Reflection on History

The official U.S. Army response (circa 1969), to a request to investigate the incidents of Wounded Knee in the closing days of 1890, stated in part:  "To characterize Wounded Knee as a massacre – the killing of considerable number of human beings under circumstances of atrocity or cruelty, or mercilessly – overlooks the absence of premeditation, efforts to peacefully pacify the encampment, attempts to spare women and children once the melee began, and the Army’s sincere efforts to investigate charges of wanton killing of noncombatants after the incident."

Drawing on the words of Robert M. Utley, The Old Bison, a well respected historian: "Thus, the frontier army was not, as many of its leaders saw it, the heroic vanguard of civilization, crushing the savages and opening the West to settlers. Still less was it the barbaric band of butchers, eternally waging unjust war against unoffending Indians that is depicted in the humanitarian literature of the nineteenth century and the atonement literature of the twentieth. Rather, the frontier army was a conventional military force trying to control, by conventional military methods, a people that did not behave like a conventional enemy and, indeed, quite often was not an enemy at all. This is the most difficult of all military assignments, whether in Africa, Asia, or the American West. The bluecoats carried it out as well as could be expected in the absence of a later generation’s perspective and hindsight. In the process they wrote a dramatic and stirring chapter of American history, one that need not be diminished by today’s recognition of the monstrous wrong it inflicted on the Indian."

From Columbus, deSoto, the Pilgrims, the Colonists, to the frontier settlers -- the "Indian" people were considered savage and in need of "civilization" and "religion".  The fact that these "immigrant" people did not bother to even try to understand the depth of the Indian culture, their governmental systems and process, nor their religions, is unfortunate.  Had they even tried, it might have made some difference.  But, the life style of the Indian did not allow for the "white" and "black" settlers to pursue their life styles.  The "hunter-gatherer" required vast amounts of near virgin territory to support their livelihood.  Some, learned people, recognized that the only way for the Indian to survive was to "provide for them", thus the Reservation Act was established.  And, the resulting turmoil, upheaval, relocation, genocide, or massacre (what ever you want to call it) was the worst conclusion that could be imagined.

Today, we can look back in history and make judgment on the actions, it in no way changes anything.  The past is the past.  If you choose to wallow in the past---I have no sympathy for you.  If, on the other hand, you choose to become an active participant in building upon what exists today, I will stand by you, I will support you, I will champion your cause.

I may not be enough Indian to warrant recognition by today's standards, but my ancestors would have recognized my blood line and welcomed me into the fold.  I am 1/32 Cherokee and 1/32 Choctaw.  The fact that I am not outwardly "Indian", does not lessen the fact that I am Indian and damned proud of it.

Michael David Rockholt, the early years

I realize that my “story” is a bit fragmented and out of sequence.  It simply is a matter of how the pieces fall together as I venture down memory lane and into the ancient history of the family.  This segment is but a brief sketch of the first twenty years of my own life.  

I was born in Kilgore, Texas, November 4th, 1942,  the fourth son of my parents. Mother was from Oklahoma, of Irish, Scotch, English, French  and Indian heritage, Dad from Arkansas, his father was descended from early English, Welch and German  immigrants who settled in the English Colonies during the mid 1600s.  His mother Irish/Indian.  Mother had an elementary education, Dad was  educated as an engineer, and worked in the oilfields.

We lived near the small community of Hughey,  in the oil fields between Kilgore and Longview, on the Shell Oil lease; our place was on a large parcel, probably 8 to 10 acres.  It was located at the bottom, between two hills with drainage down to the Sabin River which was about half a mile from the house.  We had no indoor plumbing, our facilities were the outhouse.  The house was sparse, the folks had one bedroom, and we boys had a rather large room which was more of a bunk house.

