6/21 CARLISLE INDIAN SCHOOL [Pennsylvania]

The morning opened with the usual compliment of hassles. We were given a nice ballroom-type room to use, just off of (what I think was) the barracks. The sound system was supposedly disconnected for repairs, necessitating the unpacking of our own equipment. The ceiling-mounted projector still worked, but the only connection it offered was a small port hidden near the baseboard in back of the room. This meant that to use the projector would put the computer out of the range of Don's wireless slideshow-clicker, and too far back to access the speakers. So we started setting up and calibrating our own equipment for that, too.

I say that the sound system was supposedly disconnected because there woman in charge of the building was pretty put out that we were there at all, and wasn't too subtle about it. Marlin overheard her making what he described as "racist comments" and she was incredibly annoyed when I asked for help finding the projector connection. When we'd looked at the space last night, it was being used to host a wedding reception that clearly had some form of sound system. If hooking up the microphones merely involved flipping a switch, I wouldn't be surprised if she neglected to mention it.

She'll be mentioned again, so let's give her a name. How about... Mrs. Pants?


The ballroom, now set up with tables and fancy glasses, began filling up nicely. Raven started the day off, using her unique position as a non-military resident of the complex: "I'm just a spouse, so no one can stop me. I'm not going to lie!" (Teddy, her husband, is some kind of officer and might have limits placed on what he can say.) Raven emphasized the amount of pre-planning Pratt did before starting the school. He knew that it would be important to objectify and dehumanize the children, and knew the psychological importance of uniforms, cutting hair, and renaming. The very first building that was constructed was the prison for runaways. Once that building was constructed, he began his legal kidnapping -- every other new building was built by the children. In short, they were slave laborers used to build their own nightmare.

A note on the cutting of hair, which remains a major grievance to this day. It can be hard to imagine the importance of this act; personally, my white perspective led me to simply disregard it for the first week or so. "Hey, free haircut," I said. Actually, the cutting of hair was a three-pronged attack. First, it made the children look alike and thus made it easier for the teachers to accept inhumane orders: you weren't hurting a specific child, just one of those innumerable Indians. The second prong was aimed at specific tribes: it was a cultural mandate that hair only be cut during times of extreme grieving. I have heard that some people follow this to this day, shaving their heads if a family member dies and under no other circumstances so much as trimming bangs. The forced haircuts acted both as a well-recognized violation and as a way of insisting that their previous lives were "dead." Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. The final prong was targeted at some woodland tribes, who used hair braiding as a spiritual lesson and meditation, not unlike the Christian rosary. As it was explained to me, strands of hair are somehow identified as representing either the body, mind, or soul. Only when all three are weaved together is strength obtained. This familiar lesson and meditative activity might have been a source of support to children, even while their actual bodies, minds, and souls were under assault; but Pratt was canny and had learned a lot about Native beliefs while fighting in the Indian Wars.


Raven also pointed out a nearby building that was the school's punishment house; it, too, had been constructed by unwilling children. (Ashburn House? My notes are unclear). She advised against checking it out if you believe in any form of lingering energy, karma, or space-memory. "Can you imagine," she asked, what must be left behind in "an entire building used for nothing but punishment?" I think I must have grown jaded by the stories I've been hearing; it took Raven's question to make me step back and realize how odd it is to have an entire punishment building. This was no side corner, or chair turned to face the wall in a classroom. Pratt knew he'd need a multi-story structure just to handle the endless waves of beatings.

They were children.

How could an adult do these things to a child? How can the teachers go home, have dinner with their families, kiss their kids goodnight, then get up in the morning to do it all over again the next day? What made that okay?

Pratt also realized the importance of keeping the children from trusting each other; from the first day, all punishments were chosen by other students, and no one was punished harder than a student who had chosen an insufficient punishment for a peer.

Raven ended by talking about her own past in the boarding school. She's not particulalry old -- certainly no more than 50 and likely less -- and still talked about being taken unwillingly from her family and held until she was considered tamed; she was not released from her boarding school until she was 19. She spent most of her life hating her mother for sending her to school; only recently did she find out the true story. Even within her lifetime, the government was still abducting Indians, just more subtly. Her mother was served papers saying that her children would be taken to "Indian schools" unless she appeared in court to say that their education was already provided for. The papers were served the same day as the court hearing. The court she was required to appear in was 1,000 miles away, and she owned no form of transportation other than shoes. The next day, she lost legal custody of her children -- that part of the process, at least, was done timely. The situation was never explained to the little girl being pushed into a strange car by strange men, and Raven hated her mother for decades almost as much as she hated the school.

Her goal in life is to make sure that this kind of treatment never happens to any of her children or their babies. That part that's most stunning about that statement is the reinforcement of the idea that this is happening right now. Today. The corrupt boarding schools of old are no longer in operation, but the world is full of people in June of 2009 who remember them personally and worry that they could return.

The rest of the morning went as per usual; and lunch was particularly enjoyable because our table quickly filled up with people wanting a moment of Don's time. The woman who had taken the prized seat right next to him seemed content just to listen, however. Finally, someone asked

if she had any questions or comments; she guiltily admitted that she'd accidentally walked in a few minutes ago and saw that there was a free lunch and everyone seemed to be eating. Her acquisition of the most sought-after chair in the room was due to a fluke: it was the first seat she saw when she walked in the room. I thought it was pretty funny, and Don seemed to appreciate finally sitting next to someone who would just let him eat his lunch.

Kitty also joined us at lunch. I somehow haven't mentioned her before, but she's showed up periodically throughout the journey. As I understand it, she's making a documentary about health disparities in minority communities. Every once in a while, she shows up and films an event. Today I got my first real sense of how driven she is; she long-ago realized I was the lowest-ranked member of the Journey totem pole. Despite the fact that we sat next to each other, she tuned out everything I said in the hopes of getting a good sound byte from someone important. I left a little miffed.

