— Diamond Island: Alcatraz
—--
.
Allis ti Ti Tan in Miii
(rainbow)
(rock)
Darryl Babe Wilson
I’IIOTO OF A NATIVE
AflKICAN IALE
WaIIak tnbe)
Eduard S. Curtis
‘
hwest I’luseum
Los Angeles
F here was a single letter in the mailbox.
Somehow it seemed urgent. The address.
although it was labored over, could hardly
he deciphered—square childlike print that
did not complete the almost individual let
ters Inside, five pages written on both sides.
Blunt figures. Each word pressed heavily
into the paper. I could not read it but I could
feel the message. A1 traz” was in the first
paragraph, broken and scattered, but there.
At the very bottom of the final page—run
ning out of space—he scrawled his name. It
curved down just past the right-hand cor
ner. The last letter of his name, n. did not fit:
Gibso. It was winter, 1971. 1 hurried to his
home.
Diamond Island: Alcatraz
97
GUIDE FOR READING
-
Point of view is the position or perspective from which the events
of a story are seen. When the author uses first-person point of view,
the narrator is also a character in the story. As a character, the nar
rator participates in the events and tells the story using the firstperson pronoun “I.” The “I” in “Diamond Island: Alcatraz” is some
times the narrator and sometimes the narrator’s grandfather, whc
tells a story within the story.
I)arvi BiI c
(1939—
) lives in Tucson,
Arizona, where he teaches
Native American studies at
the University of Arizona. As a
Native American, Wilsoh has
written about the struggles of
his people. He has also inter
viewed Native Americans from
Barrow, Alaska, to the Mayan
Peninsula for his book Voices
from the Earth. As the title
suggests, the interviews deal
with our ecological problems.
Educated at the University
of California at Davis, Wilson
is a widely recognized poet
and short story writer. About
his heritage he writes, “It is im
perative that we [Native Amer
icans] write our history and we
remind American society that
we do, in fact, own a history,
a long and beautiful history, a
history that is timeless in its
preciousness and precious in
its timelessness.”
96
Short Stories
To Native Americans, Alcatraz island in San Francisco Bay has
a significance that is much different from its identity as the site of a
federal prison (1934—1 963). In Wilson’s words, “it is time to give the
island of Alcatraz a proper identity and a real history.” In a group of
three or four people. discuss what you know about Alcatraz island
Keep your group discussion in mind as you read “Diamond Island.
Alcatraz.” Then, after reading the story, get together with your group
to discuss how the story added to your knowledge of the island and
your understanding of its importance.
Knowing the following words will help you as you read “Diamond
Island: Alcatraz.”
(ek spend id) u: To
(red’ ‘I ns) n.: The
have spent or used by con
quality of being fragrant or
suming (p. 98)
sweet smelling (p. 99)
(mO men’ tam) n.:
(O tan’
ms)
The ongoing force of a moving
adj.: Independent (p. 102)
object (p. 98)
Grandfather lived at Atwam, 100 miles
east of Redding. California, in a little shack
out on the flat land. His house was old and
crooked just like in a fairy tale. His belong
ings were few and they, too, were old and
worn. I always wanted to know his age and
often asked some of the older of our people if
they could recall when Grandfather was
born. After silences that sometimes seemed
more than a year, they always shook their
silver-gray heads and answered: “I dunno.
He was old and wrinkled with white hair for
as long as I can remember. Since I was just a
child.’ He must have been born between
1850 and 1870.
Thanksgiving weekend. 1989. It is this
time of the year when I think about Grandfa
ther and his ordeal. I keep promising myself
that I will write his story down because it is
time to give the island of Alcatraz a proper
identity and a “real” history. It is easy for
modern people to think that the history of
Alcatraz began when a foreign ship sailed
into the bay and a stranger named Don Juan
1 observed the “rock” and
Manuel de AvaIa
recorded “Alcatraz’ in a log book in 1775.
That episode. that sailing and that recording
was only moments ago.
Grandfather said that long ago the Sac
ramento Valley was a huge freshwater lake,
that it was ‘as long as the land’ (from the
northern part of California to the southern).
and that a great shaking of an angry spirit
within the earth caused part of the coastal
range to crumble into the outer-ocean.
