Tag Archives: Indians

Wendy Red Star – Telling It Like It Is Now

Wendy Red Star in “Winter Thesis” (Photo by Kaelan Burkett)

Attending public school in Montana, Wendy Red Star didn’t learn anything about her indigenous Apsáalooke (Crow) history.  She was taught the usual curriculum of European arrival in the Western Hemisphere, western expansion of White settlers, cowboys-and-Indians tales, etc.  But, as has been common in U.S. history, she and her fellow Crow students saw nothing – nothing positive, for the most part – their people’s presence in what is now the state of Montana.  Years ago, however, she became determined to change that and began researching her people’s history on her own.

Today, the multi-media artist is working to ensure future generations of Crow students – and all American pupils, for that matter – aren’t slighted in the same way.  Mixing her indigenous history with humor and personal research, Red Star creates images of Native American peoples from the past and in the present to help everyone understand they aren’t just school mascots or figures from old black-and-white photographs.

Her latest creation, Apsáalooke: Children of the Large-Beaked Bird, is being exhibited at the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art (MASS MoCa), which is bringing her work to children.

“I think it would be really wonderful to present that history to children because when I grew up,” Red Star said in a recent interview, “I attended public school in Hardin, which is a town that’s surrounded by the Crow reservation and once was part of the Crow reservation.  We never talked about anything having to do with Crow history, even though the student population was a mix of Crow kids and white rancher kids.  So, to me, it’s always been a fantasy to have that history presented in some way.  Then we tried to figure out a way to best engage that age demographic, for the exhibition.”

Righting wrongs and addressing past grievances has never been easy.  But it’s something that has to be done.

The exhibition runs through the spring of 2021.

Leave a comment

Filed under Art Working

It’s Still a Matter of Respect

Yesterday, July 3, the Washington Redskins football team made the stunning announcement that they would actually consider changing their name; at least change the “Redskins” part of it.  If there’s a true case of better late than never, this is it.  For decades, the nation’s Native American population and their supporters have demanded Washington remove the “Redskins” feature of their moniker.  As recently as 2013, team owner Dan Snyder scoffed at the possibility of such a move.  Many have expressed surprise that Snyder would be opposed to the alteration because he is of Jewish-American extraction.  But I say it’s because he is Jewish-American that he remained reticent to a change.  From what I’ve seen, many people of Jewish faith and ethnicity feel they are not only the “Chosen Ones” of humanity, but they are the ONLY ones who have ever suffered the horror of genocide.  So much so that the term ‘holocaust’ has metamorphosed into ‘Holocaust’ as a direct reference to Nazi Germany’s attempt to obliterate the Jewish people.  Snyder had spat out the usual Caucasian rhetoric of venerating Native Americans as fierce warriors with the word “redskin”.

In his formal statement, he declared, in part, “This process allows the team to take into account not only the proud tradition and history of the franchise, but also input from our alumni, the organization, sponsors, the National Football League and the local community it is proud to represent on and off the field.”

Not once did Snyder mention the derogatory nature of the word “redskin”.  In the spirit of thick-skin football, I presume Snyder wouldn’t mind me recounting a couple of old Jewish jokes someone told me more than 30 years ago.

“Hear about the new German microwave oven?

Seats 500.”

Or…

“What’s a Jewish woman’s favorite sex position?

Bent over the checkbook.”

In the spirit of racial unity, I wanted to refer to one of my earliest essays, “A Matter of Respect,” in which I address this very issue.  Because, like love and hope, respect never dies.

Leave a comment

Filed under Essays

Screams in the Sky

902778

I heard it first as a shrill, piercing sound in the back of my head; like an eagle flying far overhead.  Then, it grew louder, and I looked up from the mass of crabs in the basket.  I glanced briefly at everyone around me.  They all remained unperturbed.  In fact, it seems they didn’t hear anything.  Had they all suddenly gone deaf?

My dog, Amoxtli (“protection” in my native Náhuatl), was the only other one to notice.  He was trembling; his yellow-gold eyes spiraling in fear.

