This issue of Hart High’s mascot being The Indian is not the — well. The issue. It’s a smoke screen. At its deepest roots, this question precedes ancient, pre-Hindu times, when holy men and thinkers divided the world into forces of opposites. Good and Evil. Up/Down. Peace/War. Right vs. Left. Create vs. Destroy. Throughout America, certainly here in Santa Clarita, we’re rending flesh, passionately slashing through a writhing conflict where the enemy is ourselves.
Me? I make no secret. I’m a Hart alum and proud Indian. As a former student, it was the best seven years of my life. I’ll never be a Hart High Organic Sissy Buffalo Prairie Muffin or The Non-Gendered Mincingly Perturbed, although both offer interesting choices for mascot costumes.
I’ve been both “a” and “the” valley historian for nearly 50 years. Still marvel over the complicated fabric of Santa Clarita’s Native American lore, so heavily steeped in family and community.
There were no schools, no teachers (no teachers’ unions), no police, no countless bureaus, agencies and commissions to instruct, in triplicate, where one may relieve him-or-herself, at what time and at what predetermined shape. As one Native American noted: “Without family, a man is nothing… lower than a worm.”
That’s one crux of our current question. One side treasures family. The other worships both government and destruction.
Our local Tataviam were comprised of two kinds of people: Mountain Lions and Coyotes. Oh dear me. To time travel. Just when and why did our Indians invent these tribal straitjacket categories? A Coyote could never be a chief. No same-gender nonsense. A Mountain Lion HAD to marry a Coyote and a Coyote a Mountain Lion. Funny thing? Our Tataviam cherished a creation myth that eerily mirrored Genesis in the Bible. They had an African-sounding language with clicking sounds. Neighboring Indians called them “stutterers.” They used ants for sutures and would dance for days.
World-famous Harry Carey Sr. was shooting a movie in the 1910s in Arizona Territory and used a Navajo village as extras. Carey made friends with tribal elders and offered a sweet deal: return to Saugus and run his spread. The entire village moved to Saugus and were part of the SCV community. One day, Carey was starring in a Broadway play. He took a call backstage from a Navajo elder. The medicine man shared his strange and prophetic nightmare the night before and informed Carey they’d be moving the entire village back to Arizona. Two days later, in March 1928, the infamous St. Francis Dam ruptured, sending a 200-foot wall of water down the canyon. Were it not for the Navajo’s prophetic dream, everyone in the village, some 120 Indians, would have perished.
So many Indian stories. All of them ignored by a school district eager to eradicate The Indian while virtue sobbing: “We’re Just Being Sensitive!”
This is not about education. It’s not about sensitivity, the magic kryptonite word to justify any occasion.
I’ve been snooping. The word is that this is a done deal. “The fix is in,” as one mucky-muck noted. It doesn’t matter the percentages, the arguments or 76 years of proud heritage with virtually no complaints. It’s different now. Santa Clarita, like America, has been bitten on the neck by the wimpy vampire, the insufferable, the cancel-du-jour mob of The Woke.
I’ve thought long about to whom I’m addressing this column. The opposition? Pointing out the fleas to the chimp section in the bleachers. That always works.
Is there an app that translates English to Stupid? Heavens. If there were, I’d buy two, just so I could understand myself. I heard one the other day. Keeping The Indian is akin to living in the 1950s. Ahhh. I get it. The Wisdom of The Left. We should torch everything prior to 1956. Like math. Chemistry. French. Dancing. Singing. Pants. P.E.
Wait. Never mind. I believe we’ve already gotten rid of P.E.
Should I address just those who think so refreshingly clear as I?
I’ve many friends who grumble about the arrogance and hypocrisy of this Kill The Indian Movement. With the passion of a hasty “That’ll Fix Their Wagon” tweet, they poke holes in the air with index fingers. And. That. Is. It.
More and more, especially with the media now essentially being a public relations arm of a growing American socialist bureaucracy, civil servants are learning something vital.
There’s no consequence for their actions.
Lie. Cheat. Steal. Castle doors are wide open.
I mentioned at the start this isn’t about the wonderful, sentient being, The Indian, being an inspiring, interesting and ancient local symbol for Hart High, how it links generation after generation together. Doesn’t matter. This is merely a test.
The Hart district is flexing its muscles. They’re testing. How much power they can grab? Will we just keep giving up? Will this open the door to Big Education sneaking in yet more radical, nonsensical and downright stupid curricula into the classrooms and minds of our children?
Why are powerful suits at the district and on campuses pushing the eradication of a noble community icon?
It’s tribal. It’s so that some bureaucrats can traipse off to conventions, seminars and confabs and elbow each other, displaying How Incredibly Woke they are and how they easily muscled the sheep back home.
So. How can I convince the not-so-secret suits to back off from exterminating The Hart High Indian? This is my war promise.
My life’s new mission will be to make Your Name and “Booger-Eating Moron” synonymous. The kids’ll love that. Care to shop from a wide selection of unasked-for and uncomplimentary nicknames — long outlasting your dubious education career? Climbing the political ladder and thinking of running for dog catcher? Wonder what it’ll be like having thousands of little old ladies (many Hart alum) passing you in the street and mumbling, “Indian killer…”
Unending public embarrassment? Looking up “Political Satire” in the encyclopedia and there’s your photo?
It’s the gift that just keeps giving…
John Boston is a local writer and forever a Mighty Hart High Indian.