When the huge lake finally drained and the
waves from the earthquake finally settled,
there was the San Francisco Bay. and there,
in isolation and containing a ‘‘truth,’’ was
Diamond Island (Alcatraz>.
L Don Juan Manuel de Ayala (dan hwàn man
wet’ dã a va’ là): An eighteenth cntui SIianht1
explorer who
the first Eui opeati to enter San
Francisco Bay.
I
YE)
Sto,ies
He told me the story one winter in his
little one-room house in Atwam. It is bitter
cold there during winters. I arrived late in
the evening, tires of m truck spinning up
his driveway. The driveway was a series of
frozen, broken mudholes in a general direc
tioti across a field to his home. The head
lights bounced out of control.
My old 1948 Chevy pickup was as cold
inside as it was outside. The old truck kept
going, but it was a fight to make it go in the
winter. It was such a struggle that we called
it “Mr. Miserable.’ Mr. Miserable and I
came to a jolting halt against a snowbank
that was the result of someone shoveling a
walk in the front yard. We expended ow
momentum. The engine died with a sputter
ing cough. Lights flopped out.
It was black outside but the crusted
snow lay like a ghost upon the earth and
faded away in every direction. The night sky
trembled with the fluttering of a million
stars—all diamond blue. Wind whipped
broken tumbleweeds across his neglected
yard. The snow could not conceal the yard’s
chaos.
The light in the window promised
warmth. Steam puffing from every breath, I
hurried to his door. The snow crunched
underfoot, sounding like a horse eating a
crisp apple. The old door lurched open with
a complaint. Grandfather’s fatigued. cente
2 body a black silhouette against th
narian
brightness—bright although he had but a
single shadeless lamp to light the entir
house. I saw a skinned bear once. It looked
just like Grandfather. Short, stout arms and
bowed legs. Compact physique. Muscularnot fat. Thick chest. Powerful. Natural.
Old powder-blue eves strained to see
who was out there in the dark. “Ilallo.
2. centcgaraan Iseli t. nt-n’
hundred years old.
(‘
211)
iidj : At least our’
the man I’m lookin’ for.” Coffee
from the open door, Coffee.
arom ploded
1
warmth!
Grandlather stood back and I entered
little bungalow. It
the ciniort of his jumbled
burning juniper
was G)ZY in there. He was
summer, has a
a
for
cured
wood. Juniper.
After a
perfume.
clean, delicate aroma—a
steam
over
healtrv handshake we huddled
looked long
ing cup of coffee. Grandfather
con
totally
not
was
he
that
at me I think
was
coffee
hot
The
vinced that I was there.
aromat
good. it was not a fancy Colombian,
ic blend. hut it was so good!
We were surrounded by years of Grand
father s collections. It was like a museum.
Everything was very old and worn. It seemed
that every part of the clutter had a history—
sometimes a history that remembered the
origin of the earth, like the bent pail filled
obsidian that he had collected from
with 3
Glass Mountain many summers before,
-.t
“just in case.”
He also had a radio that he was talked
into purchasing when he was a young work
ing man in the 1920s. The radio cost $124. I
think he got conned by that merchant and
the episode magnified in mystery when he
recalled that it was not until 1948 before he
got the -dectric company to put a line to his
home By that time he forgot about the radio
and he did not remember to turn it on until
1958. It worked. There was an odor of old
ness——like a mouse that died then dried to a
stiffness through the years—a redolence of
old nti
lected newspapers.
4
The old person in the old house under
the old moon began to tell the story of his
escape from “the rock” long ago. He gath
ered himself together and reached back into
a painful past. The silence was long and I
3, obid1an (b sid’ t n) n.: Hard. daikcoIored or
black volcanic glass.
thought that he might he crying silently.
Then, with a quiver in his voice, he started
telling the story that he wanted me to know:
“Alcatraz island. Where the Pit River
runs into the sea is where I was born, long
ago. Alcatraz, that’s the white man’s name
for it. To our people, in our legends. we
always knew it as Allisti Ti-tan in-rniji [Rock
Rainbow[, Diamond Island. In our legends,
that’s where the Mouse Brothers, the twins.
were told to go when they searched for a
healing treasure for our troubled people
long, long ago. They were to go search at the
end of It A-juma [Pit River}. They fhund it.