After lunch, someone talked about the "classes" that Pratt first instituted to justify calling his empire a "school." There were two classes, one for each gender. Girls learned to be servants, boys learned to load and clean cannons. That was it.

One woman apologized that her brother refused to attend. He is an elder of some standing, but he long-ago refused to ever forgive the school. When he was a young boy, the school decided to expand their gym facilities, which meant building over a burial ground. Some children were forced to do the construction; others, including himself, were made to dig up the bodies and relocate them by hand. Decades of nightmares have solidified his resolve to curse Carlisle until his dying day; he would not come today.

If you remember, Gentle Reader, we had an elder named Ozzie travelling with us for the first day or two of the Journey, way back when. He returned today to see us through to the end. It was about this time that I really started realizing how great he really is: a good speaker, a kind heart, and a good sense of humor, all back up the tremendous strength he has gained from overcoming personal obstacles and alcohol. As he tells it, the best result of his service in the Korean War is that he could use his uniform to get admitted to bars and other public locations. Without that, Indians were immediately shown the door. No, their money wasn't good enough. Only as a veteran could he take part in public life.

He also told a great joke about "a friend of his" staggering away from a bar late at night. His shoes were untied, and he had one foot on the sidewalk and one in the gutter, slowly hobbling forward. Suddenly a policeman appeared and said, "I'm sorry, sir, you'll have to come with me. You're clearly drunk." In response, the man burst into tears and ran forward to hug the policeman. "Thank you, thank you! I thought I was a cripple!"

If you somehow get the chance in your life to hear Ozzie tell it, I recommend it.

It happened to be fathers' day, and Ozzie ended his piece with a plea to fathers. He acknowledged how difficult it can be to show love or affection, particularly for men whose emotional growth had been purposely stunted -- either by schools or by parents damaged by schools. It's been one of his greatest battles in his own life, and he stressed how critical it is for every father to learn how to be affectionate. I can hardly imagine this goodhearted man being anything but kind, but I guess that just means that he won his fight and came out stronger for it.
One person got up and tearfully said that their grandmother didn't have any fingers; it had never once been discussed and they had only realized today that it wasn't a birth defect -- it was a punishment earned at school. Perhaps you remember the story of the woman from Minnesota; apparently that punishment had a precedent at Carlisle.

Sometimes, there's nothing more painful than connecting the dots that you never wanted to.

We also learned today that Carlisle set another precedent: the "crying tree." Apparently, students at many schools would secretly find a hidden tree that would be designated as the crying tree. It was a place to hide and vent your feelings, and it was a sacred trust. No matter the punishments or the rewards for snitching, no one ever betrayed someone sneaking away to the tree. It was a place without teasing or judgment, where kids of all ages went to weep until their last tear was spent.

One young woman stood up during the open mic and shared an unusual story. She wasn't Native, but felt that she could understand. At 15, her behavior was so far out of control that her mother signed her up for a behavior-modification center. It was supposed to be psychologically soothing, but as soon as the doors closed on the van, she was handcuffed and taken to a grim facility where the sound of screams echoed at night and rumors of sexual abuse were widespread. After two weeks, she was handcuffed again and sent to another facility in Costa Rica where physical punishment increased exponentially. She was denied permission to call home and her letters were torn up. She said she didn't know much about the boarding schools, but she knew was it was to be distrustful, to be imprisoned, to be scared, to be hurt.

It's possible that her story might have holes; after all, she WAS sent in for severe behavior modification. But even so, the fact that a parallel can be drawn so easily between the treatment of ordinary Indian children at school and the treatment of disturbed youth sent to brainwashing centers is striking, irregardless of the details of her story. After all, we've really been talking about prison camps all along, and treatment that would be innapropriate for criminals, much less little kids.

And the damage is clear. An elder woman showed her vulnerability by sadly reflecting: "We grew up not loving ourselves, because there was no one...[inaudible]." The tears drowned out the end of her thought. Another woman remembers how her mother sat down one day and taught her brother which graves to spit on. Many of the graves contained people who had died generations before, like President Andrew Jackson. This story, besides being a clear example of anger passing from parent to child, shows how long that poisonous hate can last -- she hated people who died before she was born, a hatred she must have gotten from her own parents.

The day ended with a walk to the cemetery: over 175 dead children whose bodies they never sent home. Historical markers peppered the road and paths the whole way; all dealing with the military heroes who had lived or trained here. The only mention of the Indian School I saw was a single plaque commemorating the athletic achievements of student Jim Thorpe, who won double golds in the Olympics. One wall of a building was devoted to the names and pictures of people associated with Carlisle. All were men, and Jim Thorpe was the only non-white person.

The local drum group escorted us over, carrying the big drum by straps and always playing. This is the only female drum group I have seen on our Journey; in fact, it is the only time I have ever seen an Indian woman play anything other than a hand drum. When I asked about this, someone wistfully told me that it was not the original way: gender roles are important in traditional society. However, since the local elders have all moved on without passing on the old teachings, tradition is changing. Everywhere, Indian culture is making a resurgence, but it's also more in flux than it's ever been -- some of the old ways have simply been lost, and there are voids which are being filled in with new ideas; thus, the women's drum that played the old songs for us. I leave it up to the individual reader to decide how this time of charge should be approached: some are wistful, some are hopeful, many fall somewhere in between.

Kitty's right-hand man, Aaron, did his best to interrupt the final ceremony in his quest for the perfect shot. Even though I was as annoyed as anyone else, I was also a little jealous. He seemed to be getting some good shots. I've gotten the hang of getting shots while staying the heck out of the way, but it'd be nice to get a close-up like his once in a while. But not to behave like him.

