Chief Anderson

"Kikthawenund" is an odd name. It is awkward and choppy. Doesn't sound intimidating or proud. It's no "Geronimo." But Kikthawenund is my guy. For better or worse.

You've heard of him, right? Maybe not. But in my hometown Kikthawenund is its namesake. Well, the Swedish version of that name, at least. Anderson. Chief Anderson. A man who was born of a Swedish father and Delaware Indian mother, who settled his people on the shores of the White River along a trading route that stretched from Cincinnati to Noblesville, Indiana, and beyond. Kikthawenund's father wanted him to have a traditional Swiss name, so he called him William Anderson. From the beginning, this settlement was known as Andersontown.

They say Anderson was a man of few words. A leader by example. One who stayed committed to his beliefs. He and his tribe had been a part of a split between the Delaware. Some Delaware were untrusting of white settlers. Others believed that these new "Americans" would be able to figure out a way to live amongst the Delaware in harmony. Since Kikthawenund was both white and Delaware, he hoped harmony could be achieved. He settled Anderson holding on to this belief.

When the great Indian warrior Tecumseh came to Andersontown to meet with Kikthawenund, hoping to garner support in Tecumseh's plan to fight William Henry Harrison and the U.S. Army in the Indiana Territory, Chief Anderson refused. He still believed in the promise of a new America.

Tecumseh went to battle with the United States at the Battle of Tippecanoe and lost his life. The Indians were soundly defeated. As a result, all Indians were forced to leave Indiana and its surrounding states and go beyond the Mississippi River, including Chief Anderson, who had been an ally to the U.S. the whole time.

Fast forward to March, 1996. I'm standing on floor of The Wigwam, my high school's 8,996-seat basketball arena. I'm wearing a traditional Indian headdress, chest plate, tasseled leather pants, moccasins, and war paint on my face (I was the school mascot). My school's basketball team, the Anderson Indians, has just won a regional playoff game. While the celebration continues on the floor, a loud, bellowing voice is heard over the loud speaker.  "The Great Spirit!" someone exclaims.  It is the Great Spirit, Chief Anderson, here to greet us from beyond the grave.  Actually, it's P.T. Morgan, Health and P.E. teacher - Chief Anderson wasn't available, but the crowd doesn't seem to mind.  "The Spirit...LIVES," he proclaims, to a throng of cheers. 

Scenes like this one have played out in Anderson since the 1920s, when "Indians" replaced "Ducks" as the high school nickname (the Duck had to be replaced after he was attacked at a game by Lapel's Bulldog - maybe high schools should stick to human mascots).  People in Anderson have always taken great pride in "being the Indians."  Legend always had it that a Delaware himself taught the high school Indian mascot and Maiden the ritualistic dance performed before every home basketball game.  However, I would be willing to wager very few graduates of Anderson High School are aware that Chief Anderson and his Indians, the original Anderson Indians, were kicked out of town forever. 

My question, one that will probably never be fully answered, is, "Why did 19th and 20th Century Americans take so much pride in naming its sports teams, schools, and cities after Native Americans while at the same time encouraging the decimation and degradation of the people themselves?"  Was it guilt?  Reverence?  "Sorry we destoryed you, but you really did put up a good fight against our rifles with your bows and arrows, so we're going to call our baseball team the 'Braves.'" 

In Anderson, do we really deserve to call ourselves the Anderson Indians?  Would the Chief, himself, be okay with this?  Recent political pressure suggests that the nickname "Indians" may not last forever.  Of course, this will be met with resistance by locals who can't believe how anyone could possibly be offended by this.  "What's the big deal," they'll say.  Perhaps the "big deal" is that Chief Anderson, the founder of the city, leader of the Indians, was never able to return to the city he started.  He had to die in rural Kansas, dreaming of his home on the White River.  And now his spirit is portrayed by a P.E. teacher, and only for the reason of pumping up the crowd about a basketball game.  We took his home, then minimized his memory by attaching it to high school sports.  That's why it's a big deal. 

"Indians" will probably survive for the forseeable future.  Certainly "Anderson" will remain the city's name, and the state will always be "Indiana - Land of the Indians."  Each time I see any of the three of those words, I will remember the Chief, Kikthawenund, and hope that he has forgiven us for moving on without him. 

December 8

John Lennon, Richard Dunkin, Michael White.

Each of these men died on December 8.  1980.  2001.  2003.  

"...you may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one.  I hope someday you'll join us, and the world will live as one."  

Lennon impacted my life by showing that one can confidently question the validity of religion.  How?  He illustrated for me through his music that love, peace, and understanding can exist outside of Christianity.  That may seem obvious to most, but under the tutelage of dedicated Methodist and Baptist Sunday school teachers and grandmothers from Indiana and Kentucky, it wasn't obvious to me.  

Richard Dunkin was 82 when he passed on December 8, 2001.  He was my grandfather.  The only grandfather I knew.  A Fighter Ace in World War II, he shot down thirteen Nazi aircraft, nine of which were confirmed.  He flew the crown jewel of fighter planes, the P-51 Mustang.  He returned home a war hero, got married, joined the family construction business, and had two children.  He moved the business to Anderson, Indiana, in the early 1950s, and it became the most important construction firm in a city that was booming.  