One time, when Mother and I were visiting a family up on Sinclair hill, their daughter was a little older than I was, not much though, we were both not in school. (Wish I could remember her name). Well, we were "country" and when she had to pee, I guess it was natural for her to relieve herself in a manner in which she had become used to, in the yard, out behind the trailer house.  And, that’s how I  came to realize that boys and girls were not exactly the same.  We had many occasions to explore our differences as time went by, until they finally moved into town.

I was a sickly child, the humid weather did not suit me well and I often had pneumonia several times every winter. When the weather warmed up I would have to lay out in the sun "for my health".  Mother wanted me naked, I would not have it, had to have on at least a pair of cut off pants to cover my underwear, in fear I might be seen when the school bus brought the older kids home.

Life was easy going, we had a very large garden, raising about everything you can imagine,  A horse, a milk cow, chickens and rabbits, a goat, and dogs.  We raised the rabbits for market, churned butter and bartered it at the local market for staples.

Seems there was always some member of mother’s or dad’s family spending some time with us; Dad’s brothers Fred and Joseph David, Mother’s nephew Cecil, her sister-in law Emma, and her sister Ada.  I remember one time Emma’s son, George, who was a long haul trucker, pulled up in the wee hours one morning.  He was hungry…so, since there just happened to be a turkey in the oven, we had what amounted to a Thanksgiving dinner about four o’clock in the morning.  I guess a lot of things that happened in our family might be considered weird by others, but for us it was simply life.

I was a "left out" child, the older boys had their activities and I was basically left to my own adventures.  And they were many.  We had a negro family lived up the hill from us, the widow Willie May had lost one leg and she got around quite well with one crutch.  There were two girls, both several years older than I was.  When I started school Mother was working in the school cafeteria.  I would get out of school before she was off work, I would get off the bus and spend the afternoon with Willie May and her family until Mother or Dad picked me up.

Willie May's house had no electricity, gas or water.  A wood burning stove, kerosene lamps, water drawn from a well, chickens and dogs often underfoot in the house...maybe  you can get the picture.  I learned to hunt squirrel and possum, fish and catch crawfish with my "Jim", Willie May's brother.  We collected walnuts in the fall, climbed up to gather wild grapes, picked wild black berries and collected wild honey.  That big black man was more of a father to me than was my own.

On one of my hospital stays, I was probably six or seven, my room was at the end of the hall adjacent to the doorway which lead to the nurses dorm rooms.  The nurses thought I would look cute with blonde hair so they tried to bleach my hair.  It didn’t bleach but I got a real bad rash on my head and neck.  The old charge nurse really got upset over that.

On one trip to hospital, to visit with my brother who was in for an appendectomy, I was in the back seat with my brother LeRoy and one of his lady friends.  He had been on my case over something or another, don’t really remember what, but….he leaned up over the front seat to get something and I just happened to have my pocket knife open and I gestured toward this butt, as though I would stick him with it (honest, it was only a gesture, I never would have stuck him), and at the same time he decided that it was time to sit back down.  Result…he got stuck, and real good too.  

When I was 9 or so, I fell victim to the molestation from older brothers, I didn't know how to deal with it and it continued for a while.  We left Texas in the winter of 1952 and moved to California.  The move was mostly as an attempt to get me into a climate that was better for my health.

We packed up what would fit into a small trailer and left Texas, headed for California.  Dad was supposed to have a job in Bakersfield with Shell Oil.  The trip hit a snag near Tejon Pass when the bearings of the trailer burned out.  There was a snow storm and I remember playing in the snow.  When we finally got to Bakersfield Dad learned that the job was there but he would lose all of his benefits and seniority since it was with a part of Shell that was not affiliated with the operations in Texas.  Upon checking around they found that the operation on the west side was affiliated and he could get a job in Fellows (a small town north of Taft), so we were off to Fellows.  

Fellows was a very small town, there was no housing available, we had so very little and as I now know, little money.  The local judge’s wife came to the rescue,  located a rather run down, vacant house and we went to work cleaning it up, painting it and making it livable.  Furnishings were collected from various donations and we were settled in.

