A Veteran’s Day honoring of my grandfather Admiral JJ Clark,  Chief Water Dwelller and Chief Thunderbird.  This essay was first published in the Whatcom Writes anthology‘Legacies’.

Head bowed, she sat quietly in front of her grandfather’s memorial. The courtyard paving beneath was warm; the air heavy and still, waiting to release more heat as the day progressed. A brilliant royal blue outlined the bronze head and shoulders rising above her; highlighting the shadowed angles of a face made stark by war. Mere metal could not contain such fierceness of spirit. The echo of his battlefield command voice still reverberated deep within her bones.

Reaching out to trace the sharp edges of the tribal enrollment number carved into the granite base, she marveled anew that a native kid born and raised in Indian Territory, who had never seen the ocean, grew to be known as the ‘Fightingest Admiral in the Navy.’

Fingers sliding down the cool speckled surface she carefully stroked the grooved letters of his indian name; Ula Ga Amoyinehi or Chief Water Dweller to the english speaking. The more literal translation, Leader of the Spirits Which Live in the Water, was who she called on when diving into the darkest lakes, bobbing gently on a light filled sea or swimming hard against river currents filled with salmon. This was how she thought of grandfather, of her heritage, when she was one with water and the spirits flowed all around her.

Her people had always gone to water, prayed with water, immersed and blessed themselves with water. Even though she now lived far from the place of her ancestors, water was everywhere and water connected everything. Her lineage was steeped in the teachings of water. Her blood was that of the Amoadwehi, the water bringers, those who control the water.

She did not know if the chief who named her grandfather was aware of this bloodline. It was a different time and much had been lost, yet the voices of her ancestors clamored to be heard. 

Grandfather’s formal naming ceremony was aboard a warship surrounded by water and witnessed by those who lived, fought and died in defense of that water. She was not yet born, but still treasured a photo of the commemorative plaque proudly presented by her tribe and riveted to the bulkhead that day.

Decades later she received a calligraphed invitation to the launching of a guided missile frigate named after grandfather. It was quite a to-do. So many people wanting so many things from the memory of a man long dead.  

The sea of white dress uniforms in attendance transported her back to Annapolis, where she had entered on the second wave of women allowed through those hallowed doors. She was looking for grandfather even then.  What she found were boys who broke down under intolerable pressure and girls who wept silently into their pillows at night. The hollow echo of footsteps inside steel coffin gunships still haunted her dreams.  

Remembered pain washed over her as grandpa’s widow, posing for greatest effect, vigorously smashed the champagne bottle against the bow. The weighty frigate groaned slowly down the slipway to cheers and a brass band. Full pomp and circumstance. Grandpa would have loved it. 

  ‘Determined Warrior’ the ship’s motto read. Exactly who grandfather was. Years afterward she heard it was known as a happy ship; in naval jargon a good place to be. She wasn’t surprised. Grandpa always took care of his crew.

 The chief of her tribe gave a speech. It was an election year and she watched him glad hand the upper crust, securing a grip on the next rung of career advancement. Still he was there and representation mattered. She knew grandpa would be pleased; he understood the necessity of playing the game. She however was impatient with all the posturing.  

In the old ways her grandfather would have held the title Raven.  Warleader, walker of the red path and wielder of the black war club in defense of the People. A warrior’s warrior who transmuted into archetype and sent his soul to safety, granting temporary immortality on the physical.

The men under grandfather’s command trusted him to lead them into hell and bring them back out alive. Legends grew up around him. It was said that his large nose could sniff out the enemy anywhere. Life magazine ran an article linking his military acumen directly to his native roots.

The cartoon that accompanied the article showed grandpa in full feather headdress with tomahawk raised, ready to scalp the japanese emperor. She knew some would be offended today, but we were at war and grandfather believed you must use what you have and make it work.   

From hardscrabble farm boy in the wild west to colorful and celebrated military leader; he later hobnobbed with political potentates and aristocrats around the globe. Grandfather broke the mold of expectations for race, place and time.  

As the first native to graduate the US Naval Academy, he went on to achieve the highest rank of anyone of known native lineage in US military history. Books were written about him. Historians called him the greatest native warrior of the 20th century.

She had often felt overwhelmed by grandfather’s achievements. Total strangers took pictures of his mementos in various places and excitedly posted on social media. It seemed the whole world owned grandfather yet she remained bereft of him. Finally in her elder years, she had mostly made peace with the convoluted shadow of contradictions he cast over her own life.

Full circle brought her back to where it all began. A monument on tribal grounds planted deep in native soil, where generations of her people were buried. So much trauma witnessed and survived. This piece of metal and stone, infused with grandpa’s presence, had become symbolic of her own journey as well as that of her tribe.  The sculptor had created a guardian totem of grandfather; a grounding point for his protective energy to live on and be called forth in time of need.  

Over half a century after his death, military and tribal leaders still dust off grandfather’s image a few times a year to prop up whatever the current agenda happens to be. Grandpa wouldn’t mind, he believed in heroes and symbols. He believed in honoring those who had gone before and so did she.