across the prairies, through the forests, along the coast, dragging behind him an
enormous camera and tripod and the cultural expectations of an emerging nation, and I am
humbled.
So when I set out in the fall of 1995 on what I had pompously decided
to call the Medicine River Photographic Expedition, I was stuffed full of high
expectations. My brother Christopher, who is a fine woodworker and three years younger
than I, wanted to come along. He told me that the expedition sounded like fun and the
prospect of meeting other Native artists was appealing.
My mother, fearful that her only children might get
lost in the heart of the heart of the country, cooked and packed us six roast chickens,
twenty dozen chocolate chip cookies, an entire tree of bananas, a vineyard of grapes, an
orchard of apples and oranges, four loaves of bread, a case of drinking water, candy (in
case we ran out of cookies, I guess), and four pounds of butter. Along with a complete
set of maps of the provinces and states, three flashlights of varying sizes, a highway
hazard warning light, a car-battery charging system with an electrical tire inflater,
several pamphlets on how to survive in the wilderness, and a compass.
After we had packed and said our goodbyes, she walked alongside the car
all the way to the street and had us roll down the window so she could tell us to drive
carefully.
As we slipped onto the interstate, the Volvo stuffed with camera gear and
the better part of a grocery store, and began following my bright idea down to the
American Southwest, I can remember thinking that Curtis couldnât have been any
better outfitted.
In Roseville, California, where I grew up, race was little more than a
series of cultural tributaries that flowed through the town, coming together in
confluences, swinging away into eddies. There were at least three main streams,
Mexicans, the Mediterranean folk â Italians and Greeks â and the general mix
of Anglo-Saxons that a Japanese friend of mine, years later, would refer to as the Crazy
Caucasoids. But in Roseville in the late 1950s andearly 1960s,
there were no Asian families that I can remember, and the picture I have of my 1961
graduating class does not contain a single black face.
If there was a racial divide in the town, it was the line between the
Mexicans and everyone else. Some of the Mexican families had been in the area long
before California fell to the Americans in 1848 as a spoil of war. The rest had come
north later to work the fields and had settled in Roseville and the other small towns
â Elk Grove, Lodi, Stockton, Turlock, Merced, Fresno â that ran through the
heart of the Sacramento and San Joaquin valleys.
I went to school with Hernandezes and Gomezes. But I didnât
socialize with them, didnât even know where they lived. My brother and I kept
pretty much to our own neighbourhood, a five- or six-block area on the northwestern edge
of town bounded by auction yards and an ocean of open fields.
Racism is a funny thing, you know. Dead quiet on occasion. Often
dangerous. But sometimes it has a peculiar sense of humour. The guys I ran with looked
at Mexicans with a certain disdain. Iâd like to say that I didnât, but that
wasnât true. No humour here. Except that while I was looking at Mexicans, other
people, as it turned out, were looking at me.
In my last year of high school, I mustered enough courage to ask Karen
Butler to go to the prom with me. Thatâs not her real name, of course. Iâve
changed it so I donât run the risk of embarrassing her for something that
wasnât her fault.
I should probably begin by saying that at eighteen, I
was not the prettiest of creatures. Tall and skinny, with no more co-ordination than a
three-legged stepladder, I also had drawn the pimple card to brighten my
adolescence.
Pimples. The word has an almost dainty sound
enormous camera and tripod and the cultural expectations of an emerging nation, and I am
humbled.
So when I set out in the fall of 1995 on what I had pompously decided
to call the Medicine River Photographic Expedition, I was stuffed full of high
expectations. My brother Christopher, who is a fine woodworker and three years younger
than I, wanted to come along. He told me that the expedition sounded like fun and the
prospect of meeting other Native artists was appealing.
My mother, fearful that her only children might get
lost in the heart of the heart of the country, cooked and packed us six roast chickens,
twenty dozen chocolate chip cookies, an entire tree of bananas, a vineyard of grapes, an
orchard of apples and oranges, four loaves of bread, a case of drinking water, candy (in
case we ran out of cookies, I guess), and four pounds of butter. Along with a complete
set of maps of the provinces and states, three flashlights of varying sizes, a highway
hazard warning light, a car-battery charging system with an electrical tire inflater,
several pamphlets on how to survive in the wilderness, and a compass.
After we had packed and said our goodbyes, she walked alongside the car
all the way to the street and had us roll down the window so she could tell us to drive
carefully.
As we slipped onto the interstate, the Volvo stuffed with camera gear and
the better part of a grocery store, and began following my bright idea down to the
American Southwest, I can remember thinking that Curtis couldnât have been any
better outfitted.
In Roseville, California, where I grew up, race was little more than a
series of cultural tributaries that flowed through the town, coming together in
confluences, swinging away into eddies. There were at least three main streams,
Mexicans, the Mediterranean folk â Italians and Greeks â and the general mix
of Anglo-Saxons that a Japanese friend of mine, years later, would refer to as the Crazy
Caucasoids. But in Roseville in the late 1950s andearly 1960s,
there were no Asian families that I can remember, and the picture I have of my 1961
graduating class does not contain a single black face.
If there was a racial divide in the town, it was the line between the
Mexicans and everyone else. Some of the Mexican families had been in the area long
before California fell to the Americans in 1848 as a spoil of war. The rest had come
north later to work the fields and had settled in Roseville and the other small towns
â Elk Grove, Lodi, Stockton, Turlock, Merced, Fresno â that ran through the
heart of the Sacramento and San Joaquin valleys.
I went to school with Hernandezes and Gomezes. But I didnât
socialize with them, didnât even know where they lived. My brother and I kept
pretty much to our own neighbourhood, a five- or six-block area on the northwestern edge
of town bounded by auction yards and an ocean of open fields.
Racism is a funny thing, you know. Dead quiet on occasion. Often
dangerous. But sometimes it has a peculiar sense of humour. The guys I ran with looked
at Mexicans with a certain disdain. Iâd like to say that I didnât, but that
wasnât true. No humour here. Except that while I was looking at Mexicans, other
people, as it turned out, were looking at me.
In my last year of high school, I mustered enough courage to ask Karen
Butler to go to the prom with me. Thatâs not her real name, of course. Iâve
changed it so I donât run the risk of embarrassing her for something that
wasnât her fault.
I should probably begin by saying that at eighteen, I
was not the prettiest of creatures. Tall and skinny, with no more co-ordination than a
three-legged stepladder, I also had drawn the pimple card to brighten my
adolescence.
Pimples. The word has an almost dainty sound
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