Cast:

 

Willie - a 19 year-old Gwich’in youth arrested for assaulting a white man at the 60 Below. Nick-named “Dummie”, he is unable to talk to most people, and is considered to be a mute, though his impairment is psychological, not physical.

 

Grand Father - a voice of an elder in the cell next to Willie; while he identifies himself to Willie as his Grand Father, he is really a spiritual guardian angel, perhaps even the voice of the Great Spirit.

 

Guard - a large, ignorant man, dressed up like a Nazi storm-trooper in a paramilitary uniform and arm band. Blond hair, blue eyes, and mean.

 

Mountie - a RCMP officer who arrests Willie and appears at his trial.

 

Gold Panner 1 - the man at the 60 Below who picks a fight with Willie, and who at the trial turns out to be the Crown Prosecutor.

 

Gold Panner 2 through 5 - friends of Gold Panner 1 who jump and beat up Willie after he strikes GP1 in desperation.

 

Muffy Compromise - the Defense Lawyer at the trial who defends Willie half-heartedly.

 

Judge Harshly - the presiding judge at the trial of Willie who is quite sympathetic to Willie, but whose hands are tied by the Law.

 

ACT I

 

Scene 1:

 

This act takes place in jail. The stage is divided into three sections. The center is Willie’s cell. It is a one-man cell, with a metal bed and a toilet bowl. It is caged by thick metal bars. Its lighting is dim. To the right is another cell, in shadows. It seems to be empty. To the left is what appears to be a bar. There is a high bar facing the stage, with two stool along it. In the foreground are two tables, each with two chairs and a bowl of popcorn on top. Bottles of booze are lined up against the back wall. Willie is brought to the center cell in handcuffs; he is wearing a jean jacket and a head-band. He looks bruised, cut and bandaged. At the top of Willie’s cell is a small window; through this we (the audience) can tell approximately the time of day of the scene. It is black, signifying darkest night.

Guard - Okay, Dummie! Welcome home, from Skid Row to Death Row! Ha ha! Ha ha! I guess you probably know you’ll be stuck here for some time. Tie Judge is in Mexico on holiday. You just never do seem to learn you can’t go beating up white guys. (Guard takes off Willie’s cuffs, and pushes him roughly into the cell, so hard that he falls onto the floor.) Did’ja have a nice trip, Dummie? See you in the Fall! (Willie looks at Guard coldly and silently) Can’t you even laugh? That was funny. You must really be dumb. Or maybe you’re a drunk like all them other Indians around here. Are you a drunken dummie, or just a dummie, Dummie? (Willie just stares back) Well, if you need anything, just holler. Ha ha! Ha ha ha! (The guard exits to the left, laughing as he goes.)

 

(Willie gets up, walks over to the metal bed, and collapses onto it in exhaustion. The lights dim until the stage is dark. Scene ends.)

 

Scene 2:

 

Same place; it is early morning, and a yellow-orange light comes in through the window in Willie’s cell. Willie wakes up, slowly. His metal bed has no mattress or blanket or pillow. He is lying beneath his jean jacket.

 

Willie - (yawns and stretches) Ouch! (He looks at his bruises, touches his swollen and split lip.) Those sons-of-bitches really got me good! I just don’t get it. A white guy can spit on me and harass me with the vulgarest of curses, and if I hit him, defending my pride and the pride of my people, I get arrested. Worse - after I hit the guy, he and four of his buddies jump me and kick the shit out of me. And they don’t even get reprimanded by the RCMP. Self defense, they say! What do you call my single punch? (He looks to the audience) I bet you want to know why that guard called me Dummie; it’s not my name, really; though most White people call me that. My real name is Willie Martin. I got my last name from my Dad, who got it from the missionaries. They thought my Dad trapped lots of Martin for the Hudson’s Bay Company down around Dawson, but he said he hardly ever got out on the trap-line. But the name stuck. We lived up in Fort McPherson, a long time ago when I was just a little kid. My folks got killed when I was still a baby, hit by a big semi hauling boot-legged booze up the Klondike Road to Dawson; they were changing a flat tire on our pick-up when it lost control coming down the crest of a hill. I never saw it; but my Mom did, and she threw me into the ditch just in time. She saved my life, but lost hers by doing it. I got sent to a mission school, where I used to get beaten for not speaking English. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to speak in English. I didn’t speak Gwich’in either. I couldn’t speak nuthin’. I wasn’t stupid. It’s just around white people, I get torn up inside and can’t talk. I lose my voice. I’m not scared; it’s just that I feel alien, like a foreigner in my own land.

