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mickeymole 's review for:
Indian Horse
by Richard Wagamese
“Sometimes ghosts linger. They hover in the furthest corners, and when you least expect it they lurch out, bearing everything they brought to you when they were alive. I didn’t want to be haunted. I’d lived that way for far too long as it was.”
The story-line and main character reminded me of one of my favorite books, [b:When The Legends Die|879299|When The Legends Die|Hal Borland|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1320463379l/879299._SY75_.jpg|1145904] I’ve loved that book since I first read it 47 years ago, so it has been the standard by which I compare all books of a similar theme. Not one has risen up to that standard until now.
Wagamese’ story of Saul Indian Horse mirrors the story of Thomas Black Bull in Borland’s masterpiece. Both characters were young Indian boys when they were left by their families to face the odd and dangerous white man’s world alone. Both were held captive by abusive adults in “Indian” schools, and grew up full of anger, shame, and confusion. Both find an outlet through sports--Thomas through rodeo; Saul through ice hockey.
I’m not a fan of hockey, but Wagamese’ crisp writing made it totally relatable.
“We were hockey gypsies, heading down another gravel road every weekend, plowing into the heart of that magnificent northern landscape. We never gave a thought to being deprived as we traveled, to being shut out of the regular league system. We never gave a thought to being Indian. Different. We only thought of the game and the brotherhood that bound us together off the ice, in the van, on the plank floors of reservation houses, in the truck stop diners where if we’d won we had a little to splurge on a burger and soup before we hit the road again. Small joys. All of them tied together, entwined to form an experience we would not have traded for any other. We were a league of nomads, mad for the game, mad for the road, mad for ice and snow, an Arctic wind on our faces and a frozen puck on the blade of our sticks.”
Parts of this book are painful to read, especially when you know that these evil things really did happen to thousands of Indian children, who were “scooped up” (stolen) from their families and carted off to foster homes and residential schools by the Canadian government, so they could be civilized and taught Euro-Canadian and Christian values. The fictional Saul Indian Horse is representative of the 20,000 plus Indigenous children who were removed from their families during the 1950s to the 1980s. So, yes, a lot of this story is heartbreaking.
But, it is also a story of hope, and of the strength of the human spirit. Saul Indian Horse is a superb character to root for. He tells his story in a straightforward manner with crystal observations written simply, making it a breeze to read, even the most painful parts.
It isn’t all heartbreaking though; There are some beautiful people and relationships here too, so tenderly and subtly rendered...
“Erv Sift was an angel. I have no doubt of that. He understood that I bore old wounds and didn’t push me to disclose them. He only offered me security, friendship and the first home I’d had in a long time.”
“‘Now I’m just tired of the way I’ve been living. I want something new built on something old. I wanted to come back. This is the only place I felt like something was possible for me. Don’t know what I want to do. Just want to work on the idea of what’s possible.’ I wrung my hands together and looked at them.
Fred reached over and took Martha’s hand. They smiled at each other. ‘We hoped you would, some day,’ she said. ‘We all wanted to go out and find you, but we knew we couldn’t. We knew you’d have to find your own way. The hardest part was that we knew how hard your road would be--but we had to let you go.’
‘They scooped out our insides, Saul. We’re not responsible for that. We’re not responsible for what happened to us. None of us are,’ Fred said. ‘But our healing--that’s up to us. That’s what saved me. Knowing it was my game.’
‘Could be a long game,’ I said.
‘So what if it is?’ he said. ‘Just keep your stick on the ice and your feet moving. Time will take care of itself.’
‘I know how to do that,’ I said.
‘I know you do,’ he said.”
INDIAN HORSE may not replace WHEN THE LEGENDS DIE as one of my favorite books, but it is a superb work with a wonderful ending. I feel very fortunate to have read it.
The story-line and main character reminded me of one of my favorite books, [b:When The Legends Die|879299|When The Legends Die|Hal Borland|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1320463379l/879299._SY75_.jpg|1145904] I’ve loved that book since I first read it 47 years ago, so it has been the standard by which I compare all books of a similar theme. Not one has risen up to that standard until now.
Wagamese’ story of Saul Indian Horse mirrors the story of Thomas Black Bull in Borland’s masterpiece. Both characters were young Indian boys when they were left by their families to face the odd and dangerous white man’s world alone. Both were held captive by abusive adults in “Indian” schools, and grew up full of anger, shame, and confusion. Both find an outlet through sports--Thomas through rodeo; Saul through ice hockey.
I’m not a fan of hockey, but Wagamese’ crisp writing made it totally relatable.
“We were hockey gypsies, heading down another gravel road every weekend, plowing into the heart of that magnificent northern landscape. We never gave a thought to being deprived as we traveled, to being shut out of the regular league system. We never gave a thought to being Indian. Different. We only thought of the game and the brotherhood that bound us together off the ice, in the van, on the plank floors of reservation houses, in the truck stop diners where if we’d won we had a little to splurge on a burger and soup before we hit the road again. Small joys. All of them tied together, entwined to form an experience we would not have traded for any other. We were a league of nomads, mad for the game, mad for the road, mad for ice and snow, an Arctic wind on our faces and a frozen puck on the blade of our sticks.”
Parts of this book are painful to read, especially when you know that these evil things really did happen to thousands of Indian children, who were “scooped up” (stolen) from their families and carted off to foster homes and residential schools by the Canadian government, so they could be civilized and taught Euro-Canadian and Christian values. The fictional Saul Indian Horse is representative of the 20,000 plus Indigenous children who were removed from their families during the 1950s to the 1980s. So, yes, a lot of this story is heartbreaking.
But, it is also a story of hope, and of the strength of the human spirit. Saul Indian Horse is a superb character to root for. He tells his story in a straightforward manner with crystal observations written simply, making it a breeze to read, even the most painful parts.
It isn’t all heartbreaking though; There are some beautiful people and relationships here too, so tenderly and subtly rendered...
“Erv Sift was an angel. I have no doubt of that. He understood that I bore old wounds and didn’t push me to disclose them. He only offered me security, friendship and the first home I’d had in a long time.”
“‘Now I’m just tired of the way I’ve been living. I want something new built on something old. I wanted to come back. This is the only place I felt like something was possible for me. Don’t know what I want to do. Just want to work on the idea of what’s possible.’ I wrung my hands together and looked at them.
Fred reached over and took Martha’s hand. They smiled at each other. ‘We hoped you would, some day,’ she said. ‘We all wanted to go out and find you, but we knew we couldn’t. We knew you’d have to find your own way. The hardest part was that we knew how hard your road would be--but we had to let you go.’
‘They scooped out our insides, Saul. We’re not responsible for that. We’re not responsible for what happened to us. None of us are,’ Fred said. ‘But our healing--that’s up to us. That’s what saved me. Knowing it was my game.’
‘Could be a long game,’ I said.
‘So what if it is?’ he said. ‘Just keep your stick on the ice and your feet moving. Time will take care of itself.’
‘I know how to do that,’ I said.
‘I know you do,’ he said.”
INDIAN HORSE may not replace WHEN THE LEGENDS DIE as one of my favorite books, but it is a superb work with a wonderful ending. I feel very fortunate to have read it.