Novabase

Novamation's Cross-Country Journey of Forgiveness

Rest In Peace, Tigger Winky

It may seem odd, even slightly selfish, to interrupt my examination of a hidden world of human anguish and suffering to focus on a simple housecat, but Tigger was my friend and companion for well over fourteen years.

He passed away tonight after a sudden and unexplained illness. To me, he was far more than a pet; he was family.

Tigger was a cat of amazing size; although he dug deep in the food bowl, and it showed, he was also powerfully built and hid layers of muscles under his soft, pudgy body. To watch him walk across a room was to watch his ancestors prowl the jungle, confident and dangerous. Even at his ripe old age, and with dull plastic-tipped claws to boot, his lightning reflexes taught the new puppy a thing or two about whose rear it was acceptable to sniff. FedEx Guy: Okay. Big, Fast Cat: Not Okay.

Although powerful, Tigger was far from mean-spirited. It took Patrick a few months to grasp the concept of "gentle touch on the kitty" when Tigger was newborn -- as a result of his unintentionally rough-and-tumble upbringing, Tigger became the most tolerant and easy-going cat I have ever known. Push him over, he'd just get right back up and come on over to say "hi." Drape him over your shoulder, he'd enjoy the view. Hold his paws for a miniature macarena re-enactment, he'd drift off in a daydream of mice and sunny spots.

That's not to say he was merely passive. On the contrary, he was as sociable and friendly as one could ever hope for. He loved a warm lap, but was usually also happy just to sit on the same couch as someone, perched in such a way as to let his belly rest in the crack between the back of the couch and the front cushion. If you made the mistake of going to bed before he did without inviting him to join in, he'd sooner or later jump up next to your head and very delicately lift one paw. He would repeatedly tap the edge of the blankets, or your face, very softly until you got the idea and lifted up one corner -- he'd happily spend hours lying lengthwise next to a sleeping person, warm and happy under the covers. Or, he'd find a way to work his way in between your side and arm, putting his head and front paws up on your shoulder to peek out from under the blankets.

He had a deep, rumbling purr that spoke of some massive machine wrapped up in all that fur.

He had an insatiable appetite, and had a lifelong fascination with cans. For the first year or two, we attempted to put cans of cat food in a number of different places to keep him away; eventually we settled on a hiding place behind the door of the wood box. This was not because he couldn't find them, or because it was effective in any way; it simply provided the most hours of entertainment for him. He'd walk up the side of the box with his front paws, then fish around in the dark space for as long as it took to hook the rim of a can with a claw. Four or five attempts later, he'd have it all the way to the edge of the wood, at which point it would fall to the floor and he could stop balancing on his hind legs. This never, not once in almost fifteen years, actually resulted in a can becoming opened.

Oorto, his sister, will likely take this hard. They were very good to each other, and probably have never spent a full day apart since they were born. Whenever some new box arrived, it was Oorto's job to figure out a way to get inside it and hide, while Tigger would stretch to full length to peer over the top and find her, or to walk back in forth on the lid until Oorto fled in annoyance or fear of his mighty weight. Then they would help each other groom.

They each had their own cat beds, but every morning, they would always be found sharing one of them, a warm pile of fluff and happiness.

She will be very lonely.

And so will I; home will be a much emptier place from now on. Tigger was a constant; he was always there, he was always receptive to a quick scratch behind the ears -- or, if I wasn't in a scratching mood, he'd simply sit nearby on the head of the couch and watch the world, sphinxlike and happy to be a part of the family.

After all those years, I'm sorry I wasn't there in the end, buddy. I feel like I let you down, somehow; but you put up with so much over the years I'm sure you'd good-naturedly forgive me for this, too.

I'm going to miss you a lot, big guy. Rest in peace.

Jesus is Magic

Before I write about Anadarko, or about what an awesome name it has, I'm going to swerve back to the subject of religion. It comes to mind again particularly because of a man in Albuquerque who took the microphone just as the ceremony was coming to an end and quoted more-or-less random scripture verses to the crowd for a half-hour. I'm sure this was news to most people, but apparently you can be saved by believing in Jesus. Thanks, guy.