They brought it back. But it is lost now. It is
said, the ‘diamond’ was to bring goodness to
all our people, everywhere.
“We always heard that there was a ‘dia
mond’ on an island near the great salt wa
ter. We were always told that the ‘diamond’
was a thought, or a truth. Something worth
very much. It was not a jewelry. It sparkled
and it shined, but it was not a jewelry. It was
more. Colored lights came from inside it
with every movement. That is why we al
ways called it [Alcatraz[ AUisti Ti-taniri
mUL” With a wave of an ancient hand and
words filled with enduring knowledge,
Grandfather spoke of a time long past.
In one of the many raids upon our people
of the Pit River country, his pregnant moth
er was taken captive and forced, with other
Indians, to make the long and painful march
to Alcatraz in the winter. At that same time,
the military was “sweeping” California.
Some of our people were “removed” to the
Round Valley Reservation at Covelo; others
were taken east by train in open cattle cars
during the winter to Quapa, Oklahoma. Still
others were taken out into the ocean at
Eureka and thrown overboard into icy
waters.
I)esceiidants of those that were taken in
chains to Quapa are still there. Some of
Diamond Island: Alcatraz
99
*
those cast into the winter ocean at Eureka
made it back to land and returned to Pit
River country. A few of those defying con
finement, the threat of being shot by “thun
der sticks,” and dark winter nights of a cold
Alcatraz-made-deadly by churning, freezing
currents, made it back to Pit River country,
too.
Grandfather said, “I was very small, too
small to remember, but my grandmother
remembered it all. The guards allowed us to
swim around the rock. Every day, my moth
er swam. Every day, the people swam. We
were not just swimming. We were gaining
strength. We were learning the currents. We
had to get home.
‘When it was time, we were ready. We
left at darkness. Grandmother said that I
was a baby and rode my mother’s back,
clinging as she swam from Alcatraz to solid
ground in night. My Grandmother remem
bered that I pulled so hard holding on that I
broke my mother’s necklace. It is still there
in the water.
somewhere.” With a point
ing of a stout finger southward, Grandfather
indicated where “there” was.
Quivering with emotion. he hesitated.
He trembled. “I do not remember if I was
scared.” Grandfather said. crooked. thick
fingers rubbing a creased and wrinkled chin
covered with white stubble. ‘I must have
been.”
When those old. cloudy eves dripped
tears down a leathery, 4
crevassed face, and
long silences were between his sentences.
often I trembled too. He softly spoke of his
memory.
Our cups were long empty; mulls.s (fire)
needed attention. The moon was suspended
in the frozen winter night— round, bright,
scratched and scarred—when Grandfather
.
.
4. crevassed (kr vast’) czdj.: Deeply cracked.
100
Short Stories
flnal1’ paused in his thinking. The old castiron heater grumbled and screamed when I
slid open the top to drop in a fresh log.
Sparks flew up into the darkness then dis
appeared. I slammed the top closed. Silence.
again.
Grandfather continued. “There was not
real diamonds on the island. At least I don’t
think so. I always thought the diamonds
were not diamonds hut some kind of under
standing. some kind of good thought—or
something.” He shook a white, shaggy head
and looked off into the distance into a time
that was so long ago that the mountains
barely remembered. For long moments hc
reflected, he gathered his thoughts. He knew
that I “wrote things down on paper.”
The night was thick. To the north a
coyote howled. Far to the west an old coyote
rasped a call to the black wilderness, a
supreme presence beneath starry skies with
icy freedom all around.
“When first I heard about the ‘diamond,’
I thought it might be a story of how we
escaped. But after I heard that story so many
times. I don’t think so. I think there was a
truth there that the Mouse Brothers were
instructed to get and bring back long ago to
help our people. I don’t think that I know
where that truth is now, Vhere can it be? It
must be deep inside Axo-Yet [Mount Shas
taJ or So Tilt [Medicine Lakej. It hides from
our people. The truth hides from us. It must
not like us. It denies us.’’