In the cemetery, Maria reported finding 8 graves in a row marked "Unknown."

There's not much I can say about the final ceremony in the Carlisle graveyard. It was the most moving graveyard service we've done, and the pains unearthed are some of the oldest and deepest-rooted ones in the Native American psyche. I'm hoping my video can do more justice than my words, but I doubt it: it was a beautiful moment and the tears shed under the central tree might do more good than anything else we've said or done.
　
As we were packing up, Mrs. Pants appeared again. She left her work behind to took us aside and humbly thank us for coming. Today, we did good.

Pleasantville

As we approached our final stop, everything changed.

Captain Richard Pratt was a hero of the Indian wars. Left in charge of a large group of POWs, he seized upon a plan no one had considered before. The military had shown him that the best way to create a good solider was to break young men down with physical exertion, stress, and being yelled at while crawling through mud. What if those same methods were applied to Indians? Could they be reduced to bare humanity, then built back up as whites?

And so he began experimenting on POWs -- a sentence which probably is just as messed up as it sounds. When he felt he'd perfected his methods of reprogramming, he had a vision of the next logical step: if this procedure were applied to every single Indian, their race would finally be essentially exterminated.

But, as the wars had shown him, Indians were fierce and determined. Demoralizing and destroying the POWs had been difficult -- too difficult to try to repeat on a large scale.
The solution was to leave the warriors be: the ideal target was children under 10. Maybe, if action was swift and encompassing enough, the entire Indian bloodline could be converted into a nation of domestic servants and laborers within just a few generations. America would have an entire ethnic subculture of neo-slaves.

In 1879, Pratt received funding from the Department of War and governmental permission to begin seizing children and testing his methods; he founded Carlisle Indian School in Pennsylvania.


Our entire Journey has been a quest from the farthest reaches of the country, coming ever closer to the place where it all began. Ground Zero of a cultural genocide. Carlisle.


For the first several weeks, we expected Carlisle to be a large and powerful gathering. The buildings are still present, but they have been remade as a war college.

(Side note: Carlisle was set to become the premier war college in the United States; but, at the last minute, a crucial funding bill was rewritten and given to West Point. West Point has held that honor ever since.)

Then, for the last week, we started to expect Carlisle to be a disastrous stop. The paperwork for our presence started to be denied, the administrators became cold and dismissive, and we couldn't get clear answers over the phone anymore. Most critically, we felt it was important to end the Journey with a healing ceremony in the graveyard: the final resting place of almost 200 children and babies, including Lucy Prettyeagle, the first child ever killed in boarding school. The administration reluctantly gave us a concession: we could say a prayer in the graveyard, but only 8 people could attend.

This actually became partially my problem, as I looked for ways to get cameras into the graveyard and webcast the prayer live, something I've never tried to do before. We felt that visiting the children's graves was too important to do in secret.


And, standing on Carlisle's doorstep, we picked up some divine intervention in the form of a couple that dropped out of the sky. Raven had heard about White Bison indirectly, and only accidentally learned of our plan to visit Carlisle by curious web-surfing a few days before. She quickly convinced her husband, Teddy, that they needed to help. In almost no time at all, they used their influence to slice through the red tape and arrange nearly everything.

Through them, we received military passes to get past the gates. And, although the graveyard remained closed to non-military personnel, Raven carefully explained that every single attendee -- however many there may be -- would be a personal guest staying at her home on-base. As invited guests staying more than one day under her care, they would have more-or-less free access to large portions of the grounds, including the cemetary.


This is, as best as I can tell, divine intervention; and, thus, a good sign that we're doing the right thing. There are Native beliefs I don't understand, and a few things I don't agree with, but there's no real question that Don is doing holy work.

And so, with no time left remaining, the path to Carlisle was suddenly cleared for us.


The night we arrived, Raven and Teddy invited us to a backyard barbeque held at their friends' house. We drove past military structures of brick and stone; then we took a sharp turn and suddenly found ourselves in a street taken directly from the 1950s. Little rows of similar houses stared blankly at each other across the street, trees lined the little green rectangle set aside in the center, and a little metal slide waited for kids to climb its carefully-polished ladder. The Good Humor man wasn't there that instant, but surely he was just around the corner with a non-threatening smile and frozen treats that could be yours for a shiny dime.

The BBQ was great. I had two hamburgers, then watched the kids play Deadspace for a while. If I weren't happily full of beef, I might wonder about the perception of violence that comes from growing up surrounded by military leaders hard at work, then playing extraordinarily graphic games for entertainment. But I'm full, so I'll just say that I wish I had Deadspace. I miss video games.

As we were leaving, Marlin clapped me on the back and complimented me on how much fortitude I've gained during this Journey; once, I was catching cat naps at every gas station and interacting with the world through a veil of blurry fatigue. Now, I'm at least kind of alert some of the time. I thanked him, drew up a list of the projects I hoped to get done before morning, then fell asleep fully clothed at the hotel. Oh, well.

6/19 THOMAS INDIAN SCHOOL [Gowanda, New York]

I've only been in New York once before; I had an extended layover at the airport. I thought, perhaps, I could go check out the sights and pick up some souvenirs while I was there; instead, I ended up falling asleep on a bench in the airport. I imagine sleeping on a bench sums up at least some of the New York experience.


More recently: The drive through the New York state was notably different than the flight through New York City. The highway system appears to be composed of nothing but windy back roads through forested, hilly areas. Overall, it looks a little like Michigan or Wisconsin, but more faded around the edges. It's pastoral without brilliant colors.


On reaching Gowanda, we drove straight to the clinic where the coordinators worked. Their goal in promoting this event is promotion of community mental health, and they were glad to see us. We discussed the upcoming event a little, but the conversation got sidetracked by stories of how unpleasant the clinic is and how often staff members die.

