The Last of the “Browns”

On the short list of my favorite films of all time is the 1992 American epic historical drama film “The Last of the Mohicans.” It is set in the year 1757 against the backdrop of the French and Indian War in the Adirondack Mountains. It chronicles the story of Nathaniel “Hawkeye” Poe (Daniel Day-Lewis), his adoptive father Chingachgook and Chingachgook’s son Uncas of the Mohican people as they come to the rescue of Cora and Alice Munro, the daughters of British War Commander Colonel Edmond Munro, after they are attacked on the road by a Huron Indian war party while marching to Fort William Henry with a British regiment. The rescuers agree to escort the women along with Major Duncan Heyward (the only other survivor of the attack) to the Fort themselves. The rest of the story unfolds from there in breathtaking fashion.

In the film’s final scene, Chingachgook is standing atop a mountain praying to the Great Spirit to receive Uncas (who was tragically killed in the climactic moments by a rival Huron leader). “They are all there but one, I, Chingachgook, last of the Mohicans,” he prays sadly revealing himself at that time to be the last surviving member of his tribe.

It is one of the most beautiful films I’ve ever seen and spurned me into being a huge fan of Daniel Day-Lewis. It was also highly influential in my love of wilderness exploration and interest in Native American culture. I’ve watched the movie more times than I can even count.

In a strange happenstance, I’ve come to identify with the movie in another way over time.

My dad passed away in 2012, but was absent from my life for 16 years prior to that after alcoholism claimed any resemblance of the man he used to be. Alcoholism runs rampant on my dad’s side of the family and in turn, like the Mohicans, nearly everyone from that side of the family tree is gone. Most of them vanquished before I was even born.

A few years back I went out to dinner with my Uncle Randy, his wife, and his daughter at a steakhouse in Noblesville, IN. Randy is my dad’s brother. It’s a rare occurrence that I ever get together with him. While he has managed to at least keep himself together well enough to maintain a career and a home, Randy is also an alcoholic. He drinks every day and that’s all he ever wants to do when he sees me. I’m viewed as more of a drinking buddy in his eyes than a nephew. He has a lot of my dad’s mannerisms, so while I know he’d like to see me more often, he remains a very difficult man for me to be around. So I usually choose not to.

Back on that night, though, we finished dinner and paid the check. His wife and daughter went home and Randy and I decided to go to a bar across the street to grab a beer and shoot some pool as a nightcap. Over the next couple of hours, as Randy got more beer in him, he rattled off sob stories about how he was dealt such a shitty hand in life, how big of an asshole his father was, and pleaded with me to not view my own dad in such a negative light despite all his misgivings. I was used to all of this, though. Telling “sob/woe is me” stories while drinking is what my uncle does best. It’s also what my father did best. The addict blaming everyone else for their problems.

Randy said something to me that night as we played pool that both struck me and angered me at the same time.

“You know, Andy? You’ve got a big responsibility,” he said.
“I do? And what exactly would that be?”
“Well, after me, you’re all that’s left. Better have some boys so we can carry that Brown name forward.”

Yes. As it happens, Randy is the only other Brown male still living. My dad was his only sibling. I was my Dad’s only son. Randy had no sons. Everybody else was dead. The name officially lives or dies with me. I had never really paid attention to that fact until he brought it up that night. It struck me initially. “Whoa. You’re right!” I felt the weight of it. Until I didn’t. It didn’t take long for my thoughts to transition into anger once Randy continued his rambling and used the term “Brown legacy.” I stopped him and uttered:

“Randy. Listen. I’m going to be honest with you. I can’t say I’m real proud of this legacy that you are tasking me with carrying forward like I’m some torch bearer. Everybody drank themselves to death. It’s just me and you standing here. What’s to be proud of? What am I even representing? I’ll carry the Brown name forward the best I know how. But I’m gonna do it on my terms. I don’t owe you, my dad, or anybody else a damn thing.”

It was a harsh thing to say. I knew it was. But he needed to hear it. We went back to his house. I crashed on the couch and left early the next morning. I’ve only seen him a couple of sporadic times since then.

In 2013, my sister and I transported my Dad’s ashes out to Colorado with us after he passed away. We scattered them next to a small lake and said a prayer. I didn’t fully realize it at the time, but even though he wasn’t a noble man like Uncas, that was my Chingachgook moment. I stood on a mountain with my sister in Colorado as “the last of the Browns.”

I’ve made peace with it. I try not to let the tragedy that has been the Brown family tree before me remain any part of my own identity. I do hope one day to have a son. If I do, the peace lies in that he won’t have to experience any of the sad and depressing things of Browns past, because they aren’t here. We can grow a new tree with new branches.

If I don’t have a son, my only hope is that the Brown name dies peacefully with me as God lays his hand upon it.

The only thing I know right now, though, is that life isn’t over yet! My destiny awaits.