I thrived in the California sun, becoming very active.  An old chicken coop became my retreat; the dry creek bed wash next to the house became my Gobi Desert.  I scrounged parts from the local city dump and put together bicycles,   took old tricycles and turned the forks over to make scooters to ride down the hill.  Crashed one time and had abrasions all over one shoulder, my hip and my feet.

I started my own business; I would sort soda and beer bottles at the market, the hotel and the saloon.  The bottles had to be all the same brand in that companies crate or the delivery truck would not give the full credit for them.  So, by working between all three I got them all their maximum credit and I made a nickel on each case.  At the same time I worked for the judge’s wife, doing yard work and when the fig tree was ready we would pick the figs, cut them and put them to dry in the sun.  When they were dry we would wrap them in cellophane and she would sell them to the local market.

My history as a student certainly was not stellar, Midway Elementary was no exception.  For the four years we were in Fellows I probably got half a dozen A’s, maybe a few more B’s, but mostly C’s and D’s,   with always an F or two thrown in.  There just seemed to be too much “real” education outside of the classroom and I just couldn’t see much sense in all that book learning.  My days were often spent with two neighbor boys; Kenny was a year younger, Axel a year older.  Cops and Robbers, Cowboys and Indians, or digging tunnels into the side of the creek bed.  We had one very extensive tunnel system, when the spring rains came and the creek bed filled up it washed out all of our tunnels.

One summer, I think it was summer of 1954, I spent several weeks with a federal trapper and his wife and son.  We set up a permanent camp alongside a creek near Levining, up from Bishop on the eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.  We surveyed, and fished the meadows which would soon be filled with water from the many dams being built in the area.  Of special interest was Coolidge meadow, named after President Coolidge, who maintained a log cabin lodge there for hunting and fishing.  The building had been crushed by a felled tree but was still so awesome to explore.  On the ride back down, the two of us boys rode in the back of the pickup, on top of all the camping equipment, tucked down under the tie down ropes.

I had a bicycle that I had modified to what amounted to a mountain bike, by installing a small sprocket in front and a large in back I could ride up in the hills where other bicycles could not go.  With that bike I would go up into the hills and gather mushrooms.  On one adventure I came upon one of my teachers sunbathing in the nude.  Not giving away my presence I happily took in the view.  Returned on many occasions and on several, again found her.  Once,  I guess I just had to get closer and was “found out”.  

I was probably thirteen or so, just coming into my sexual maturity.  She was in her early twenties I guess.  She was quite supportive in my curiosity, allowing me to “explore” her body, guiding my hands over her body,  explaining what everything was and at the same time undressing me.  At her hands I experienced by first climax, it was a little frightening at the time of occurrence, but she calmed my fears and gave me an understanding of what was happening.  I returned to that grassy spot on the hillside many times after that, never again to encounter her.  I would see her at school from time to time but never even engaged her in conversation.  School was soon out for the summer and my spring time encounter was but a very fond memory.  That summer we relocated to Bakersfield.

We moved to Bakersfield and lived in an adobe house; it was located on the back of three lots.  The front had a wonderful orchard; peach, apricot, pear, and apple trees of many varieties, and there was a nice large garden plot.  I really enjoyed the opportunity it presented.  Set up a fruit and vegetable stand and was able to do a pretty good business. 

Once Dad took one of the peaches to work with him and his coworkers were commenting on its size.  Dad told them that it was not even big, that I had some that were just too big to fit in his lunch box.  Dad told me and ask for the biggest peach I could find and he took that to work and shared it with the others.  That was one big peach.

That was probably the last time I felt that I was special to Dad.  He seemed to have so much to give to so many others, I thought of myself as simply some other person in his life.  Both Mother and Dad were very much lost to me.  They were there, but it just seemed to me that I just didn’t deserve much from them.