As a piece of background information, the clinic had been built over a burial ground. If Hollywood has taught me anything, it's that there are four buildings you should never put on Indian burial grounds: homes, hospitals, pet shops, and hotels. I think a clinic is close enough to 'hospital' to put it in the danger zone.

What followed was, I think, an exorcism.

Actually, whatever it was that we did (it involved feathers and a bell and smoke) differed from an exorcism in at least one important way. In an exorcism, it's a direct conflict between a human and a supernatural agent. They fight, and one is destroyed. (disclaimer: my understanding of the procedure comes mostly from The Exorcist III: Legion)

The feel here was friendlier; inviting any lost spirits to come home. No one wants to hang around a clinic, anyways: here's an open door for you.

This was one of the stranger adventures. Personally, I'd be surprised if a bell made the clinic suddenly better; but if everyone shows up for work tomorrow believing things are improved, that's bound to make it a more pleasant place to be. In that way, I'm sure we helped.

That said, my mantra for this Journey still holds true: "There are more things in Heaven and Earth..." What the heck do I know, anyways?


The next day saw me get a late start out of bed. The bizarre little hotel we stayed in neglected to provide any clocks, and my cell phone ran out of juice during the night. I say "bizarre" not just because of the oddly-shaped rooms and obvious widespread mildew, but because the owners clearly were hedging their bets about how best to make a buck. This was possibly the world's only combination hotel/lounge/restaurant/karate academy. I dare you to find me one other than in Gowanda, New York.


In the parking lot, I met an early arrival who spent the day trying to get an autographed picture of Don to go with his autographed book. I tried to help a time or two, but you have to admit that it would be pretty creepy if any of us traveled around the country with a stack of pre-printed photographs of our boss. After a certain number of weeks, human relationships just don't work that way.


The person slated to wire the microphones didn't show up, so I bowed out of the outside march-to-the-site so I could tinker with sound. The plan was to walk from the public library to a wing of the clinic constructed on the grounds of the old boarding school. My focus on equipment was not, I guess, appropriate: Marlin drove up looking for me and communicated via frantic hand gestures that I should leave whatever I was doing and go take pictures.

This is not the type of situation in which I work best, and in my hurry to get into Marlin's car I left behind my "shoe," a small but important piece of plastic that holds a video camera onto a tripod. I realized it was missing once I was at the library, and I tried to run there and back before the procession started.

If you've ever spent any real amount of time with me, you know what happened next. I got horribly lost. Luckily, the moment I left the library door, Wayne inferred both what was happening and what was going to happen; it took only a few minutes before his car caught up with my headlong plunge in the wrong direction. He drove me the rest of the way. Thanks.

The whole adventure turned out to be for naught, however, as the batteries on the camcorder gasped their last soon after I turned it on. The constant draining and recharging that they've been put through the last few weeks have all but destroyed all four of the lithium-ion packs I purchased. The wear and tear on equipment is really starting to add up; this will be a much more expensive trip than I planned. There's a lot that I'm just going to have to replace when I get home. In the meantime, I can't count on using my cameras without direct access to AC plug-ins. At least I got some stills.





After the opening speakers finished, it became clear that my microphonery had been inadequate -- thanks to problems in the building's wiring I couldn't have anticipated and hadn't previously had time to test. Although the speaker was, technically, amplified, her words were still inaudible in most of the room and raising the volume on the mic caused it to move directly into wild distortion. To fix the problem, I executed what may have been my very best set-up operation. NASCAR had nothing on me. I had our own speaker system brought in, set up, wired, and running in half the time it took at any other location.

Oh, man. I re-read that sentence and realized how proud I am about setting up speaker cables quickly. Geez. No wonder I'm single.

Anyways, foolishly proud of myself, I left the newly-mic'd podium behind to see if any local businesses had donated snacks (this sometimes happens). Like most places, they had bottles of water available for people; unlike anywhere else, however, they also had little packets of powder for people. With a few seconds of shaking, you could have your very own personal bottle of fruit punch, lemonade, or berry juice. What a great, great idea!


The morning went fine after that.

If I had to condense the afternoon into a single theme, I'd have to go with: "Thomas Indian School was okay for me, because it was an escape from my alcoholic parents who couldn't afford to feed their kids." The dark irony here, as I'm sure I've written about elsewhere, is that those parents wouldn't have been abusive alcoholics if they hadn't learned that behavior themselves at Thomas Indian school. When the disease is hailed as its own cure... no wonder the community is sick.


Even while people were grateful that they'd been fed as children, there was still a lot of resentment. The school had been a big supporter of the 'outing' system, in which children 'learn by doing.' This sounds like such a great idea, but it devolved into nothing more than child labor. One man vividly related his years of getting up at 5 AM every day to bale hay. For those not familiar with farm life, baling hay is not a terribly time-sensitive job. So, he worked for a white family for a few years for no pay and little food; but at least he learned a valuable on-the-job skill -- provided he hoped to go into a career of baling hay and nothing else.

A woman spent every summer being 'outed,' and she had no qualms today about calling herself a slave. She ended up at the same farm with a rotating group of other Indian girls, working the fields for long hours every day. The farm family had a daughter of their own, the same age: "their natural daughter [. . .] never set foot in the fields."

Another man remembered the school's policy on brushing teeth. If, at bedtime, your teeth weren't perfectly white, the punishment is that you'd be held while a teacher brushed your teeth until blood was clearly visible. He ended his story with a sardonic: "But I learned how to brush my teeth!" which got a few laughs.

Quote: "Everywhere you went... it was marching."

One young lady's grandmother was permanently blinded in one eye with an iron poker. Once, I would have thought the teacher disciplining her had made a terrible mistake. Now, I immediately entertain the idea that it was completely intentional. My thinking about the world has changed, and that gives me pause. But then again, how many innocent forms of discipline can you think of that involve an iron poker and a little girl's face?

