Dear Diary,
I saw the soldiers when they came. They came to the village chief and demanded to speak to him. Mother pulled me away into the woods and I saw all the rest of my friends being similarly herded by their mothers. I heard raised voices coming from the camp. Some of the voices were harsh and alien to my ears. They yelled about a treaty that they say had been signed, allowing us to be forcibly removed from our homes. I feel a shiver run down my back. The Creek who used to live around here have already been forced away. So have the Chickasaws, Choctaws, and Seminoles. Are we next? Are our days on our ancestral home numbered? No, we are the Cherokee, the Principle People. They can not force us from our homes. This land has always been our land. They came here not long ago, this is the land where we were born.
The chief's voice raises in anger.
"We will not recognize your corrupt treaty!" he yells, "That treaty was approved by a minority of the Cherokee Nation! It is not a real treaty! We will stay on this land!" A man yells back.
"No, you won't! The United States government has a treaty with your tribe. It was approved by Congress and signed by the president! If you resist us you also resist Congress."
"Oh, Congress. Congress has done so much to help us." There is a sarcastic note in his voice. "They turned a blind eye to the Burnt Corn Creek massacre of our neighbors and they turned an even blinder eye to the sufferings of the people who were forced out. But still blinder to the "Settlers" who come and drive us from our homes as if we were only a group of cattle in a field they wanted to cultivate. But no, they care about the cattle. Congress must be blind to not notice what has happened under their license. In fact, I wish they would go blind! But before that let them see our people being forced from our homes with only the rags on our backs and being forced to march out like you suggest. And let them know that this is their doing. The ending of our race, the guilt of killing a people who have more claim to this land than you since this is the land of their ancestors, let all of the knowledge of that blame reside with Congress." The man seemed to be annoyed.
"Whether or not you blame Congress you still have to leave." He said more quietly. "Gather the women and children from where you have them gathered in the forest, you have 15 minutes." The chief snarled in Cherokee.
"Eagled eyed, huh?" he raised his voice but instead of defiance there was only anger. "Come out. These men say we have only 15 minutes before we are forced to go, let us prepare for this journey forced on us by the traitorous Congress." Slowly, like shadows, we emerge from the forest to stare at the people who will be forcing us away. My mind is whirling in shock. It is happening to us. This isn't real, it can't be. This is happening to someone else, not to me. But is me who must, with mother and father and my two year old brother, pack up all we can bring with us. It is still me who finds herself in a throng of crying children out of the way of parents. Some of the older children cling to brothers and sisters. My brother is in my arms but my arms are not really a part of me. I am in shock. He looks up toward me and asks.
"What's going on? Why is everyone so angry? Are we moving camp?" His innocence breaks through the wall of denial, releasing a flood of tears.
"In a way," I wail and hug him closer to me. He squirms in my arms. I feel a hand on my shoulder. One of the older girls who suffered one of the invader's diseases a year ago and who now is still weak is looking down at me. She sits beside me and holds out her arms. I look in confusion at her. She smiles.
"Your brother, let me hold him." I put him into her arms and she rocks him back and forth singing a Cherokee lullaby. Her voice lulls him and he stops wiggling. She looks again at me. "That's better. Now you won't have that little worm fidgeting in your lap." I giggle. The man in the army coat walks by us and our laughter stops. The girl beside me glares up at him with her dark eyes flashing a defiant challenge. They seem to say "You have given me your diseases, stolen my land, persecuted my people, seen us not as equals, and now you force us to leave. You may be able to force my body but you will never force my mind. You will never control my mind." He feels the intense gaze of her hatred on his back and turns uncomfortably to see who it comes from. He scans the crowd for adults but they are out of sight and the only ones in sight have their heads hanging to the ground in defeat. He glances across the line of children and sees us. I too glare at him. I try to project that message also through my eyes and he seems to receive it. "I will never forget this." Our eyes say, "I will never forget this and someday this will come back to haunt you. Even if my body dies along the way you will never kill my spirit."
Dear Diary,
The last entry was a week ago. We were forced out and made to march along to a crude shelter where we are now staying. This is a bad place. We are crowded together here and the sanitation is bad. They say that we will stay here for a while before we begin the long walk to our new "home". The soldiers do all they can to make us submit but we never will. They can make our bodies live in filth but our minds soar free of the cages. Our little rebellion gave hope to the others and now whenever we see a soldier we tell them exactly what we think of them, with our eyes. Almost none of them can make eye contact with any of us now.
Dear Diary,
We have been forced out. After six months here we have been sent out of here too. We are now marching. But not all of us march. Mother is dead and so are many of the others. I still let the older girl help me with my brother. I carry him on my back now. He has even learned to send his confusion into his eyes so that the soldiers know what they are doing to the innocent. They find him the hardest to look at. We are all half starved and riddled with disease. We march through the cold weather out past the city. A few white women stand by the side of the road. They see us and they cry. At least some of the invaders have a heart. But the soldiers do not lead out a defeated people but a race who is still alive and fighting. Our fighting spirit never will die.
Dear Diary,
The defiant words I wrote last seem so far away. We are bitterly cold, huddled into cloth shelters and eating inadequate food after marching all day. We are exhausted in mind and body. A few days more of this and we will not be able to go on.
Dear Diary,
I will never forgive them. Ever. My brother is now dead. Despite all my care and extra food he perished from a combination of starvation and cold. The soldiers pulled him out of my arms when they learned of his death and yanked his little stiff body away. I struck out at one of them who turned raised a hand, then shuddered under the force of all of our eyes, and walked away. He is buried in an unmarked grave along this trail. We are all crying. The older girl who helped me to care for him is beside me. She seems to be worse too. Her already exhausted body is weakening fast. I do not know if she will make it. Sleep claims us both and we drift off into a tear filled and numbing slumber.
Journal-
The two girls with the defiant eyes were found this morning. They were dead, frozen to death from the bitter cold. They reflect a large group of the children who have died. Even though their little bodies were icy to the touch, their eyes flashed fire. It seemed that they had woken up before they died and were waiting for the end. I cannot look their parents in the eyes. I cannot even look at the faces of their bodies. The boldness that jumps at me even from their dead bodies is astonishing. We buried them in a grave beside the little boy who died yesterday. Before we buried them I had to put some of their hair over their eyes. I had to so that I couldn't see their accusing faces. The hard dirt closed over them and I tried to forget.
-Army Soldier
"The Trail of Tears - Cherokee Indians forcibly removed from North Georgia"
(April 4, 2008)
"Trail Of Tears"
(April 6, 2008)
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