I Know Not One Palestinian, but Yet I Hurt

I know not one single Palestinian but still I hurt. 

I don't know about you but I hurt. I hurt for those children, those beautiful children dying. Children being slaughtered, being maimed, being orphaned for the sins of others, can this be right? 

Listened to Linda Ronstadt's Long Long Time and hearing the words, Love will abide. Where the fuck is the love for all those children. 

I sit here and I hurt. I know not one Palestinian person, never mind a child. So what the heck is it any of my business. Who am I to shed a tear, to have a heavy heart, to feel angry, to feel helpless, to feel the need to act out. 

I don't know one single Palestinian. Yet, I look for the testimonies of the families. I look for their words. I look for the photographs. I look for the videos. When I hear their voices, see their videos, see their photographs and see their blown up little bodies, I cry. I hurt for them. 

I know not one Palestinian. Should it matter that I do not know any of the names. Should it matter the photograph of the little body that is all burnt up is a child I do not know. 

If I know one Palestinian would it make me care more. Would I cry more. Would I be more angry. Would I scream at the government for supporting the "war." The war which is actually a literal genocide. 

If I do not know one Palestinian should I bother to watch the videos. Should I bother to post on social media about the children. Should I just watch the news on celebrity entertainment. Should I wonder how Taylor Swift is touring and how her music sales are going. 

I sit here listening to Dropkick Murphys, "I wish you were here," and think I wish they were here. The Children of Palestine. The song says, "When I'm looking back on the time we shared. Oh, we know you were loved and that I always cared, I always cared." I didn't know them but yet I always cared. 

I know not one Palestinian, but yet I hurt. 

I can only offer my tears, my heart ache and my voice. If there is love out there, where is it for the Palestinians. 

I know not one Palestinian, but yet I hurt.

Tearful Honour 

"They who shall not be Named"

 Been watching news a bit too much these days. Carnage is happening everywhere and everywhere day. A relatively young Indian guy murdered four people and injured another ( I should put allegedly somewhere in here because you never know if he will be proven guilty). So this is a localized carnage and it feels awful to hear about it.  In the wider world, we are seeing, hearing and reading about Children, Women, Elders, Men getting killed.  These daily killings are happening over in the Holy Land.  It is also awful to read, hear about, even though it is far beyond our Reserve border. The voices being heard, being shared are those of the powerful. As in many cases, the voices of the poor, the weak are not being heard. The voices of the powerful are being amplified, are being told with a sympathizing tone, are being told with a familiarity for their lives. People of the power are being introduced as to the suffering which has befallen on them, through no fault of their own. The language being used to describe events of the powerful is either sympathetic, favorable and in some cases neutral. The language used to describe events and actions of the poor, the weak is far from neutral. They are spoken, written about in unfavorable terms, as being a criminal terrorist, and the reason for the carnage.

It is a story of Old, of sacrifice, of vengeance, for rationalizing, brutality, killing and scorched Earth. It is one party doing something wrong to another party and that party answers in return. Not everyone accepts the dominant narrative of a David versus Goliath situation; where the Good and Just are defending themselves from inhuman beasts. The United States has promised full support in both thoughts, political influence, finances and weaponry. While the bombardments go on, the Global village is asking for a cease fire. However, the voices for cease fire are being attacked. The people who dare to "Say the Name of those who shall not be Named" are being silenced. Teachers are being fired for daring to say the Name. Politicians are being censored for daring to say the Name. Some politicians are being fired for daring to say the Name. Celebrities are being cancelled for daring to say the Name. Journalists who dare to say the Name are being fired. The Big Money Governments are against anyone daring to speak the Name. 

