No Longer Cherokee

“I fought through the civil war and have seen men shot to pieces and slaughtered by thousands, but the Cherokee removal was the cruelest work I ever knew.” – Soldier from Georgia

Author’s note: In 1838, the US government committed one of its worst atrocities when it removed the Native American tribes of the southeastern USA and relocated them to the Oklahoma Territory. The following essay is a fictitious account of a historical event called the Trail of Tears. It is written by two high school students.

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My heart thuds in my chest, attempting to escape its cage. I look around at my home, the place where I took my first steps and made so many memories. It feels like my world is falling apart. It slowly crumbles around me, leaving only shards of the life I once knew. I had been ripped from my house before I was able to pack my belongings. All I have with me is the cornhusk doll that my mother and I made together. As I was dragged from my home, I looked back to the place that I had known all my life. Tears stain my face. A chilling realization overtakes my body: I will never see this place again. I take my place in one of the many wagons. I cling to my doll, wishing it would comfort me like a hug from my mom.

The year is 1838, and President Jackson has declared the Indian Removal Act of eighteen-thirty. This Act allows him to force many of the natives out of their homes to seize their land. I am a part of the Cherokee Nation; we have just been forced to depart from our homes and settle west of the Mississippi River.

My people are not the only Native Americans to be persecuted. The Chickasaw, Choctaw, Creek, and Seminoles are also being banished from their homes. Some have managed to escape; we are not so lucky. We were rounded up at gunpoint, and then they pushed us out of our homes. We Cherokee are one with our land. If we do not have that, who are we?

I awake suddenly and am harshly greeted by a freezing gust of wind attacking my face. I attempt to move to a more comfortable position, but that is nearly impossible since I am lying on the hard floor of a wagon. I reach to my side, trying to grab my doll. It is not there. I jolt up, scanning the floor frantically, looking for my most prized and only possession. A sigh of relief passes my lips as my fingertips brush over the rough, fraying material of my doll’s dress. I bring her close to my chest, feeling a sense of safety spread throughout my body. Although I am comforted by the doll, it does nothing to battle the chilling temperatures of the outside world. I curl into a ball, praying for warmth, knowing it will not come.

We travel around ten miles a day, although crossing water takes longer. We have the sickest of our people in the wagons, and the healthy, or should I say less sick, travel on foot. Even the elderly are often seen walking. Many do not have shoes or anything to protect their feet from the sharp rocks. Some, who are lucky, have moccasins made of deer hide. I cut my feet many times a day because I do not have the benefit of foot protection. My bleeding does not compare to the suffering of the rest of my people. I pity them.

Each nightfall, I eat my rations: salt pork and flour. It is not very much, certainly not enough to satisfy my hunger. After dinner, I go to sleep and can hear the muffled sobs of a mother who lost her child to a mysterious sickness. The Cherokee are a strong people; we will persevere, but these illnesses are lethal and unknown. I’m scared to even think about who will fall victim to them next. My tribe and many more must suffer because of the greed of the president and his government. How many more must die until he is satisfied?

My body shakes with a chilling tremor. I look down at my fingertips. They are a strange color. I try to raise my arms, but they won’t budge. It’s as if they are glued to the floor. My breathing becomes more labored as I look at my surroundings for something, anything that will ease the ache of the freezing temperatures wreaking havoc on my body. Finding nothing, I hold on tighter to my doll.

We arrive at the Mississippi. Its strong current pushes blocks of sharp ice downstream, creating a threat to all who venture near. ‘Cross me if you dare’, I can almost hear it begging us to try. Cries of agony grow quiet at the sight of this next obstacle. We must cross. Some will make it, but the river will take its prize.

My eyes grow heavy as I look at the ground I lay on. I hope my family is alright; I hope they are all together, finding peace in each other’s presence. My breath becomes impossibly slow as I close my eyes, thinking of home. I recall the stories my father told as my eyes grew heavy listening to his soothing voice. I remember the joy-filled laughter we all shared as we sat and played games until the crack of dawn, and I remember making my cornhusk doll with my mother. I miss her.

After months of suffering, my people arrive in Oklahoma. The land is barren. The air is dry. Of the seventeen thousand people who started this journey, only eleven thousand made it. Six thousand souls lie scattered upon the trail of tears. The blood of dead Cherokees stains the ground on which we walked. We have been robbed of our people, our homes have been confiscated, our way of life has been destroyed, and our land has been taken. What of us is even left? The survivors among us - I dare not say it out loud – are no longer Cherokee.

As for me, I take my last breath at the bank of the Mississippi. My chest sinks, and my eyes fall shut. The crying and frantic screams that surround me grow distant. I find myself at ease, warmed by the memories of my childhood.