I turned again to the sky again.  Something came roaring from the east; from beyond the mountains and over the buildings of the town.  It streaked overhead – a whitish glow that left a deep orange ribbon against the pre-dawn blueness.

Amoxtli started moaning.  He was genuinely scared – and he didn’t frighten easily.

What was that?  A star?  It couldn’t have been a bird.  The orange ribbon started to deepen in color, and I thought it would fade.  But then, it began turning red.  Blood red.

I swallowed hard, and my heart was pounding.

Amoxtli was reaching towards me with a paw.  ‘Please hold me,’ he seemed to be saying.  He was terrified.  And, so was I.

“Cuetlachtli,” I heard someone say.

I didn’t pay attention. I was concerned about that sound – and the red mark in the sky.

“Cuetlachtli!”  It was my father.  “What’s wrong with you?!”  He rarely shouted at anyone.  His voice was strong and deep enough to command respect.  When he did shout, someone was in serious trouble.

I grasped one of Amoxtli’s paws and caressed his tawny face.  What did he know?

My eyes swept onto my father.  “The crabs are crawling out of the basket,” he said, pointing downward.

I looked at them.  Yes, they were starting to crawl back out.  In fact, they seemed to running for their lives.  But, I didn’t care.  “Did you hear that?” I finally asked.

“Hear what?” my father replied.

“That sound!”  I pointed upwards.  “Look at the sky!”

The bloody streak was fading.

Everyone nearby had ceased gathering crabs and turned to me.  They looked angry.  I had disrupted the work.  But, I didn’t care.  I knew that screaming light meant something.  I looked eastward, once more over the mountains.

The sun hadn’t fully risen.  The sounds of the waves had replaced the clack-clack of the crabs and the light conversation.  All else seemed silent.  Everyone’s eyes burnished into me.

But, when I looked again over the distant mountains, something else startled me.  Peering into the cream-orange horizon, I saw an object.  Something was moving against the sky.  I realized, after a moment, it was a large beast; a strange-looking creature with pointed ears and eyes on either side of its face.  I’d never seen anything quite like it.

Then, I realized there was something else with it, or behind it.  I studied it more closely.  It was sitting on the animal; it was a man.  He was an equally strange-looking man with an odd, dome-shaped contraption on his head.  He held a large narrow object in one hand.

As I stared at him, he lifted up the object and pointed it forward – pointed it at me.

I squinted.  What is that?  Who is he?  Why is he so large – hovering above the mountains?

Then, another thundering sound, another screaming light flew out from that object in his hands – towards me.  The sound of it hurt my ears.  And, the bright flash almost blinded me.

“What’s wrong with you?!” my father yelled.

I wish I could tell him.  I really wish I could tell him.

8618shoreline

Náhuatl

© 2014

2 Comments

Filed under Wolf Tales

A Matter of Respect

Imagine – if you can – there are two professional sports teams, the Washington Niggers and the Houston Hebes.  And, they are meeting to play a game; football, basketball, whatever.  And, outside of the arena, large numbers of African and Jewish American citizens have gathered to protest against the teams simply because of their names.  Meanwhile, fans of both teams – many of whom may be part Black or Jewish themselves – parade into the stadium dismissing the protesters by saying things like: ‘It’s just a game.’  ‘Don’t take it so seriously.’  ‘You people are so sensitive.’

This is taking for granted, of course, that any sports team could get away with names like those in these times.  But, if you can imagine the uproar that would cause, then you can understand how Native Americans feel about the Washington Redskins football team.

The term “redskin” is as vile and demeaning as any other racial slur; one created by early English settlers to describe the native peoples, a direct reference to the latter group’s often-ruddy complexion.  Yet, the Washington Redskins insist they will not change their name and that any such attempt is just political correctness run amok.

Well, there is a stark difference between political correctness and factual correctness.  For example, it’s not politically correct to say Christopher Columbus did not discover America.  It’s factually correct.  The Western Hemisphere wasn’t virgin land, devoid of people, when Columbus arrived.  He had wanted to find a western route to India to gain an advantage in the silk and spice trades.  His own country, Italy, refused to help him; so he turned to Spain.  Spain’s Queen Isabella consented and provided him with financing, ships, and supplies.  When he made landfall, he thought he’d reached the east coast of India and thus, called the people he saw Indians.