 

At the Mission school, the kids started to call me “dummie”; they thought I was a deaf-mute. But I heard everything. It was bad enough that might folks named be after a “willy”; they might just have called me “penis”. Doctors and nurses poked and probed me, but their tests said I was normal. They brought up a psychiatrist, who said I was suffering some kind of delayed-stress trauma, like all those soldiers from the Vietnam War who get flash-backs and can’t hold jobs and keep ending up in prison. They said it was a result of witnessing my parents getting killed, and repressed guilt for getting saved by my Mom. What do they know?

 

I didn’t mind native people calling me “Dummie”, ‘cause they don’t do it with hate in their hearts. But when white people do it, it pisses me off. I ran away from school when I was sixteen, and came to Whitehorse. They kept sticking me in foster homes, but I kept running. I got sent to jail a few times, but they always let me go, feeling sorry for me. The judge is an okay dude. I like his name. Judge Harshly. He seems to understand. But all the guards, they’re a bunch of storm-troopers, racist jerks. They always make fun of me and push me around. When at the juvenile detention center, I kept running away. One time I beat the crap out of the guard. Everybody - that is, White people - thought I was dangerous! What about the guard - he kept pushing me around and humiliating me in front of the other boys. I had enough. Now he works up here at the jail. The way he eggs me on, I know I’m gonna lose it. I wish I could find my voice and tell him off. But I can’t; the only way I have left to speak out is with my fist. If I don’t hit these assholes when they taunt and torment me, I just stand here, dumbfounded and furious. That’s why I hit that white guy at the 60 Below, and ended up here, again. (Suddenly a bright light illuminates the left part of the stage - it is the bar where Willie got in the fight. The bar-tender is wearing a white wig; it is Judge Harshly, as we discover in the next Act., Gold Panner 1 through 5 are sitting around, loud and obnoxious.)

 

I was sitting there, having a drink, and trying to mind my own business...I’ll show you. (Willie exits the cell and takes a seat at the bar. The bartender/judge pours him a draft. Then the lights dim and a narrow beam focuses on Willie:) This big, ugly white guy comes over and sits down next to me. I knew it was trouble! I’ve seen him around before, over at the court house. I know he knows who I am. (The lights brighten again.)

 

Gold Panner 1 - Hey there, Dummie! Long time no see...or talk!! How are you doing? Oh - that’s right. You can’t answer me, can you. I guess that means you’re as dumb ‘ as you look! (The lights once again dim, with a narrow beam focusing on Willie:)

 

Willie - I wish I could have answered that white guy. I was getting mad. But my voice just disappeared, as usual, inside of me. And he kept on bugging me. (The lights re-illuminate the bar:)

 

Gold Panner 1 - Come on, Dummie. Talk to me! Don’t you know it’s rude not to answer a question. Didn’t your momma teach you any manners? (Willie tries to shrink, hunching over and nursing his beer, hoping the white guy will leave him alone. The lights dim again, leaving Willie lit up by a narrow beam of light.

 

Willie - Boy, I was getting sore! He just wouldn’t leave me alone. That guy was asking for trouble. But without a voice, what could I do? (The lights come back on again:)

 

Gold Panner 1 - You’re one rude Indian, boy! But maybe it’s cause you’re drunk, like all the rest of you Indians here. Are you a drunk dummie, or just a dummie, Dummie? (Willie is visibly enraged, shaking. He turns to the White man, and with his right hand directs a punch toward his jaw, hoping to shut him up. He misses, but does manage to bop him in the nose, breaking it. Suddenly, four buddies of the white guy - Gold Panner 2 through 5 - converge on Willie and descend onto him, punching and kicking him, shouting “Dummie, Dummie, you drunk Indian Dummie!” A RCMP officer arrives, dressed brightly red in his Mountie Uniform. He blows a shrill whistle, and the pile of belligerent white guys backs off, leaving a bruised and bleeding Willie on the ground.)

