6/12 LEECH LAKE SCHOOL [Walker, MN]

A rocky, rocky start to the day: something I did (or, more likely, wrote) burned up any good will the universe had towards me and I got to spend the night with somewhere between 1 and 30 mosquitoes in my room. As everyone who knows mosquitoes is aware, the exact number makes no difference: if it's greater than zero, you will not sleep and your face will itch in the morning.

Also, for some reason, Oorto didn't want to be held. Now hyper-sensitive to her age, I worry that I might not see her, again, either. I'd have rather held her before I left.

Arriving at the casino in Walker... whose specific name I cannot recall, as they're all the same... we were cordially welcomed into the space set aside for us: a big white tent set up in the parking lot. Although St. Stephen's High in Wyoming put up a fierce fight, I think this one takes home the grand prize for "Worst and Ugliest Setting."


Attempting to be proactive, I went inside the actual casino and asked if they had anything else available -- preferably something not in the parking lot, surrounded by cars and their hair-trigger alarms. This was, apparently, a very confusing question that required increasing numbers of people to answer. By the time the whole staff was involved in answering that question, we were already set up. Better yet, they never answered me, instead sending someone directly to Don, greeting him with: "We're ready to move you to a subbasement conference room." Don had no idea what they were talking about, and was a little upset by the message. To be fair, I only asked if there were other options, and expected a ten-second wait followed by, "I'm afraid not, sir." Anyways, I made up my mind to never be proactive again.

We stayed in the tent. It was drafty and dark.



Unsettling news began trickling in. Apparently, there was a serious communication failure somewhere along the line, and people couldn't find us. Few people had heard of us, and those that had didn't know where we were. Phone calls began coming in. People were going to former boarding schools in the area, then to the modern schools. Some people used the White Bison website, and were going to the casino. The first few were turned away at the gates by casino employees who didn't know we were there. Some people were calling the tribal council, who maintained that they'd never heard of us and, therefore, there was no official event.

Somewhere between not sleeping, not liking the tent, and not liking how my attempt to be helpful had gone, this upset me greatly. I tried to get someone's ear about how valuable I thought it would be to investigate how this happened -- as well as to look into a general lack of successful advertisement -- but was rebuffed by frazzled Journey-ies who insisted we had no time and needed to trust the (sometimes lousy) local coordinators. I still think this bears investigation, but I grumpily withdrew and decided to be neither helpful nor proactive again.

Adding to my frustration was my recent purchase of $400 worth of additional tapes for this project. They were sent to my house, and didn't arrive in time to pick up while I was there. Now, I'm out of tapes, and buying up whatever tapes I can find in Targets and Wal-Marts and the like. It's a bigger hassle, plus I now will have hundreds of dollars worth of tapes sitting at home when I get back that I guess I pay for out-of-pocket, as they're no longer a White Bison expense.

Set-up was difficult, thanks to our power source of single extension cord running from the casino. (edit: this was later fixed, more cords were found by staff). The light kept shifting as the tent blew around, making lighting a mystery; plus the front of the tent was both cramped and the terminal end of a long, thin rectangle -- any equipment I set up was going to block someone's view. So, I moved stuff around a lot, set up lots of equipment, then had to take nearly everything down because the cords were creating a safety hazard; there were only so many places for people to walk, after all.

Adding to the confusion was a demand that I take lots of pictures and hurry the transfer of anything I got. Apparently, Wayne had accidentally deleted Maria's pictures, and they needed replacements tout suite. I said I'd do what I could; no one really needed this extra wrinkle.

Caption: It's not uncommon for a silent second person to stand next to the speaker. It's the other person's job to do the speaker's crying for them. Surprisingly, it seems pretty effective.

The lighting grew worse and worse as the day went on, thanks to the changing position of the sun and frequent light rain bursts. I decided to abandon my earlier resolution to give up being proactive (giving up proactivity? proactiveness? proactibility?), and unhooked two of the panels forming the side wall of the tent. They were just tarps, basically, hooked to a metal frame. This let in more light for a minute or two -- then an ill-timed wind gust ripped the two loose tarps out and up, scaring the beejezus out of the woman who was speaking. She was saying something personal, when suddenly light floods in from all directions, combined with the noise of huge tarps being blown to high heaven. Casino staff poured around the loose panels and frantically tied them so securely that I had less light to work with than ever. It was not a shining moment, for me. Never again.

A professor appeared and spoke for the second time -- we'd seen her somewhere previously, too. She's collecting boarding school stories and making short video interviews. I found myself jealous -- the thought of working in a controlled surrounding, with adjustable lights and no background noise... I'd be fine with what I was doing, now, if I didn't think it was so important. The things I'm filming deserve better-quality footage than could ever be obtained live; especially in a dark, ugly tent in a busy parking lot.

And I suppose there's a silver lining in that thought. This was the low week of the Journey, but I guess I still believe that this is important work. That cheers me up, some.

The morning progressed as per usual, more or less. Maria was nearly as tired as I was; apparently a man had wandered into her hotel room a little after midnight, lost and tipsy; she woke up from a sound sleep and was startled badly by the silhouette in her room. I could understand sleeping being difficult after that.

When Don began his presentation, I excused myself and slept in the van; pillow wedged between the seatbelt and the window and knees pressed up against the dashboard. It was terribly uncomfortable, as always, but I felt more prepared to face the day afterwards. I guess Don gave a different presentation today; I missed it. Oops.

