Back in the day the plains of Wisconsin (my tribe’s ancestral homeland) and Minnesota (the state I’ve resided in my whole life) were teeming with massive herds of buffalo. My forefathers depended on the buffalo for food, housing, clothing and energy. EVERY part of the buffalo was utilized for daily subsistence. But the white man came and wiped out the buffalo herds.
Buffalo of any kind are rare, white buffalo are extremely rare. It is estimated that white buffalo births occur roughly once in 10 million births. In addition to being rare they are also considered sacred by many Native American people. The appearance of a white buffalo is seen as a sign of hope and renewal for humanity and gives many native peoples reason to believe all peoples of the world may live together in harmony.
Except in zoos, I have not often seen buffalo, except for an almost ill-fated encounter near Devil’s Tower in Montana on a family vacation. Stepping outside of the family truckster, with the kids in tow, I figured, what the hell, it’s only a young buffalo, and it’s at least 20 feet away. My native spirit was high, so I attempted to charm the beast with a hang loose hand gesture a la Crocodile Dundee (with the water buffalo). The 800 pound beast was mesmerized right up until he went
from standing still to charging at me and my off-spring. None of you have ever seen three people move so fast, scurrying back inside to the safety of the van. Miraculously no one was harmed (although some underwear may have been soiled in the process). My lovely and talented bride had a good laugh at my expense and the kids had yet another story to tell of how stupid their dad could be. The young buffalo, after absolutely scaring the bejeezus out of me, pretty much looked bored. The tagline for the rest of that vacation became, “The prairie was angry that day my friend,” as a cheap imitation of George Costanza’s description of retrieving a golf ball from a whale’s blow hole. I did, however, earn a newfound respect for buffalo that I will carry with me to the day I die.
I haven’t seen a buffalo of ANY color since that vacation but I have witnessed a rare sight in our neighborhood. While squirrels are not as numerous as the buffalo once were, they still are quite plentiful in Hopkins. In the last two Aprils, and again this past week I have spied a white squirrel on my way to and from the bus. It may not be much, but in times of uncertainty, with political polarization, and hate groups on the rise, ministers in Florida burning the Koran, and American soldiers embroiled in 2 (or maybe 3 – depending on who you believe) wars, this white squirrel is an omen to this modern-day, urbanized Native American that there is hope. We can live in harmony. I gotta believe it. Maybe if we all believed it just might happen.
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