I mulled this over for quite a while in my head. Luckily, we have entire days of driving where mulling is a perfectly acceptable option. He was saying good things, but he still felt offensive and unwelcome to me; I think it went deeper than just the facts that he made us wait another half-hour, that he was off-topic, and that he was oblivious to the hostility in the room and made no attempt to address the damages done to the people in the room by other missionaries.

So here's my newest thought on religion: the biggest problem Christianity has faced is the belief that "Jesus is Magic." It seems that many people -- including many very corrupt people -- have been comfortable throwing up an unthinking "Jesus-shield" whenever their actions are called into question.

Jesus is the Way, the Truth, and the Light.
I Believe in Jesus.
I Am Saved and Thus Morally Superior.

The problem, here, as I see it, is that I don't really believe God's plan for the spiritual well-being of mankind is "Believe in Jesus" in the sense that most people seem to interpret it. What does "believe in" mean? Believe He existed? We have concrete proof that a man named Jesus existed and was crucified. That's not even slightly in question; the records exist. Does this knowledge make you a better person? I think not.

When we're called to "Believe in Jesus," I think that means to believe in what He taught, in the quality of life He led, and in the lessons He shared with us. The important fact about His life is not that he existed -- lots of people existed -- but that he came to give us kinds of wisdom we'd never had before.

But many people seem content to use Jesus as no more than a talisman, disregarding what He did and said, relying entirely on a meaningless "I Believe Jesus Lived." That's what I mean by a shield, or by magic. If you disregard the lessons of His life, but still justify your actions by your faith, your faith is nothing but a hollow shell for hiding behind. Maybe your bumper sticker says you believe in Jesus, and you probably do. What good is that if you don't pay any attention to Him?

These are the kinds of people who can molest children, safe in their own sense of moral superiority. These are the kinds of people who can live lives of secret degradation and still look down on their neighbors for not going to church. These are the people who can "stand up for life" by murdering doctors. These are the people who ran the boarding schools. And we have far, far too many of them; I'm ashamed of their presence in our society and in our history.

So let's set aside our get-out-of-jail-free "magic make-everything-okay" Jesus and take a look at gaining a belief in what He taught us and in what He stood for. This is so much harder, but it's what I believe is the path to spiritual wholeness and what God always intended. As always, the things that are truly valuable take some work; the easy no-effort version gets you nowhere.

I make no claims of being a Bible scholar; my best effort got bogged down in the Old Testament and I never even finished reading it. I did, however, attend nine years of Catholic school, and I feel like I have a decent sort of moral compass. Those are my only credentials.

But here's what I understand of Jesus, in list form:

Be Humble. God's in control; he wants you to succeed and may give you gifts to help you along the way; but don't let it go to your head. Jesus was the Son of God, and he washed people's feet.

Be Thankful. There's a lot of great, great stuff in the world. Those are blessings. Acknowledge them and give thanks. If you have difficulty finding the time, try setting aside Sundays.

Judge Not. Only God really knows, and it's His prerogative to make moral decisions. We have no business second-guessing Him. And, seriously, stop stoning people. Mary Magdeline was a prostitute, and she got the second-best song in the Andrew Lloyd Webber play. Think about that!

Love Your Neighbor. God loves your neighbor. Don't presume to know better than Him. Besides, all us little people are in this together. Jesus loved his neighbors, and even gave away his last two loaves and fishes. Things still worked out okay, and there was a little more love in the world than there was before.

Love Your Enemy. This is the hardest thing to ask, but it's important to realize we're all just brief little specks of life in a big world. We're small and we're all loved by our Creator. We're all loved! Learn to forgive; we're better off helping each other out a little bit than we are by hurting each other.

God Loves You. In some ways, this is the only lesson. If you really understand that there is an all-powerful creating force, and He loves you, I think you're inexorably bound to humility, thankfulness, and being decent to other people.

These Things Are Simple, Hard, and Rewarding. Sometimes you have to fall in the ocean a few times before you can walk on water. It's not easy to do, however simple it sounds -- "Just step out of the boat and join me." The real reward comes to those who step out of the boat, not those who stay seated but smugly point and say, "Yeah, I can see that guy over there. I believe in Him."

Jesus came to Earth to tell us these things. What we're looking at, in these boarding schools, was a race of Native people who already believed these basic lessons, and tried their best to live their lives according a system of humble praise and love for each other. Then, along came a whole army of people who only made it as far as "Believe in Jesus." The Native Savages didn't believe in Jesus, so they were systematically eliminated.

