I read a story the other day and it's been stuck in my head so I'm going to share it, this story is not mine, I take NO credit for it, it's a historical depiction of the naming of a creek in my neighborhood:
"Many long years ago, well before we American Indians were fighting for our little plots of land from foreigners, there were other battles being waged between tribes. These battles were not only for plots of land, but for resources and dignity.
One particular battle had been going on many years between two tribes and during the siege, these two elder women were working together in one of their homes - they were preparing roots for storage and this was quite an undertaking, these roots had to be ground and dried and prepared for storage - during the winter, they would be prepared as mush, delicious hot mush wafting through the home bringing warmth from the bitter cold outside.
As they were working together, chatting about the latest style of moccasins (chuckle) or perhaps the newest weaving pattern one of them noticed one of the enemy tribe's men through the wall of her home. Her eyes were sharp for he was well hidden and it was only the glint of firelight from his eyes that drew her attention to him. She continued working and began to tell the other woman - without changing her tone of voice or even glancing in his direction - "keep on working and then begin to act angry like we're fighting, there's an enemy behind that wall, take some of these roots we're drying and let's cook them as if for dinner."
They continued working and the first woman said "sister, we'll make an angry sign at each other until we almost attack and finally he'll come in and we'll feign attacking each other with this mush, and you also will threaten me with your pestle; You be careful little sister!"
They quarreled and almost jumped at each other, and the enemy crept in through the wall, almost his whole head was in the room now. "Sister, he's coming in now, don't look at him, only look at me, I'm about to pour this mush on him Be careful! I'll pour it on him when I attack him and then you club him with your pestle!" Then then old woman stood up and they acted like they were going to strike at each other; they both turned at once and she poured the mush all over him. He lurched back and they killed him.
They escaped from their home to a nearby village and told the story to the villagers giving our a war cry. The White men now call that place "Squaw Creek" but it's true name is Iskuulpa Yuuwewi."
One of our teachings in my tribal longhouse is that if you know a story you should repeat it, thus, it becomes a part of you and lives on through having been told...these were brave women and their story SHOULD live on.