It is a scary situation for anyone reacting to the carnage with a sad or broken heart for what happened to the weak and powerless. If you dare to say the name of "They who shall not be Named (the people) you could be hurt by the forces of the powerful. It is the facts of the day, dare to say their Name and you will not only be labeled, be centered out, but you will have to face the consequences. The Globe will live by the warning, "They shall not be Named." If you dare to say out loud the Name, you will be judged a supporter of terrorism.  You don't want the The People to have a home, a land, a country, a freedom, in fact you are part of the Antisemitism which is perpetuated all over the Globe. You may also be calling for the genocide of The People. There is no doubt The People, who are not Named, are being discriminated against by an ugly section of the globe. Of course they, The People need to combat hate which comes their way. Everyone should be able to voice against a needless hatred towards them. However, the folks, who are in fact saying their Name, are not (I suspect) part of those who hate The People, simply for being who they are. I think folks who are daring to voice the Name, are seeking a stop to brutality. They are seeking to have lives spared. They are not denying The People the right to live, the right to a homeland, the right to exist. They are voicing to say, "Hey! We see the lives being lost and it is time to stop." 

Say what you will about The People, they are a people who deserve to live in peace, deserve to have respect and be citizens of the Globe, just as everyone does. The thing here, when daring to say their Name, it is not to deny their rights for life. It is about a body of government sycophants, government greed, government tyrants inflicting harm, individuals corrupting the voices of "they who shall not be named." The corruption of the voice has resulted in pain, unmeasurable pain for many. 

Can we ever not name those who are causing harm. 

Let Me Introduce Myself, Again

 Aniin Neechie,

Steve here. It's been 12 years since the Ojibwe Confessions blog started. I never thought it would go this long. I stopped blogging a few months during my reign of terror. I often wonder what will be my swan song, the dying bird, the decaying flesh, carrion remains with only bones left to be picked over by the scavengers, the Ka-Ga-Gay. It is quite amazing the Blog has been active this long. It should have been killed off with a shot gun long ago. How many times can you tell the same story over and over again. So what should be the last post. 

Not sure if there is any point to continue with the Blog. There are many respectable voices out there already in the Indian sphere. There is Indian Country Today (ICT), Native Report, Aboriginal Peoples Television Network, Windspeaker, Native New Online, and a host of Native media outlets. So really what does this Blog have which could be read worthy. 

I think it's time. But I enjoy it. Even if it's not proper English grammar. There is some pride in doing it so long. I have been contacted by a few readers, not too many, but enough to boast my ego and gratitude. The audience is small as I can see by the number of views over the years. The remarks are seldom but I still appreciate them. Whenever I come to the site, I look at the comment section first. Then I look at the number of views. Today, I had exactly one view. Not a whole lot I admit but it was not zero. 

It's funny because the best topics come to me just when I am in the dark of the bedroom, my head is on the pillow (I have to lay on my left side with my arms over a couple of pillows because of the pain in my shoulders and the deviated septum in my left nostril) and I am just about to slip off into the quiet part of my brain before the snoring sounds. The bad thing is, I don't seem to remember those creative master pieces the next morning. Oh, can you imagine the great works of writing which are lost in the night air, the universe. All the story possibilities grabbed by the Stars and the Dancing Northern Lights-Aurora Borealis. Man, it sucks doesn't it. 

So is this the dying swan, the Crow Duck splashing, the Great White Pelican wasting away from Newcastle Disease Virus-NDV, or the dead skunk on the side of road being repeatedly run (rund is how it sounds) over by SUV's (in old days it would be a Station Wagon) going to the Beer Store, or country cabin. You never know. Me, I think I will try hold out a bit longer. 

I really shouldn't be disappointed at the audience or lack thereof, because not sure of what was expected to begin with. After a few years I did have hope some other Neechies would become interested, but it did not materialize. The Neechie audience has a host of reliable, respected places to listen to, to read and I'm just a regular Neechie. But still it has been fun, well most of the time. So if I continue to write it is mainly due to the one reader, the one who takes the time to respond, to forward and maybe they are entertained. 

Wrong Way of Thinking: Search for Missing Indigenous Women.

