By Dakota Wind
I have a story I’d like to share about the pizzle stick.
I have a story I’d like to share about the pizzle stick.
One time,
back at the greatest park in North
Dakota , an old supervisor paid a visit bearing a
pizzle stick to put on display in the earth lodge. He told me, in an
authorative voice that it was a pizzle stick to display along with the many
reproductions within the “living” lodge, an earth lodge outfitted to look as
though the Nu’Eta (Mandan )
lived there and had only just stepped out.
“What’s a
pizzle stick?” he asked, waving it around.
“It’s a
horse whip,” I nonchalantly responded, looking down at the edge of Missouri River as though something vaguely interesting
were there.
“Ah. A
horse whip,” he said with great newfound respect and then laid it on a woven
cattail mat next to the hearth.
In those
days, interpreters (or tour guides) stood around in the abandoned village,
greeted visitors, provided interpretive programming, and answer questions to
the best of our ability. Working with the general public is something that I
wish everyone could experience. Some days brought educated guests, other days
were filled with the challenges that only the general public brings. Some
visitors were of the live and let live philosophy. Some had read a book and
became an overnight expert. Some wanted to see Indians.
It so
happened one day that there came a-visiting, a rather gregarious and rowdy
bunch of visitors. I was having a tough go of it trying to engage this group
and maintain their interest. I suspected that they may have had ingested a few
alcoholic libations with their belligerence, raucious laughter, bawdy jokes and
repeated questions.
So how does
one engage such a group? Like for like? I decided to press my luck when a woman
asked about the pizzle stick. She even had the audacity to lean down and pluck
it from its place among the reproductions. I saw her bold behavior and thought
to meet her coterie’s inebriated wit with pluck.
“I say,
what kind of stick is this?” she inquired, completely uninterested in pottery,
beadwork, quillwork or the painted elk hide.
I leaned
forward a little, lowered my head, and lowered my voice a smidge and said in a
conspiratorial tone, and amazingly, they all quieted, “That, is a pizzle stick.”
Then I waited for any sign of recognition from her and her party. When none
came, a naughty notion struck me, “The ‘Indians’,’” I used the term “Indians”
liberally in a grand show of undetected sarcasm, “used the pizzle stick for
luck. Like a rabbit’s foot.”
At this
point, if you reader, don’t know what a pizzle stick it, you may want to run a
quick internet search about it.
“And like
the rabbit’s foot, they would stroke it several times for good luck,” and a few
of the women pawed at it, giggling as they stoked it and exchanged sexual
overtones with one another. I continued in overwhelming confidence, “The women
would rub it on their faces.”
I struggled
to keep a straight face at how close the women were in their exchange of sexual
gesticulations with the pizzle stick. I shook my head at their minstration of
the stick, and they laughed, thinking they were embarrassing me. However, just
as one woman was about to caress the stick with her cheek I had to speak,
feigning newly remembered knowledge, “I do apologize, but it is in fact a horse
whip. And [dramatic pause] It’s made from a buffalo penis.”
Really, some men did in fact use it for a horse whip.
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