The One-as-Old-as-the-Mountains made
me wonder about this story. It seems incred
ible that there was such an escape from
Alcatraz. Through Anwricaii propaganda I
have been trained to believe that it was
5. Mount Shasta slias’
non hen 1 (‘a litornia
t.
A volcanic mountain
iii
SAN FRANUSCO. 1849
,lilrthuted t Joshua Peirc,
impossible to escape from that isolated rock
because of the currents and because of the
freezing temperature as the powerful ocean
and ihe surging rivers merged in chaos. I
was convinced—until I heard Grandfa
thers story and until I realized that he
dwelled within a different “time,” a different
‘element.” He dwelled within a spirituality
of a ii dural source. In his world, I was only
a forrn infant. It is true today that when
I talk with the old people I feel like rülladu
i white man). I feel like some domesti
cated creature addressing original royalty—
knowing that the old ones were pure savage,
born into the wild, free.
In his calm manner, Grandfather pro
ceeded. “We wandered for many nights. We
hid during the day. It is said that we had to go
south for three nights before we could turn
north. [My people landed at San Francisco
and had to sneak to what is now San Jose,
traveling at night with no food until they
could turn northward.[ They [the U.S. Armyj
were after us. They were after us all. We had
Diamond Island: Alcatraz
101
to be careful. We had to be careful and not
make mistakes. We headed north for two
nights.
We came to a huge river. We could not
cross it. It was swift. My mother walked far
upstream then jumped in. Everybody fol
lowed. The river washed us to the other
shore [possibly the Benicia Straits]. We rest
ed for two days eating dead fish that we
found along the river. We could not build a
fire because they would see the smoke and
catch us so we must eat it [fish] raw. At night
we traveled again. Again we traveled, this
time for two nights also.
‘There is a small island of mountains in
the great valley [Sutter Buttes]. When we
reached that place one of the young men
climbed the highest peak. He was brave. We
were all brave. It was during the sunlight.
We waited for him to holler as was the plan.
We waited a long, long time. Then we heard:
‘Axo- Yet! Axo- Yet! To-Jto-ja-toki! To-ho-ja
toki Tanjan’ [Mount Shasta! Mount Shasta!
North direction!]. Our hearts were happy.
We were close to home. My mother squeezed
me to her. We cried. I know we cried. I
was there. So was my mother and grand
mother,
Grandfather has been within the earth
for many snows now. The volumes of knowl
edge that were buried with him are lost to
my generation. a generation that needs orig
inal knowledge now more than ever, if we
are to survive as a distinct and autonomous
people. Perhaps a generation approaching
will be more aware, more excited with tradi
tion and custom and less satisfied to being
102
5hurt Sloric5
off balance somewhere between the world of
the “white man” and the world of the “Indi
an,” and will seek this knowledge.
It is nearing winter, 1989. Snows upor
Axo-Yet (Mount Shasta) are deep. The glar
ing white makes Grandfather’s hair nearl)
yellow—now that I better recall the coars
strands that I often identified as “silver.’
That beautiful mountain. The landmark
that caused the hunted warrior 140 years
ago to forget the tragic episode that could
have been the termination of our nation,
and, standing with the sun shining full upon
him, hollered to a frightened people waitink
below: “Axo- Yet! Axo-Yet! To-ho-ja-tokt
Tanjan!”
Perhaps the approaching generation will
seek and locate AlUsti Ti-tanin-mUi within
the mountains. Possibly that generation wil
reveal many truths to this world society that
is immense and confused in its immensity.
An old chief of the Pit River country, “Char
lie Buck,” said often: “Truth. It is truth that
will set us free.” Along with Grandfather, I
think that It was a “truth” that the Mouse
Brothers brought to our land from Diamond
Island long ago. A truth that needs to b
understood. appreciated, and acknowl
edged. A truth that needs desperately to be
found and known for its value.
Grandfather’s letter is still in my files. I
still can’t read it, but if I could, I am sun
that the message would be the same as this
story that he gave to me as the moon listened
and the winds whispered across a frozen
Atwam, during a sparkling winter night
long ago.
I I\G ) 1111
Si ii (
I P)\
,uld ask Grandfather a question about
.orj what would you ask? Why?
.,r ild tell a future generation a story from
2
yo ir )uth, what would it be? Explain.
