Personally, today was something of an odd day. I slept well (hooray!) and was generally feeling well, but I seemed to be unable to connect with the team. I felt unintentionally distant; still no theories as to why this would be.
I had groaned a little when I learned that this would be another outdoor event; but everything was well-organized and ready to go. The tent was good-sized, but still let in light and air; it wasn't set on asphalt; electricity was pre-wired; and things just generally were put together well. Points for Oneida.
The opening welcome / prayer gave insight into the way this particular culture was structured; specifically, it was very structured. In the local tradition, everything is divided up into hierarchies, and each subgroup has a clear leader. For example, thanks were given to the trees, but particularly to the maples, as they were the best trees. Thanks were given to the plants, but mostly to the best plant: tobacco. The same was done for birds (eagles), animals (don't remember), fruits (strawberries), and a few other categories. I suppose every culture does something like this, but usually it's not so overt; I'm more used to unspoken understandings.
***Cigars are good, but Cubans are best. Music players are good, but iPods are best. Tomatoes are good, but Organic ones are best. Fishing is good, but Fly Fishing is best. Etc.*** Most people don't say these out loud, but they're more-or-less understood. In Oneida, it was in-your-face rankings.
Set-up was a difficult due to the large screen brought in for the powerpoint projection. It took several people some time to assemble, during which time I waited to see what space it took up before placing my own equipment. Don used this time to listen to his presentation on his computer's external speakers; this later created great difficulty when I hooked his computer up to the sound system. Because his external speakers were still on, no signal was sent to the speakers; nearly a half-hour was wasted trying to figure out what was going wrong, which wires needed replacing, etc. Don seemed pretty frustrated when the answer was finally discovered, and I couldn't help but feel abashed.
It was a moot point, anyways: the sun was too bright to project anything at all and the powerpoint was scrapped at the last minute.
Tools of the trade: Sage, Incense, Microphones, Kleenex.
The day started off with a lengthy introduction that was actually pretty touching. Everyone from the tribe lined up on one side of the tent, every visitor lined up on the other. In turn, every single tribal member formally welcomed every individual visitor and invited them into their community. It took a long time, but left everyone feeling good; and certainly made the visitors feel appreciated. Then, the White Bison people were introduced to the crowd. This included myself, and marked only the second time I'd been noticed while on the Journey. The other was in Flandreau, where I was given a ceremonial braid of sweetgrass. I haven't quite figured out what to do with that, yet. It was sort of nice to be appreciated; however, I've also gotten pretty used to hiding in the shadows.
Marlin, for whatever reason, was introduced as a Vikings' fan. One grandmother towards the back of the tent could be heard to yell, "Which one is he?" Oh, Wisconsin.
As mentioned, Don gave up on his slide show. I think this was the only time it wasn't used. He also showed an adeptness for changing his presentation on-the-fly; he used the information from the opening prayer and managed to incorporate more eagles, maples, and strawberries than you'd think possible.
The Panel was generally pretty good, which is always a big plus. The first speaker was a dietitian, who talked a little about eating right; they neglected to make this relevant or interesting. I can't even remember now if it was a man or a woman talking; zoning out was the best defense. The audience apparently agreed; it's always awkward when someone finishes talking and sits down without any applause from the crowd.
That person was followed by a statesman and activist, who was awesome. One of his
themes was the necessity of "wearing different hats" in modern society, which was backed up by a variety of literal hats that he traded out periodically. Props = Preparedness, and it was appreciated. He had a good story about showing up to be sworn in after his election, and wearing full traditional regalia in a room full of men with dark suits and ties. When someone whispered to him, "What are you doing?", he replied with, "I woke up this morning and remembered I was Menominee!" I liked him, and wish I'd remembered to write down his name. http://www.whitebison.org/ probably has it.
The last speaker was maybe my favorite so far. Her name, if I recall correctly, was Loretta; she serves as the local historian and record-keeper. She combined those two excellent traits which so rarely go together: historical fact and ability to stay on subject. I probably could have listened to her remember things all day, and they really applied, too!
She was also, to put it perhaps-too-casually, "spunky as all get-out." The first words out of her mouth, when she took the microphone, were: "I'm a really old person." This was followed by, "I've never had any signs of Alzheimer's, but stop me if you see any." She identified herself as the historian ("I'm supposed to be in my office right now"), but admitted that out-of-towners might be more likely to recognize her from lunch: "You may have seen the two young ladies taking my blouse on the hill." You just KNOW there's a story, there.
She would have been perfect except for an unfortunate tendency to wander back and forth while speaking. This messes with my camera's ability to focus in the shaded tent, and I broke a sweat trying to get the darn thing to center on her before she said something else priceless. "My time is up? No? That's good!"
