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Historical fiction book. This will be another book read by the teacher.

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Rain is not my Indian name by Smith, Cynthia Leitich

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Rain is not my Indian name by Smith, Cynthia Leitich

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This book will be read by the teacher during this unit of study. It is a fiction book.

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Reweaving the World Ohlone — for Linda Yamane

by Stephen Meadows
Member of the Rumsen Ohlone Tribal Community

Enmeshing
with bone awl
with curved tooth
with dreaming
Again living patience
the slow walk
and choosing
The arms
and the fingers
of plants
the bent branches
the willow
the cattail
the root
the crisp grasses
The green limb
the gold stem
the soft flesh
the cleansing
the sheer thought
the taught hand
the earth’s
whirling music
In your palm
in your lap
in your sphere
in your circle
This basket
this dance
upon the ground

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In the Water Over Stones — for Isabel Meadowsby Stephen Meadows                                                                                                                                                                               Member of the Rumsen Ohlone Tribal CommunityYour voice  Isabel                                                                                                                                                                                                    is a quail’s voice                                                                                                                                                                                                    as the sun’s song ticks                                                                                                                                                                                         in the brushIt is the hawk’s voice                                                                                                                                                                                         and the heart’s heat                                                                                                                                                                                              of the rabbit                                                                                                                                                                                                            in the parched summer grassNearby in the river                                                                                                                                                                                                 in the water over stones                                                                                                                                                                                        it is a willow voice                                                                                                                                                                                                   it is a crayfish voice                                                                                                                                                                                               in the hollows                                                                                                                                                                                                         in the darkening placesAt first light                                                                                                                                                                                                              it is the wind’s voice                                                                                                                                                                                           the mouth of the river                                                                                                                                                                                        tule voice  the voice                                                                                                                                                                                             of a hundred breezesThe sun marks out                                                                                                                                                                                              the red madrone                                                                                                                                                                                                 and in the canyons                                                                                                                                                                                                 it is a redwood voice                                                                                                                                                                                              a sycamore voice                                                                                                                                                                                           sweet scentedIn the spring                                                                                                                                                                                                             it is the lupine voice                                                                                                                                                                                                a blue white and purple                                                                                                                                                                             coverlet voice                                                                                                                                                                                                         all over the hills                                                                                                                                                                                                    and the meadowsOn the river banks                                                                                                                                                                                                as the set fires burn                                                                                                                                                                                           and the steel head run                                                                                                                                                                                          it is the hunter’s voice                                                                                                                                                                                flinging the gleamers                                                                                                                                                                                      silver on the sandThough the houses                                                                                                                                                                                               of rich men now cover these hills                                                                                                                                                                        it is your spirit voice                                                                                                                                                                                         your evening voice                                                                                                                                                                                            your voice of the western watersThe stars hang out                                                                                                                                                                                            over the point of wolves                                                                                                                                                                                        on the edge of the world                                                                                                                                                                                   the sea lions call                                                                                                                                                                                                 the otters break open                                                                                                                                                                                 abaloneIt is the voice of the land                                                                                                                                                                                       It is the voice of bright shells                                                                                                                                                                               It is the voice of the valley                                                                                                                                                                               And the mountains  IsabelIt is the voice of the people tooIt is the weaver’s voice                                                                                                                                                                                          It is the young girl’s voice                                                                                                                                                                                    The gatherer’s and the singer’s                                                                                                                                                                       and the farmer’s voice                                                                                                                                                                                       the wives’ and the children’s                                                                                                                                                                           and the old woman’s voice                                                                                                                                                                                   It is the Indian voice                                                                                                                                                                                           and the whalerman’s voice                                                                                                                                                                                and the voice of the servant                                                                                                                                                                   escapingIt is the voice of your face                                                                                                                                                                           across the years  Isabel                                                                                                                                                                                        in my grandfather’s face                                                                                                                                                                                       in my father’s face                                                                                                                                                                                              and in my face as wellIt is the voice                                                                                                                                                                                                          of the ones on the edges  Isabel                                                                                                                                                                         It is the voice                                                                                                                                                                                                          of those ones with no voicesHawk and rabbit                                                                                                                                                                                               Quail and brush                                                                                                                                                                                              Water and willow and crayfish and stone                                                                                                                                                   Wind in the canyons                                                                                                                                                                                  Daylight through limbs                                                                                                                                                                                      The lupine the steelhead                                                                                                                                                                                  The cookfire’s call                                                                                                                                                                                         Beans and tortillas                                                                                                                                                                                            Your memories  Isabel  talking                                                                                                                                                                   Talking to us all© 2011 Stephen MeadowsThis and other poetry by Stephen Meadows may be found in the following publications: Releasing the Days, published by Heyday, 2018 and Winter Work, published by Nomadic Press, 2022.Homeby Stephen Meadows                                                                                                                                                                               Member of the Rumsen Ohlone Tribal CommunityIn hot dust                                                                                                                                                                                                               at field’s edge                                                                                                                                                                                                          a rusted harrow                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   an old John Deere                                                                                                                                                                                         buckets of oil                                                                                                                                                                                                  broken glass                                                                                                                                                                                                           at fence line                                                                                                                                                                                                         the dead grass                                                                                                                                                                                                     the thistles                                                                                                                                                                                                              of mid-July Our heels up                                                                                                                                                                                                          on a porch rail                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     quiet roses                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       by the barn                                                                                                                                                                                                         cigar smoke                                                                                                                                                                                                        your hat back                                                                                                                                                                                                      you were telling                                                                                                                                                                                       countless stories                                                                                                                                                                                             about the old times                                                                                                                                                                                             the river each spring                                                                                                                                                                   © copyright Stephen MeadowsPoetry by Stephen Meadows may be found in the following publications: Releasing the Days, published by Heyday, 2018 and Winter Work, published by Nomadic Press, 2022.Grandfather — for Roy Meadows