The nauseating irony here is overwhelming. By acting only on a belief in Jesus, the invaders disregarded every kind of belief in what Jesus meant to the world, and killed off a people who already believed in the things that Jesus taught. True, the Indians attributed those lessons to the Earth, or to the Trees, or to the Animals, but they were the same basic lessons.

God abandons no one. The lessons of love and respect for the divine were passed on through different channels, that's all. We're all God's children. We've all been given the tools we need to lead good lives.

Jesus is not a magic shield that makes you moral. You still have to work at it, every day, the same as everyone else. He meant something, and it's the height of disrespect to ignore that.

---

Two disclaimers: I'm tired and don't have the time I'd like to polish my argument or even really review what I've written. I'm really hoping I didn't say anything too blasphemous. My heart's in the right place, I swear.

I also don't want you to think I'm slapping on the rose-tinted glasses when looking at Indian history. They were real people, too. I'm sure they failed those lessons an awful lot, same as any other group of people. They had wars with the neighbors, they fought with their spouses, they probably coveted stuff once in a while. We're all just people, in the end. If I seem to be idealizing them too much, it's only to save space and focus on my real argument.

6/3 RIVERSIDE [Anadarko, Oklahoma]

The school was technically called "Riverside," but I'm going to use the name of the town (Anadarko) from here on out because it's cooler, and because we've already had more Riversides than I can keep track of.


I'm not entirely sure if the sunrise ceremony happened or not, because I was in a muddled daze for most of the morning. I miss sleeping. Also, it was very cloudy; and it rained a little, off and on, for the bulk of the day.

I do remember rushing around in the morning setting up speakers, microphones, and cameras. All of these things turned out to be useless because the electrician went on vacation and there was no power.


I should mention, at this point, that we were in a field. The school refused to let us onto their grounds, so we took over a nearby field. During the opening procession, where the Hoop and things are ceremonially marched up to the front, the police showed up to make sure we didn't cross the line. We needed to stay where we belonged.


Unfortunately, this picture was snapped over my shoulder in an effort to be clandestine and not draw attention to myself. The police car is just off to the left -- I missed it. I'm going to see if someone more daring than myself got a clearer shot. You can see the barricades, anyways. There was also a staff guard on duty. Someone said there were rumors that we were going to riot. We did not riot.






So, anyways, there was no electricity and all that setup was for naught. My final solution was to charge one camera at a time in the cigarette lighter of the van -- a necessary annoyance because this trip has destroyed my lithium batteries' ability to hold a charge. A full charge, once good for an hour and a half or more, now lasts no more than 15 minutes.

As far as sound, everyone just had to shout. It was a real shame, because these were some of the best stories we've heard so far.


There were many of the same kinds of stories mentioned before: a lot of hurt and anger that runs right down to the core. We're also getting a lot of stories about growing up in families that never said "I love you" and limited physical contact to handshakes. A lot of adults are still wounded by childhoods with distant, cold, parents and they had a chance to speak.

One woman, who seemed very sweet and maybe a little simple, told a bitter story about going to school in Anadarko. She was ostracized by the other students and spent the first part of her childhood alone. Then, what seemed like more teasing suddenly spun out of control -- she was gang-raped until she lost consciousness. She never reported it, but someone reported it for her: she was called into the office and beaten for "being out late." That was the only action the school ever took.


Another woman worked for Sherman (California). She witnessed some older boys sodomizing a younger boy. When she reported it, she was fired. On her way out, she saw the older boys and a staff member taking the younger boy into another building; the older boys all carried baseball bats. She was unable to get anyone interested in hearing her report, and eventually had to move to Oklahoma to find an Indian school that would hire her.

One of the most touching moments for me was a lady who said that her father had told her to be here today. He was at one of the earlier stops, somewhere on the coast, and had called her to tell her about our Journey. Crying, she admitted that this was the only time in her life that her father had ever called her, for any reason.


