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On the way to Kyle's

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Post 4 “Like Sandlot, but with basketball”

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Post 4 “Like Sandlot, but with basketball”

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Stories of childhood shared by the professor and peers in American Indian Lit:

- An encounter with a furious badger on a dirt road, miles from home

- The incarnation of a best friend's deceased mother appearing beside a well - with a warning

- Rock fights

- Fights with snowballs that had rocks in them

- Holding onto the bumpers of old trucks and skating the ice

- just Grandma

We told our stories and laughed. We listened and we laughed. We left the classroom imagining each other as children.

The week followed and with it, a follow-up question: What scents inspire nostalgia for you?

I answered, "the desert"

For several summers in my childhood I reaped the benefits of a big family to which I did not belong. The childless matriarch of this family was a woman named Yvette - a coworker and good friend of my mom’s. Every summer, nieces and nephews would join Yvette on a ranch in Big Pine, CA - on 395 N, when you’re sandwiched between Whitney and Manzanar drive north through Independence - if you’ve hit Bishop you’ve passed Big Pine, but keep going anyway - Big Pine’s whatever. Yvette’s long-term boyfriend was a man named Michael, 30 years her senior. The property we’d take over, for a week, every June was owned by Michael. On the ranch lived moody horses, a girl dog named Codi, and desert bugs. Yvette lived in Pasadena during the week and, on the weekends, would drive north in her white F150 to see her boyfriend, asshole horses, a girl dog named Codi, and kill bugs.

As a kid, I thought their arrangement was so unusual. The only relationship model I knew was that of my parents who played it pretty safe: married in their early twenties, broken diaphragm - boy, broken diaphragm - girl, yada yada. My best friend had two moms, but an intergenerational long-distance relationship carrying on in the desert? Odd. But Yvette and Michael (obviously the first ever to attempt such an unconventional arrangement in the history of arrangements) were onto something. It’s difficult to share space with a partner, but in being committed, we are held accountable, therefore, protected from the hedonistic temptations of singledom. My digression is, of course, brought on by failed relationships and the privilege of having a blog to digress in, which my mom is really psyched about. Back to the story.

Forty minutes west of Big Pine, in the Sierra Nevadas, you’ll find Cardinal Village Lodge. It was here that I caught my first fish, fell in love with a boy in a Korn t-shirt, and had one of the most irresponsible adventures of my life that I will now embellish for you.

One afternoon, at the Cardinal Village Lodge, when the chaperones were completely uninterested in further chaperoning, two copies of a xeroxed map were bestowed upon the cousins and Jess. The origin of the map was unknown - probably due to the fact its inaccuracy puts the lay cartographer, responsible for its creation, in a particularly vulnerable position legally.

The cousins and Jess were split into two groups and told “X marks the spot”. Now, a little information on the demographics of this cousin cohort: we were children. So, off we went. Corey, the oldest of the cousins, who demonstrated his maturity by wearing a puka shell necklace in addition to a metal-spiked leather bracelet, was, of course, the designated map bearer. Spoiler alert: he wore a Korn shirt.

The map led us to a trail that led us to a footpath. Drawn on the map, were a collection of labeled visual indicators to keep an eye out for. If we encountered the features on the map, we were surely headed in the right direction. First of all, no. Because the thing about the wilderness is, features such as rivers and trees are, generally, in multiple locations.

Our first indicator: “downed trees”. A patch of skinny horizontal birch trunks were piled to the side of the footpath - were we supposed to go off the trail? The youngest of us showed apprehension in climbing over them. After all, those fairytale stories with children disappearing into the woods were far fresher in our minds than that of the heartthrob-preteen-parental-advisory-label-be-damned 12-year-old who was our leader. But Corey insisted. And I loved him, so I climbed over those damn downed trees. We ventured on.

The next feature to keep an eye out for was a creek that required crossing. We kept quiet on our walk passed the downed trees, listening for flowing water. But here’s the other thing: rushing water is much louder than a babbling creek. We stood at the edge of a river in silence. I could see Corey breaking. Was his sick leather metal-studded bracelet with a snap clasp just a façade? Was he really more of a puka shell this whole time? We crossed the river.

The final feature on the map was a bridge. A bridge, which, following its construction in the 1880’s may have been a fine feat of engineering, but today, was a structure characterized by gaps of wood, supported by rotted wood - held together by tetanus. The bridge was positioned directly over the right angle a waterfall - a waterfall whose source was the river we crossed, so. We did not hesitate to cross the bridge. The weather was turning - fat, grey clouds carrying rain obscured the mountaintops and, at this point, Corey was a broken man. The blood of half his cousins and Jess would be on his 12-year-old hands.