 

Mountie - Okay guys, what’s the ruckus all about? Who started the fight?

 

Gold Panner 1 - He did (pointing accusingly at Willie); it v/as the dumb Indian. We were just trying to enjoy ourselves, have a couple of beers; and he attacks me violently.

 

Mountie - I should have known it was you, Willie. Don’t you ever learn anything? You just can’t keep starting fights wherever you go. This time I’m going to have to run you in. (He grabs Willie’s arms and puts on hand-cuffs.) Let’s go.

 

(The lights dim again, except for a red beam on Willie and the Mountie. They walk to the center of the stage as a loud siren is played. The Mountie hands Willie over to Guard, who in turn pushes Willie into the cell. In slow motion, Willie falls to the ground. The Guard reiterates his earlier invective, this time with a heavy German accent:)

 

Guard - Okay, Dummie! Welcome home...I guess you probably know you’ll be stuck here for some time...You just never do seem to learn... Ha ha ha... ha ha!

 

(Lights fade out on to Willie, lying on the floor, as the echoing laugh of the Guard continues. After a moment, the lights come back on. Willie is once again alone and it is day.)

 

Willie - Well, that’s what happened to me. (In response, an Elder’s voice, belonging to Grand Father, emanates through the cell wall.)

 

Grand Father - I hope you got him good Willie!

 

Willie - I sure did! Busted that asshole’s nose. But I aimed for his mouth, to shut that white guy up once and for all.

 

Grand Father - And this makes you proud?

 

Willie - It sure does.

 

Grand Father - But by using violence, you are no better than that white fellow who harassed and tormented you. Was there not a better way?

 

Willie - It was the only way.

 

Grand Father - What about your voice, Willie?

 

Willie - I have no voice!

 

Grand Father - But you are talking to me now.

 

Willie - That’s different...wait a minute...I'm talking to you! Who are you?

 

Grandfather - I'm just a very old, though some say very wise, man. I know a great many thing, about past and future. I know you will regain your voice.

 

Willie - But I usually can't find my voice, at least around other people - especially white people. Most Indians, too. Except my family, but they're all dead now. I used to be able to talk to them about everything.

 

Grand Father - I know. It was very sad to lose them. I cried and mourned for many days and nights.

 

Willie - Me, too. You   knew my folks?

 

Grand Father - Yes. I know all my sons and daughters.

 

Willie - Your sons and daughters? What are you saying, old man? Who are you?

 

Grand Father - Call me your Grand Father.

 

Willie - I thought you died a long time ago, when I was a baby.

 

Grand Father - A lot of people did, but as you see, or at least hear, I am very much alive.

 

Willie - Why didn’t you call me Dummie like the Guard did?

 

Grand Father - I could never call my grandson such an insulting thing.

 

Willie - But you seem to be saying it was dumb of me to hit the white guy.

 

Grand Father - I said only that it is wrong to feel pride in using violence. For our people, violence has always been a last resort, to redress only a gross injustice or violation. Violence is only acceptable after talking has failed to resolve a dispute.

 

Willie - But I can not talk!

 

Grand Father - Yes, you certainly can. I will show you how.

 

(The lights blacken. End scene 2)

 

Scene 3:

 

The setting is the same place; it is later in the day and a long shadow is cast through the cell window by the low sun.

 

Willie - Grand Father! Are you still there?

 

Grand Father - Yes. I have not yet left this place. Don’t you worry. I’ll be here a good long time.

 

Willie - Do you still think I was wrong to hit that white guy?

 

Grand Father - Your question is difficult. You had to speak up and defend your honor, and you used the only way you knew how. It saddens me that you have lost your outer voice. But your inner voice remains so strong and clear. That is why I know you will once again possess the power of language.