1
3, H v did Grandfather learn the story of his fam
s s ape from Alcatraz—an event that took
en he was a small boy?
p ace
4, Accord ng to the story, what does the “dia
mond of Diamond Island represent?
5, lrterpret the narrator’s comment on page 98,
Tht episode, that sailing and that recording
was only a moment ago” What does the com
ment uqqest about the history of Alcatraz
island?
6. Why did Grandfather ask the narrator to visit?
7, In your words, explain why the author’s gener
ation coeds “original knowledge” in order to
survi C.
8. What do people in your culture do to preserve
their heritage—their identity—as a culture?
I
• Al.
11ZLG LHFRAItJRF
1
11
A first person narrator tells mainly what he or
she thinks, feels, and observes. As a result, the
narrators attitudes shape the story. In addition to
communicating his own attitudes, the narrator of
this story also conveys his grandfather’s beliefs
and obseriations. He does this by recording a
story that his grandfather told him nearly twenty
years efore.
1 D ccss two ways in which first-person narra
on rnbles the author to use Grandfather’s
storj most effectively.
2. What does the narrator reveal about his feel
ings toward Grandfather and Alcatraz island?
I
IIII\KIG \I)
I
An author who writes in the first person wants
the reader to know the narrators thoughts and
feelings. Exploring these thoughts and feelings
can provide insight into the author’s motives for
writing a story. In the case of “Diamond Island:
Alcatraz,’ the author is the narrator. What do the
emotions and ideas that Wilson expresses reveal
about his purpose in writing ‘Diamond Island: Al
catraz”? Refer to passages from the story to sup
port your answer.
I THINKING
N1) WiunG
ii
SI
What stories do you know that you think
should be preserved for future generations?
Choose one, and write about it in the first person.
Like Wilson, you might choose to write about a
story that was shared with you and affected you
deeply. You could also write about a story from
your life, your family, your school, or your com
munity. Try to interview someone who can give
you his or her first-hand observations of the
events in your story. Finally, in your narration, in
clude hints to the reader about your purpose for
writing the story.
J LRNG
Orl IoN
Art. Draw a map of Grandfather’s return to Pit
River country from Alcatraz. In order to begin,
consult a map of the areas described by Grand
father. On your map, illustrate Grandfather’s story
at key locations. For example, you might want to
draw a necklace at the point where Grandfather
pulls at his mothers necklace as they struggle
through the icy currents.
Diamond
Island: Akatiaz
10.3
ONE WRITER’S PROCESS
Danyl Babe Wilson and “Diamond island”
PREWRITNG
A Writer’s Inspiration Much of Darryl
Babe Wilson’s inspiration comes from his de
sire to preserve what he calls “the long and
beautiful history” of Native Americans.
A “Lost” History Wilson insists that Na
tive American writers “cannot wait for the
Americans to ‘fInd’ us and to acknowledge
our right to exist—a right that was a gift to
us from the moment the stars were scattered
in the vastness and songs were given us to
sing that awesome power. We must take pen
in hand, place the proper words in the exact
sequence. and move this society to awaken.”
I—
The Storytelling Gift For many gener
ations, Native American history was passed
down by word of mouth. More recently. writ
ers such as Darryl Babe Wilson have begun
to “take pen in hand.” “Diamond Island: Al
catraz” was the result of an impulse flitting
through what Wilson calls his “thought
processor.” How does this work? Wilson ex
plains it this way: “When it is time for the
story or poem to appear, it does. If I am not
prepared to record that thought at the mo
ment of its appearance. then it vanishes. I
must he on guard to ‘capture’ a thought thai
has made itself ‘visible’ enough so that I can
put it down in words with enough velocity to
insure its survival.”
4
I
DRAFTING
The Story Approaches “The manuscript
came in three parts,” he recalls. The first
portion to appear was the body of Grandfa
ther’s story. Then a period of waiting fol
lowed. “Al this point I did not pursue com
104
Short Stories
pletion of the manuscript—since I had no
idea how or when it would be complete. And.
like allowing a curious fawn to approach, I
patiently waited for more ‘instruction’ from
the element within me that places the words
upon the page. The following morning the
beginning three pages arrived.”
