When I was a student I worked every holiday God sent me. One year I got a very well-paid job working nights at an egg pasteurising plant. That's how I found myself, one morning, at about 7am, walking home and crossing the wasteground on Horsedge Street. They were already beginning to demolish the housing on St Mary's in the misguided destruction of Oldham's town centre. I noticed that they were well into the demolition of the old Royal Theatre and stood and watched as the huge iron ball swung and smacked into one of the great load-bearing beams. Suddenly the whole gave way and the walls and metal girders collapsed raising an almighty cloud of dust.
As I stood there, watching the cloud slowly come towards me I thought of all the times my friend and I had sat on the great stone steps, high over the street, watching the world go by. The theatre had been closed for years but I had been in it once, somewhere up in the gods, high up in the dark, watching the circus lit up magically below. It had once been a famous theatre but all I could think of was once, at the turn of the century, Buffalo Bill and his Wild West Show, indians and all, had performed here, in this theatre, in this grimy old cotton town with its mills and cobbled streets and clogs clattering on the stone. A touch of exotica in a grey world.
Reading Margaret Coel's Wind River Reservation books has that sense of loss and nostalgia, but also of tragedy. A noble people lost, abused... I am always left with a feeling of anger, of wanting things to be so different.
The story is a simple one of theft and greed, of exploitation and a lack of respect for a noble people whose past was brutally changed by the unstoppable flow of whites and guns. The only ray of hope lies in the interest shown by people way back, when Buffalo Bill took the Indians to Europe. But, even then, there were those whose lack of respect, and greed, ruined lives.