 

Willie - I have always been able to speak to myself, inside my own heart. I can hear each word echo, in my mind. But when I open my mouth to defend myself, the most that I can squeeze out is a long stutter or a gag. And then people really have a good laugh. I thus learned to keep my mouth shut good and tight.

 

Grand Father - I have seen this happen so often, my people driven into silence. Not in submission or acquiescence to the white man. But from the feeling of oppression that comes from the white man’s foreign presence, his modern ways. Stricken dumb, we either look down at the ground or strike out in violence against the source of our alienation in our own land.

 

Willie - I dsh I could just shout at them, or even make fun of them to their ugly faces. But I’m locked up inside this wall of silence. Each time I try to break out of it, I end up locked up inside these walls of concrete and steel. I don’t know which wall is worse.

 

Grand Father - Their walls are not so mighty. They erode on their own, washed away by the rain, cracked by the winter ice, broken down with each breath of the North Wind. Our people have lived here for ten thousand years. Their walls will last just one generation. Just as Dawson once was a great city with over fifty thousand foreigners, and is now a decaying archaeological site, our land will again be ours. It is your wall of silence that troubles me now. That inner wall keeps your voice locked up. That is the worse culprit. We must break it down. This other wall will crumble of its own accord.

 

Willie - No! We have to smash their walls down. It is they who occupy our land and make us feel like unwelcome guests. They pollute our waters and kill our caribou; they poison our air with their lead dust and exhaust, and they clog our veins with alcohol. We need justice, and justice comes from the fist.

Grand Father - But that is what they say justice is, is it not?

 

Willie - What do they know of justice? There is no justice in their system. Why am I in jail, when five of them jumped me and beat me up? Is that justice.

 

Grand Father - You are right that there is no justice for our people in their system. It is not like our system of tribal justice, which once kept the peace throughout the entire Gwich’in nation, from the Brooks Range to the Peel River. Wherever the Porcupine Herd wandered, our people knew justice. But your vision of smashing down their walls is no different from their vision. Using your fist is not the answer.

 

Willie - Then what is?

 

Grand Father - It is easier to refute justice when ill-defined; but to define it clearly for ourselves, this is an elusive task. I have thought much about this concept while imprisoned by these many walls of steel and concrete and fear and alienation and hate. White people define justice as a kind of order, a kind balance maintained from the top or the center, more often than not using force and violence to scare their people into submission - or by building walls that are impenetrable. Hence their order is preserved, and justice is maintained. I have spoken with their great philosophers. A Greek man by the name of Plato tried to build a mighty Republic in his mind, using justice as its mortar. It could not stand on its own, so he invented powerful Laws to support it from the inside. But even then, it would not stand. This order could not be held for long, as it was against nature. An Englishman named Thomas Hobbes knew better; he invented a frightening, powerful force called the Leviathan, willed into being by the frightened masses, scared and weakened by the chaos of nature. This beast scared the people into submission, and thus order was preserved. The whole history of white men is a history of trying to build Leviathans - of trying to construct an order to withstand the forces of nature. Forces of dissension, of disintegration. Only the ancient Romans mastered the art of the sword. Roman justice, the foundation of white man’s concept of legal and social justice, emerged from the sword. Just as your vision of justice emerges from the fist. This way goes against nature, and it goes against the wisdom of the Great Spirit. It is the same with the White Man’s church; it is only his threat of eternal damnation and the fires of Hell that scares people into accepting Christianity, into accepting the word of the missionaries, who also ruled by the sword and the gun. But up here, it is not the right way.

 

Willie - Well, what is?

 

Grand Father - Do you know of our traditional ways? Of the way of the Great Spirit?

 

Willie - My folks used to talk a lot about it, in Gwich’in. I remember the Shaman and the sweat-lodge. In prison, a lot of older guys have turned to the old ways. But I never stayed in jail long enough to learn very much.