Yet more men talked about going straight from school into the military. "I thought the military was the easiest thing there was!" No amount of control was seen as unusual; no order was questioned. Violence was second-nature.


And even with all the grievances, almost everyone at this stop said that going to school was still better than being left at home.


Their parents had no idea how to raise children, and struggled with their own scarred psyches through self-medication. And then their kids went off to school and grew up with scarred psyches and no idea how to raise children, but a vague appreciation that the school had saved them.

Many people talked about the shame they felt about having no idea how to be a parent to their children, and many confessed to a lifetime of "cold" relationships. The ability to form a meaningful connection with another person had been squelched after being continually thwarted during their formative years. One man put it nicely when he said: "No school teaches intimacy, or love. Parents teach that. And they took us away from our parents!"
And that brings up a fundamental problem with the whole concept of the boarding school, even the "good" upper-class English style. There's a reason why every successful culture in history has had some form of family unit. Some things can never be learned from a textbook, and many lessons can never be beaten into someone. Families are necessary; when removed from the equation, there's a kind of education that is forever lacking.

In the words of one man, "here at the school, you were SEPARATED." His older sister went to the same school. Thanks to the careful oversight of his teachers, he didn't know who she was until he was in his teens.

One older woman revealed the emotional scars she's carried her entire life from never being told about puberty: she had no one to turn to. In a world where every action might potentially lead to harsh, violent discipline, she hid her body's changes in desperate fear and confusion. To this day, it pains her to remember those years.

The last few speakers all touched on the theme of damaged self-image. One man said that his thoughts as a child followed the pattern: "I'm not an Indian. I don't want to be an Indian. Everyone looks down on you..." Another man said: "Growing up, I thought we were second-class citizens;" a belief that he could find endless justification for in the way that he and his family were treated. One elder, at 72 years old, had an audible crack in his voice while talking about his lifelong inability to fit in. School left him "neither white, nor Indian," and he hasn't yet found his full identity, an absence which still hurts.

Luckily, the day ended on a high note, with a man defiantly shouting: "I'm proud to be an Indian, whether I'm wanted or not!" Applause and cheers followed.


Fun Fact: while it was open, Thomas Indian School was almost universally called "Saalem." Now that it's closed, people are willing to admit that the nickname was made up by the children who attended it -- it's a shortened form of "Asylum," modified just enough in pronunciation so as to not be clearly recognizable. Although the word has two meanings, it was always intended to be a reference to a prison, not a sanctuary. That the school actually acted as a dark combination of those definitions is just one of life's ironies.

Divide and Conquer

The early schools, we've heard repeatedly, were frantic to avoid allowing students to band together or form connections with one another. This is understandable from two perspectives: if children are able to receive comfort from one another, they'll be harder to break; and if the older children act as one, the potential for violent rebellion is high.

Some of the methods of dividing and conquering have been discussed before, some have not. It seems to have been such an important priority that I have decided to give it its own post here. The tactics fall under two broad categories.

SEPARATION
Keep the children amongst strangers, alone and frightened. Among the stories we have heard:

Dividing the children of a tribe up and sending them to different schools.

Send children too far away from home to ever return to on foot.

Put siblings in different dorms. Make sure they do not interact. Whip those who meet with each other.

If close friendships form, transfer one or more students.

DIVISION
Make the children hate each other. Make the children hate Indians. Among the stories we have heard:

The Gauntlet (very common): when a student is punished, make the other students stand in a line and hit the "runner" as he moves down the row. The gauntlet is always run twice: the first time is the student being punished; the second time is the student whose hit was the weakest.
There is at least one confirmed case in which running the gauntlet proved to be fatal.

Randomly selecting students to choose punishments for offenders. If the punishment is deemed too lax, the matron chooses a new punishment and both children receive it.

Hiring Indian men to administer all physical discipline. This was the case at Mount Pleasant for some years. If a child was hurt, it was at the hands of another Indian.

No punishments given if an older boy sodomizes a younger. This was surprisingly common; although I suppose one could expect that violated, powerless boys would eventually act out in this manner.

Relaxed punishment for Indian-on-Indian violence.



Marlin has said that his mother grew up afraid of other Indians; it's one of the long-lasting pains that motivates his work today.

And these were children -- little kids facing adults who had detailed plans and tactics to destroy them. Go find an eight-year-old. Remind yourself how truly innocent and vulnerable they are. They didn't stand a chance.

6/17 MOUNT PLEASANT [Michigan]

Blogger is doing strange things with spacing and order, again. I'm fixing it whenever I catch it, but I don't have the time to use the fine-tooth comb I'd like. Have I mentioned yet that time is tight? It is.

Mount Pleasant, Michigan.

Oh, Mount Pleasant, Michigan.

Even thinking about it makes me smile. Mount Pleasant was awesome. I left feeling loved and appreciated, and got to watch a community come together to call for wellness, which was powerful and motivating. I love you, Mount Pleasant.

Haskell, Kansas: you can bite me.

The first thing that was clear about Mount Pleasant was that they were PREPARED. They planned for a thousand people; unlike other places that (ostensibly) "planned" to have a thousand people, Mount Pleasant did the WORK for a thousand people.

Maybe it's some kind of Michigan work ethic. If I've learned anything from this trip, it's that every major road in the United States is permanently "under construction." "Under construction" means "we set up a bunch of cones." Michigan is -- and I mean this in a very literal way -- the absolute first state during this Journey in which I have seen actual workers behind the cones. One was even driving a machine of some kind. Everywhere else -- irregardless of the time, date, or location -- has been totally devoid of workers. Miles of cones, without a solitary soul leaning on a shovel.

