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Ira Hayes Ira Hayes The other night I went out drinking to my local mountain bar, where the fellows bragged and argued about their sports and racing cars. Then an old man asked a young one if he’d heard of Ira Hayes? As the youngster gave his answer, I could feel the old man’s gaze. “Ira Hayes was a drunken Indian; must not of been much of a man. He could never hold his liquor, I’ve never seen a one that can. More than that I cannot tell you, more than that I cannot say.” The old man jumped off his barstool and said, “You’ll learn something today. Yes it’s true he died a drunkard but the truth is hard to find. If you only tell a little then you might as well be lying. There was nothing left for Ira that the white man hadn’t stole; robbed his pride and grabbed his water. Arizona nights are deathly cold. Ira Hays was a warrior’s hero, the kind so rarely even seen. Probably the greatest Pima; possibly the best Marine. Got his fame in the South Pacific, marching into terror’s fire with such bravery and resolve that wouldn’t let this great man tire. Iwo Jima was expensive costing most of his platoon. Of the forty-five that started forty died upon its dunes. Ira scaled Mount Suribachi, then helped raise his country’s flag; always focused on his buddies who went home in body bags. Ira Hayes came back a winner for a tour he could only lose. Traveling round and round this country while all the people bought him booze. He had lived through hell’s worst fury; few Marines had done the same. The drinks these folks were buying helped to numb all Ira’s shame. Survivors’ guilt became his burden, his hero jacket never fit. And the words he kept repeating are the words I can’t forget.” “I have known many heroes as I walk through life alone. You can never be a hero and still live to come back home.” “Ira came from Arizona, Sacaton where the land is dry. Once the greedy stole the water Pima independence died. World War Two was just beginning. Ira Hayes was a warrior’s son, so he joined with the Marine Corps forgiving all the whites had done. The tribal chief said ‘make us proud boy’ and that’s exactly what he did. Amongst his peers there stood a giant, who never ran and never hid. Ira Hayes is bronzed and standing back in Washington D.C., so if you ever talk about him do it with some dignity. We all helped to kill poor Ira once home from that distant shore. For close to every reservation there’s a white man’s liquor store.” I drove home a little wiser thinking of the Twenty-Third Psalm, and I hoped and prayed for Ira God has calmed his every qualm. For the ditch our Ira died in was the one the white man dug; the trail of tears seems never-ending, seems like all we do is shrug. |
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