Junior High was a drag; the only thing I found any interest in was the glee club.  I tried to make a go in the band but just couldn’t learn how to read music well enough and finally gave it up.  I found some interest in the Boy Scouts, all that I had learned from my old friend in Texas put me on a level well above my peers and I quickly found myself in a position of superiority.  One I so did cherish and milk for all it was worth.  I could start a fire without matches; I could cook a meal with only tin foil for my pans.  My camp site became the envy of all and I seemed to always win the various competitions.

I had one school mate that I spent time with.  He was small, as I was, and we hung out together at school.  Two little guys could hold their own against one big bully, sometimes anyway.  I came home with my fair share of scuffs and bruises.

We lived just across the street from a small church; since it was a simple walk across the street we attended services there.  Several months had gone by when for some reason or another the pastor’s wife made a connection between their adopted girls and the Rockholt name.  Seems that the girls Grandmother’s maiden name was Rockholt.  Sure enough, their Grandmother was my Father’s Aunt Bertie.  My Grandfather came out from Arizona to spend some time with us and his sister.  This was the first time that I met him.

One day my brother came to the school and picked me up.  On the way home he told me that our oldest brother had been killed in a plane crash.  To me, in a sick sort of way, I thought it poetic justice.  After all, he had deserted me so many years before.  My sister in law and the two little girls came to live with us, it really cramped things up.  I was to sleep doubled up with my brother once again, and he was of the mind to renew the sexual exploitation.  I was much smaller but I made it very clear that if he ever tried anything like that again I would cut his penis off while he slept.  I kept my pocket knife under my pillow for some time after that.

We only lived in Bakersfield a year and a half, and it was another move.  This time to Coalinga.

The move to Coalinga was rather traumatic for me, while life in Bakersfield was not a real social event, at least there was activity and I had my garden and orchard.  Coalinga offered me nothing.  I couldn’t seem to make friends, I just didn’t fit in.

Eventually I found I could pretty much excel in the industrial studies.  That lead to my getting involved in the theater productions, building sets and working as a stage hand on the drama class productions.  Then I got into the cadet corps, here I was able to quickly rise in the ranks.  I was on the school’s shooting team and usually scored near the top in competition.  I also was on the drill team and color guard.

I began working after school at BM Market, then at Lacey’s Restaurant and the A&W Drive In, finally at the Pauley gas station. One of Dad’s coworkers was an avid photographer.  He allowed me to use his darkroom and taught me the fundamentals of photo processing.  I also did some free lance photography for the local newspaper.   I spent the summer between my freshman and sophomore years with my Aunt in Madera, working in the grape vineyards.  I made enough money to buy my Mother an automatic washing machine.

With the work credits I was able to complete my requirements and graduate midterm.  I left school midterm to work full time at the Pauley gas station.  I was offered an assistant manager position at a new station opening in Morro Bay, which I accepted and was at that point I was on my own.

Morro Bay was, at first, a real adventure.  I had money to burn and I lived pretty well.  Dinner at the best restaurants, charter boat fishing, and then there was “M”.  She was Italian, had the apartment next to mine and became my “friend with benefits” for a short while.

Things at work turned out to be somewhat of a disaster.  Cash shortages, unaccountable inventory loses and customer complaints.  I was young, had no experience to speak of and when I was blamed for all of the problems I just couldn’t stand up for myself.  I left Pauley and went to work at a bakery, making early morning deliveries to restaurants and hotels.  Met up with “R” who worked at one of the restaurants.   Her Mother was a housekeeper at San Simeon and we would go swimming in the pool when there was none of the family in residence.

Turned out there was a lot more going on at Pauley than I was aware of.  I got involved in an investigation of drug dealing (I was not involved but by association, but  I was part of the investigation).  Upon the advice of the DA I left Morro Bay and returned briefly to Coalinga in June 1961.