By the time it started to hail, we came upon a road and flagged down a truck who drove us back to Cardinal Village Lodge. In conclusion, I learned absolutely nothing from this experience, except that it was what childhood should be for kids. That kids should capitalize on the lack of fear we experience as inexperienced little people.

My memories from that summer camp of cousins are vivid and smell like horses, dirt, and watermelon.

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I live on a reservation now, but I am a guest here. Figuratively, I am sure to remove my shoes when I enter this house and overcompensate with pleases and thank yous in hopes they will continue inviting me back. I try not to take more fry bread than everyone else at the community feeds, but when it comes to fry bread, I am weak and selfish. In an American Indian Literature class I audit, the professor references my peers' grandparents, by name, frequently; the elders of this community are an essential part of the curriculum. This is what community truly means. I have never been a part of one, but, now, it's all I want for my family in the future.

The professor brings up an image of a ceremonial tanned buffalo robe, an object referenced in a poem we read. She says, traditionally, buffalo hide was tanned, by women, using the buffalo's brain. In fact, every animals has enough brain to tan its own hide. However, commercial tanning processes have antiquated brain-tanning, leaving it to the most patient and skillful of purists, today. We talked about the importance of buffalo to the Nakoda and Dakota people of the Plains (Assiniboine and Sioux tribes of the Fort Peck Reservation--not to say Fort Peck Rez is the only location Nakoda and Dakota people reside). In 2012, a wildfire burned through the northern region of the reservation where a conservation effort to increase the buffalo population was taking place. The fire killed ten buffalo, leaving some calves without a mother. The professor paused, "The other mamas adopted them. We have so much to learn from the buffalo." She asked us to imagine what our communities would be like if we adopted more of our fostered youth. It is not wildfire that threatens the young people here, but the far more destructive effects of violence, drugs, and alcohol. This is community-applicable curriculum.

"Chelsea Church" with green trim along Highway 2

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Somewhere along the highway in Utah or Idaho, my dad posed the question why the h-e-double-hockey-stick we're all still calling Indigenous people 'Indians'. The inaccuracy of the term's origin is common knowledge. The following entry is a scattered exploration of the relationship between terms and those assigned to/affected by them and concludes with references from Native-identifying Americans addressing Dad's question.

One night, last fall, during the five months spent living back at my parents', post-Germany/pre-Montana, I went to a party in the desert. We're all nearing 30, but (,so) we still take any mention of a friend's house-sitting responsibility as a formal invitation. I sat on the back porch as friends and acquaintances drifted in and out of the house and in and out of conversations while maintaining their tipsy glows with refilled mixed-drink and retrieved hidden Tecates.

I talked with an acquaintance--the kind of acquaintance who becomes a friend when we drink--about vocabulary. We worked together to clarify the proper use of  the word "whom" in a sentence. In Germany, I asked an English professor of mine, "Who do you want to present first?" She was appalled. I harped on it for SEVERAL days. But that's another story for another blog I never wrote. "Well, whomever uses the word "whom" is a cunt," he declared.

"Whoever," I replied.

Hearing "the c word" can, for some women, elicit an emotional response that lies anywhere between irritated and infuriated. For others, it's a favorite bad word. This acquaintance's casual use of the word served as a natural transition, while staying on the topic of vocab, from grammar to interpretation. He maintained (whether it was sincerely or just for the sake of a good debate) language can only be used to hurt others if you allow it hurt yourself. Maybe you've heard the argument: "if everyone says an offensive word enough, it loses power". He's a cynical guy, this acquaintance. He's been mistreated in life. I think his ultimate goal is a more peaceful world. His vision: through apathy, we will be less inclined to defend ourselves. It's a nice idea, in theory. In practice, he's going to get his ass kicked.

Sensitivity, sympathy, and awareness--all those traits our elementary school teachers preached, but so few of us could appreciate the importance of on playgrounds and in adolescent private life--are reliable foundations to build our vocabulary upon when it comes to engaging in intercultural/interracial communication. Keeping in mind, also, the following observation taken from an op-ed by HuffPost's Kurt Bardella, sent to me by my dad, concerning Trump asking a nonwhite American intelligence analyst where "her people" come from.