The second thing that was clear about Mount Pleasant is that they were dedicated. We had, at one point, thought we'd be in town around 4:00. We called ahead to say that it'd be later; more like 5:00. We actually arrived around 6:00. This is more or less standard practice; if you made "Indian Time" and "Precision" share an apartment, it'd make for a great sitcom. We weren't terribly concerned about this delay; usually, we meet a person or two in a residential or otherwise-relaxed environment. Upon arriving here, however, we learned that there were over 40 volunteers working on this event -- and they had ALL WAITED for us.

Among their volunteers, they had an entire film team that was following the event with the expectation that the footage they received would be polished and sorted, then mailed directly to me. They... they thought of me. I love Mount Pleasant. I received a copy of the three-page report given to the people on the film crew: it explained, in meticulous detail, what shots would be best, which parts would be inappropriate to film, and information about timing, formatting, and responsibilities.

They understood that we needed to be on the road, and scheduled our time so that we could do our piece and leave. This was not the end of their event, however. Even without us, they had two days of forgiveness-related events planned, including a live concert and guest speakers.


Try to imagine how we felt, waking up that morning. Our energy had been sapped over the last week or more; my enthusiasm had gotten tied up in days of driving, struggling with finding electricity, using outdoor tents with difficult lighting, poor sleep in borderline-illegal motels, and an endless march of small misadventures. Don covers it up well, but I can tell the low turnouts have been getting him down. The re-scheduling and hectic pace have worn everyone else to little nubs -- especially given all the work that have gone into presenting for so few people. There were a few stops that were on the right side of average, and Oneida was unquestionably a step in the right direction, but the work has tired us out. Suddenly, and more or less unexpectedly, we drive into a town that welcomes us with enthusiasm, filling our weary arms with well-organized information about all the work they did in preparation for our arrival. A small army has assembled, volunteering their time to make the most of our energy, assisting us in any way possible. Local leaders are lined up to speak. The turnout is expected to dwarf every other stop, and they've really grasped the idea that we can't magically fix things -- it requires extensive community work; Mount Pleasant is the only place so far that's got an entire second day of events planned without us.

And we rose out of our respective beds, pulled back the curtains, and silently watched the downpour.

Try to picture it; words cannot capture the feeling of watching our almost-amazing outdoor event get rained out.


The day had been supposed to start with a community march through town; a parade through town, stopping on the courthouse steps for words by the local government, and finishing a 5.5-mile path to reach the site of the old boarding school, where tents had been set up and electricity pre-wired... including two stations specifically for me. Now, the plan was to use a high-school gym.

We disappointedly drove to the gym, and were surprised to see how unbelievably packed it was. Even so, people seemed in good spirits, and volunteers delivered drinks and snacks to the milling crowd. One of the coordinators took the microphone (already set-up) and addressed the crowd with a striaghtforward declaration: "We're going anyway!"

The people looked at the coordinator. They looked at the window at the rain. They looked back at the coordinator. And they cheered. And... they... cheered. I felt my heart dislodge itself and relocate to my throat -- like falling or shock, but stemming from an overwhelming pride.

Don, of course, headed out with the marchers almost immediately, against our recommendation. I really hope he doesn't get pneumonia. As for the rest of us, we decided to advance directly to the boarding school and make sure everything was ready-to-go. And by "to the boarding school," I guess I really meant "to a coffee shop to reduce the caffeine jitters." Something called "Tim Horton's" apparently outranks Starbucks, a feat I thought impossible with this crew. I didn't have any particularly compelling reason to follow the march, as they had their own cameras following along -- also they'd be destroyed in the rain.


Arriving at the tent, I was again impressed by the organization. Besides a big white tent in a field, they were busily setting up additional axillary tents around the perimeter of the bigger ones, taping the flaps together to make sure they didn't obstruct anyone's views. A three-man team had pulled a trailer up to the front, filled to the brim with mixers and other pieces of sound equipment. I asked if they were also recording the sound -- they said no. I said, "okay." By the time I had gone and found the masking tape I was looking for, they had called in to somewhere, and someone was en route with recording equipment; they took my address and said they could have it in the mail to me within two days. Wow.

Looking around, I had a moment of disorientation: all the jobs I had slowly absorbed over the course of the Journey were already being done. Suddenly unsure what to do with myself, I tentatively started setting up a light -- mostly to look busy. Someone noticed this and approved: "Great idea! [beep-beep-boop-boop-boop] Yeah, hi, is Jim there? Jim! One of the Journey members had a great idea. Can we get some lights sent down to illuminate the stage? Uh-huh. Could you find a way to make it ten minutes, instead? Perfect!" I sat mutely in the grass with a bulb in hand.

So impressive was their organization that it was a kind of perverse relief when the tent flaps started exploding. Previously taped up, they had (naturally) filled with rain water and began releasing water in violent bursts. This was a bad thing to happen, of course, but I think it plays a large part in my fond memories of the event. Without this mistake, I might have been creeped out by the Stepfordian exactitude; this proved that they were human.

We finished well ahead of the marchers, so we granted ourselves a minute to wait and relax. The volunteers had prepared a slideshow of related community events, and some Enyaesque music was piped in to the tent. Through the slideshow, we also learned that the town council had declared August to be Wellbriety month in Mount Pleasant. The slideshow appeared remarkably well for an outdoor projection; when I asked about it they showed me the $8,000 projector they'd rented. I'm pretty sure the projector we've been using came in a cereal box. The large screen they used for visuals cost another $1,000, bringing the total cost for equipment for showing Don's presentation to just under five digits.

There were only two small problems that occurred: one was due to their hyper-sensitivity to guaranteeing that the marchers had an unobstructed path to the center of the tent, which led to lots of unnecessary shuffling of chair positions. The other was their ban on smoking while on site, which was mentioned periodically and still had to be brought up on a person-by-person basis all day.