A local minister stood up and gave a very moving apology for the crimes committed in the name of Christianity. This felt more natural to me than the apology in Albuqurque; as a minister, he has some authority to speak on behalf of Christians. Or, maybe it just says more about me that I need to look for that authority. However, it was a heartfelt and well-delivered apology; I felt a little misty-eyed at the end. There's no doubt that we have blood on our hands -- Christians have done some great evil against the Indian people; I feel the guilt and grief starting to weigh on me more heavily.



There was another filmmaker there, a very nice young lady named Erin. She also runs a filmmaking business, and is working on a documentary about race relations and the clashes that occured in Oklahoma for their dodecatennial (or something). Apparently, the state sponsored good-tyme historical reenactments for the whole family (now with 35% more parades than real history!), but neglected to mention the local tribes. Or any Indians at all. Anywhere. In any way. This apparently ticked off a few people, who protested this historical whitewashing. So, if a movie about this topic comes out as filmed and directed by Erin Someoneoranother, go check it out.

Marlin teased me about the time I spent with Erin for several days afterwards. We only talked about camera equipment. Seriously. I can't help it if she happened to be particularly attractive. Such things happen, no one's fault.



One of the neater moments of Anadarko was when the mayor stopped by. He read something for a while -- that part wasn't so interesting, and I kinda tuned him out. But then he finished and summarized it into a useful soundbite. Basically, he said Anadarko was honored that we'd stopped by; and declared that forever after, June 3rd would be a holiday in town -- everyone would remember that we came and then they'd talk about forgiveness for a while.


That's pretty freakin' awesome. They made us a holiday.



The Mayor Reads

So, Anadarko was a step forward for the Journey. It was good energy, was full of good people, and we got the support of the local governement despite being shut out by the local school. On the other side of the coin, the filming was terrible because there was no sound and most of my more useful filming tools require electricity. So, you may just have to take my word that this was a good stop.

Oh, and we also avoided tragedy. One of the chairs collapsed at one point and a rather large guy fell backwards and skewered himself on the big metal tent stake. In all seriousness, this could have been very, very bad. He's a lucky guy that he walked away from it; we're lucky, too.

Pretty name, "Erin," don't you think? What? What? I'm just saying...

Messin' with Texas, A Non-Event in Concho

Driving north, I came to a startling conclusion. Texas is boring. Really boring. As far as I can tell, it's North Dakota with worse weather and the Bush family. Also, the girl in the diner spoke some English-Klingon hybrid.

I'm not sure what I expected; maybe buildings shaped like cowboy hats or something.

I did see a tumbleweed and a dust devil, so that spruced up the otherwise uneventful hours and hours of driving straight north.


One full day of driving later, we arrived in Oklahoma, the only state named after a play (After Othello became part of Michigan). We left the wastelands of Texas behind us, and met up with Don once again. Instead of driving across the Forbidden Zone with us, he had taken a plane to Wisconsin, where he gave 4 lectures in 24 hours, then flew back in time to meet us in Oklahoma. He seems a little off his game, and looks more tired than I've seen him look so far. Still, you've got to admire his drive.

Since all I really do is drive, eat, sleep, drive, sprint for nine solid hours of filming, sleep, eat, drive, eat, and drive, followed by another nine-hour marathon, my basic plan is to end this trip in the best physical shape of my life -- while at the same time weighing 400 pounds. Marlin doesn't have the benefit of the nine-hour sprint, so he's decided to eat two meals a day of nothing but oatmeal and fruit. Today was the first day of the diet, and we wished him well. Breakfast: we went to a "Waffle House," thinking that would be a safe bet. They don't serve oatmeal. Pork chops were substituted. Lunch: a Breakfast-Served-All-Day Diner. "Grits" were the closest thing they had to oatmeal, and those were pretty sugared up. Some kind of chicken substituted. Dinner: Red Lobster. Diet abandoned.

The important thing was that he tried, or at least retained his good humor through the rigors of the diet.

I made the mistake(?) of deciding not to order anything at Red Lobster, and instead just eat basket after basket of the delicious biscuits they serve. It was almost certainly the best meal I've ever had, although I've been sick to my stomach for two days, now. Probably just coincidence. I hope we stop at another Red Lobster soon.

