Victory of the Quechan-July 17, 1781
I’d like to say I learned this bit of history from a traditional grandparent who taught all the children the old ways, the names of the plants and animals and the songs, burial places of the ancestors. Creation myths handed down thru the generations. It would be magical and romantic and would fit perfectly with the story but like a Texas schoolbook it wouldn’t be true. My grandma Lucy Osorio left Fort Yuma at age fifteen with her three children, none of whom knew a word of their language. They didn’t even know the name of their tribe, never did. Not the real name.
So what I know, I know from history books. But that’s not really different from anybody else. Mike can relate stories from his youth, growing up during the Civil War. Most of us get our history from books, I’m no different.
The full bloods in my family, half bloods like me, we can’t move thru the deserts like ghosts or communicate with our brother coyote or the raven. No kind of special knowledge, no survival skills. Leave me in the desert with a hunting knife and a compass and I’d be dead in twenty minutes.
Yet there are times-when I’m at a powwow or in the desert-or even alone with my thoughts-I can feel my people, those who have gone to the real world, those in this world, those who dream themselves into the real world. The invisible ghosts whispering in Teotihuacan, Valley of Mexico. The Shoshoni riding across the plains to battle the Sioux. Annie Mae’s beautiful spirit on the edge of my reality. Quechan warriors along the Colorado River. This is one tiny piece of the large mosaic.
It began with a woman.
In the late 18th century the land route from Mexico to California passed thru the convergence of the Colorado and Gila rivers, the land of the Quechan whom the history books call Yuma. The Spanish had built two missions there, the four priests had converted many of the 3,000 or so natives to Christianity and the several hundred settlers were protected by 30 Spanish soldiers. Not a large number, but the advantage of horses and armor and steel weapons and of course firearms always gave European armies a tremendous edge throughout the Americas.
Although both peoples co-existed, Spanish whippings of recalcitrant Indians and crop destruction by settlers livestock angered the people. When a Spanish soldier raped an Indian woman and the Spanish captain refused Chief Salvador Palma’s unthinkable demand-that the soldier be immediately handed over to the Indians so they could kill him-the Europeans fate was sealed.
It may take a lot to get an Indian mad, but when they get mad they’re serious. And the Quechan were dead serious. The tribe had engaged in warfare with neighboring tribes for many years and the priests insistence that this practice stop had been another source of tension, it likely contributed to the Indians angry reaction. The Quechan practiced close combat, with a small wooden shield and a war club (pic above) heavy at the top for bashing skulls and pointed at the bottom for stabbing. This was the weapon of choice which awaited the Spaniards.
The following morning 600 Quechan warriors simultaneously attacked the Spanish barracks, missions and settlements. Within hours all the Spanish soldiers lay dead, all the priests had gone up to God. All of the hundred or so male settlers lay dead. The missions had been burnt to the ground. The 76 women and children were spared and eventually traded back to the Spanish after three successive military expeditions were beaten back.
Because of the overland route to California being closed to Spanish passage California had to be supplied and reinforced by sea thus weakening Spanish and later Mexican control of California.
Had the Spaniard kept his pants zipped history might have been different. Or maybe not. Sooner or later they would have done something else to piss off the Quechan.
Oso,like all your other admirers have already said, you have a definite gift, my friend. It would almost be a tragedy if you did not put forth your considerable talents and efforts into writing a book. If you ever do decide to complete such a gargantuan task, put me down as one of the buyers of it!
(Hard to believe a man of your talents is so messed up when it comes to his politics and choice of football team! 🙂 )
Oso, I just found this, which is not a huge wonder, as I just started visiting MMA in October, thanks to Burr Deming who regularly directs his readers here. His writing would fit so well with this site, but I guess he has his own thing, which can be found at:
http://www.fairandunbalanced.com/?http://www.testimoanials.com/blog/blog1.php
Anyway, I did not create this comment to praise Mr. Deming. I just wanted to say that you write like a literary fiction author, which is rare in the United States. Although it is very competative, I wonder if you ever considered submitting to Tin House or Glimmertrain. The odds of getting published there are pretty slim, but your voice is pretty unique and pretty awesome. I have subscriptions to both journals and I think you are definitely as skilled as anyone of the authors there.
Thanks Sis.
I’ve been taught that brother coyote is a great Hayokah medicine trickster who heals in his storytelling.
My Ancestors teach that we are hearing the wisdom and folly, feeling the touch of strength and weakness of our fathers’ fathers’ fathers’ father’s… and our mothers’ mother’s… you follow I’m sure… all the way back. It’s spoken in moments of deep fear or pride and imminent demise, the acknowledgment that you know who you are in a line of succession. And that you honor it.
You do it beautifully, Oso.
Thank you for the history lesson! And the ageless, sacred way I might listen to your Ancestors… speaking through you.
Excellent post Oso. I agree with Bee, you should write a book.
It is a good day when a person goes to sleep at night knowing more than when he woke up in the morning. Thank you for that bit of history.
Thank you Krell, returning the favor. Learning from you as well.
that is a cracking post old bean
Thank you fourdinners! Dulce the cat would thank you as well but she’s currently clinging to the bottom of a storage rack. Odd little animal.
pants?…oh…yeah…;-)
@Oso,
great story, one of many you’ve told here. You know I was talking with a friend the other day about Tolkien’s legendarium as his sef-confessed attempt to bring a foundation myth back to England, I wonder why no one has attempted one for the native nations… it would be a necessarily massive undertaking trying to transliterate all that culture into a unifying epic, but being that so many languages in North America are disappearing generation to generation I would hope someone would try.
-SJ
SJ,
Thanks so much. What you’re saying would be an epic but worthwhile task.The last 30 or so years there’s been more interest in learning the language and ways from older people, though not near enough.
“Mike can relate stories from his youth, growing up during the Civil War.
Far Effin Out.
“I’d like to say I learned this bit of history from a traditional grandparent who taught all the children the old ways,”
Yeah, but wouldn’t it have been a fantastic experience?
I’m with Bee on this. Muy excelente.
Gracias,Leslie. I did have a couple aunts used to get something called swamp root, they’d dig it out of a stream and use it to cure everything.
…in the desert-or even alone…
Great post Oso, while the ocean is my favorite I love the desert at night.
Beach, I’m with you. Gazing into the ocean can be hypnotic, especially at the beach watching the waves crash against the rocks.
Oso, you should write a book. Beautifully told.
And yes, keeping it in the pants would only have delayed the inevitable.
Thank you Bee.
Had the Spaniard kept his pants zipped history might have been different. Or maybe not. Sooner or later they would have done something else to piss off the Quechan.
For nations, tribes or clans, a days worth of action can change lives and history. Or, a decision an individual makes after 30 seconds of thought can push that person’s life in a completely different direction, almost always irretrievably so.
Absolutely right,Holte.