But, if you ask the average American citizen who discovered America, Columbus’s name is almost always mentioned.  In fact, in his 1997 book The Perfect Storm, author Sebastian Junger begins one particular paragraph with the statement, “Almost as soon as the New World was discovered, Europeans were fishing it.”  And, for many years, Italian-Americans have hailed Columbus as a cultural hero who paved the way for future generations, even though Columbus wasn’t on a mission from Italy in the first place, and people didn’t begin emigrating from Italy en masse until the 1880’s.

If American history has acknowledged the presence of people here before Europeans, it has done so begrudgingly and then, viewed them as nomadic bands of Neanderthal-like beings with no true sense of community or family.  In reality, most had established large, complex societies and spent more time interacting on peaceful, social levels than they did fighting.  Yet, images of “wild Indians” or, at best, “the noble savage,” persist, both in so-called historical texts and in popular literature.

Whenever I do mention the plight of Native Americans, the most common response is, “What can be done about it now?”  Well, the simplest answer is, of course, nothing.  But, then again, nothing can ever be done about past events, can it?  But, let me take that question, ‘What can be done about it now?’, and apply it to other tragedies.

Take Pearl Harbor, for example.  Sad as it was, shouldn’t the U.S. Navy have known better than to place so many of its warships in such close proximity to one another?  Besides, what’s left of the U.S.S. Arizona is a rusting shell of a vessel that is still leaking oil.  If its hull shatters, millions of gallons of oil could pour into the ocean, creating an environmental disaster.  Shouldn’t that be a far more pressing concern than honoring a bunch of dead sailors?

What about the European holocaust of Word War II, in which over six million Jews were systematically massacred by the Nazi regime?  Notice it’s always referred to as ‘The Holocaust,’ as if no other similar genocidal event has ever occurred.  The decimation of the Western Hemisphere’s indigenous peoples was also a deliberate, concerted undertaking by Europeans, especially here in North America.  One specific example concerns Abraham Lincoln.  During the Civil War, Lincoln directed the U.S. Army to hang over a hundred Indians per day in the western states.  He then limited the number of daily hangings to twenty-eight, but only because the bodies were piling up too fast.  Yet, there are no memorials or museums in this country acknowledging those horrors.

Let me come closer in time: the 1995 bombing of the Oklahoma City federal building.  Only two men were responsible for that act, as far as we know; two devout Christians, two former soldiers with a passionate hate for the U.S. government.  Both were caught and one is now dead.  So, doesn’t that mean justice has already been served?  And, there’s no need for a memorial?  Ironically, Oklahoma is where many Native Americans were forcibly isolated at the end of the 19th century to live out their lives in despair and poverty.

Let me come even closer: the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, in which nearly 3,000 people lost their lives.  But, as horrific as it was, does this mean we’ll be reliving that nightmare every September 11 from now on, just like Pearl Harbor?  Shouldn’t our government have realized sooner that foreigners with expired visas could pose a security threat?  And, why have airlines only recently taken greater safety precautions?  Now a memorial is being erected on the site of the World Trade Center.  Some call it hallowed ground.  Hallowed ground!  They were office buildings, not homes or religious centers.  White settlers destroyed thousands of Native American communities across this continent, believing such destruction was necessary and righteous.

Why do we keep dredging up these awful memories?  Aren’t we supposed to let these things go and move forward with our lives?  Is that how we should remember these events?  Is that how we want future generations to look at them?  Like trite insults.

Well essentially, that’s how this nation regards the Native American experience.  If building memorials means resurrecting the past to do something about it, then it’s pointless.  Jorge Santayana, the Spanish novelist and poet, once warned of such ignorance by saying, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

We are civilized and intelligent enough to acknowledge the injustices done to our native peoples without dismissing them or calling them names.  It’s not an issue of political correctness.  And, it’s not a case of being too sensitive.  It’s simply a matter of respect.

3 Comments

Filed under Essays