Our Cornfed Pocahontas

 

And why not? If major leaguers can dream-walk out of Iowa's tall corn, as they did not long ago on the "Field of Dreams" game, why can't dear old Pocahontas do the same? Here she is, Shoeless Joe in pigtails and buckskin, waist deep in September corn.

For the record, the real Pocahontas never grew old, having died at 21 years old in jolly old England, after moving there with her husband, John Rolfe, who, by the way, has a town--or had a town--named after him also in Pocahontas County, Iowa. Isn't that sweet?

Our cornfed Pocahontas is statue-esque, tall and thin and trim, with an exceedingly wide and tall face, huge startled eyes, and not one iota of a smile, not even a suggestion. She's tentative, as if worried, maybe even a little angry about her bushels per acre.

Disney did their Pocahontas up far more delightfully, but then you would expect nothing less. Disney gave her a heavy turquoise necklace, gorgeous flowing hair, an armband tattoo beneath perfectly sculptured shoulders, and, oh yes, breasts sufficient to fill out that lovely fringe bikini she wore when she took those first few steps out of the primeval forest. 

Our flat-chested Miss Iowa, the one standing straight and tall just a few yards off Highway 3, east of a town that's named after her, seems younger but a whole lot angrier, sourpussed by I don't know what exactly. 

Pocahontas's Pocahontas greets visitors here because long, long ago, John Howell, a Virginian serving in the Iowa State Senate, thought it would be grand to honor a Native Virginian by naming one of the brand new counties in far northwest Iowa after her. It was 1850. He'd be pleased, he said, "to have the name of Pocahontas, the Indian princess of Virginia, remembered," as it is and has been since before the 25-foot cornfed growler was erected in 1954. 

Seems the real Pocahontas is far better known than her story, even after the Disney film. Legends claim that by pleading for his life, Pocahontas saved Captain John Smith a split second before his brains would have been spilled over a pair of rocks. She jumped between warring cultures, white and red, to save the man she loved. My, who wouldn't love that story? Not a smidgeon of critical race theory there. No sir.  Vintage Americana.

You know what I'm talking about, right?--this story: 

Doubtful. Likely didn't happen. For the record, Pochie was 11 or 12 years old when the swashbuckling captain went deep into the forest outside Jamestown. Some stories of Native origin claim she was abused, even raped, then pirated on board a ship and sent to England with her English husband, a man named Mr. John Rolfe.

True story? Who knows?

What is true is that the guardian angel Pocahontas was much desired by white folks, who were willing to do most anything they could to steal her away from her "savage" family, specifically her father, who happened to be chief. Even during the girl's own lifetime she was more iconic than human. When our President Trump wanted to dim the Presidential chances of Elizabeth Warren, he called her "Pocahontas," a smear of limited historical significance but immense cultural heft. 

We're likely far beyond the statue of limitations that history sets; certainly, those who once knew the facts are no more. Just exactly what Pocahontas was, what she stood for, what were the circumstances of her life and death is not likely to be revealed by any historical sleuthing. 

Somewhere close to 175 years ago, an Iowa senator suggested naming a spanking-new county after a Indian princess from his home state of Virginia. A century later, Senator Albert J. Shaw, who lived in a county township, Powhatan, named after Pocahontas's father, determined a statue in her honor was appropriate right there in the heart of the county. During the summer of 1956, she went up. Just 25 years ago, Disney tried to make a movie from a life obscured by time and a thousand different versions. It didn't go well. 

No matter. You can't help thinking that if there weren't a Pocahontas, we'd conjure one from our dreams because what she so such a dear offering for our guilt. This delightful Indian maiden brought us together, whether she did or not, right?

Think I'm being cynical? Drive through town. She's waving, being nice--I think.

It would be nice, wouldn't it, to say wish her the best: may she rest in peace.

Poor child hasn't. That's for sure. Maybe that's why she seems such a grouch.