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In Native American cultures, those that heard voices were given a special role in society. They

were shamans, witch doctors, and priests, sought after for their advice and guidance. Hearing voiceswas considered a blessing, a sign that the gods had shown favor on you and given you access to the

world of spirits. In modern times, we give those that hear voices a different label. We call them

schizophrenics.Christopher Lynn Good was born in 1962 in the small automotive town of Fremont, Ohio, about

hundred miles from Ann Arbor, Michigan. Like most of the men in town, Christopher's father Daniel

E. Good worked for Town Lincoln Mercury and was veteran of World War II, or as Christopher remembers it, "the one where they fought the Nazis." The Good family were Catholic and Christopher 

started school at St. Joseph's, learning his fundamentals from the nuns. When he was in 4th grade his

father suffered his first heart attack. A few months later Christopher had what he describes as his "fall

from grace."Christopher and a friend from class, a boy named Tony Sheets, got into a fight over something

that Christopher can't remember. Tony Sheets stabbed Christopher in the hand with a pencil,

embedding a chunk of lead that can still be seen to this day, and both boys were expelled from St.Joseph's. Christopher ended up attending a nearby vocational school, and it was there that he had the

experience that changed him forever.

"My mind used to be sealed," Christopher says, "but then I blew out of myself, and now, myhead is dead." Christopher was on a field trip when he ate what he calls, "the seed of life." He isn't

sure what is was, gypsum weed perhaps, but at the encouragement of his fellow classmates he

consumed a handful of it. "I felt dizzy, things were spinning. Something happened and I woke up in achair." Each time he tells the story, the details change, some minor, some major. In one rendition there

was an electrical storm, in another he saw an invisible Indian massacre. Each version ends the same

however; Christopher wakes up several days later as a different person, a person he can't recognize, a

 person that hears voices.Christopher Good is almost fifty, and his skin looks like wrinkled rose petals, permanently sun

 burnt from prolonged exposure to the Texas elements. His facial hair is thick, the color and consistency

of pale yellow straw, but it thins as it reaches up towards the crown of his head. Most of the things hecarries with him; a battered baseball cap, a dingy grey thermal shirt, a worn L.L. Bean backpack, he

 proudly proclaims as having salvaged from the trash. The only thing on his person that is not

obviously trash picked is the white medical bracelet around his wrist. Without a moment's noticeChristopher splays his arms outward into a classic scarecrow pose, and demonstrates the unusual

muscle shapes he has in his forearms. Nodding at them proudly, he calls them his "artifice," or his

"grasshoppers." These unusual muscles are where most of the voices Christopher fights come from.

As Christopher talks, he repeats certain things, and it becomes obvious that he has difficultyconstructing the linear narrative of his life. He calls himself a "hand be down," and admits that while

he flunked out of his classes, if you show him how to do something, he can repeat it and do it till it's

done. "I used to work, I stole before, I'd crawl through people's houses and takes things," he says. Helaughs for a minute and looks away. "My father used to tell me when I was a boy, 'Your last name may

 be Good, but there is no doubt you're bad.'"

Christopher has been diagnosed with schizophrenic paranoia, or as he says, "I'm a paranoiddefective, I've lost my powers." He fights the voices constantly and there are moments in conversation

where he pauses, looking you dead in the eye, and you can seem him struggle with it. "At this point,

I've learned what to say; to my mom, to the law, to the people or whoever. No one is going to treat youright if you tell them you hear voices." In addition to his battles with his internal demons, Christopher 

has struggled against crack-cocaine addiction for the last twenty years.

"Crack-cocaine is like when you love something, and you do something everyday, that thing

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 breaks your heart." During a recent schizophrenic episode, which was caused in part by heavy crack 

use, Christopher ran into the streets and was begging cars to help him. "Nobody loves me," he says,"and whether or not it's love, you still have to have somebody to touch." The police were called and

Christopher spent almost three weeks in Dallas' Timberlawn Mental Health Center.

In his own personal mythology, Indians play a pivotal role. Many of the times he retells his"seed of life" story, he ends up going into a prolonged rant about the Commanchees, the Apache, and

the natives from Africa- a different kind of Indian.

He points up at the sky and explains, "That's my blue blood up there. The sky is really auburn.It's Apache land. The Indians are all the same, except they're different tribes that broke apart from the

Earth's crust. And even though I got blue eyes and blonde hair, I'm one of them."

In many ways, Christopher is right, he is one of them. The Native Americans of today exist as a

shattered and displaced people, struggling for existence in poverty stricken reservations. The oldtraditions disappear quicker with each generation, and the great-grandchildren of once powerful

shamans fight against a different sort of evil spirit, alcohol. In Christopher's life, there are many evil

spirits to fight; the law, crack addiction, drug dealers, and any others who wish him harm. But in theend, he knows that the real enemy is within himself. His eyes are wet with tears when he says, "I don't

like me when me messes with me."