There our Indigenous Women buried in a land fill in Winnipeg Manitoba. They were killed and put in the big blue dumpsters. The big blue dumpsters are emptied into big garbage trucks. The garbage trucks drive up the big blue bins, lower the hydraulic forks and position them into the slots of the big blue The contents of the big blue bins are compacted under great pressure from hydraulic squeezers, moveable walls to make room for more contents of big blue bins. The garbage trucks then take the full hoppers and go to the local land fill and empty the contents. Big Caterpillar machines like a Compactor move the contents by flattening them and covering them with mud, earth. 

There are known to be four Indigenous Women currently buried (if you can call it buried) under a mountain of compacted trash, rotting produce, mud and earth. The current government body in the Province have made it an election issue. They have polled the voters and see their base of voters, old white people and rural voters, are against searching for the Indigenous Women's remains. I guess it is part of their value system. They are not citing the costs, but instead are saying it is a health hazard to dig around the land fill. Despite the analysis of various experts which proclaim it can be and has been done safely in other cases. For me, I think this, it has nothing to do with safety but it is part the costs, but mostly the lack of will. For this governmental political party they have no empathy, no regard, no care for the family, the community of First Nations.  For them it is a given, the Indigenous population is not worthy of their voice, their thoughts, their will.  I feel this is a wrong way of thinking. I will never understand people who begrudge others, hold others in distain, and have contempt just because those are not like them. What a way to live. In my mind, there are so many who have a skewed, ugly and wrong way of thinking. The way of thinking is not political, it is a societal thing; "we don't like them", essentially they (white society and conservative don't like us). 

We all have some ways of thinking which may be wrong. I have thoughts that are plain wrong, but still think that way, no matter if I know it is wrong.  So I guess it is the same with people who are not in favor of searching for the Remains. I was not overly surprised but sadden to see that only 60% of Indigenous people who were asked about the search, supported the search. So 40% of our own people did not agree with looking for the Women, in the garbage dump, aka the Land Fill. Now that is really wrong thinking. Do they not realize the significance of Women? How important Women are in our communities, our families and in the whole World? It goes beyond the question, "what if it was your mom, your sister, your daughter, your auntie, your cousin." It is a way of life, the importance we place on all living beings and the importance of the Life Givers. These 40% Indians are lost. They have become thinkers of dollars. They are putting dollars as important, even more important than the Lives of Beings, of Women. They see the Tree as a potential for dollars, the water as potential for dollars, the minerals only as what they can bring in dollars. Such a sad way and wrong way to think. I bet they think men, the male is more important than the female, the Women. 

Let's use this moose illustration put out by the Manitoba Department of Sustainable Development and the Nisichawayashik Cree Nation. It shows the importance of the cow moose and the bull moose. It demonstrates the long term affect of killing the female. Of course I'm not comparing the Indigenous Woman to the Cow Moose. It is a value illustration on Life Carrying Beings. 

To put it in Cultural Context of Indigenous thinking consider this: 

"A friend of mine from Hazelton British Columbia (home of the Gitxsan) told me about their Clan systems and how they are still very strong in their Bands (called Tribes in the U.S. and called communities elsewhere) over there. The Women carry the Clans. So they are very important in keeping their Cultural ancestry.  Over in the BC area the Indians there have a system in their governance, their Clans of using the Feast Hall (Give-Away system), you may know it as the Potlatch. If there is something horrible that happens, the Feast Hall would be the place to address the issue. Take for example if someone runs over a young girl while intoxicated-drunk.  Well how can there ever be peace with for the person and how can they make amends? You can never ever bring a life back or replace her life. In the Gitxsan the repercussions are even far reaching than immediate family and extended family (in the Native community our families are huge, not only by biological but by extended, not by blood). So the young girl was a carrier of Clan members. She is not able to carry Clan member because her life was taken.  How can you make up for that as well?  So the man can try the Feast Hall or the Potlatch, to try make some kind of peace and amends. The family of the Girl and the Clan do not have to accept his Potlatch attempts. And that is their choice ( I would most likely never accept apology but who knows). So the family may never ever accept the acts by the person, but the person may try every year to provide the Potlatch for the community and family."

