ABSTRACT
The scene opens on a lone Indian, tribal nation or community unknown (and frankly irrelevant), dressed in buckskins, his head adorned with a single upright feather, paddling a canoe through a woodland stream. The farther he paddles, the more polluted the waters become: paper appears floating in front of his watercraft, then more garbage; soon he emerges in an industrial waterway with barges, cranes, refineries, and smokestacks in the dark, foreboding background. 1 The lone Indian (Indians are always alone, right? He might even be the last of his tribe) beaches his canoe on the littered shore, looking forlornly (Indians are always forlorn, right?) about him, as a baritone voice cues: “Some people have a deep, abiding respect for the natural beauty that was once this country.” The camera pans to the stone-faced man, his hair in braids, a bone choker around his neck. Cut to the nearby freeway, and a white hand casually tossing a trash-filled bag from a moving car, as the voice continues, “And some people don't.” The bag lands at the Indian's feet, bursting with the remains of a fast-food meal; french fries spill over his moccasins and leggings. But our stoic Indian takes no personal affront to someone throwing garbage at him. We pan into the Indian's face as the voice informs us, “People start pollution. People can stop it.” The camera close pans farther as we see a single tear falling from the Indian's right eye.