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In the Water Over Stones — for Isabel Meadowsby Stephen Meadows                                                                                                                                                                               Member of the Rumsen Ohlone Tribal CommunityYour voice  Isabel                                                                                                                                                                                                    is a quail’s voice                                                                                                                                                                                                    as the sun’s song ticks                                                                                                                                                                                         in the brushIt is the hawk’s voice                                                                                                                                                                                         and the heart’s heat                                                                                                                                                                                              of the rabbit                                                                                                                                                                                                            in the parched summer grassNearby in the river                                                                                                                                                                                                 in the water over stones                                                                                                                                                                                        it is a willow voice                                                                                                                                                                                                   it is a crayfish voice                                                                                                                                                                                               in the hollows                                                                                                                                                                                                         in the darkening placesAt first light                                                                                                                                                                                                              it is the wind’s voice                                                                                                                                                                                           the mouth of the river                                                                                                                                                                                        tule voice  the voice                                                                                                                                                                                             of a hundred breezesThe sun marks out                                                                                                                                                                                              the red madrone                                                                                                                                                                                                 and in the canyons                                                                                                                                                                                                 it is a redwood voice                                                                                                                                                                                              a sycamore voice                                                                                                                                                                                           sweet scentedIn the spring                                                                                                                                                                                                             it is the lupine voice                                                                                                                                                                                                a blue white and purple                                                                                                                                                                             coverlet voice                                                                                                                                                                                                         all over the hills                                                                                                                                                                                                    and the meadowsOn the river banks                                                                                                                                                                                                as the set fires burn                                                                                                                                                                                           and the steel head run                                                                                                                                                                                          it is the hunter’s voice                                                                                                                                                                                flinging the gleamers                                                                                                                                                                                      silver on the sandThough the houses                                                                                                                                                                                               of rich men now cover these hills                                                                                                                                                                        it is your spirit voice                                                                                                                                                                                         your evening voice                                                                                                                                                                                            your voice of the western watersThe stars hang out                                                                                                                                                                                            over the point of wolves                                                                                                                                                                                        on the edge of the world                                                                                                                                                                                   the sea lions call                                                                                                                                                                                                 the otters break open                                                                                                                                                                                 abaloneIt is the voice of the land                                                                                                                                                                                       It is the voice of bright shells                                                                                                                                                                               It is the voice of the valley                                                                                                                                                                               And the mountains  IsabelIt is the voice of the people tooIt is the weaver’s voice                                                                                                                                                                                          It is the young girl’s voice                                                                                                                                                                                    The gatherer’s and the singer’s                                                                                                                                                                       and the farmer’s voice                                                                                                                                                                                       the wives’ and the children’s                                                                                                                                                                           and the old woman’s voice                                                                                                                                                                                   It is the Indian voice                                                                                                                                                                                           and the whalerman’s voice                                                                                                                                                                                and the voice of the servant                                                                                                                                                                   escapingIt is the voice of your face                                                                                                                                                                           across the years  Isabel                                                                                                                                                                                        in my grandfather’s face                                                                                                                                                                                       in my father’s face                                                                                                                                                                                              and in my face as wellIt is the voice                                                                                                                                                                                                          of the ones on the edges  Isabel                                                                                                                                                                         It is the voice                                                                                                                                                                                                          of those ones with no voicesHawk and rabbit                                                                                                                                                                                               Quail and brush                                                                                                                                                                                              Water and willow and crayfish and stone                                                                                                                                                   Wind in the canyons                                                                                                                                                                                  Daylight through limbs                                                                                                                                                                                      The lupine the steelhead                                                                                                                                                                                  The cookfire’s call                                                                                                                                                                                         Beans and tortillas                                                                                                                                                                                            Your memories  Isabel  talking                                                                                                                                                                   Talking to us all© 2011 Stephen MeadowsThis and other poetry by Stephen Meadows may be found in the following publications: Releasing the Days, published by Heyday, 2018 and Winter Work, published by Nomadic Press, 2022.Homeby Stephen Meadows                                                                                                                                                                               Member of the Rumsen Ohlone Tribal CommunityIn hot dust                                                                                                                                                                                                               at field’s edge                                                                                                                                                                                                          a rusted harrow                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   an old John Deere                                                                                                                                                                                         buckets of oil                                                                                                                                                                                                  broken glass                                                                                                                                                                                                           at fence line                                                                                                                                                                                                         the dead grass                                                                                                                                                                                                     the thistles                                                                                                                                                                                                              of mid-July Our heels up                                                                                                                                                                                                          on a porch rail                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     quiet roses                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       by the barn                                                                                                                                                                                                         cigar smoke                                                                                                                                                                                                        your hat back                                                                                                                                                                                                      you were telling                                                                                                                                                                                       countless stories                                                                                                                                                                                             about the old times                                                                                                                                                                                             the river each spring                                                                                                                                                                   © copyright Stephen MeadowsPoetry by Stephen Meadows may be found in the following publications: Releasing the Days, published by Heyday, 2018 and Winter Work, published by Nomadic Press, 2022.Grandfather — for Roy Meadows