The story from Ardythe of Hazelton shows us Indigenous thinking is significantly different from the wrong thinking of those who don't support the Landfill Search. They have a wrong way of thinking.

"She Had Limited Value"

 "Yeah, just write a cheque, hahahaha. Eleven thousand dollars, she was twenty-six anyway, she had limited value." This is what a police officer, Daniel Auderer, said to his colleague over the phone about a Woman being killed at a crosswalk by a cop doing 75 miles an hour in a 25 mile an hour zone. He is now defending his words by saying it was out of context, and he was making fun of the way a lawyer would portray what took place. 

Holy fork in a butchered wild boar of a twist. It is the way it is, we can not trust what we hear, what we see and what touch. There is always going to be the ugly which is painted into an abstract, impressionist version of what it is (what is the rule of ending with a stranded preposition). We see the ugly but the colouring provides us with a new, or skewed or creative picture of the situation. In this case the cop is really attempted to be Pablo Picasso and paint a version we can accept as being true, even if it is warped. 

I know a guy, actually a few guys, who lied all the time. They said "never admit, no matter what." This is exactly the culture of police. They do such horrible shit, it oozes from their breaths. In Vancouver, British Columbia the cops denied being told there was serial killer hunting Women. They painted a story of lies to cover up their bias, their racism, their laziness, their incompetence. It took years to finally catch a killer who was known. An inquiry to their mistakes was called to see what happened and why. The police hired a multitude of lawyers as paint coveralls. The inquiry was an exercise in police excuses, reasons and a game of hide and seek. Regardless of their denials, the Inquiry exposed them for what they are, racist lazy incompetents who have no care. In other words they are scumbags, arseholes. 

Seattle laughing cop   --        Jaahnavi Kandula 23

North American society has a real police problem. There are many psychopaths wearing badges and carrying guns. They have little or no empathy, are deceitful, aggressive and don't give a fuck about anyone. 

So what will happen to the laughing cop, he has already made up an excuse. If he is disciplined by the upper-cop-bosses, the guy will have his police mafia take up for him. Him and all his little cop buddies are going to paint a new fiction, where he comes out of it like a victim, maybe a hero for his fellow dicks. 

At the end of the day, there can be no redemption for this piece of decaying flesh. He is really an indication of how truly ugly the police are. So fuck him and anyone else who wears the badge and gun. Power mad psychos. 

What's In It For Me

Nozhis sanding cane. 

Can sent to NZ

I started making Diamond Willow about 8 years ago. I didn't know what the heck I was doing or what Diamond Willow looked like. It was a learning process. So now I find some pretty interesting looking sticks. Some have a lot of character in them. All I do is cut them, sand and stain them. Wish I had carving talent but nope, it is not there. Some of them have actually turned out quite nice. I kind of get proud of them. It makes feel good to make them. I have Noozhis help me with the sticks, either sanding, painting, adding some mementos and staining them. We gave out every stick we even made. Didn't make them for money. 

This weekend, I went and traded six walking sticks at Global Connections. Global Connections is one of those gift shops where goods are from "Global South" countries. Not to be mistaken with the Fair Trade stores. I thought they were, but find they are not. Anyways, I had twelve sticks and thought, "maybe I'll trade them for some stuff for my grandkids." So I contacted the owner of the store and went to show him the sticks. He didn't even really look at the sticks. Offered me $120 store credit. I took $140 store credit. So my grandkids can go get some items like rock jewelry and what ever. The owner's sticks are nice, made in China. Mine are filled with imperfections, bark still on in some places and cracks on the wood. So it was a fair trade. 

I didn't feel good after I left the store. Not that he treated me wrong, but I didn't get the same feeling I get when I give the sticks away. I admit, I bask in the gratitude of gift giving. It makes me feel good. The fact I made someone happy makes me feel damn good. Like, I changed the world good. Trading the sticks, all I got was regret. It was nothing but a monetary exchange. The fellow didn't see any joy in the sticks. So will not be selling or trading sticks again. There was an absence of joy. 