She had some of Pratt's original speeches printed up. They were chilling stuff, especially insofar as he was recognized as a humanitarian at the time. He was lauded for his new views on Indians, such as "It is ONLY the Indian in them that aught to be killed." He also coined the term, "Kill the Indian, Save the Man."
I wasn't able to find his speeches online, although they should be available somewhere. Here's a mention in the 1900 New York Times, however, where he defends slavery:
http://query.nytimes.com/mem/archive-free/pdf?_r=1&res=9D06E4D7153DE433A25753C2A9649D946197D6CF
And here's his glowing epitaph. It makes me a little nauseous. Of particular note is the implied praise for the "unique outing system." I don't remember if I've written about the outing system, but it involved sending students to live with white families during the summer months -- ostensibly to learn a trade or to see life in a civilized home. This was meant to keep children from reconnecting with their parents or families, leaving them with no permanent sense of "home." This made them less likely to run away and more docile, which was the whole point. On paper, children were to receive a small daily wage while on the outing system, teaching them about the value of working for money. In practice, the daily wage (provided by the government) was given directly to the white families hosting the student as compensation for lodging. And, since there was no enforcement of any standards of living whatsoever, the outing system was a de facto slaving operation in which Indian children were sent to do any work asked of them for long hours with no pay. This was merely a side-benefit, however; the real goal, as always, was to make children that were isolated, timid, and silently fearful. Outing provided a way to keep the kids from receiving any kind of love or support from their families during the short summer breaks.
http://www.arlingtoncemetery.net/rhpratt.htm
Two stories came up again and again in Oneida: kneeling on broomsticks and never being touched. These were big-ticket issues in Oneida; apparently, some horrible administrator was fond of the broomstick punishment. If you don't think that sounds awful, try it for sixty seconds, then remember that these kids were on sticks for hours.
The community was also very concerned about the lack of touch experienced; and many were very candid about how difficult it was for them to touch their own children. This led to a deep-rooted shame -- Oneida gets the same parenting magazines everywhere else gets, and everyone knows that babies should be held and such. People from the last two generations got up and talked about being unable to touch their children, despite knowing it would be for the best; the sense of passing on this social disability clearly haunted these people with immense (self-aware) guilt. One grandmother admitted to never hugging her children; unexpectedly, she abruptly broke down and apologized through her tears: "I'm so sorry. I did my best. I'm sorry." She, of course, had grown up in a boarding school herself; the lessons she learned kept her from being the parent she felt she aught to have been.
The opening procession brings in the Staff, the Hoop, and Brandi Jo.
The next few paragraphs (or lines, depending on what I end up writing) will be about quotes heard during the day, mostly during the open mic section.
A sense of cultural inferiority was drummed into children from day one, combined with a crippling sense of powerlessness. This self-hatred manifested itself, for some parents, in a dream that their children would find ways to leave Indian society altogether. One woman's advice from her mother was: "Don't marry an Indian. You'll just get in trouble. Marry a white man." "So I did," she finished.
Another woman talked about her life before learning about her native roots. "I was a modern housewife. I didn't care if I polluted." She found herself more in-tune with the Earth after beginning to attend a longhouse. What I found particularly interesting about this is that Oneida is the FIRST place on the Journey so far that has offered recycling bins during lunch. I saved all my cans and bottles in my van for the first week-and-a-half before giving up and tossing them. I would have expected recycling to be the most basic thing to see, given the importance of nature in traditional cultural beliefs. Even the people on the Journey have been known to leave a cigarette butt behind now and again; not that you heard it here. I suspect there may be some more work tying together beliefs and practice; still, Oneida is on the right track.
"So much I want to say, and so much that I can't -- the secrets." They say you're only as sick as your secrets; the burden of living with secrets can poison a life. What if it's a whole culture with secrets? We're looking at the secrets Indian communities are holding... but they're not the only ones.
What secrets does America need to confess for our national healing?
"If the Creator gives you a little, tiny body, you LOVE that tiny body! If the Creator gives you a... fluffy... body, you LOVE it and you work the HECK out of it!" Good for her.
One guy remembered learning his native language from his father when he was a child, but never from his mother, who always withdrew coldly. Finally, it erupted in a big fight behind closed doors; he overheard the end of the fight through the door: "Don't you remember what they did to you?" The fight ended, it was never discussed or mentioned again, and he never received another lesson from his father. His parents died years later; nothing was ever said about it or the meaning of "what they did" explained.
One man remembered being taken aside as an eight-year-old and told bluntly: "We can't keep you no more, or they'll put us in jail." He was taken away; his first day at school he was beaten with a rubber hose.
Caption: the Hoop is brought in.
