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It’s dawn in Mystic, Connecticut. It’s a beautiful, New England seaport town. It’s fall and the trees are bursting in yellow and red. I can smell the sea. Still I feel uneasy, like walking into a building where there’s been rough trouble. I keep thinking about how this Eastern edge bore the brunt of colonization. European maps showed this location as a sea of monsters larger than ships. If ships made it this far, they would fall off into the abyss of the unknown. And in essence they did, into a land of plenty, far from Europe or India. They found a new “India”, and preceded to demonize and massacre the native people they found occupying these rich lands because their European God, imported from the Middle East, had given them dominion over everything, in writing. ....

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Because I am uneasy of a history here that I don’t know, and find nothing in the hotel room tourist information magazines, I research on Google and discover that over 600 Pequot people, mostly women and children, were burned in a violent massacre here in 1637. The two entrances to the village were blocked and the village torched. The traditional enemies of the Pequot assisted the Puritan patriots. The only survivors were those who had followed the sachem Sassacus in a raiding party outside the village. On record are the Puritan preachers’ sermons of praise for God’s assistance in the killing of the heathens who stood in the way of righteousness. ....

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I travel frequently these days and it isn’t often that such violence impresses itself so clearly to my awareness. It’s not surprising however, as indigenous peoples were 100% of the population. We’re now roughly ½ of 1% of the total census of this country. Can you imagine Europe with a handful of Europeans, or China without Chinese? These violent acts remain imprinted throughout these lands. We as native people carry the weight in our knowing. It is also a burden of the whole U.S. because the country was established on violence. This is the underside of the American legacy and this country will not move forward with integrity without a collective acknowledgement and healing. ....

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All the high figures for diabetes, strokes, heart attacks, suicide and violence taking our children, drug dependence, physical and spiritual illnesses can be tracked to this holocaust. It’s a holocaust that continues to find roots with every act of disrespect, of racism, of judgment against or within us. We are often the perpetrators as we judge others who are not Indian enough, too white, black, who are not Christian enough or traditional enough. ....

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The place to begin is within. Each act of compassion, kindness and forgiveness makes a handhold for those around us, and our descendents. ....

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Thanksgiving is on us again. The holiday never sets easy with me. For many of us, it is a day of sadness, of mourning. I don’t begrudge my relatives and friends who wish to acknowledge it. And I love turkey and dressing. Still, the celebration has nothing to do with real history.....

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On another note: During my travels I got to hang with Durango Mendoza, a Creek citizen who is now living in Champaign, Illinois. He’s an excellent photographer, writer and kind person. He sends his regards to everyone and has been missing his Muscogee Nation News. Please send it to him!....

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Last night I gave a musical performance with Larry Mitchell for the American Indian Studies Program at the University of Illinois in Urbana Champaign. We were given a numbered parking permit for a covered meter at the front of the student union. When we drove up the space was illegally taken by a red sports car with emergency blinking lights. No one was in the car. We couldn’t load for sound check until we could park. The university police were called to tow the car.  Shortly, four young jocks strode from the union with overnight bags to the car. Once they saw us, and security warned them to move, they slowed with a deliberate hatefulness. In their eyes, we had no business being on campus. We were not white. Fury rolled over me. I thought of the words George Coser, Jr. told me that had come from his parents, and had come from their parents; all the way back to the original teachings of our Mvskoke people. His words were something like this: “no matter what happens, stay in the direction of kindness.” I restrained myself from leaping out and pounding the driver with words (and yes, I have succumbed before) and turned my energy toward what I was there for that night. I saw that if I had acted on fury I would have given the sick man some of my energy. And in turn, I would have taken on some of that hatefulness. This is the school that has been at the center of the Indian mascot controversy.