What's in it for me? Do we think like that? I don't know if it is a conscious thought for people. Me, I like stuff and that is for sure. I also like to give stuff. My in-laws are people like that, they are generous. My Dad, my brother Pancho, they always gave away stuff. If they did sell something, it was always at a low cost for the buyer. I remember I got a hat for my Dad on one of my travels. It was a P-cap (baseball style caps) with some beading on it. It was pretty nice. My Dad gave it to this guy in no time. I was upset but it was how my Dad was. Sure, like anyone he appreciated getting a gift but giving was just something he did. My sisters are like that as well (not all of them). My Mom would get upset with my brother Pancho because he would do the same thing as my Dad. Mom and Dad would give him something and then it was later given away or sold at a ridiculous low price. 

 It's the joy we bring and get by giving, that is what is in for me. 
Are we basically purchasing good feelings and good blessings. Is it a bad thing? I don't know. I do know not everyone appreciates a gift or a low cost for some things. There was this semi-famous Indigenous comic who didn't appreciate the cost of bead work goods.  The comic ordered some beadwork from a Woman. Apparently, there was an exchange of words between the two people about the beadwork. The comic blasted the Beader on social media, as the Beader had asked for a bit more cash for the items. The Beader realized the comic had no appreciation for the work. The comic stood firm on what the original cost was agreed to.  If there was any joy in the transaction it disappeared into resentments on both sides. 

What is in it for me?  It is about Joy. If there is no joy, then heck with it.  
 

I Like To Keep Stuff

 The only thing I enjoy more than drinking Earl Grey Tea, black and hot, is breathing air. Okay that's a little bit of a stretch but tea is a daily thing for me. So a tea pot is significant in my life. Or is it tea which is significant? 

My Teapot 

 This teapot was given to me years ago. My wife says it was a gift from my friend Sean. In any case I have used it for years. The teapot served me well. I would drink a pot of tea before noon, and drink two more pots by days end. I would not drink tea too late in the evening. Maybe by six in the afternoon, I would have my last cup for the day. Although there are occasions where I do have late night tea. Last week my grandkids were visiting with me and we were at the table. I picked up the teapot to pour myself a cup and didn't you know it, I dropped it on the table and it bounced onto the floor. The handle broke off. I was devastated. Still, it's only a teapot. Teapots are everywhere, just need to go to a thrift shop or one of those big box stores, like moldy-old-Wallies, aka Walton family billionaire (Walmart) shop.  So why does it bother me, that the teapot is broken. I still have it and am still considering what to do with it. Should I get the handle welded back on? I mean, I have a very nice new one, a metal one as well. It was a gift from my sister-in-law. I have used it sparingly so far. So why even keep the old pot. I was thinking I could hang it outside as a bird house. 

Why do we decide to keep stuff? We collect, we buy stuff, we hoard stuff and we cherish some stuff. It's just stuff, right? 

Some things we do cherish for sure. I have a rock in my Medicine Bundle. The rock is about the size of a baseball. It is black and white and elongated. Nothing extraordinary in it is a rock, picked up from the river banks of the Squamish area in British Columbia. The rock was picked up by my six year old daughter and given to me. What could I do, just toss it? No it means something, now. So somethings have meaning and we keep them. Somethings still have meaning and we get rid of it, go figure, eh? We lived in a nice house, the first house we purchased. We sold it after a few years. We have gone through many vehicles in our lives. I really like knives but I have given so many knives away as well. So there is no real pattern or rationale to what we keep and what we can discard.  We have given away plenty of Native art works, beaded items, carved items, walking sticks, clothes, and a few vehicles (not new of course but still good). I have literally taken off my coat and given it away. Haven't done the shoes off my feet, but know some people have done that. I have given shoes away as well numerous times and purchased shoes for folks.