The event of the day (June 2) was officially a "non-event;" or, less diplomatically, a "drive-by." Essentially, we planned to rip through El Reno (Spanish for "The Reno"), jump out of the car, say a prayer, and be gone before anyone even knew we were there. This is not how it worked. We must have needed to be there, because the universe started bending in at the corners to make sure that we went there and stayed there. Before we were even there, we had all just accepted that this would be a much more developed event that we'd planned, even though we didn't know what it would actually be. Somehow, we needed to be there.

Here's what we found: a group had walked for 98 miles to reach this site. They asked if we would join them for the last two miles; we accepted, and unpacked our sacred objects to be carried along with. Somehow, the walk took a full hour, all the time we had originally allotted to El Reno. Once we reached the site, a little bunker about the size of a grade-school gym, we waited for another hour. Nothing was happening that I could see, but leaving just wasn't an option. We still needed to be there.


She very, very clearly thought she was in a parade every step of the way.


Eventually, Don got up and addressed the walkers, praising their commitment and then talking a little about what we were doing. The walkers then got up and addressed the rest of the audience, talking about what it was like to walk that far and what it meant to them to be here. The comical aspect is that the "rest of the audience" consisted of Don. I was filming in a corner, and the other three were occupied with something else, so the entire group was essentially talking to one person. Even so, they stood at the front of the room, passed the microphone back and forth, and the whole bit.

I filmed everything, as usual, although I doubt it will be worth anything. The room had no padding of any kind whatsoever, and as a result it echoed worse than an indoor pool. Someday I'll do this kind of work on a controlled studio, and life will be so much easier.

El Reno, for those who are interested, is composed of a mix of Arapaho and Cheyenne Indians. On a completely shallow note, this is one of the best-looking groups of people we've worked with. That's the kind of detail you aren't going to get in the press release. Arapahos are attractive. You heard it here, first.

Two interesting notes: when we drove up to El Reno, the skies opened up and buckets of rain came down. When the walk actually started (for us), the rain stopped. When we first opened up the vans to get the hoop out, handfulls of tobacco spilled out and spread out across the parking lot. Tobacco is, of course, considered to be a sacred plant; it has been the primary offering we have carried with us. Maria speculated that, for whatever reason, the prayers it represented needed to be here in this community.

So, when all was said and done, why did we need to be here? Why did we do this? Why did the tobacco need to stay behind? I don't know. I don't have any good idea what we accomplished here. However, something must have happened, because we changed our schedule without really knowing why and spent the whole afternoon there. Something got accomplished; something changed, or someone listened. I'm just not sure what happened, myself. I guess I don't really need to know.


Oklahoma City was noteworthy mostly for its ridiculous combination businesses. Maybe real estate is at a premium there, but I was particularly impressed by "Awesome Care: Veterinary and Lasers." That sounds like a great place to go to get your Weokie groomed. We also drove briefly on Garth Brooks Boulevard.






That night, we met up with the coordinators for the next day's event at a buffet. They seemed organized and genuinely excited to have us there, although we managed to tap a barely-hidden pool of rage just below the skin of the main lady. She was glad we were here, supported what we were doing, but flat-out refused to even consider the possibility of forgiving the U.S. government. Her anger was palpable, and cast an odd tone on the meeting.

It's pretty clear what Marlin means when he says that being angry is like pouring acid into your body. The U.S. government has never heard of this woman before; and if they had, they wouldn't give a second thought to her fury. She, on the other hand, wakes up every day angry. She goes through her day hating the government. She goes to bed fuming at their injustices. She's poisoned herself and done no damage whatsoever to the target of her frustration.

She apparently had just lost a battle with the other coordinators; they wanted an American flag to be posted with the state flag, the tribal flag, and the MIA/POW flag, she refused. This seems likely to cause P.R. problems for us... we'll see how it plays out.

We slept that night at a Super 8. Everyone had to enter by the front door; the side door was off its hinges and had been put back in place with packing tape. I was slightly scared to be alone in my room. It smelled like... a Super 8.

The alarm went off at 5 AM -- we've got to be present for a sunrise ceremony in Anadarko.

Red Native American Indian Natives

An interesting tidbit, which I will try to remember to verify later.

Fact: Virtually everyone so far has been Indian. They're proud to be Indian, and their communities and businesses are Indian.

Almost nobody has even mentioned the term "Native American." It's just not part of the vocabulary, and a few people have scoffed at it each time it has come up.