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In the last month I have been to Anchorage, Alaska, to the En’owkin Centre, a native arts and cultures center on the Okanagan Reserve in British Columbia, Canada. I assisted in the visioning of the International Native Writing School. They were having a thirty-year anniversary. And then I flew to Berlin, Germany, to New Mexico, and now here. I carry stories from each place and have met our people in many of those places (except Berlin, but our people have traveled there.  Some things that belong to us are in their museums) but the most touching and powerful story along the way recently was from last night, at the concert.

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A Ho-Chunk and Hopi recent graduate, Angie Naquayouma, from Wisconsin brought her husband and four young children to the performance. They all sat on the front row: a beautiful native family. I was impressed with the behavior of the children. I did perform some things specifically for children, and children always love the saxophone and flutes. The children were well behaved throughout the hour and a half performance. At the end of the performance we had our photograph taken together. But what was most impressive and what I will always carry in my heart is that each child, before they left, beginning with the oldest, came over and expressed how much they enjoyed the performance. The oldest child, a boy of about seven, told me that he was happy to get out of a boring meeting to come and he really enjoyed the music, the next three young ones came in turn, and each very eloquently spoke. They have been trained to be real human beings. Yes, we will make it somehow, through the delusion of fast food and fast culture. This kind of behavior and speaking elevates all of us.

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And finally, during a break at the one-day Indigenous Sexualities Conference, I heard that when the movie “Dances with Wolves” came out, the Native American Educational Services College in Chicago was called by area sperm banks for donations by Indian men. Now, why does this not surprise me?

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As I begin this column the sun is coming up over Albuquerque. My earliest memories on this earth are of the sun. I am in my mother’s kitchen in Tulsa sitting in my red high chair. Sun is a bright being.  I see the sun’s breath as a stream of light filled with energy.  I love nothing better than to be inside it, to breathe it. When I was five I noticed that my pet dog Alligator also loved the sun and curled up into a circle where it warmed the ground. This morning I need the recharge, the illumination, and the words from the sun reminding me to keep going, to keep compassion in my heart no matter the challenges. And there are challenges. We all know them, share them, labor under them and emerge from them stronger, with the insight we need to grow. We live in complicated times.

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When I return to the time of that child in the high chair, life was deep and complex, yet simple. There was no television blasting and our minds hadn’t yet been wrapped with the tentacles of need for the Internet, computers, or computer games. I remember my mother singing, often to the radio. Pop and dessert were treats, not daily addictions. Yet, those times weren’t perfect. My family had the usual problems that besiege Indian country residents. What was foremost was the presence of the sky and earth, and having the time to listen, to hear.

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Last month I made it back to Oklahoma, and ran around the nation as I usually do when I’m home.  I am planning a writing, music and performance program for tribal students to begin next year. Several of us met over at the Café on the Square for lunch to talk about it. I got excellent input from all those present, including Rebecca Landsberry, Angel Ellis, Angela Bunner, James King, Lee Longhorn, Ted Isham, Rosemary McCombs Maxey, and Margaret Barrows. Then I made it over to the College of the Muscogee Nation and was given a tour by Angela Bunner. I’m impressed by the progress there.  I’d love to take the language classes with Norma Marshall.  I also visited Weogufkee church with Rosemary Maxey. The roof of the church didn’t fall in, as I predicted, and I met some wonderful people and especially enjoyed the meal after.

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Finally, at least we have a tribe. According to a letter June 24^th from the Bureau of Indian Affairs, the Cherokee no longer have a tribe. They were pronounced dead, as of the 1907 rolls.  U.S. Assistant Secretary for Indian Affairs, Larry EchoHawk wrote that the historic Cherokee Nation as it existed in 1934 no longer exists as a distinct political entity because Congress closed tribal rolls in 1907.  “After 103 years, few, if any, or its members are still alive,” he states. “Even though the historical CN no longer exists, its sovereignty continues in the descendents of its members who have reorganized as the UKB (United Keetoowah Band) and the CNO (Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma).”

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We live in complicated times. I think I’ll just stay here, curled up in the sun for a little while, before heading out into the long day.

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