Pocahontas

"Mom, do I look like Pocahontas?"

I look my daughter over carefully. At first glance the blonde hair and blue eyes might throw some, but I closely consider her.

Our family's little peace-maker (dare I say only peace-maker), she can resolve disputes between her two older brothers that defy resolving (from Mommie's point of view). An accomplished diplomat, she quickly points to the good in every situation. At two years old she was already unruffling my feathers.
"Oh no! Did you empty EVERY drawer of ALL your clothes?"
Big smile. "It's ok Mommie. We can clean together, see? And have a happy time together."
Oh, all right.
"What are YOU doing with scissors? Did you just put a hole in your favorite dress?"
Big grin. "It's ok Mommie. Now I can wear this dress for playing. Not just Sunday."
Who can argue with that?

Long before she had ever heard of Pocahontas she wanted to be called "Rose-The-Tall-And-Beautiful-Indian-Princess." I'm not sure why she choose "Rose." Her favorite flower is a peony and we have lots of daisies, rhodedendrons and mint growing around here, but she went for "Rose." Maybe it sounded more native.
She would introduce herself to anyone who visited, "Hi. Do you know who I am being?"
She would pause politely for a pregnant nanosecond and then explode with, "Rose-The-Tall-And-Beautiful-Indian-Princess-Who-Is-Being-Chased-By-Angry-Brothers!" Then she was gone.

"I think our daughter wants to be a Native American," I whispered to my husband one night.
"Doesn't every kid?" he whispered back.

One afternoon I heard her and her brothers jumping on my bed.
"Please stop jumping on my bed and go play outside."
The boys moaned, but a little girl's voice full of delight and sorrow explained, "It's just right! Our homeland is being taken from us by the white man and we must move on or die."
I'd never been called a white man before. I called my husband at work.
"Guess what? I'm The White Man and evidently I am responsible for the devastation of the Native American culture. I am not sure I can shoulder this burden alone."
"Get used to it," he laughed.
That night when Daddy came home she was "Rose-The-Tall-And-Beautiful-Indian-Princess-Who-Is-Defending-
Her-Homeland."

Just after she turned five I looked out the window to see her getting ready to charge one of the roosters. Her six year old brother cowering behind her.
"What are you doing?" I called.
"It's ok Mom! I am Rose-The-Tall-And-Beautiful-Indian-Princess-Who-
Is-Protecting-Her-People-From-Their-Enemies!"
Oh, ok then. . .

Since we read about Pocahontas last year she has been enthralled with any and all things Pocahontas. There is so much about the Indian princess that appeals. Pocahontas was regal, confident in her bearing, heroic, willing to sacrifice herself for peace. We've read biographies, watched the Disney movies and the non-Disney movies, and last month she discovered Rosemary Carr Benet's poem Pocahontas.
"I want to memorize THIS one," she said breathlessly.
I looked at her doubtfully, the tone was so sad, the vocabulary difficult, the poem long . . .
"Ok," I smiled at my six year old.

So I look at her. Does she look like Pocahontas? Confidant, fearless, beautiful.
"Yes, honey. You look exactly like Pocahontas."


Pocahontas
by Rosemary Carr Benet

Princess Pocahontas,
Powhatan’s daughter,
Starred at the white men
Come across the water.

She was like a wild deer
Or a bright, plumed bird,
Ready then to flash away
At one harsh word.

When the faces answered hers,
Paler yet, but smiling,
Pocahontas looked and looked,
Found them quite beguiling.

Liked the whites and trusted them,
Spite of kin and kith,
Fed and protected
Captain John Smith.

Pocahontas was revered
By each and every one.
She married John Rolfe
She had a Rolfe son.

She crossed the sea to London Town.
And must have found it queer,
To be Lady Rebecca
And the toast of the year.

“La Belle Sauvage! La Belle Sauvage!
Our nonpareil is she!”
But Princess Pocahontas
Gazed sadly toward the sea.

They gave her silks and furbelows.
She pined, as wild things do
And, when she died at Gravesend
She was only twenty-two.

Poor wild bird--
No one can be blamed.
But gentle Pocahontas
Was a wild thing tamed.

And everywhere the lesson runs,
All through the ages;
Wild things die
In the very finest cages.