Unverified Fact: One guy said that "Native American" comes from a specific group on the East Coast, and they're the primary supporters of the term. As for himself, I quote: "Native American? Pffft! I'm INDIAN!" (Fist hits table).


When I make it to the East, I must remember to listen carefully to see if "Indian" starts fading out. Also, as I start heading East, I must remember to listen carefully on each reservation to see what the appropriate phrase is. That could land me in some hot water if I mess it up, potentially.

I seem to remember being taught in school that "Native American" was the only correct term; I wonder if that was just some 1990s-era political correctness nonsense rearing its carefully-groomed head.

Pictures

I sorted a whole bunch of pictures. They're still behind-the-times, so I'm not going to try to work them into the current chronology.



A smudging ceremony is performed, Nevada.

The stage is set in an auditorium, California.


A prayer is offered with a gift of tobacco, Nevada.


Lunch was awesome, Nevada.



We deeply impress the crowd, Wyoming.




Elder Hutchinson speaks, Wyoming.


Marlin sees some nature 'n stuff, Wyoming.


We move to the old school grounds, Idaho.


Elder Axtel speaks, Oregon.



I looked up the information for this caption, then deleted it accidentally. I'll guess is was probably, I don't know, California or somewhere.

5/31 ALBUQUERQUE INDIAN SCHOOL [New Mexico]

This was a good example of the community "making it their own." We provided a loose sort of framework, and an excuse to gather, but the event was both orchestrated and controlled on the local level. This is, on the whole, a good thing. As I said early on, marching into any community, particularly an Indian community, and saying, "We decided what's going to work for you" is a recipe for disaster. That said, the extent to which the event was controlled was a little surprising to me, as were the many aspects that were completely unique.

The venue itself was nice, with long banquet-style tables set up facing a small stage. Every three chairs, there was a pitcher of ice water, and two or three uniformed waiters would occassionally clear glasses or refill the pitchers. Another striking feature is how different each location has been in that respect: from uniformed waiters at a banquet hall, to high-school principals speaking in the gym, to tents set up on a lawn with extension cords coming in from half-a-block away, to a cement cellar where they didn't really want us to be there (Hi, Wyoming!).

Three things stand out in my mind. There was a general aversion to being recorded that was pecularly strong. Too bad there were a total of 6 video cameras run by 6 people. (I ran two... I can't remember why they had an extra person.) (I wish I had an extra person.) This is the only location so far where I've had to sign something to set up a camera. Wayne was pretty busy with stuff, and didn't let me read what I signed. I hope that doesn't come back to haunt me later.

There was an extra ceremony, their idea, which I still can't decide how I feel about. A circle was made up front with 4 Indians and a white couple. Taking turns, the white couple listed the faults of Caucasian America and then begged forgiveness; the woman going so far as to say her entire piece on her knees. The apology was accepted, with one woman saying that this is the first documented apology of any kind from a white person to the Pueblo people as a group, ever. The experience was powerful and a little dizzying (not sure what that means, but I don't think I was the only one who felt dizzy).

The reason I feel uncertain about the event is probably tied to my lingering uncertainty with the entire issue of forgiveness. At its very heart, I feel that what we're doing is ultimately pretty pragmatic. One forgivess because the act of forgiving helps yourself. When you let go of your anger, you heal.

There's something a little disingenuous, a little theatrical, about two white people speaking for the entire white race from the last 400ish years. Realistically, they don't have that authority. That's a lot of people to speak for, including a lot of long-since dead people, and these speakers are just some couple from New Mexico. Not a couple of elected officials, even, but probably people at pee-wee summer baseball volunteer coach levels of authority or less.

In a different sort of way, that same problem looms from the other side of the coin. Although the shadow unquestionably looms into the present day (and looms obviously enough that this is, admittedly, less of an issue), the majority of the people most directly hurt by the boarding schools are not here. In fact, the people hurt the very worst aren't here because they were murdered. Can anyone today really forgive that? What gives them the authority? And who can accept that forgiveness? Many of the individuals simply aren't present, and we're left with the vague enormity of institutions, ideas, and far-flung decendants.