It’s one thing if someone volunteers information about their culture, background, family and upbringing. But until they do, it’s none of your business and should have no role in how you judge, evaluate and view them as professionals or human beings.

https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/opinion-bardella-government-shutdown_us_5a62d025e4b0e563006fd287

One can call using appropriate language 'political correctness', but we do a great disservice to those elementary school teachers and their efforts by robbing it of its emotional significance, so let's call it 'respect'.

The relationship between place and self-identity cannot be accurately measured with aggregated demographic data. It's personal--sometimes private. It's different from generation to generation and sibling to sibling. The qualifiers denoting Native nation affiliation/membership are numerous and intimidating to me, as a newcomer to Indian Country. So, now, I stop writing, and we read together...

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The following excerpts come from an article called "Do You Prefer ‘Native American’ or ‘American Indian’? 6 Prominent Voices Respond" by Amanda Blackhorse posted May 22, 2015 on Indian Country Today

This discussion varies in our ever-diverse culture. What I’ve learned is we can discuss this for hours on end but, when all is said and done, we call ourselves what we want because it is our choice. In fact, choice is something we did not have or were able to practice throughout the annals of U.S. history.

The people speak, and we must listen.

Radmilla Cody (Diné/Navajo)

Cody would like to be referred to as ‘Dine/Navajo,’ ‘indigenous’ and ‘Native.’ When asked why this is important to her she states, “I used to refer to myself as ‘Native American,’ but over time I have learned more about colonization and the colonial terms that came with the assimilation process which continues today. We are original people of this so-called USA, therefore we should be acknowledged as such, but also to ourselves as indigenous, as the indigenous backgrounds we identify with; indigenous, or Native of our own territories.. Not the European settlers’ or colonial settlers’ identification of who they think we should be. We must reclaim our identity and stop allowing the settler-colonialists to define who we are.”

Bobby Wilson (Sisseton-Wahpeton Dakota)

“I say Indian a lot,” Wilson said. “I’m around many Natives all the time, and using Indian seems to be universal and others can identify with it.” Bobby also said he understands the confliction Native people have with the terms ‘Indian’ and ‘Native American,’ but as he states, “When I say Indian it doesn’t take anything away from me. For some people it may. I’m comfortable with myself and with it.”

He also stated he doesn’t mind being referred to as ‘American Indian,’ and references the National Congress of American Indians and the like, whom use the term ‘Indian.’

Chase Iron Eyes (Lakota Sioux)

He said the term ‘Indian’ is that of popular culture, and although it is a debated term, it is one that is commonly used and known. He also believes the term which should be used is ‘original people,’ but the term ‘indigenous’ is very appropriate as well

https://indiancountrymedianetwork.com/culture/social-issues/blackhorse-do-you-prefer-native-american-or-american-indian-6-prominent-voices-respond/

"A Note on Terminology" found in the book All the Real Indians Died Off and 20 other myths about Native Americans by Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz and Dina Gilio-Whitaker, 2016.

Authors writing from an Indigenous perspective often find the need to contextualize and clarify the terms of choice when writing for a general audience. This is due to much confusion about the correct terms for Native Americans . . . most common terms are problematic, but we both grew up in an era before the word "Indian" came to be seen as pejorative, and most Native people today do not object to the word. Thus we use the terms "Indian," "Indigenous," "Native American," and "Native" interchangeably but defer to specific nation names whenever possible

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Keith Secola - NDN Kars (Official Music Video)

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I wasn't much of a talker during the 1500 mile drive to northeast Montana, but neither was Dad, so it worked out quite well. As it turns out, my staunchly Atheist father is a well-informed resource on Mormonism, which came in real handy during the downtown stroll we took at our first stop, St. George, Utah. Past Utah, we saw one Bald Eagle and one million Magpies. Dad and I said our goodbyes in Billings where he caught a plane home. I thanked him for coming with me to make sure I got up north all right, to which he responded, "Well, I really just wanted to see Montana."

I'm really sorry I took you to the flat boring part, Dad. Thanks for being up for an adventure.

About five hours later I got into Poplar. It was sunny and the nervousness I felt all throughout the previous three days of driving from California, away from my best friends, away from my little family, away from my partner, away from my baby cousin, subsided. The Poplar you see on Google maps is far from what Poplar feels like. It may be the fact it's covered in snow, but there's a certain charm to it that a girl from a suburb in the desert can appreciate. I told that to a local who teaches English at the community college. He asked me for my eyes. The Fort Peck Reservation faces serious social problems with high rates of drug use, violence, and suicide and low rates of graduation and employment; the statistics produced by the area are grim, but the people who keep this community alive are truly good. Thank you so much for showing an interest in reading what I share.