and mind. In‘zhúje’waxóbe remains there, and perhaps, over the years we go back there, to visit, to pray, to collect familiar food. This is conjecture. Remember, this is a love story, and what is love without hope.
I hope we would visit him; I know he was not far from our minds. What we do know, for certain, is that by 1929, after there were foul words spoken about us in the newspapers there in Lawrence, and envy, and that envy became jealousy, and jealousy begat action and that action was a race between settler
town and settler town and in the dark of night, (and this part is not conjecture though I wish it were,) the leaders of the town of Lawrence came and kidnapped In‘zhúje’waxóbe, and they did it before the ones in Topeka could, because many men wanted him.
They came with a train, and a crane, and chains, and they hoisted him dripping from the river and took him and stood him up and nailed a plaque to him, proclaiming him to be a monument to the settlers founding the town of Lawrence. Land which already was. Is. No one prayed with him. And there he stayed for 94 years.
But when you belong to a Rock, you do not easily forget, and so over the years we would see him, out of the corners of our eyes, or a grandfather taking a young boy to meet him, chills up the spine. We waited and waited and waited. And then one day there was movement, in the way that things move when you are least expecting them to, the way a leaf shines against the blue of the sky and makes art.
In this way, two people met each other, for Rock had been talking all these decades and some of the settler people had heard him too, whispering.
One of them, an artist by trade, listened, and listening, made it his business to meet one of the women who belonged to In‘zhúje’waxóbe. This woman had known of his kidnapping and had grieved and, being who she was, hoped. The two came together and realized, when dealing with governments, that they were “Between a Rock and a Hard Place” and so they were.
This became the name of the small group, which, like a boulder rolling and growing, collected more people. Scholars, elders, settlers, artists, lawyers, all came to bring him home. Now, it is no easy feat to move a 22 tonne boulder, and one who has been locked into the Land, one who has been claimed, owned by a town in the eyes of law, and we are, as my teacher tells me “polite people.”
So, we did not come under the cover of darkness to take back, rather we asked in broad daylight, out loud, for the return of our kin. There were many meetings, and eventually we were told, yes indeed, he is yours, he is yours if you can take him. Truly, though we belong to him.
And so began the struggle to find the money to ransom him, to move him home. If they could not find the money, would he would stay where he was? But between a rock and a hard place the money was asked for, and granted and now the group became the Sacred Red Rock Project, funded by the Mellon Foundation, and he is coming home to where he will hear the sound of our drums, and the beating of our feet, and the whispers of our prayers.
This is our heritage and our right. This is love, come home. Gágohná.
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