This brings to mind two constants I've seen throughout. During the open mic segment, speakers will almost always introduce themselves by saying the number of days or years that they've been sober. It's well-known the extent to which alcohol abuse has infiltrated Indian communities, but the backlash against it shows incredible force: there's a lot of committed AA-members. This sobriety-introduction underlines both the personal importance of AA (where I imagine most people got their practice speaking publicly, which is part of why it appears now) and also the bonds of shared experience that nearly everyone we meet seems to have. The second constant is smoking. Smoking is very, very common, more so than I expected to ever see in America. For a lot of people, I think it's probably a lesser vice that they can use as a crutch to avoid alcohol. But there's also the social importance of the sacred plant, tobacco; I'm not sure exactly what impact that has on Native smoking.

The religious importance of tobacco has bothered me for some time. I'm willing to be aware and respectful of the beliefs of the communities we visit, even if they're not my own; even so, I have a hard time seeing tobacco as anything but an evil plant. In my mental web, it's tied to addiction, poison, cancer, slavery, and the collapse of the American Deep South. Positives are non-existent. Yet, it's considered holy by so many... I wish I could have some grasp of how and why.
By 11:00, the rain had almost completely lifted and there was still no sign of the walkers. I allowed myself to get roped into the pathological chair moving, discovering that I can lift exactly four chairs comfortably. It's been a journey of personal discovery, too. The change in weather is welcome: we can't guarantee that there will be room under the tents -- it depends on how many people actually arrive for the tent part of the day.


I notice a sign up (something about not littering, I think it was) which ends with "Meegwech," meaning "thank you." I've seen that word at home, too, but it's always been spelled either "Miigwetch" or "Miigwech." I wonder how much the language is different between Minnesota and Michigan, versus how different the settlers were who used phonetic Anglicization to write foreign words.

At about noon, a few people finally emerged from the trees, carrying a banner and marching proudly. Those who had driven directly to the tent cheered and clapped, and we began turning on the switches and warming up the lights. The new arrivals were of different ages, and more than a little damp, but we were glad to see them.

Then the trees started to get pushed back while marchers began spilling into the clearing by the tent. And they came, and came, and came. Not even Macbeth himself could have been so surprised by the endless armies a forest could shake loose.

By the time the hundreds had finally gathered, it was decided it would be wise to delay the beginning of the presentation and start right in with lunch. The decision was met with support. While the hot dogs and burgers were distributed, Marlin and I were invited to take a private tour of the boarding school. On the way there, I overheard someone saying, "I never thought I'd hear our politicians say those things in my lifetime." Whatever happened at the courthouse must have been something good.

The school is composed of perhaps a dozen separate buildings organized within a rectangle covering maybe two square blocks. The gym has been maintained, and is used to this day. The others have been condemned, and entrance is blocked by law without special dispensation. We chose the chapel to visit, and it clearly had seen better days; or, depending on how you look at it, much worse days. Everything was crumbling and generally pretty unsafe. A white powder covered the floor, it's possible it was asbestos. The presence of asbestos in some of the buildings contributed to their current deserted state. Just to be safe, I refrained from licking the floor.

While a groundskeeper answered a few of Marlin's questions, I wandered off and found myself descending a staircase into darkness. How, exactly, I "find" myself doing things like this is a question of greater complexity than a mere blog could cover. What I found, deep underground, was a stone-and-mortar passage, wide enough for three to stand abreast, with a series of little slits along the ceiling, now pasted over.

Hurrying back upstairs to the relative comfort of the ruined chapel, I caught the tail end of the groundskeeper's lesson. Marlin had asked to see the boys' dorm, and he had refused. In his decades of service, he'd made himself a promise never to go in that building again if he could help it. Something was "wrong," and he wanted no part of it. We left by the side door to at least see the outside of the dorm. The chapel stood on one "lot," next to a grassy lot; on the other side of which was the dorm. Sidewalks ran between each lot. No one left the sidewalk; no one crossed the grassy lot for a closer look.


The dorm has a weighty institutionally gothic look. It has two stories, with four windows on each story. It is, simply put, repulsive; not in the sense of "disgusting," but in the original sense: it pushes you back when you try to approach. Every Halloween, the town police catch teens who have broken onto the grounds; the standard dare is to touch the dorm. A very few will go inside; they are almost invariably vandals. It makes sense; the only logical response to a building like that is to try to destroy it.

I don't consider myself to be a superstitious person; I'm not going to argue for the existence of ghosts or magic or unicorns. What I know is what I experience: the boys' dorm at the Mount Pleasant boarding school in Michigan is bad news. Take it as you will.

As an interesting side note, a human-rights worker was also touring the chapel. He and I both found a single window in the dorm particularly absorbing: the second one from the left on the top. I kept feeling like someone was going to look out of it. Odd.


And, really, my point in all this is just that it's odd. It's a strange, uncomfortable place; but that shouldn't distract from the things that really happened there, and the real efforts people are making to heal.

Our guide was very motivated to show us the gym, because it was nicely fixed up. The gym was nice. It doesn't make much of a story, though.


The open mic stories revealed that there really was no end to the creativity employed by the boarding schools. Cut loose from any system of oversight or punishment, these people went straight to Lord of the Flies. It's really the most chilling aspect of any of this: William Golding was right. Evil lurks just below the skin of average people.

Smudging is a religious rite in which smoke is allowed to flow over someone's body as a form of purification. One woman put on a smudging ceremony when she was a student; the nuns submerged her in scalding water as punishment.

A middle-aged guy, big and physically strong, talked about his time in school. He switched in and out of first and third person, depending on how difficult the story was. "And if... a little boy... dribbles on... the seat..." As a child, his punishment for "dribbling" was to be taken aside by a priest and kicked in the crotch.