My grandfather had an impeccable work ethic and was proud of each completed job.  One of his favorite pastimes was to give me tours of the almost completed buildings.  Once, as we stood atop the Delaware County Courthouse in Muncie, Indiana, looking out over the city, he stated to me that his favorite aspect of being in construction was that his creations will last for generations to come, so that one day, when he is long gone, I can share with my children and grandchildren that these buildings they see were built by their great-grandfather.  

Anderson City Hall.  Anderson Public Library.  Madison County Jail.  Madison County Courthouse.  Anderson First United Methodist Church.  Anderson High School.  Anderson University Wellness Center.  Anderson Elementary School.  East Side Elementary School.  

The list goes on and on.  

These aren't just random buildings in the city.  They are some of the most important buildings.  Some even hold a special place in our family history.  He built the church where his children were married.  Where his grandchildren were baptized and confirmed.  Where his own funeral was held.  

Now that I have a child, and have moved back to Anderson after eight years away, I remember exactly what he said, and know that he was correct.  I see his legacy all around me.  I realize that these structures are just bricks and mortar, but what brings a great sense of pride is the knowledge that each of those buildings, under his care, was built with extreme attention to detail, maximum effort, and no shortcuts taken.  It is an ongoing challenge to me to do my best.  I no longer hear his voice, but I see those buildings, and they stare back at me with arms folded, reminding me that there is no easy way to success.  

I never knew Michael White, who died on December 8, 2003.  However, because of his death, his widow, who attended the church where I served as a children's pastor, sought our assistance in finding someone to care for the Whites' children, Anna and Sarah, who were just seven and five at the time.  That person ended up being my wife.  So despite never knowing Michael White, we were suddenly thrust into the eye of the grieving White family.  

Losing a spouse and a father, especially at a young age, is a nightmare surpassed only by losing a child.  To be faced with attempting to comfort someone who has just lost a husband and a father was one of the most intense challenges of our lives.  The first year for the family was brutal.  Tears at almost every meal.  With each holiday, another open wound.  During that year, I learned about Michael White through countless stories, videos, artifacts, and encounters with his most dear friends.  It was the most unique way I have ever gotten to know a person.  In some ways, I feel like it's the most authentic way to know someone.  When you're not around, people tell it like it is.  They give you the good, bad, and the ugly.  And they reveal their inner most thoughts about the way you have impacted their lives, because you are not there to make them feel awkward about it.  

The death of Michael White is bittersweet.  Had it not happened, I would have never gotten to know the White family, which is now like a second family to me.  Life has gone on for them.  Tammy remarried and I was honored to be the officiant.  Her new husband is a good friend.  The White children, Anna and Sarah, are like surrogate daughters to me.  But as much as I love them and the memories we share, I would give it all back for the return of Michael White.  As a father to my own daughter, it is with tremendous sadness that I think about how he only got to spend five and seven years with his daughters. To only have that amount of time with my daughter is one of the worst scenarios imaginable.  

So each December 8th brings about sadness and reflection for me.  When one analyzes death, faith and God inevitably come to mind.  In my constant struggle between wanting to believe God is real and doubting that any religion is legitimate, I find it ironic that a man who liberated me from some of my discriminating religious thoughts is forever linked with the man who established the foundation of my belief in the Christian God, as well as with a man whose fatherly love was surpassed only by his family's unwavering faith in that same God to guide them through tragedy.  I guess maybe God planned it that way.  

LeBron Calls In Sick

CLEVELAND (AP) – Fans in Cleveland were disappointed to hear today that former Cavalier forward LeBron James, who now plays for the Miami Heat, has the flu and has filed a request through the Miami Heat’s human resources department requesting 16.0 hours (two days) of Personal Time Off (PTO). Therefore, James will miss the Heat’s game in Cleveland Thursday night.

James began suffering flu-like symptoms as early as Sunday, which included headache, nausea, and a yellow belly. He will not travel with the team to Northeast Ohio. Instead, LeBron will take his illness to South Beach, where he will receive the finest medical treatment.

James insisted to the media that skipping Thursday’s game, where it is anticipated that he will receive a harsh reception from over 20,000 fans at Quicken Loans Arena, has nothing to do with his desire to avoid the situation. “I always show up for important games. Didn’t you see the Boston series last year or the 2007 NBA Finals against the Spurs? When the stakes are high, LeBron always shows up,” stated the Akron native.

By taking 16.0 hours of personal time off, James , a first-year employee of the Heat, is now down to only 34.0 hours, as he accrues 5.0 hours per pay period. Heat Human Resources Director Pete Walsh commented, “Most people in their first year like to save up their PTO for Christmas or a vacation in Spring, so we are a bit shocked that Mr. James would use up that much time for a simple illness.”

Meanwhile, in Cleveland, where thousands of fans had hoped to demonstrate at the game by burning James’ jerseys, instead just set fire to Lake Erie.