It may sound like I'm just boasting about being generous, maybe I am a bit, but it's more about what we as a people are forgetting. As Indigenous folk we did not really acquire a lot of stuff. Colonialism, private ownership and capitalism sure did a good trick on us. Look at the way Settlers came here and just claimed everything, took everything and still want everything. It's was the best trick settlers - colonialists did to the world; to get people to be greedy and think it was alright. Oh, before I go on about keeping stuff and my tea pot, let me tell you about Cardinal Sin. No, not that sin; pride, greed, wrath, envy, lust, gluttony and sloth. It's the other sin, tea in a coffee pot. It is when someone uses a pot, kettle that has been used for coffee in the past and now uses it for tea. I can't stand this. What is worse, a lot of restaurants, Caterers make this horrible mistake. It is unforgiveable to a tea drinker. Can you taste it right now, the bitter taste of coffee mixed with the beauty of tea. Coffee, black of course, is no doubt a delight, but you don't mix sugar with potassium chloride. You just don't, unless you want things to explode. Mixing a coffee used vessel to carry tea is a sinking boat. Get off it right now. 

Getting back to keeping stuff. A neighbor of my daughters died a while back. She used to see him hanging his laundry outside. He kept to himself,  was old, his house was decrepit, his yard was disheveled, he hoarded things. Some of his habits were predicable and he would always take his clothes in after the day. My daughter phoned me one day and said she noticed he hadn't been taking his clothes in, she hadn't seen outside and his light was left on. She phoned non-emergency to ask for a wellness check on him. Fire department came, and went. Said "no answer at the door and they can't go in." Well it went on for a time, a couple of weeks and my daughter phoned again. One day the city came and was cleaning his yard and mowing the grass. They were asked if anything happened to the old man. They couldn't comment on him, but said "don't expect to be seeing him soon." Don't hoard stuff, you can't take it with you, or maybe you can? I know people who provide gifts to people when they die and it's for their journey. Who knows if we can take things when we go, not literally but maybe in some kind of symbolic or metaphysical way. 

You know who I think maybe on to something, it is those Minimalists. There are many benefits to those Minimalism living. I like stuff, so fuck those minimalists. If I can't have stuff, what is the point of giving it away. I like stuff and I enjoy giving it away. But maybe I can let some of those underwear I have, those ones with the weak elastics. 

Garth Brooks, The Dance Video? John Wayne WTF?

 I was zipping through channels and there was a Video of Garth Brooks speaking about his song the Dance: "At the opening of the music video, Brooks explains that the song is written with a double meaning - both as a love song about the end of a passionate relationship, and a story of someone dying because of something he believes in, after a moment of gory." In the video there are images of Lane Frost, a Bull Rider killed by a Bull. Keith Whitley, killed by drinking too much booze. 1998 Space Challenger Crew who were blown to nothing but burnt and decaying flesh (They did search and found remains of bodies). Martin Luther King Jr. who was shot and killed by a J.E. Ray (but could have been President Hover and his gang, so they say). John F. Kennedy was shot by Lee Harvey Oswald (we don't know who got him to do it). Finally, we have John Wayne, notorious white supremacist and actor who killed a million Indians on film. These are the folks Garth Brooks had in his video to show his double meaning of the end of a love and dying for something you lived for. 