One elder tried to go inside during a cold winter day's recess. He was beaten and forced back outside, banned from going inside. When finally allowed in, he couldn't move his hands. The frostbite is still visible today. His personal mantra was, "I am Anishinabe. I will not cry."

That elder told his entire story twice: the first time entirely in his native tongue. It's strange this hasn't happened more often.


But, on the whole, the tone of the event was different than any we're had yet. It was genuinely positive: focusing more on the modern-day spirit of life and survival. The details about boarding school experiences were generally skimmed over, alluded to but not centered on. The more important fact was that people made it through, and that the town was ready to come together and heal today. When people had been positive in other towns, there had always been a note of denial or cover-up; this was a total change of perception: Awful things happened, but we're moving forward now and that's wonderful. This is what healthiness looks like.

In the end, there was a large healing ceremony with Jingle Dress dancers and hundreds of people praying at the Hoop. Frustratingly, Marlin forbade any pictures or recording, so that particular moment will never be seen again. Maybe that's appropriate, in its way, but it was still frustrating for me. It would have been a great picture. Actually, a lot of the event was frustrating for me in that way. Something about the condemened buildings encroaching on the tent, the crowds of people in all directions, the wet grass, the smell of Michigan after a rain... it was a hard event to capture. The scope and feel of the day was just too much to get on film. That saddens me, a little.



I have a few last notes jotted down that I don't feel like working in chronologically or thematically. Here they are:

Good quote: "A Christian school with barbed-wire fences."

The petition gained 565 new signatures today.

I got in the way a lot today, for whatever reason. I almost backed into the Hoop, once, and the Jingle Dress dancers had to step over a light. Oops.

People put offerings on the rim on the Hoop, just like every other stop except Oneida. In Oneida, they dropped offerings (tobacco) in the center of the Hoop. I guess it was a very localized culture-difference.

Since the screen was rear-projected, repeated problems with people trying to hide behind it and take pictures of Don speaking. Every time, it made them huge instead of invisible.

The MC was named Joe, and his enthusiasm made me smile several times. His style was somewhere between lounge singer, carnival barker, and television gameshow host. He also was unable to complete a thought without saying "...going to go ahead and...", "in a Good Way," or "at this time." He seemed like a good guy.

One lady asked about broadcasting the movies we were giving away, including Mino Mikana. She's part of a small, local channel. It's fun to think of my work being on television.

When I was out wandering among the buildings, I stopped by a little nook between two buildings. That place, more than any other, felt awful. I was very, very uncomfortable there. I took a picture, not knowing what else to do. Later, I showed it to the group: both Maria and Marlin recognized it immediately, and said they had hated that spot, too. Very strange.

6/15 ONEIDA [Wisconsin]

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!

6/14 LAC DU FLAMBEAU [Wisconsin]

Dredging up what French I recall, I'm pretty sure "Lac du Flambeau" translates as "Torch Lake," which brings to mind the Cuyahoga more than anything else. The big casino there bills itself as "Lake of the Torches Casino (and Resort)," which I'm pretty sure would be "Lac DES Flambeau," or possibly "Lac DES FlambeauX."

Now that I feel appropriately smug, on with the post.

It was with some chagrin that I realized Lac o' Flambeau would be one of the stops falling into the molds of Walker, Anadarko, and Rapid City. Like Walker, the setting was a white tent set up on pavement with cars all around. Like Anadarko, no one seemed to know if electricity was available. And, like Rapid City, organization felt loose to the point of losing control.

Luckily, organization ultimately turned out to be fine, or at least fine-enough. Electricity did arrive, too, although it took a while. The ruins of the school (oddly) had electricity, but there were no extension cords long enough. So, someone drove out to find extension cords. We started in the meantime. When extension cords arrived, it was discovered that the front door was locked, so someone drove to go find a key. Then, some time later, someone drove to go find the person looking for the key, as they had run out of gas and were stalled out by the side of the road. By about lunchtime, I was finally powered and could get speakers running, etc.

Turnout was low, perhaps due to some combination of the fact that we were just a little tent sitting literally in the middle of the road next to some ruins, and the fact that a few blocks away was the town's biggest and most important pow-wow of the year. Getting supplies was difficult. For example, we had to twist some arms to get ahold of flags and veterans to carry them. During the opening song, the veterans marched the flags into the tent, then out of the tent, then into their vans. They drove off to the pow-wow and never came back.

Getting a drum to play for us was difficult, too; we ended up getting the local youth drum. They were actually pretty good, despite their tender age.

I don't remember if the school itself stood behind us, or just one of the dorms. At any rate, it is a badly collapsing building that locals hope to renovate for the purpose of making a memorial / museum. To the untrained eye, it would appear that complete reconstruction would be necessary -- especially for the outside of the building, which someone molotov'd a few years back. The building is very unpopular in town, and it sounded like there was a lot of resentment still present in the community. The attempt to destroy it wasn't terribly surprising. What is surprising is that it didn't succeed -- the place looked timber-dry.

Like so many places, the inside of the building was distinctly uncomfortable. It was not built to be a welcoming place, and featured narrow corridors, cramped rooms, and impossibly steep staircases. The ceilings were plenty high, however, and it gave me a strange feeling of reverse-vertigo, for lack of a better term.

This guy represented the city council, if I remember correctly, and he read a proclamation supporting our Journey.

This was our coordinator. She's hoping to become a musician, and sang a song for us. Also pictured is my new microphone, which I love dearly. Sweet, sweet Sennhauser D46. (Spelling and number might not be technically correct).

Here's a close-up of the Hoop. Strangely, the head of an eagle materialized in the center. See it? Isn't that nuts?