Butler Bulldogs

For years now I've felt guilty about how much time I spend following sports. I've always been obsessed with sports, yet at the same time wondered why it mattered so much to me the results of athletic contests between teams of people, none of whom I personally know. But then I convince myself that since millions of other people around the world are into it it must be okay. You know, like sex trafficking and drug abuse. Okay, bad examples. It seems that just when I am ready to depart the sports scene forever, something always draws me back.

This past Monday night I made my way toward home from work around 7:00 p.m. As fate would have it, the client's home from which I departed happens to be on the west side of Indy, which meant I would have to cross the monstrous facade of Lucas Oil Stadium on my way home. Usually this only causes me to swerve a couple times on I-70 trying to stare down the hulking beauty of a stadium that I am proud belongs to my NFL team and city. However, tonight was different. Tonight was the National Championship game. And not just any National Championship game. Tiny, hometown Butler taking on evil power Duke. All day the fiscally responsible voice in my head (this voice is very soft spoken and shy) was gently nudging me toward enjoying the game on television. The voice gave many reasons: save money, HD quality, bonding with family, reverse jinx potential for a Butler victory, etc. But when push came to shove, no matter the situation, my Honda was exiting toward downtown in hopes of snagging a ticket.

Now, there's something you need to know. I am no bandwagon man. I have the ticket stubs to prove it. Butler vs Xavier at Hinkle. Vs Youngstown State. Vs Green Bay. Vs Wright State. I have been a Butler fan, along with my cousin Luke, for a long time. So seeing Butler play for the national title was much more than simply getting caught up in the hype of the local team making the big show. This is something I had daydreamed about for a long time, yet was such a far-fetched fantasy that I would usually change the scenario mid-daydream to make it more realistic. Who makes daydreams realistic? This was how far from almost anyone's mind it would be for Butler to play Duke for all the marbles. Even now, it seems impossible that it actually happened.

So being at this game was a must. In a cruel twist, my cousin Luke, who now lives in Indiana for the first time since becoming a Butler fan, found himself in Albany, Georgia, on Monday and unable to attend. So I was in the role of the lone wolf. No one else besides Luke would be an appropriate companion for this journey. After some wheeling and dealing, I scored a good seat for a low price. With that out of the way, I had some time to take in the scene. I saw the Butler players boarding their team bus. This was odd, because at their hotel, it would be faster to simply walk to the stadium, but I guess you just can't do that. Next I walked by many hotels and restaurants and enjoyed watching people preparing for the game with pre-game drinks and food. (It has always perplexed me how people can get drunk before their favorite team plays the biggest game in their history - don't you want to remember this moment???)

Downtown Indy was hot and humid - very odd for this time of year, and I was torturously overdressed. I had determined that my navy blue pullover had to be worn because this was the same pullover I wore when I attended the Boise State-Oklahoma Fiesta Bowl, so I needed all the mid-major mojo I could get. The only problem was, along with jeans, this was an incredibly hot outfit to have on at this time, and it was now soaking wet after a downpour. I was forced to sternly convince myself that neither I nor this pullover had anything to do with the night's result, and therefore it was okay to go back to the car and change into shorts and a t-shirt.

You know how it ends. Butler loses. But what I felt in that stadium Monday was why I will always love sports and, in particular, the spirit of Indiana basketball. 70,000 fans (minus some Dookies) chanting in unison, "DE-FENSE! DE-FENSE! DE-FENSE!" and "LET'S GO BUT-LER! (clap-clap-clap-clap-clap)" You know 85% of the people chanting, screaming, clapping, nail-biting, and pacing have never taken a class at Butler, but we all knew what it was about. It's the thing we all use to share a lot more than we do now.

We Hoosiers remember the Sectionals, Regionals, Semi-States, and State Finals of the past. We remember our rivalry games. We remember packed houses at The Wigwam, Chrysler Fieldhouse, and Case Arena. We remember Bob Knight and Gene Keady and Steve Alford and Keith Smart. And now we remember reality. The spirit is gone from the high school level forever. IU isn't so good right now. Purdue has yet to meet expectations. And the Pacers are a joke. So this is it. Butler. This is Indiana Basketball. Hoosier Hysteria. Everyone in this stadium from Indiana knows that tonight is our chance to get back some of what has been lost. We also know that Butler ain't making a habit of playing in this game. Indiana State in 1979 came so close. Never been back. So it created an incredibly tense atmosphere. We also knew that if Duke built more than a seven or eight point lead, it may be out of hand for good. It would reach five or six, but Butler always brought it back. Near the end, as they scored four straight to cut it to one, it seemed like our desired miracle may actually happen, despite me being convinced it never could since thousands of people were all watching the pot, waiting for it to boil. I am normally rather reserved at games (trying to pull off the "former player/student of the game" look), but I could not contain myself. I was yelling at the top of my lungs. "COME ON BUTLER!!! COME ON!!!" It just wasn't to be. But the memories of their run, and that game, will live on for a long time.

Welcome Aboard

Welcome to the blog. Still not sure the direction this will go, but I feel I need to start getting some of my thoughts recorded and I figured everyone on the internet would be clamoring to read them, so here we go...