INDIANS DON'T CRY

Fearless Leader takes to the wilds with a tribe of nine-year-old Campfire Girls.
Fearless? Leader?

BY MICKEY ALLEN
I told them whe I signed up as assistant leader that I knew next to nothing about
camping and even less about Campfire Girls. Unfortunately, no one batted an eye. That is
how I became involved in what follows.
Throughout the school year, a very compentent Mrs. Walker kept the Campfire
meetings zinging along. All I did was help with the scissors and tape. As summer
approached, the girls began talking about camp. Mrs. Walker would be unable to take
them. In an unguarded moment, I said I would. "Yea! Hurray for Mrs. Allen." etc.
The yellow bus picked up our scuffy little group at the ungodly hour of 7.30 a.m. As
we bounced along, I noticed that the little girl next to me looked pale. "I think I'm going
to throw up," she said.
I reached into my purse for a tissue. She was right; she did throw up. Right into my
purse.
After an endless 45-minute ride we arrived at an open field with a log cabin and
numerous totem poles. A large sergeant-type woman raised her hand, instantly silenced
the screaming throng of girls, and announced matter-of-factly, "Your tarps have been
folded. Be sure to floor your camps. There have been sightings of poison oak in sections
422, 668 and 669. You will be glad to hear that the rattlesnakes have been completely
done away with by the bull snakes. Please do not harm the bull snakes; we now have a
population of 14. Pick up your supplies and hurry to the powwow."
I hadn't understood half of what she said; but what I had understood scared me to
death. Now I know why they bring you on a bus. So you can't leave.
I followed the other mothers (here-inafter called Squaws) to a room marked supplies. I
was handed a large, dirty bundle. I dragged this treasure to the powwow in back of the
log cabin. The Sergeant was spouting off rules, duties and latrine locations. Then she
dropped the crushing blows: Squaws would not keep their own girls. I was about to
venture into the snake-infested wilderness with 12 strangers.
There they stood. Twelve already unbelievably dirty, blue-jeaned, pony-tailed,
besneakered, nine-year-old Indians.
"Now what?" I said with all the confidence I could muster.
"Now we find our campsite and set up the tarp," said one bright-eyed veteran.
I felt a little uneasiness, but no real panic. "Okay. How about right here next to the
lodge?" I suggested.
Laughter. "You are funny, Miss Mickey."
I didn't think so.
They led me over a trail that disappeared into wilderness. After traveling for untold miles,
they came upon a rotting fallen tree. This, I was told, was a perfect site. Who was I to
argue? Besides, I was weak from dragging that tarp thing.
While the 12 little Indians frightened off all of the wildlife within earshot, I tried to figure
out what a tarp was. I worked on the knot in the stupid rope until I thought I'd scream.
"Need some help?" said a voice from behind. There stood an angelic child with two blond
pigtails.
"Just fixing the tarp," I lied.
In nothing short of a flash she had untied the bundle.
In case you don't know what a tarp is, it is a piece of somebody's old tent that has been
thrown away. Our piece was a trapezoid. Inside it were an old shower curtain, a lard can
containing a hammer, axe, iron skillet, a box of matches, two packages of flower seeds, a
can of tick spray, a box of 400 bandages and, God forbid, a snake-bite kit. I stood looking
helplessly at the pile of junk.
"My name is Susie," said my little rescuer.
"Okay, Susie,do you know what to do with this stuff?" I said.
"Well, last year Miss Alice made a three-sided tent out of this tarp, and we built a fence,
and we planted..."
I had never met Miss Alice, but I hated her instantly.
We wandered around for an hour spying on other campsites, trying to get the general drift
of what to do. The other Squaws had worked wonders. Their camps sported neat tarp
shelters, tables, gently burning fires, rope swings.