I can see it, I mean Martin Luther King Jr. was working hard at a cause of civil rights but was murdered. He did indeed die for what he believed in. Lane was a Bull Rider, his work, and he died at work. John F Kennedy killed for being top boss. NASA crew, died at their job as well, blown up. Keith, he is the lyrics of a country song, dying drunk. John Wayne smoked his way to death, getting ate up with Cancer. I guess you can say, that him too, John Wayne died following his dream, of a heavy smoker. For me, the people in the video all resonate except for John, Keith, and the seven NASA crew. I mean sure it was awful for the crew but really who knew them before that? Were they icons? I guess, but name them and see if we don't have to look them up. Keith was a booze hound, and how many booze hounds die because of the drink. I think if that's the measurement, we should have had a real icon up there, like Bon Scott. Even Lane Frost, but there was a movie made about him, called 8 Seconds. I didn't bother to see it. Maybe I should have but it didn't excite me or interest me. Sure I like to watch a good Bull Ride just as much as the next person but I would rather watch a Korean crime drama. Yes, in terms of dying for your passion, the Seven NASA Crew did it. They should be in the video, because we will look them up on Google. But John Wayne? This is a stretch that even those Stretch Armstrong dolls wouldn't live up to.

 Since it was Garth Brooks' video, he could do the heck what he wanted and put whoever he wanted into his video. But - if it were me, I would go another way. Sure MLK Jr. is a good choice, same with JFK, (perhaps the Seven) it would play well for a certain crowd; the old, the Woke (maybe), and some of the USA chanters. Me, I would put Pound Make, Big Bear. These guys are dead for sure. Maybe they didn't die in a hail of bullets, but when they were alive they stood for something. So they would be good to show case their image in the Dance video. Another person I would put in the video is Elder Peter O'Chiese. There are many who believe Elder O'Chiese was instrumental in Traditional Ceremony being brought back to many Indigenous communities and people. This is significant because the Traditional belief structure and Indigenous identity suffered greatly under the crushing weight of colonialism, religious dogma, and main stream hatred. There are many people who could be in the Dance video if it were mine; Pauline Johnson-Tekohinwake, Sheila Watt-Cloutier, Kahentinetha Horn, Waneek Horn-Miller, Alanis Obomsawin, Tommy Prince, Graham Greene, but some of those folks are not dead. So there's that. 

And I don't think I would use the song the Dance. It is a nice song for sure, but there are many other better songs out there. So Long Marianne by Leonard Cohen fits pretty good for a love ending song. Now that I think about it, fuck Garth Brooks and his John Wayne. A better song would be Red Bull's Tearful Honour Song. Yeah, so let Garth have his Dance, I know who I would Dance with. How about you, who would be in your video of the Dance?  

My Dear Friends

 My Dear Friend: I remember the times I hurt you. There is no amount of remorse, regret and apologies which can make up for all the hurt, the unkind and mean words. The ugly gestures. I live a life to try and never repeat the ugliness but to make life as warm, kind and appreciative as can be. You are the best person to ever come into my life. 

My Dear Friend: Your friendship as a child has been wonderous. It is too bad I didn't appreciate how good life is with friends like you in it. 

My Dear Friend: I will come to your defense. You are covered. You are not alone. 

My Dear Friend: It was me, who let you down. I should have been a better friend. I should have stayed in touch. I should have reached out more.

My Dear Friend: You were mean to me. You were cruel to me. You hurt me. I forgave you. 

My Dear Friend: I was mean to you, I hurt you. I am truly sorry. 

My Dear Friend: You were there with knowledge. I took you for granted. I wasted your time. You had Teachings. I miss your Teachings, your words. 

My Dear Friend: I took you for granted. I regret my actions. 

My Dear Friend: Your laughter, your teasing, your jokes, your feelings shared.  I appreciate you. 

My Dear Friend: We didn't know each other for long, but knowing you was a good thing in my life. 

My Dear Friend: I think of you with a smile on my face. You are in a good place in my Heart. 

My Dear Friend: I miss you.

My Dear Friend: I do love you. 

My Dear Friend: There a number of you. Thank you.

Donovan 1985 - 2005 

I Ate A Puppy. I Helped Cook It.

