the funeral of Michael MacDonald

In Flagstaff recently, there was a mid-air collision between two medical helicopters near the hospital that resulted in 6 deaths. The patient aboard one helicopter was a firefighter on loan in the Grand Canyon with his crew, the Chief Mountain Hot Shots, from Browning, Montana.

This is a newspaper article about the crash that focuses on him. http://www.greatfallstribune.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20080701/NEWS01/807010301/1002/news01.


We drove to Browning on Saturday to attend Michael's funeral, feeling a special pull there because of Jason's work in fire and the Park's relationship with this particular Hot Shot crew, an interest in and respect for native traditions, our experiences in Flagstaff last year, especially, as it turns out, hiking the hills where the crash ocurred, and the people we've met from Browning. The service drew in the whole town; this crew is one of the their great prides, and many see the Hot Shot role as a continuation of the young warrior tradition. We joined the long line to view Michael's body and the various effects people had placed in his coffin, and to then kiss the cheeks of his mother and girlfriend. Jason told the family it was an honor for us to be there and that we were very sorry for their loss. I cried and cried and could barely speak.

Unfortunately, the catholic priest, who had the most air time, focused on the heroics of firefighters and military personnel who selflessly sacrifice for our nation, and he strongly emphasized the glories of our government. It seemed odd coming from a white guy to a nearly all-native crowd. If an Indian wanted to say the same stuff, fine, but it truly felt like we had time traveled to 150 years ago, and a government representative in religious clothing was trying to convince everyone that white people's decisions around here are good and justified, though this concept wasn't related to Michael much at all. But otherwise the elements of the service were beautiful, including the Hot Shot crew lining up to pass his helmet, backpack, and boots from one end of the gym to the other, each one holding them for a bit to say goodbye, and Scripture readings by the family. But oh! The wailing when the time came to close the casket. I don't know if I will ever forget the sound, or that of the Indians all through the gym who spontaneously erupted into war cries after "Song for a Warrior" was sang by a group of young drummers.

This is a poem I wrote in the days afterwards.

circles

relentless sun above the Canyon's rims
beads of sweat from under your white helmet,
to be passed from comrade to comrade in a few days' time
thick body of a bee, black and yellow
drips of poison on a needle's point
rotaries, giving flight to the bird
that has come to carry you home

faces of mother, step-father, aunts, friends, strangers gathered
tears fallen onto your round cheeks

basketball
medals of honor
dream catchers
your quilt, white, with a colorful star
all added to your casket before the closing

finality
no escape

thick pink lips come toward yours, thin, off-colored
drums beat, beat, beat to Song for a Warrior
that ends in Blackfeet cries throughout the gym
cries of battles and pains, old and new

CeCe's belly, ripe with your child
life
death
new life