This is a true story.
Growing up as urban NDNs, we weren’t brought up with our culture. But on some level, even as that child, I somehow felt that this was a sacred moment. And I now recognize that humor is also part of our culture, and that laughter can be sacred medicine too.
Aside from the occasional powwow that we attended as a young girl, there weren’t too many places that I could learn about being Indian or being proud of our culture. I don’t remember any words of encouragement from anyone to seek anything other than fitting in at school and staying out of trouble.
Living in a single-parent household, it was likely a relief that my mother was able to get us out of her hair for a while when she could. So one summer, my brother and I got to visit our dad while he was living in Jackson, Michigan with one of his sisters and her family.
One sultry summer’s eve, we were sitting on the chilly cement porch attached to the side entrance of Aunt Joyce’s house. The setting sun peeked through the trees that lined the railroad tracks out back as we sat with our dad on that porch. It seemed like a perfect summer evening.
For some reason, I thought Indian dads were supposed to be storytellers. I was very much aware of being Native and aware that we weren’t exactly well-liked or accepted. Being in the presence of our big Indian dad felt like a safe space to be who we were, as a people.
So I asked my dad if he would tell us an Indian story.
He arose from his rickety old lawn chair and said to my brother and I, “Oh yes, dads do tell their little Indian children stories. I’ll be right back.”
As we sat waiting for our dad to return, I could feel the coolness of that cement porch against my bare legs, that no matter how long I sat there, it never seemed to warm up. That cold cement was holy ground that day.
I remember getting excited and a little antsy, waiting for our dad to return. I figured my dad probably knew everything, being a grown man and all. And he probably knew all the old Indian stories, because that was what grown Indian men with children are supposed to know. I thought grown-ups knew everything.
Daddy Jim came back and sat down in his chair, almost falling into it since his hands were being used to cup something. And so he began by looking at us first.
“I’m going to tell you guys an old, old story. Gather ‘round now.”
My brother and I sat Indian-style on that cold cement floor of the porch, full attention. Our little hands folded just so in our laps, we looked up to our father, this great Indian man who probably knew everything Indian that there was to know.
Hell, he probably invented a lot of Indian stuff too. Our dad was our dad. And he was the grown up, so he was supposed to know this stuff.
With one hand outstretched, and the other hand above it, he reached in his open hand to gather his offering. I don’t know why he was using oatmeal, but I guess that was as close to corn as he could get without opening a can of creamed corn. Man that dad of mine was clever.
He offered his grain to the four winds, to the grandfathers of the east, then the south, the west and finally the north. And then he brushed his hands off right over my brother’s head with a glint in his eye. I wondered if this was his Indian baptism. Geez, why did he get to be sprinkled with this blessing and all I got was oatmeal dust in my eyes. Probably because he was a boy.
So I straightened up even further, to show my dad that I was bigger and could sit up even straighter. Any straighter and I would have fallen over or strained my 8-year-old back.
And then he began.
“The story I’m going to tell you first, is an old Indian legend.”
This story was going to be important. I could tell. Indian legends are always true. That’s why they’re legends. And my dad had his solemn face on. The one they use when it’s time to settle down and be serious.
“A long time ago, there was this old Indian. He lived way back in the woods, by the swamps. He had to live there, little ones, because there was the white man who needed to have furs for their wives, and meat to feed their broods.”
“He was an ancient Indian, kids. His face was so wrinkly, that you would have thought that he was probably a hundred years old. In fact, he was so many moons old that even the old ones were young when he was that old.”
“A lot of people were afraid of this man. And this old man didn’t like being afraid of. He was after all, just an old man. But the neighbor kids were afraid of him, and wouldn’t visit him. He never had any friends to call on him either. For some reason, no one came to see him.”
I was very intrigued by this point. I figured the old fella must have been pretty scary looking or people would want to take care of him. It’s part of our way to take care of our elders. Or at least it was.
“Well, the old man had to finally leave his tribe. No one paid any attention to him anyway, and so he went off to be by himself. And that was how he came to be a trapper for the white man. Just him and his old dog, Musky.”
“After many moons, little ones, the old man became pretty good friends with these white traders. He was beginning to understand what they were saying, but could hardly speak their words. But he was still good friends with them.”
“One day, his old dog had to lie down and walk to the other side, where our people and our pets go when they die. But the old Indian didn’t know where his old Musky had gone.”
“The old Indian was quite lonely now. After all, Musky was the only real friend he had. In fact, the whole rest of his life he searched and searched that area for his dog. And when someone ran across him in the old trapping swamps or in the woods, all they heard was the old Indian muttering to himself: “Musky gone.”
And so that’s how Muskegon got its name.
I sit here smiling now, quietly laughing at my dad who I hope sees me from wherever they go after this time on earth. That glint in his eye, his mischievous smile. The sacredness of that moment still lives on as clear now as it was then. And it was indeed a sacred moment for us city NDN kids. Indeed it was.
Note: Rewritten for a class at NMU Summer 2026 Session.
allegedly fiction 
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