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This is a poem written by a member of the Ohlone tribe. Students will discuss in small groups the meaning of this poem.

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This is a picture of an Ohlone song that is in cement at Berkley for the Poetry Walk.

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This is a picture of an Ohlone song that is in cement at Berkley for the Poetry Walk.

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Students will discuss in groups and partners why this would be a song written by the Ohlone.

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The Ohlone (Spotlight on the American Indians of California)Mendoza, Charlie

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The Ohlone (Spotlight on the American Indians of California)Mendoza, Charlie

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Another book for students to gather information.

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The Ohlone WayMalcolm Margolin 634 ratings by GoodreadsISBN 10: 0930588029 / ISBN 13: 9780930588021Published by Heyday Books, 1981

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The Ohlone WayMalcolm Margolin 634 ratings by GoodreadsISBN 10: 0930588029 / ISBN 13: 9780930588021Published by Heyday Books, 1981

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This book describes why and how the Ohlone lived in the area. this book can give students more information about the local natives.

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The Elusive Eden: A New History of California, Fifth Edition 5th Editionby Richard B. Rice (Author), William A. Bullough (Author), Richard J. Orsi (Author), & 3 

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The Elusive Eden: A New History of California, Fifth Edition 5th Editionby Richard B. Rice (Author), William A. Bullough (Author), Richard J. Orsi (Author), & 3 

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This book covers the time from the Native Americans all the way to the election of Gavin Newsom. The book outlines the diversity of the state and all the people in it.
The book list many diverse individuals who have made California what it is today.

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The Ohlone (Native Americans) Library Binding – January 1, 2002by Barbara A. Gray-Kanatiiosh (Author)

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The Ohlone (Native Americans) Library Binding – January 1, 2002by Barbara A. Gray-Kanatiiosh (Author)

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This story presents the history, religion, culture, and daily life of the Ohlone people. With the European entrance into the land of the Ohlone, their culture was almost wiped out, and how they are still fighting for their right to sovereignty even now. Students can relate this to how some of them are still fighting for rights and equality issues of the current times.

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The Ohlone of California (The Library of Native Americans) Library Binding – August 1, 2003

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The Ohlone of California (The Library of Native Americans) Library Binding – August 1, 2003

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This book outlines the life of the Ohlone of California and what happened when the Europeans came. It describes the Native Americans that lived in the area for a thousand years in the area from Monterey Bay to San Francisco Bay. The book describes how the people lived on the land, what occurred after the arrival of the Europeans and onward to recent times.