From the poetically practical names of people and months, eg. Black Elk, I think, manages the complexity as he recounts experiences from boyhood through young adulthood. The past comes alive through the proverbial eyes of a revered man whose people have been overly villified or overly romanticized, but rarely portrayed in all their human complexity. And that's the sort of glimpse Black Elk Speaks provides in wonderful detail. That even in the middle of one of America's great cities, having long ago replaced the vast beds of coastal sage and peaceable people, there remain ghostly encounters with a very real pre-European past. But I've never forgotten that moment, not because it was embarrassing for Manuel or for the bewildered families who had no idea who he was, but for what it demonstrated to me. A moment later, he returned, and we resumed without comment. But suddenly Manuel jumped from the bench, strode over to the several families with the kids, and in a stern and steady voice proceeded to remind them that all the land upon which they now walked and drove had once belonged to his people who had peaceably roamed the land. Maybe, it was the summer heat or the unruly kids playing nearby, I don't know.

Now, Manuel, as long as I had known him, was a mild-mannered man, content to let Vera make decisions for those Gabrielinos still active in tribal affairs. We were all working to preserve the remaining sage scrub beds (a sacred plant to Western tribes) from San Bernardino area developers. Present were Manuel, his wife Vera chief of what was left of the Huhumonga tribe (Gabrielino, in Spanish), and several of us white activists. The park was one of those anonymous lttle collections of half-watered, half-dead grassy spots that dot the LA sprawl.

We were sitting on a park bench in the shade. As I recall, it was one of those hot, smoggy summer days in LA.

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