CHILDREN OF GOD

Children of God       

 By Johnny Appalachia ©

Racial slurs make me livid with inner rage – inner, only because I have self-control.  I was born poor.  I am, Appalachian.  Appalachia is a vast country that reaches from beyond the mountains of, Maine to southern Georgia.  Appalachians are related by birth and native, American ancestry.   Most Appalachians are poor.

Outsiders make fun of Appalachians but we have our own story:  Centuries ago, there was a great flood.  Our mother rose steeply before it to form a great mountain.   Quickly she reached down with her hands.  She, held us in her arms, protecting us from harm; and, forever forward, we worshiped, She.

When the water receded from the mountain, She lowered her arms, allowing our families to wander, while some remained to live upon our mountain.  We called her, Ombekith.  We worshiped, She.  She, saved us.  We were her children.  She was, God, and our fathers lived through her.

When the soldiers came, they took away our God and brought another God, and a strange language.  We greeted their tribes with open arms, while our parents were slain, and our memories were cleaned as with a slate eraser.  Our fathers’ words, buried within us.  We were children of, She; however, they took her away, and impregnated a different memory.  They thought we would become like them, but we did not. 

The mountains were our homes, and our families lived there for generations.  We have a saying: What comes to stay will vanish; nevertheless, we will always be here.  God saved us!  People came and left, but we remained. 

After the soldiers came, they could not bring families.  Only the generals were allowed to bring families.  Fornication is human nature.  The King sent orders to slay our fathers and spare some women and children. 

We do not remember everything, but we know each other, and we know who we are.  We are Appalachian.  For centuries we lived peacefully on our lands.  Our legs were very strong and we traveled many miles, to find places to live.  Glyphs spoke our history in nasal, and from deep in our throats, we spoke Miqmac.  

When the soldiers came, they brought missionaries to heal us.  Missionaries healed our souls; sometimes with whips, they taught us their language.  Our mothers told us, and we forgot.  The kings moved into our country.  They brought queens with them to settle lands across our nation.  Their soldiers took women from our mountain; bringing gifts.  They settled along the sea where they could watch the shores.  The soldiers cut our mother’s knees, and proceeded hacking her appendages, till great holes oozed blood from her body.  Our soldiers ate, Mother alive, bit, by bit.

Mother finally died.  When Mother died, she brought our souls with her.  We became, She.  Her face collapsed beside where her bosom lay, they took her hands away, years before her time.  We still worshiped.  When I stood beside her, She gave her life for me to live and tell – so that all might know, may  Solomon be praised!

I was born into poverty, according to the definition of, Kings.   They did not know I was in fact a chief, the same as they.  I was reared, Catholic – to love and serve – that, was beaten into me, so that I would know, love, and serve.  The missionaries of good will, did not have to beat me.  I would have loved them, still.  They taught me.   I forgave them.  Poverty was for me, a state of mind.  They called me, Chief; everybody called me,  Chief.  So, I became a chief.

My greatest ambition was to be a great chief.  Outsiders know me by a different name.  They do not know their name for me, translates, The Holy Word.  Instead, they made fun of me.  They cut my mother’s heart.

During my younger days I suffered many illnesses, my greatest, within.   Sickness was my life. I lived with it.  I worked with it.  She taught me about love.  We were hungry.  Everybody was poor, as according to the king.  The King was God.  She, is God!

Our families depended upon each other for survival, for centuries.  We lived within the valley.  Oumbeqecth, named it for what it was, Heaven.  We knew a very different side of her.  She, could be cruel as well.  After the flood, we grew distant from her.  Oumbeqecth, drew a cloak of white around her.   And haloed her head by the sun,  Agiachohoc. 

I am Appalachain, of the Massachusetts.  We are a nation of, Algonquin.  It was the Kings order to slay our fathers, and burry our names; however, we kept them, and they still speak to us.  She, spoke to me when I was but, six and one.  The night was cold, and it was very dark.  I remember it turning grey;  and pondering my urge to slumber, that was suppressed by my desire to live.  Yet, I stumbled into bed not to rest, but, to think.  I lay awake while fighting death.

I saw the lady, dressed in grey that day.  She reached down to take my hand.  Her hand was ever so soft.  She could have lifted me away, but I could see the future.  Oumbeqcth she, said that I should not struggle; and neither should I ever fear.  She, would be with me... forever --