One person talked about the mixing of traditional and Christian values, not realizing as a child that creating an "honor plate" for the deceased at funerals wasn't a standard Episcopalian practice. I've heard people saying that the mixing of beliefs (like that) isn't appropriate. I'd only see a problem if the fundamental values conflict -- and that really doesn't happen very often. The honor plate is kind of a nice idea, really.
One guy walked up to speak during the open mic, then was suddenly stuck down by grief before reaching the podium. He lurched to the side, and grabbed onto the Hoop for moral support. I, like a lot of people, was struck by sudden fear that this big, strong man was going to simply crush it in his grasp. Luckily, he didn't destroy it, and simply held onto it for several minutes before finding his voice and finishing the walk to the mic. He wasn't fully prepared to say what he needed to say, however, so he 'cooled off' by talking about history and giving himself a lengthy formal introduction. It's been interesting watching the ways that people steel and try to control themselves.
One way that people often try to shield themselves is to suddenly switch to second or (sometimes) third person. For example, "I walked down the hall and saw a dog, and when you see a dog like that you just freeze in fear." This is not, of course, an actual quote.
Anyways, while he was clinging to the Hoop for support, life went on around him. Most amusingly, a tiny little boy wandered past him, calling loudly for his mother.
One man remembered how difficult it was to be stripped of his language. After acclimating, however, he was put in charge of teaching Latin to new students so they could fit in during church services. He's now maybe 60, and talked about how he still feels guilt to this day over becoming the "imposer." He became a tool of a system he hated, and it has haunted him his entire life.
Another guy talked about a local legend featuring a black-and-white monster that lived in the forests and stole children. This legend stretches back hundreds of years; and seemed to come to a darkly ironic fruition when the nuns built a school and began gathering unwilling students.
A strange thing happened during the lunch break. Some workers needed to move wires around, and they moved Brandi Jo to the side. I've been dimly aware of the little silhouette we carry around, but suddenly she commanded my full attention -- I felt oddly and fiercely protective of the little piece of wood these strangers were moving. Don says she has a spirit; all I knew is that if they hurt that cut-out, they'd have to deal with me personally. Honestly, my reaction frightened me a little.
There's been a couple of occasions where I've been struck by how disproportionate some people's sadness and reluctance seems. Seeing someone struggle in front of the microphone could indicate a great truth or a heartbreaking revelation -- or it could lead into a story that seems like nothing at all. No doubt something is lost in the translation, of course; also, my ability to accurately understand people's personal trauma may have been thrown out of calibration by weeks of steady horror.
I think there's a few lessons in this. First, every person -- every single person -- lives exactly one life: their own. Beyond a certain point, comparisons are pointless (or, more accurately, impossible). If you experience something, you choose its ultimate emotional value. When you start thinking about every person on Earth doing this simultaneously and constantly... then you find yourself with a sentence I don't know how to end... then it's a thought that is, you know, big. Man, that thought got away from me. Let's put it into an example: if I break my leg, it's painful and makes me very sad. If someone makes a (futile) effort to compare my pain against the room full of Vietnam-era Purple Heart veterans, I'm going to look pretty puny. But that doesn't make my pain any less real or any less difficult for me; and in the same stroke, the person who was doing the comparison lost the chance to understand me.
Secondly, people are fragile. A few people bring up what appear to be minor events -- minor events which have shaded their entire lives and are spoken of today only with great difficulty. As humans, we need to be gentle with each other: you never know what might impact someone for decades to come.
Finally, it doesn't always matter what your story is. Just the act of opening up can be terribly difficult. I've been listening to an audiobook of Dune in the car, and an early chapter talks about a religious order's efforts to separate humans from human animals. One clue is that true humans are often lonely. That thought has stuck with me for the last week or so. We can be awfully lonely creatures, and this struggle we have with being honest and open probably plays a big part.
This post is getting awfully long, so I'm going to skip over a few of the musings in my notes and end with my surprise at learning people's ages. Many people look prematurely old, and the generational gap seems to be much smaller than I'm used to. In order to make the ages of families match up, there must be an awful lot of teenagers having babies. I wonder what the actual numbers are... and I wonder how much is just a matter of my expectations being off. It's a little jarring to hear not-terribly-old people talk about their great-grandchildren.
edit: I forgot one of the most amazing parts of the day! Mea culpa. Some places, realizing that this kind of discussion can open up painful feelings that can't be easily controlled, have provided their own counselors and therapists. If you're finding yourself in a bad place, they're available for you to talk to. Oneida did that as well, but they also went one step further: during the lunch hour, they brought in a trailer full of horses. They were supposed to be trained to be particularly empathetic (or at least calm), and were available for you to speak to in private if you had something to say that you didn't yet want other people to hear. They were also available for brief rides. I didn't avail myself of this opportunity, as horses scare me, but I recognize a great idea when I hear one. More points for Oneida for this creative and thoughtful idea!
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