Where's Yul Brenner?

What would Red Cloud—the great Oglala Lakota warrior—think about this exhibit in the Museum of Westward Expansion in St. Louis? I have a few ideas of what he would say about his 21st century, bio-mechanical doppelgänger. But instead, let me tell you what I think.

The Museum of Westward Expansion, located beneath St. Louis' famous "gateway arch," is a pretty cool place. Other than its confusing layout—which attempts to herd visitors through succeeding historical decades—the museum is quite well made. One thing a good liberal education provides is a familiarity with the often specious nature of history ("his-story"), and coupled with a solid grounding in American Literature, a liberal education can provide a strong framework for understanding the blemishes in our past. And recognizing when they are being couched in platitudes or ignored altogether. This museum is remarkable if only because it doesn't couch things: it presents an admirably accurate picture of both the failures and successes of the United States during its short history.

So many museums don't do this because, speaking frankly, our moral failures outnumber our moral successes.

It is with some ambiguity, then, that I approach the subject of Red Cloud's display in this museum. While I appreciate the fact that he is represented and that a small part of his story is given voice (literally, through a recording which cycles continuously), another part of me mourns a culture we destroyed and another we have used to replace it—the kind of culture where robotics have replaced people, where technology is used to paint a portrait of spirituality, of dignity, of (dare I say it?) freedom.

This isn't to say everything was dandy back then. This isn't to say the indigenous peoples of North America didn't have their own moral failures. Any of these arguments isn't the point here.

I'm talking about us. You and me and the people whose DNA we carry and will pass on. I'm talking about the culture we have created and in which we now live.

My point is one of the greatest Sioux warriors—a man without peer among his peoples, having counted coup 80 times in battle—has been reduced to hydrolics, rubber and plastic, acrylics and fiber. The tribal hunting grounds he defends now consist of painted buffalo on a windless plain.

And what of us? Have we learned anything? What do we take with us when we watch this robotic Red Cloud lift his arms and flex his eyebrows and talk in the deep monotone of our imagination's Sioux?

Can any of us really understand the opportunity we have forever lost?