 

Grand Father - The old way is interpreted in nature. It is about harmony, living with the ebb and flow of the seasons. It is not about forcing a balance amongst hostile and competing social forces - these things are alien to us. Instead of building balance within the nation and between nations, our way constructs harmony between our nation and Nature.

 

Willie - What happened to the old ways, Grand Father?

 

Grand Father - Our people have wandered from the old ways. They have been distracted and confused by the ways of the White Man. His childish quest for Gold from the earth, stealing it from our land and poisoning our waters with mercury. His fire-water, his whiskey, and his disease, alcoholism. His cities and his laws, all so alien, all so out of touch with Mature. His presence here has disrupted our harmony with the forces of Nature. We must restore the natural flow.

 

Willie - We must then drive out the White Man!

 

Grand Father - No. They are too many and we are too few. Our sisters and brothers tried this in the South, and they were exterminated.

 

Willie - We’ve got to try harder.

 

Grand Father - And end up rotting in their jails for the rest of our lives? Or hanging from trees, dead - like our forefathers who rebelled against the White Man, fighting him on his own terms? No, that is not the way. We must return to our villages and to the land, leaving their cities behind - and with them all that money and booze. We must shun their education, which is just a tool of forced assimilation and the gradual erosion of our ways, our knowledge of this earth and the way of the Great Spirit. We must restore the teaching of these things, and restore tribal justice, in our villages.

 

Willie - Who will guide us there? Will you, Grandpa?

 

Grand Father - No, Willie. I am too old and tired. My time here is too short now. It is up to you to lead our people home.

 

Willie - Me? But I can’t even talk.

 

Grand Father - Yes you can, at least to me. With my help, you will be able to repossess your outer voice, and with it show our people the way back to the promised land of yesterday.

 

Willie - But I have so much to learn. It will take so long!

 

Grand Father - I am in no hurry; and behind these bars, you shouldn’t be, either.

 

(The lights gradually dim; scene ends and so does Act I.)

 

ACT II

 

Scene 1:

 

A light slowly fades in, from red to orange to yellow to white. The sun rises up and is visible through the cell window. Willie is lying on his back, under his jean jacket. His face is bearded now - with four month’s growth! His hair is a lot longer now, too. Much time has passed. The storm-trooper Guard returns, and he too is bearded. To the Left, where the bar was last act, we have a courtroom. It is identical to the bar, except a judge’s elevated chair is on top of the bar. In it sits Judge Harshly (with his white wig and a Mexican hat on his head. He, like everybody else, is bearded. The two tables are now the Defense and Prosecution’s desks. A woman lawyer sits at the desk on the left - the Defense Attorney, Muffy Compromise. The belligerent Gold Panner 1 is the Crown Prosecutor. Both lawyers have thick beards - obvious fake, a symbol of time passing.

 

The bar/courtroom is in shadows right now. The cell, in the center, is lit up. As Willie rises from his bed, the Mountie - also in the courtroom, stands up and walks slowly toward the cell. One can hear the loud boot-steps of the Guard coining from off-stage to the right.

 

Willie - Oh no! Grand Father, the Guard is coming for me.

 

Grand Father - (Quietly, obviously weak) Remember what I have taught you. Use your voice, not your fist. (The Guard arrives.)

 

Guard- Come on, Dummie! It’s Judgment Day. Time to see justice done, and to lock your ass up for life. (Willie looks down on the floor; he is trying to find his voice.) Come on, you dumb-ass Indian, You know what I am saying; don’t you understand an order? Or are you a retard, too? Is that it - Willie the dumb-ass retard Indian? (Guard enters the cell, reaches for Willie and grabs him by the hair.) It’s Judgment Day, Dummie. Or as we call it here, pay-back time. (He reaches for the cuffs to put on Willie.) Time for your muzzle, retard, (By this point, Willie has had quite enough. But he can’t find his voice. He tries to speak, but keeps wheezing and gagging; the best he can do is stutter.) Trying to speak? Animals can’t talk. Don’t waste your time. (Willie strikes out with his right hand, catching the guard squarely in the mouth, knocking him back. The guard reaches to his jaw and holds it.) You asked for it this time,

 

Dummie. You might have thought four months was a long time. Well, it’s gonna be a hell of a lot longer now. You’ll pay for your violence. There is going to be justice today. (He cuffs Willie, and roughly drags him over to the Mountie, who takes possession of his.)

