Crossing

The Bridge

We are closing in on their fortress, I exclaimed to my comrades following

behind me.

All we need to do is cross the bridge that is coming and itll be ours, I stated

under my breath, dodging the branches attempting to get in the way of our
movement, assuming my comrades were on the same page.

It turns out they werent. As we crossed the bridge, our forces were repelled

and almost forced from the slippery, wooden side of the bridge into the stream
below. We were held in this stagnant, dangerous position for what seemed like
forever. It was precarious at best; knowing damn well that one wrong step on the
cylindrical bridge would result in a dangerous fall into the cold stream below us. As
the sun was setting in the distance, slowly flooding the horizon, our forces retreated,
ultimately realizing the futility of our situation. We would not advance to the other
side.

In fact, I never made it to the other side of the bridge. I wasnt allowed to,

Moms orders. What about the cylindrical bridge? Well, Im pretty sure most people
would just call it a fallen tree. But I needed to know how that cylindrical bridge got
there in the first place, and more importantly why it was there. I believe I may have
guessed wrong in this scenario, but the drive to discover why was born while
attempting to cross that bridge.

Conquest In Norridgewock

Dad, seriously. Where are we going this time? I asked my father, knowing

damn well I wasnt going to get a direct answer.

Youll see Brad. Stop being so impatient, he insisted. We are almost there.

Besides, this road trip is actually important. And yes. I know where Im going and we
are not lost.

I simply sat back at that point and took in the moving scenery. I knew where

we were in general, but I had never been to this place before. We were in
Norridgewock, where we lived at the time, and my father and I were doing what we
always did on Saturdays, road trip. I didnt know this time would be different
though.

As we pulled in, I noticed a small memorial in a clearing in the woods. It

didnt appear to be much, and at first I was disappointed.

This place is really important Brad, my father explained to me. This is

where so many Native Americans lost their lives to colonists. People just like you
and me. They were attacked here and not many people know this place exists.

I was speechless. In fact, I still find myself speechless whenever I visit that

place. I had spent so much time analyzing what was obvious to the eye and how
such things came to be that I missed the hidden history right in front of me. There
was nothing here to show their existence outside of this memorial. I realized how
history could be lost and how it could be utilized as a tool, from a historiography
standpoint, to marginalize and eliminate people from the pages of history itself. I
had just been playing in the woods a few years earlier, simulating similar activities
to the ones that were utilized here to massacre indigenous people. Suddenly, history
became so entangled with my identity that I have hardly been able to separate the
two since.

The Olmec Heads

Im not entirely sure why I am trouble Mom, I swear, I can remember

desperately exclaiming to my mother from the school office over the phone. I
simply got into an argument with the teacher and she didnt like what I had to say.
Honestly!

I wasnt awarded any sympathy from my mother, and Im sure some people

wouldnt have used the word argument to describe what went down in my World
History class sophomore year.

It was that time of year around the holiday federally known as Columbus

Day. No one was bringing in more personal bias than I was. Then my teacher
repeated the classic rhyme that many children utilize to remember the year
Columbus got lost at sea and subjugated the indigenous inhabitants.

Dont forget. In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue. She stated loudly, for

the whole class to hear.

Dont forget the second part. In 1493, Columbus stole all that he could see. I

exclaimed proudly, getting some applause from a few classmates. In hind sight, that
probably only made it worse.

What followed was an exchange of differing beliefs, with my teacher being

unwilling to and possibly unable to see Columbus from the angle I saw him from. I
rambled off evidence that discredited him in anyway possible. I showed her images
of the Olmec heads, remnants of the Olmec civilization that many claim are African
in appearance, and the reports of Africans in Darien at the time the Spaniards
arrived. She wasnt having any of this. I was essentially told to go to the office for
being subordinate. Rather than acknowledge the possibility of Africans, or anyone
else really, being in the Americas long before Columbus, she decided to instead stay
with the status quo. I knew I couldnt live with this. Columbus could never discover a
land that my ancestors called home.

Moshups Chair

Okay, okay. I see it now. I said to my grandfather, pointing to the red cliffs

that were sprawled across the ocean side.

See. I told you. That was where he would sit and give daily lessons or eat. He

showed our people many of the things that we value. He replied.

This was the first time I had seen the red cliffs of Aquinnah in Massachusetts.

I had been here before, but never this close to this most sacred of places. To many
people, its simply a beach with some beautiful cliffs. To the modern day Aquinnah
Wampanoag, this place is sacred though. It symbolizes the remnants of our culture
that survived the assault of western assimilation and cultural genocide. It has been
transformed through the ages to reflect the experience of our people, but at its core
remains the same figure, Moshup.

When exactly did Moshup arrive? I asked. Is his story pre- or post-

colonial?

Both, my grandfather replied. Moshup existed in our oral traditions long

before the arrival of Europeans, but not in the same way we see him now. As with
many things in our lives, his story has changed with the history of our people.

Thats why Moshup descended deep into the waters of the Atlantic Ocean at

the first sign of white sails. He warned us of the trouble that white man would bring.
In hindsight, these additions to the story were most likely added long after this fact
was established. However, his chair, carved into the cliffs, still remained. The whale
blood that made the cliffs red was still there. Nantucket and the surrounding islands
were as well. All of these things were manifestations of Moshup.

Seeing this place in person was both spiritually and personally rewarding.

My love for history has always been closely blended with my own personal and
cultural identity. As I was staring at these cliffs, knowing the red coloring was from
iron deposits, I couldnt help but visualize Moshup instructing our people in hunting
whales. I realized that history is simply the story of people, and no matter how
objective and factual it may hope to be, humans will always be subjective creatures
with a variety of experiences and explanations. I realized in that moment that
history was indivorcable from the present and the future.