The Crying Indian
Every once in a while, I have strange flashbacks to elementary school. None of them so far have involved a broom closet and janitor with “friendship lotion” or any of that business.
I remember flipping through those RIF catalogs and trying to pick out a few to order, putting big, bold checkmarks next to any that had ghosts in the title.
I remember Valentine’s Day when you would slide cheesy cards (you could buy a bag of 30 of them at McClellan’s) into folders made out of construction paper and attached to every student’s desk. You were mindful of the teacher’s lecture about delivering cards to even your less-than-popular classmates, and by that, she meant creepy Valerie, who missed half a semester with head lice and Ronnie, who picked his nose and jammed what he found there into his ears.
I remember those big, round clocks with black numerals and even a second hand so on really long days, you could watch the time drag on click by click.
I remember the smell of industrial soap in the bathrooms and the salty taste of paste too tempting not to lick from the oversized popsicle stick.
I remember all the prepubescent boys jumping out of their chairs and flinging their arms into the air when it was time for the teacher to choose an AV assistant for the day. The winner of the arm-raise contest would get to wheel the gigantic cart into the classroom with that one-eyed projector staring out like a cycloptic beast. At least five times during the course of the stupid educational film (if you don’t wash your hands after you potty, germs with real eyes and whiskers will break camp on your mashed potatoes) the film would get stuck and the whole thing would make that crazy CLACK CLACK CLACK sound and the harried teacher would slap the lights on.
I remember those days when the teacher was too worn out or hungover to deliver her lessons so she would put the TV on and let us watch The Electric Company (STU-PID. Stupid) or Zoom (I’m Karen! I’m Zack! I’m Stephen!) I largely snoozed through those shows and to this day, have a problem pronouncing most words with more than two syllables.
But there was one commercial that seemed to play at every break and it stopped me cold each time. I don’t know why, really. The incongruity of that Indian wandering across the belching city and among all that trash always moved me in a way I don’t understand. Year after year as I grew older, that distraught Indian kept coming back and the world in which he roamed never got any cleaner. That memory is as clear as any, as though the very image of a solitary tear dripping down the ageless man’s face came to serve as a symbol of all those weird years at Brookside Elementary.
May 6th, 2009 at 5:28 pm
I, too, was always moved by the crying Indian and couldn’t understand why people had to be so messy. I lived in a small town and don’t remember there being alot of trash around (except for at the dump of course, but trash was supposed to be there). Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t grow up to be a treehugger (sorry Treehugger). It just always upset me as a kid.
May 6th, 2009 at 9:26 pm
I also remember this commercial. It always made me feel so sad. That tear running down his face was the part that always got to me, even as a kid. It was an early “green” message for all of us.
(LaFlamme, I LOVED The Electric Company, AND ZOOM!)
WE’re gonna Zoom, Zoom, Zoomah, Zoom..
May 15th, 2009 at 7:58 am
Screw the Indian. We are part Cherokee and I know for a fact that no self respecting Indian would cry over trash on their land. Instead, they should have shown him kicking ass and taking scalps. Might have made some paleface think twice before throwing that crap out the window.
May 16th, 2009 at 11:02 am
Because of that commercial, I never littered… I was so shocked when I hooked up with a full-blood who threw wrappers on the ground!