By the end of the day, our domain sported a funny-looking tarp that hung from one
corner by a short rope looped over the top branch of our rotting tree. The other side was
held by a rubber band wrapped around a skinny sapling. The front flap was secured by
adhesive tape to two long sticks stuck about one inch into the hard ground. We had the
largest anthill in the entire camp and a weird hole that the girls convinced me was a snake
hole. Our new home. The girls loved it.
By the third day wae had taken on the name Blackfoot for our trib, and I had th dubious
title of Fearless Leader. We had had serious discussions such as: When you are out in the
Wilderness and don't have tissue, what does a lady do with the remains after she has
picked her nose? You may not think this is a very serious problem. But when you are
nine years old and in camp it can be very pertinent. One day when I was hot and cranky,
the tarp flap fell (again). I was refixing it while White Cloud, the only black girl in the
tribe, stood watching. For no reason at all, she looked me in the eye and said, "I love you,
even if you are white."
For a moment I forgot about the terrible mosquito-bite itch inside my bra and my sore
feet and my sunburn. What could I say? What should I say? As I looked into her eyes, I
felt my own brimming over.
"Indians don't cry," she scolded.
The last day finally arrived. We broke camp early and trudged back to the big meeting of
the tribes by the flagpole. It was 103 degrees that day. We sat Indian-fashion around a
huge bonfire. A slightly potbellied Mr. Mack began speaking: "All of us will be taking
home fond memories of our beloved camp..."
Now I'm not much of one for speeches, so I busied myself trying to scratch the place
under my bra and looking at my watch. At four o'clock, the bus would take me home to
my indoors plumbing and a nice hot bath. I was slightly aware of people watching me. I
glanced around. My girls were beaming at me. I decided I had better pay attention.
"...Blackfoot tribe," he was saying. "This is the first time in the camp's history that one
tribe has won all three awards.
"The Best Camper award goes to Running Deer, Susie." Blond, pigtailed Susie entered
the circle to receice her award. "Running Deer saved the camp from burning to the
ground by shoveling dirt on a fire in No. 3 rest station. Thank you, Running Deer, for
your quick thinking."
"The Kindness to Animals award goes to White Cloud, Julie." Proudly, White Cloud
entered the cirle. "White Cloud found a bull snake badly wounded. She cared for him and
brought him food until he has able to hunt for himself." "Every day as I walked through
the camp," Mr. Mack went on, "I inspected the neat campsites with their trim shelters and
craft displays and equipment carefully stored. Our campsites looked like a magazine
advertisement. That is, until I came upon one particular camp."
Ho, boy, here it cames, I thought.
"This camp had a shaky, lopsided shelter, a sign which read 'See the Snake Hole - One
Marshmallow', and another which read 'Give Your Unwanted Bugs to Help a Hungry
Snake'. The supplies were in confusion, the cooking pit was full of water. At other camps,
Indians followed a set routine of crafts and games while Squaws prepared lunch. Not at
the Snake Hole."
Go ahead, Jabbermouth, tell everything you know, I thought quietly.
"Here the Squaw and her Indians spent most of the morning trying to light a fire and
otherwise survive in the wild. While at first glance this may have looked like an excercise
in futility, closer observation proved that the whole group of Indians was totally involved.
It was their camp. Everything had been learned the hard way - firsthand. The Blackfoot
tribe may leave with no more Indian's lore than they came with, but they leave with
something much more precious: the knowledge of team-work and personal
accomplishment. Fearless Leader, enter the circle and receive your award."
As I stood between Running Deer and White Cloud, I could barely swallow my tears
back into my eyes.
When meeting was over, my little Indians came to me for a last hug. I think they were
concerned about who would watch out for me now. When I came to White Cloud, I
noticed tear streaks running down her beautiful brown face. "Indians don't cry," I said.
"I'm not and Indian anymore," she said. "I'm just a little girl." Funny how I hadn't thought
of that in the last few days.
There should have been 12 more awards given that day. Loyalty awards. They hadn't
given me away once. We all acted as if the whole week had gone Exactly as Planned.