 

Mountie - I saw that, William. You just don’t ever learn, do you? Time for justice, and this time it will be swift and efficient. I’m going to have to tell the judge you hit the guard, without provocation. Why don’t you ever seem to learn, Willie? (Willie shrugs. He is led into the courtroom, to the Defense Attorney on the left.)

 

Muffy Compromise - Hello, William. I’m so sorry it took four months to being you to trial. The Judge was on a long holiday to Mexico, and there wasn’t anything I could do. Please take a seat. Would you like some popcorn? (Willie shakes his head. The lights dim for a moment. End Scene 1.)

 

Scene 2:

 

The lights fade on, until utterly bright - almost blinding to the audience and to Willie. This is the court-room scene, the apotheosis of the play. To highlight its underlying premise, that justice is essentially off-limits to Natives and inaccessible, the dialogue of the Judge and the Lawyers is ultra-fast, like when turning a record from 33 to 78 rpm. Utterly incomprehensible, though key words will be emphasized.

 

Judge Harshly - Buenos Dias, amigos y amigas! The trial of Mr. William . “Dummie” Martin is called to order. The charge is aggravated assault against a White Man, as it turns out, the Crown Prosecutor. A very serious charge. William Martin, how do you plead? (He looks at Willie. Willie shakes his head.) Speak up, Mr. Martin. (Willie keeps shaking his head, back and forth.)

 

Muffy Compromise - As my client is unable to speak for himself, I enter the plea of guilty with explanation for him. (Willie begins to shake his head wildly, and he begins to grown in self-defense, still unable to find words.)

 

Judge Harshly- Even with explanation, the crime remains quite serious, and it is exacerbated by the accused’s prior criminal record, a prior escape from the Juvenile Detention Center after assaulting the guard there, and, I am told, of yet another unprovoked assault this morning against the prison guard.

 

Muffy Compromise - But your honor, there^ are mitigating factors.

 

Gold Panner 1 (Crown Prosecutor) - I object! The drunken Indian attacked me without provocation. He was wild, out of control. It took four of my colleagues from By-Law Enforcement, including the Dog Catcher, to subdue him until the RCMP could arrive. I demand justice.

 

Muffy Compromise - But your honor, there are mitigating factors.

 

Judge Harshly - I over-rule the objection for the time-being. Miss Compromise, what are these so-called mitigating factors that you would like to explain?

 

Muffy Compromise - I wish to point out to you the contents of Exhibit A. (She holds up a file.) It is the record of the defendant, and it explains to you his special history. In it you will read of the accidental and grisly death of his parents in front of him when a bootlegger lost control of his tractor-trailer and collided with Willie’s parents on the Klondike Road; you will read of his consequent muteness and the psychological scars that he carries which have prevented him from speaking. You will come to understand his emotional volatility and his predisposition to violent outbursts. To send him back to prison will not solve his deep troubles, nor will it cure his problem. He is a very sick boy and needs proper psychiatric treatment. Something that we can not provide up here in the Territory.

 

Judge Harshly - What do you recommend to the Court, Miss Compromise?

 

Muffy Compromise - I recommend that my client be sent forth from the Territory to the South, where he can be assigned to a proper psychiatric institution for lengthy treatment with therapy and new drugs that control violence in such individuals. In time, he’ll be as passive as a Ptarmigan.

 

Judge Harshly - What if these treatments fail? What will then be done to protect the public from this dangerous man?

 

Muffy Compromise - Well, there is always shock-treatment. But if that doesn’t work, there is the “final solution”.

 

Judge Harshly - And what is this “final solution”?

 

Muffy Compromise - It has two parts. The first is Lobotomy, which kills the dark side of the soul. And if that doesn’t do the trick, we have the patient put down.

 

Judge Harshly - Put Down? Put down where?