That's why I feel, ultimately, that what we're really dealing with is an intensely personal sort of experience. When we ask people to forgive, we're asking them to let go of their own personal anger; a process which will benefit themselves more than anything or anyone else. Looking at it this way, it can't be done at a level larger than "individual." Which anger they are letting go, and who exactly it was directed against, are concepts that could be seen as basically unimportant. There is certainly enough anger to go around -- against the government, the military, the Church, specific abusers, those who stayed silent, white society, a crumbled parenting system, the influence of alcohol, and who-knows-what-other aspects of the boarding school nightmare. It's too big for anyone to forgive or anyone to take responsibility for. What people can do, however, is learn the story, understand the horror, and then release their own personal anger through forgiveness. This is healing, but it's all personal and it's all internal.

I think that's why it struck me as so odd for anyone to try to take responsibility and offer an apology for a system so entrenched, long-lasting, and massive. All we can really do in situations like these, I believe, is to apologize for our own personal failings, and forgive individually -- forgive whomever or whatever we choose for ourselves to be the focal point of our anger. No one can really accept that forgiveness, because no one has the right to do so; it's really only the forgiver's action that is important.

I'm pretty tired as I write this. I hope it came out clearly, and I hope I didn't say anything that will get me kicked off this journey. I don't think I'm too far off, though.

The third was a chilling story about the school. Apparently, there was a teacher who had a favorite method of punishment (having a favorite method should immediately disqualify anyone from working with children). When students misbehaved, he was known to take them into the basement, handcuff their hands around a ceiling-mounted steam pipe, and inject them with Thorazine to keep them from struggling. When they were sufficiently burned, they were released. The year was 1969.

1969. This is modern-era.

The fourth thing (out of three) that struck me was how difficult it was for me to be in-the-moment. It could just be an off-day for me, but I think it ties back to my beginning to back-up tapes. I don't remember if I mentioned it, and I'm not going to look now, but I started storing the footage I've shot so far on an external hard drive. Something about that process starting whetting my appetite for making this movie -- it made the movie-making part of the journey more real. Now I'm a little frustrated that I won't even be able to start for another month, but I want to sink my teeth into it now. Everything else I shoot is just pushing it farther back, and making the editing harder, too. Let's hope that wears off. There's a whole lot left to go.

Congratulations

Congratulations, Patrick.



The Waiting

We're all set up in Albuquerque and waiting for things to get going. Yesterday was, effectively, another "off" day as we only had to drive about 90 minutes and there was only one short meeting, which I skipped anyways. Our hotel is, once again, amazing. I spent most of the evening backing up tapes -- I'm now into Fort Hall. I think this means I will never, ever actually catch up or finish.

Right now we're in the meeting room of the Pueblo Cultural Center; which, according to its billboard, offers "cultural history" and "discount cigarettes." Seeing that almost made me drive off the road on the way here.

There's a second film crew here today, and I'm pretty intimidated by them. They seem like nice folks, but there's a crew of five and they have better cameras, bigger softboxes, and two studio monitors. Maybe "intimidated" is less accurate than "jealous." Horribly, horribly jealous. .

They've got their lights set up, so there's not really anything I need to be doing right now. There's been some confusion about what is appropriate for me to film, according to Pueblo custom, and I had to sign some kind of contract-thing to even set up cameras. Let's see if I step on any toes today.

Wayne just brought me a sandwich. Nice guy. Signing out.

Overview

In 1879, an American genocide began with the founding of the first Native American boarding school in Carlisle, PA.

In 2009, the time has come -- not for vengeance, but for forgiveness. The time has come for a people to heal.

My Role

My name is Chris. I own and operate Novamation Studios, a video production company in northern Minnesota.

I have been given the rare honor of being asked to accompany White Bison on their 6,800-mile journey of healing, forgiveness, and wholeness. My job is to document every step of the way with video, photographs, recorded interviews, and writing.

Updates to this page will be as often as I can manage. Computer and Internet access may be irregular, but I'll do what I can.

Navigation

I consider this blog finished, and have no plans to make future updates.

Thanks to the seemingly-unfixable formatting of blogger.com, there are two hurdles to reading this site easily. First, older posts are archived and must be accessed using the links below. Secondly, the posts are printed in reverse-chronological order. They must be read from the bottom-up.

If anyone knows a way to change this, please let me know. As is, it's simply the shortcomings of a free service.