My friend, Denny, and I decided that we were going into the Navy.  Since the Navy did not have any job choices that I found interesting, I went to the Air Force instead.  On July 3rd  1961 I left for basic training. Basic training at Lackland, San Antonio, Texas was grueling.  There were thirty of us housed in one long open barracks, with no privacy.  Everything was regimented:   up at 5:00, shower and shave, personal area inspection ready, fall out to march to the mess hall for breakfast.  Even regimented through the line to get our food, side stepping as we moved along.  Marched back to the barracks for a daily inspection.  I did pretty good, graduated near the top of my class.  After basic training I went to Keesler AFB, Biloxi, MS.  First month was spent raking pine needles and continued “military training”.  After completing my Phase II training I was waiting for my school to begin.  I got an opportunity to work on an off shore island, it was a small radar site with a “resort” facility.  A shuttle craft would take the guests out in the morning, and back at night.  Weekend overnight stays were available but not very popular, except for the older college aged kids.  Bonfires on the beach, skinny dipping in the moonlight, and a good supply of moonshine, made for some exciting nights.

Once my school started I was free most weekends and started to go to New Orleans Friday night and come back to the base in time for Monday morning roll call.  Hooked  up with a stripper at one of the joints on Bourbon Street.  We would spend the day together then she would go do her dancing til early morning when we would then “crawl” the night life until after sunup. This continued until I finished school and left for my first duty station in Texas.

Laughlin AFB, Del Rio, Texas was just a few miles from the border.  Our billeting was in a three story building with three wings.  My unit was on one wing of the third floor, one of the other wings was a community area with a TV room, a snack bar, rooms for reading and writing, and the other wing was the women’s housing.   Got the shock of my life when I came in from a late night shift to find a “guest” in my bed.  I learned pretty quick that there were some of the women that simply had some “needs” of their own, and that they were willing to go out of their way to satisfy them.  Didn’t happen often, but often enough to keep things rather exciting.

I progressed very rapidly, got all my certifications long before I met the prescribed minimum time experience requirements.  We were operating two crews on a sixteen hour day, six days a week schedule.  Then along came the Cuban Missile crisis.  I was made a supervisor and got my own crew.  It was a very hectic time, they were flying U2 reconnaissance missions , which at the time were very classified.  It didn’t last too long, soon it was back to normal.

Then I got a chance to go on another “classified” mission, Vice President Johnson needed a support unit at his ranch for security and to provide air traffic control.  I had to undergo a psych evaluation.  I had no idea what I was supposed to say, so I simply spilled it all out.  My whole life’s assorted history.  Then the doc tells me, “Seems like your pretty much normal, don’t think you’re a threat to anybody”.  Couple of interesting weeks, once the mobile radar unit and control tower were positioned and checked out we kicked back for a few days.  Mr Johnson and family arrived by helicopter and once again we kicked back.  Nothing to do but hourly equipment checks, and hang out with secret service, press corps and even the vice president and Mrs. Johnson.  Cap it off with a big Texas style barbeque and it was all over except for their departure.

Del Rio was wild, Acuna, Mexico was even wilder and we (myself and some of my friends) had some pretty wild weekends, got thrown in the Acuna jail one time…drunk in public and disorderly conduct.  Funny thing, we were both stone cold sober, had gone across the border on a booze run, Bill had a bottle in each pocket of his raincoat (it was raining), slipped and fell, breaking one bottle and resulting in smelling like all get out.  And as luck would have it, the local police sees him lying in the mud, me trying to help him get up and the smell from the broken bottle of booze.    Our maintenance officer, Mr. Olney came across the border and bailed us out.  He was understanding, can’t say the same for our immediate supervisor.  Needless to say, no weekend passes for a while.

Took a leave, headed back to California.  The folks had bought an A&W Drive Inn in Arvin, outside of Bakersfield. While there I got a telegram telling me I had an assignment overseas.  Took an extra weeks leave then back to Del Rio, processed out, packed up and I was on my way to Japan.  Stopped off in Anchorage for fuel, the snow was piled up twenty feet high, it was awesome.  Only spent the night, then it was off again, to Japan.

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