 

Muffy Compromise - Ah, it’s just an expression. A euphemism, your honor. It stands for euthanasia, putting the patient out of its misery by lethal injection.

 

Judge Harshly - I understand. Is there any objection from the Crown Prosecutor?

 

Gold Panner 1 - No, your honor. The sooner the accused is out of the Territory and in the Loony Bin, the better. Then we can feel safe again up here, and at the 60 Below.

 

Judge Harshly - Fine! Fine! Then we have justice once again. (With this mention of justice, Willie stands up at the table. While the trial was conducted in high speed and barely comprehensible language, the mention of justice suddenly awakens his outer voice. His mouth opens. His first word, “Justice”, comes out as a long wheeze. He tries again, and again. The entire court turns to him. He then finds his voice in its entirety and speaks:)

 

Willie - JUSTICE! What do you know of justice for my people?

 

Judge Harshly (looking shocked) - You can talk?

 

Willie - Now I can! How dare you even suggest that I be driven from my homeland. My people have lived here for ten thousand years, and we’ll still be here in ten thousand more years. I may seem guilty of hitting White People, but only because

 

I have been harassed and tormented, insulted and humiliated, abused and defamed by one and all for the simple crime of keeping quiet. Since when is it illegal to keep to one’s self? Since when is it against the law not to speak out? You say I struck without provocation. Yet I have been provoked to strike out since I was an infant.

 

I can talk now. But for a long time I had lost my voice. Until my Grand Father spoke to me, and taught me how to reach inside, behind my wall of silence, and to find my voice. And then to use it, to speak to my people, and to speak in defense of my people.

 

You dare to speak for me, to call me insane or sick, and to threaten to drive me into exile from my land and my people. You insist on making me feel like an outsider, an alien in my own land. How dare you! And you then dare to speak of justice? You mock justice!

 

You’re justice is borne of hate and fear, of racism and repression. Not of harmony with nature, of love and respect for the Great Spirit, of living off the land and obeying Nature’s cycles and limits. You call me Dummie, and make fun of my silence, while you pollute the water and poison the air and drug my people with liquor and rob them of their heritage. Have you no shame? Have I no right of silence, to close my eyes and ears and heart to your ugliness and hatred of our old ways, our old law.

 

You have no right to judge me, nor to accuse me. My people should be accusing you and judging you, for all that you have done in ignorance and malice, desecrating our ways. I have sat in jail for four months, awaiting trial to face charges of which I am innocent. I was indeed provoked to strike out, harassed and insulted. I had no choice, for you robbed me of my voice- I had to use my fist to redress the injustice of your vicious assaults of my character and of my privacy. Is this so wrong? Have I thus sinned, by daring to stand up for myself, the only way you have left for me?

 

You talk of justice. Well - after four months of prison, of isolation from my people, of abuse from your arrogant, racist guard, I want justice. I am innocent of your charges - and you are guilty of my charges. I want to be free, and I want my people to be free. Let my people go! Let me return to the village where I was .born, way up North along the Peel River, where the caribou still roam in their ceaseless quest for food, and the Northern Lights illuminate the v/inter skies that wrap us up in their cold darkness.

 

I am innocent and demand my freedom. I will stop hitting, striking out in self-defense. Now I will use my voice, and’ with it I will crush you. I have found my voice, and with it I shall lead my people, and guide them home again.

(Willie sat down, exhausted. The court officials looked around, stunned.) (Judge Harshly rested his chin on his fist, and contemplated justice, and then Mexico, and then justice again. He finally spoke:)

 

Judge Harshly - Will the two attorneys please approach the bench? I think we need a brief conference. (They step forward and after a brief chat, they return to their seats.) William Martin, I am quite impressed with your defense, and while unexpected, I am very glad you chose to speak to the court at last. I accept your sudden verbal clarity and your promise to stop using violence as a positive sign indeed. It seems that rehabilitation has succeeded, and that perhaps you have at last learned your lesson. But our system of “justice has existed here and in the Old World for a very long time, and I am responsible to it and must obey its rules to the letter. As such, I sentence you for the charge of assault against the Crown Prosecutor four months ago to serve a term of four months imprisonment - which has already been served by you while awaiting this trial. But your attack this morning, of the guard, demands further justice. For this new charge, I now hereby sentence you to another four months in jail. But with good behavior, I will have you released on an early parole. Do you have anything to say before commencing to serve this sentence?