Beginnings and Endings Once the vari
ous pieces of “Diamond Island: Alcatraz” had
arrived. Wilson began to sense how to fit them
together. He realized that the three pages de
scribing Grandfather’s letter and his house in
Atwam formed the story’s beginning. “And
how much more appropriate it is that the be
ginning of the story began at the beginning!”
Of course, not all stories begin at the be
ginning. Wilson points this out by noting
that “often a story beginning with the clos
ing line is more effective.”
Releasing Your Voice As you can see,
the creation of the story took patience. Yet
Wilson stresses that when inspiration ar
rives. the writer must seize upon it. “Do not
doubt,” he says. “Do not hesitate. When you
write, splash your words upon the paper by
the bucketful, and sprinkle ideas through
out your effort as you rewrite and earth’s en
ergy surges through you.
It is all a mat
ter of listening to the voice that is within you
whispering. singing. clamoring to be re
leased, Release it!”
.
.
,
REVISING
Searching for the Better Word Wilson
seldom tinkers with the broad outline of a
narrative. He does revise the language, how
ever. “There is always the search for a bet-
e avs. or for the elimination of
d’ too many words that clutter the
nd are an obstacle to clarity
inca! n 0
d es a writer find that better word?
raw words,’ Wilson insists. “Make
tkt n. get up. sing and dance. If von
them
be required
_iav baseball. .‘ca
1
were
trs and hours of pract tie and
to .prai
Apply yourself and your ted
toror.
trial it’ll
ents to .vriting, to creating with words, with
ame telocity that Babe Ruth needed to
the 5
play iseball.
.
Advice Helps Wilson wrote “Diamond
l,,Iar-id:.\hatraz for a university-level cre
ati e ririn lass. Each student in the class
recei ed ;j copy of Wilson’s draft and contributed suggestions and comments. Gener
ally Wilson found the comments of his
fellow ‘,tudents “very constructive and en
.
couraing.’
“Do not fear criticism.” Wilson says. “Wel
come it. When someone says, ‘This is not
good. this is not clear, this is incomplete,’
clont cringe in fear. Rather, ask them why it
is so. Then make the adjustments within
your wisdom-bank to use in your future ex
pression s.’
Sharpening the Details The class in
structor ilso gave Wilson advice about revi
sions. One particular part of the story they
discussed was Grandfather’s description of
the es ape from Alcatraz.
Look at the box. The darkened words are
some if those Wilson added to this descrip
hon a- lie revised it. According to the au
thor, these revisions underlined the sense of
danger
Moving the Reader Much of Darryl Babe
Wilson’s writing is motivated by the author’s
wish to honor arid preserve Native American
cultur Sometimes this wish makes Wilson
unsure ahom it whether to publish a stor\’.
‘One (>1 the greatest problems I live,’ lie ex
plains. “is that I am not certain that I am
authorized to ‘present the story once it has
been ‘captured’ and recorded. I constantly
have to wonder if the ancient ones of my na
tion would give approval.”
Along with his cultural goals. Wilson also
adnuts to a much simpler motival ion—mno’—
ing the reader. “Wheneer I reread sonic
timing and it moves me, then I know it moves
other people, too,’ he says.
Grandfather said, “I was very small,
too small to remember, but my grand
mother remembered it all. The guards
allowed us to swim around the rock.
Every day, my mother swam. Every
day, the people swam We were not just
swimming. We were gaining strength.
We were learning the currents. We had
to get home.”
“When it was time, we were ready.
We left at darkness. Grandmother said
that I was a baby and rode my mother’s
back, clinging as she swam from Alca
traz to solid ground in night. My Grand
mother remembered that I pulled so
hard holding on that I broke my
mother’s necklace. It is stifi there in the
somewhere.” With a pointing
water.
of a stout finger southward, Grandfa
ther indicated where “there” was.
.
.
t iin PRci’s
1. Which aspect of his writing does Wilson
change the most during the revision stage?
2. Writing Do you usually start your stories with
the beginning, middle, or end? Try taking a
story that you have already written and rear
ranging the pieces in a different order so that
the end is now the beginning. Describe what
effect this has on the story.
One Writer’s Process
105