During the open microphone segment, a man stood up who'd gone through a boarding school and later become a priest. He said that discipline was harsh for those caught speaking anything other than English; but, "they couldn't stop us from speaking unless they killed us." I'm sure he didn't realize, at the time, how lucky he was that his school wasn't one of the ones that practiced lethal discipline as a way of maintaining fear and order. He downplayed any contradiction in living a traditional life while still being a priest, saying that there was only one God, one Creator. Indians see his presence symbolized by an Eagle. Christians see his presence symbolized by a Dove. That's not enough of a difference to justify all the fighting, all the killing. I liked the sound of that logic; then again, any logic that is against murder is usually okay with me.

The school at Pipestone was brought up again, here. Apparently, Pipestone was a nightmare school; one of the worst of the worst. Apparently, it was an original stop for the Journey, but it was dropped off the schedule by the time I signed up. I wonder why.

I've forgotten which school was being discussed, my apologies. One woman talked about speaking with the elders of her tribe, and hearing many stories about being thrown into a dungeon as punishment. The details differed a little, but they all agreed it was a prison of total darkness. She searched the school in question, now closed, and they grudgingly agreed to let her see their cells. They travelled underground, and found two rows of small rooms with small grates set near the ceiling to let in light and air. These were unpleasant enough, but she believed the stories which all agreed there was no light whatsoever.

After it had closed, the school remodeled into something else, and had run pipes through some of the old tunnels. Pulling back a loose rock where a pipe had busted through a wall, she discovered a lost room: a cold, dark, pit with a decrepit ladder running up to a false ceiling. Pushing back the ceiling, she uncovered a trap door leading to the former headmaster's private bathroom.

Someone planned this. Someone built this for the purpose of literally dropping children into a dark, rock-walled pit. Some reported being left there for up to three days without food or light. Why the trap door led to a private bathroom brings up new questions, of course.

In my pocket, I have a GameBoy. I feel an almost uncontrollable urge to pull it out during the open mic section. Thinking about this later, I've decided that I probably needed to feel like a hero for a few minutes, even if it were in a fantasy world. I don't feel like a hero at the moment. My people -- white, Christian, American -- have more blood on their hands than I ever dreamed. It's getting hard to take. To escape in a few moments of tiny electronic beeps and bloops is a whole lot easier than sitting still and facing... guilt. If the Indians are suffering from intergenerational trauma; Caucasians are suffering from intergenerational guilt. We've done terrible things for terrible reasons. The advantages I now enjoy are advantages that, somewhere back in the past, were taken from someone else.

This is a Journey for Forgiveness; forgiveness alone will set modern-day Indians free from the anger that permeates many of these communities we've visited. But it is suddenly clear that it's the only thing that will set me free, too. As a dominant culture white American, I need this forgiveness as much as they need to give it. We all need forgiveness. We all need mercy.

But it's so hard to give, and I suddenly suspect it's pretty difficult to openly accept, too. May God give us all strength.

Pulling my attention back to the moment, I listen to a man talk about his grandmother. She was a boarding school student in 1900 in a place that sounded like "S Lake." (Estes Lake?) (Ess Lake?) The head priest was only there for a few years, but records indicate that he maintained a 100% rape rate among the female children. Damn, I wish I hadn't pulled my attention back to the moment. The urge to scream has been building all day; a volatile combination of sleeplessness, various immediate frustrations, and weeks' worth of compounded knowledge of a horrific past. A horrific recent past, in many cases. Maybe I should scream.

Just when I'm about to crumple inside, the day is over. The drum starts up a recessional song for the Hoop, and volunteers carry it carefully outside of the tent. Standing near the drum, with its powerful rhythm hitting me in the back of the head, I look up. I can hear the wind outside the tent, and I can see it running across the ceiling-tarps, making waves, and paths, and little spreading ripples. I can't feel it, however, it's very still inside the tent. The drum beats on, and I watch the wind in my motionless space.

Things are going to be okay.

So, in all, the day worked out okay. The annoyances continued: I've never imagined anyone standing up in front of a group of strangers to discuss being beaten as a child, only to be interrupted by a family parking their car 30 yards away and 'chirrup'ing their doors to make sure they're locked. Nor someone's story of alcohol addiction being put on hold while a car alarm goes off two lanes down from the tent. The tent housed a broken mechanical ladder-cart; and casino staff came in maybe five times during the day to try to fix it and drive it out of the tent. It was noisy and distracting. But, overall, things seem okay. We're doing something good, here; and it's supposed to be difficult in various ways. People are still sharing, and learning, and crying; I haven't screwed up anything that's affected that in any way, so the main job is still getting done.

Plus I learned that we're not driving again until morning. That's a welcome break from tradition, and I look forward to the rest. Lunch included Walleye, and it was delicious. I've still got my GameBoy for the off-hours, and I can pretend to be a hero for a little while -- it's a soothing change of pace and I think it helps me keep my sanity. When I went home, I loaded up my iPod with new murder mysteries; those should make driving a little more enjoyable. I'll make it through okay, and sometimes the food is good. Things will be all right.


Today I learned that the Hoop's feathers can, under no circumstances, touch the ground. If they do, a special ceremony has been set up to "undo" it. I'll have to ask more about this, as it puzzles me.

Jingle-Dress dancers were added to the closing ceremony today -- it's the first time we've seen them on the Journey so far. Marlin was absolutely adamant that they cannot be filmed or recorded in any way. Don, on the other hand, was shocked that we weren't highlighting them as a major part of the documentary. They'll need to work that out between them. Since we got to Minnesota, the rules have been changing unpredictably about what is and isn't okay to point a camera at. I don't understand, myself, but it's somehow reassuring that the other people on the Journey don't instantly agree. It means it's still subjective enough that I can make a mistake now and again without being lousy. Or immoral.