 

Willie - (Standing up) No, your honor. While I consider myself innocent, and any further incarceration a personal injustice and disgrace, I know that I will benefit from another four months of instruction and dialogue from my Grand Father, who has guided me this far, and who has shown me how to capture my outer voice, hidden for so long.

 

Judge Harshly - Whatever...so long as you stay out of trouble. Let justice be done!

 

(Lights blacken. End Scene and ACT II)

 

ACT III

 

This ACT occurs in the jail cell at the center of the set; it is several weeks later now. Willie’s hair is now down past his shoulders. The sun has just risen at the start of scene 1:

 

Willie - Grand Father! How are you this morning?

 

Grand Father - (His voice much weaker, barely a whisper now) Much worse, William. I feel much weaker today. I am afraid that I will soon have to leave you.

 

Willie - No, Grandpa! No! I have so much more to learn.

 

Grand Father - Perhaps, but this you must learn on your own, out there in the bush. You must learn the ways of the Great Spirit, from observation and study. By immersing yourself in Nature you will learn its secrets and its way. Then you can bring this knowledge back to our people. I can teach you no more. But the Great Spirit can.

 

Willie - But Grandfather, don’t go! DON’T LEAVE ME! I can’t bear to live without you.

 

Grand Father - If you follow my way, you will never be far from me. You will hear me speaking in the bubbling of the brook, the whistling of the wind, the thundering of a thousand caribou passing through the Eagle Plain, in a million different ways. You are ready to be on your own, and I am ready to move on from here. Goodbye, Willie...(His voice fades)...

 

Willie - Grand Father! GRAND FATHER! Don’t die, please don’t die.

 

Grand Father - (Only a faint whisper) I will never die, my son. I will always be near you...(He becomes silent)...

 

Willie - Grand Father? Grand Father? GRAND FATHER!! Oh Great Spirit, do not let him die. Guard, guard, guard!

 

(He is screaming) - please help him! GUARD!! He’s dying, dying! My Grand Father is dying.

 

(The Guard returns - he is a different fellow from the old guard.)

 

New Guard - Willie! What is it? Are you alright?

 

Willie - It’s not me. It’s my Grand Father. He’s dying, or dead. You’ve got to help him.

 

New Guard - What are you talking about? How do you know about your Grand Father? You’re in solitary confinement.

 

Willie - No, I’m not. He’s been next door, in the cell to my left, since I got locked up in here.

 

New Guard - What are you saying, Willie? That cell’s been empty .since you got arrested. Nobody is in there. Nobody at all.

 

Willie - Just look. That’s all. Please look in and see if he’s there, and if he’s alive. Please!

 

New Guard - (He walks over and aims his flashlight in the other cell on the right) (A light illuminates it for the audience, too.) It’s empty, Willie. Just like I said. I can show you, you know.

 

Willie - You can what?

 

New Guard - I can show you. I was just informed by Judge Harshly that you are free to go. He signed your release papers today. See! (He holds up a signed document.) He says he was impressed by your behavior - that you’ve set a good example to the other Natives in here. Come now, with me. You’re free to go! (He unlocks the cell door and Willie steps out.)

 

Willie - (Walking over to the other cell, and looking in.) Goodbye, Grand Father! I will see you again soon - I now know this is true. Goodbye, for now. (He bows to the cell, in reverence to his Grand Father.) (Lights dim, end ACT and PLAY.)

 

THE END

 

Author’s Note - A sequel has been imagined but not yet written. It begins several years later, and Willie is a chief up at Fort McPherson. Fortune sees to it that the old Guard drops in to town; a fight ensues, he is arrested - and brought to justice Willie’s traditional way, completing the circle.