Currently, I sit on the bluff above the confluence of the Tennessee and Hiawassee Rivers. For the Cherokee, South of here is the old homeland, north of here is not.
Before coming on this trip, I had read of the Brainerd Missionary. The Brainerd Missionary was a place where many preachers were dedicated to helping the people who were there, while along the way, educating and Christianizing them. I have mixed feelings about the acts of these missionaries. I’m not too fond of the acts of cultural assimilation they were engaged in. But I do have a lot of respect for the amount of effort and energy that they put into feeding, clothing, keeping people healthy and sane, and keeping people at peace, during the time that the Cherokee people spent in internment camps prior to the removal of the Cherokee and other tribes, from their homelands.
The Reverend Daniel Butrick was assigned at the Brainerd Mission, just prior to the removal. The first entry in his journal begins May 19th, 1838. The detachment that he and his wife chose to walk with, did not depart Brainerd until the fall, around November 1. The removal riders were videotaped a few years back, during their time at the Brainerd Missionary Cemetery. I was struck by the sentiments they expressed upon seeing the unmarked graves of their tribe members that had perished near the mission. It’s my understanding that the Cherokee, when they were rounded up, were put in internment camps throughout the area, one of which was near the mission.
Prior to departing, I wondered about the souls of the people who were buried in Brainerd Cemetery. I wondered if there was peace in their hearts. I wondered if their descendants, if they had any, had ever known of their existence. I wondered if anyone had ever bothered to say, “I’m sorry.” There are many Cherokee related sights in Georgia and Tennessee. I was most interested in visiting Brainerd.
This morning, I rode out from Cleveland, Tennessee, less than five miles from the sight of the Red Clay Council. I biked west, about 20 miles, to the Brainerd Missionary Cemetery. The cemetery today is quite odd. It’s rather small, maybe two hundred feet by two hundred feet, situated at the edge of a mall parking lot, and wedged between two single story office buildings. The mission itself was far larger, but all that remains today is the cemetery. Within the cemetery itself were several large trees. Surrounding the cemetery was an old, stone fence, about two feet high, with a chain link fence going up six feet and a few strands of rusted barbed wire poking up above that.
I arrived around one o’clock pm, the hot part of the day, tired, thirsty and out of water. To my surprise, both of the cemetery gates were locked. I was discouraged. I sat down to rest before figuring out my next move. It was almost 90 degrees out, and I was extremely thirsty at this point. I pondered my vow to never purchase water, and decided that vow was too valuable to break even at this moment. I was exhausted. I had only ridden twenty miles that day and fifty miles the day before. My mind wondered how I would make it through the following day, which would require biking up about fifteen hundred feet of elevation gain, through the Cumberland Gap.
Although I still had hope, I felt low. I sat down with my back to the gates, in the grass, between one of the office buildings and the cemetery. The patch of grass was no more than twenty feet wide. The HVAC systems whirred while cars occasionally drove by. The environment was far from sacred.
To my surprise, sitting ten feet from me was the only human made artifact in this patch of grass. It was a one gallon milk jug. I peered at it for a while, and realized that it had a green lid and was filled with water not milk. I walked over to it and read the label, “Great Value: Pure Drinking Water.” Although it was not sealed, it was filled about three quarters of the way.
I bowed to it, and I wondered if the person who had drank from it had any communicable diseases. Then, I remembered that I had a water filter. So, I filtered the water and drank and sated myself.
Spirit had reminded me of my calling.
I searched for a way inside the cemetery. I discovered a section of the fence where the barbed wire was bent over. I was able to pull the individual wires below its mount. Maybe this would work. I attempted to climb the chain link fence and discovered that it was going to be too difficult to get over without bloodying myself. I gave up on that approach.
A few feet away, two chain link gates were locked together, using a padlock and a chain. I pulled as far as they would open, which revealed a gap that might be large enough for me to fit through. Above the gates were barbed wire. Below the chain and padlock was the part of the gate that sticks out, which sticks out, which has the rod that when pushed downwards into a hole in the ground keeps the gates securely shut. I couldn’t go below the lock, there was no room. And above the lock, although there was some room, the barbed wires were precariously low. I grabbed my ceremonial accoutrements and decided to stand on the chain link and try. Sure enough,, I managed to find a way in. it was just wide enough to fit my thin frame.
The first signs that I saw in the cemetery were dedications from the Daughters of the American Revolution. I was enraged, at first, seeing these dedications. The marked tombstones were all for pastors and their wives. And the epitaphs honored them for the extent in which they educated and Christianized the Cherokee. My anger subsided when I remembered the journal of Danial Butrick.
Both the Cherokee and the colonists were divided on their opinions of the removal. The Cherokee were left to decide between hiding, futilely resisting, or agreeing to the terms of the Treaty of New Echota (and moving west). Some of the colonists had compassion for the Cherokee and fed, clothed and helped them, while others went out of their way to make life difficult for them. The clergy, buried in the Brainerd Missionary Cemetery were without a doubt, interested in the health, welfare and wellbeing of the Cherokee people. My anger subsided.
I then turned my attention to the unmarked tombstones. They were mostly thin slabs, no more than an inch thick. And for some, they were simply an uncut rock or a roughly hammered stone. I guess that there were maybe fifty, or so, unmarked graves. These were the graves of people that had been forcibly removed from their homes and were living in stockades. These folks died of whooping cough, diarrhea, dysentery, hunger and the other illness d’jour of the nineteenth century.
I know that the removal riders had paid their respects to these ancestors as did other members of the various clans of the Cherokee tribes. Although I’m confident that many white folks had paid their respects, I wondered if any had ever apologized or tried to make amends for their losses.
Without an answer to that question, I set out to do so. I called in the four directions, and, lacking dried tobacco, offered marshmallow root to Spirit. I did my best to visit every unmarked grave. I did my best to tell each one of these souls that I’m sorry for the actions of the ancestors of my white brethren. I asked them to accept my ride as a small token of atonement for the atrocities that had cost them their lives. I placed dried marshmallow roots on every single one of those graves, at least the graves I could find.
In the northwest corner of the graveyard, stands an ancient oak tree. I couldn’t reach around one quarter of its width. One of its large limbs had begun to separate from it’s trunk. Three large, wide, steel straps secured the limb to the tree thereby retaining the integrity of the tree. It was clear that this tree had borne witness to everything that had happened. I hugged the tree, thanked it for bearing witness, and asked it to share with me anything that might help me to fulfill my mission.
I closed the circle and escaped. I still had some marshmallow root left. I know there were many other places where folks died along the trail. I’m sure it will be put to good use.
Atone The Removal 