Here's the thing, there is no doubt I have said ugly racist, misogynist, homophobic things in my life. Not only have I said horrible ugly things, but I have committed monstrous acts, property damage, theft, reckless behaviour and violence.  Heck, even eating a puppy was not beyond something I would have done. This is who I am, or at least who I was and it may not have been very long ago. The fact that my past has ugliness in it, is my fault. I wish I didn't do and say many a thing. It is those words, those actions which some folk only know us with. Some people will only know you as that mistake, that wrong choice. What can you do about it? It is truly the enlighten person who can say, "who gives a rat's ass," when considering other's view of you. I believe most people want to be liked. We want to have the approval of others to make us believe we are good people. The reality is, we have no business in other peoples' opinions. If they like us and view as a person worth knowing, that is awesome. If they don't like us, well, it might be hard to take but what are we going to do, give them money, bend over, so they like us? 

I have made the cardinal sin of giving a hoot about what people think about me. In a few cases it caused me to have real anxiety. I never knew anxiety was really a thing before. I heard people talk about anxiety and I just thought, "nervous?" I fell into the dark-deep-tunnel-of-despair some years ago. Since then, I have learned the meaning behind anxiety, anger, and depression. It is a place I don't recommend you to visit. However, the trip is most likely to be out of your control in any case. I have opinions, both in real time and on Earth and of course, opinions in the wired world of social media. With voicing, expressing and sharing your opinion, it is going to cause a reaction. Not all opinions receive a response, most and many are just ignored. There at times when you invest in the responses to your opinions and that is where it can be a mistake. It is there when we take in another person's opinion is when we can hurt ourselves. It is when we emotional invest in what other's think of us that is where we help cook the puppy. We start to fire, but they cook the puppy. We are then fed the puppy by listening to judgements, responses by them on our views and actions.  We listen, feel it and we then eat the puppy. 

I remember when I gave this inebriated guy a ride home, and he was says, "You're not an asshole. My mom says your an asshole." It was funny and kind of surprising. It was surprising because I don't believe I had really crossed paths with his Mom, but I knew who she was. Our community, aka Reserve, was not that huge. So I wondered what did I do to get her view on me.  Another time, my good buddy was telling me, "Hey, I mentioned your name at Anne's place and she really hates you. The hate was just visual. You could just see the hate to you." I was disappointed and felt bad, because I always thought I was cordial, if not nice to this Woman. That is the thing do, we don't have to always eat the puppy. They can feel how they want but you don't have to eat what they are cooking. There must be people we don't like as well. So what business  do we have trying to force a puppy meal on them. 

I have no business in people's opinion of me. Why is it my business to begin with? So you think I eat puppies and what if I did? What if I cooked it, while other's waited for it to be cooked, along with some corn, carrots in a dog stew? Would it be your business? Perhaps, but it's not my business if it is your business to be in my business, you dig? I have to understand if I'm going to open my mouth and spit things out, there is going to be someone out there who will want to feed me a puppy. But... it is my choice whether I eat the puppy or not. And believe me, I did eat puppy and I don't want to eat anymore. It tasted like wet dog. Since it was cooked with singed fur and that scorched taste wasn't appealing. 

So I think I will give the next cooked puppy a pass. If people want to feed me a puppy, good on them, but I don't feel it would be bad manners to not eat their puppy. 

Black Jesus Sent a Sign, and It Was a Hat Flip, and A Chair

 Damien Pickett is a co-Captain of a Riverboat in Montgomery, Alabama. Damien was trying to get a boat to move at a water dock, so the Riverboat, which was carrying 252 passengers could disembark. The passengers waited 45 minutes for the private boat to move. The owner(s) of the private boat did not want to move, instead they responded to the requests to movie with slurs, and obscene gestures. amien Pickett was adamant that the boat had to move and he expressed his frustration at the owners of the private boat.  It all came to ahead when one of the boat owners punched Damien Pickett. It was then the Hat-Flip occurred. Damien flipped his hat in the air and defended himself with punching back. It is important to note, Damien is a Black man, and the owners of the private boat are White folk. As Damien defended himself he was bombarded with a fury of White people punching him from all angles. Damien was pummeled with fists of fury from the White Hanks and Karen's.  From there you could see it: the Bonds of Slavery where being broken. Black people came running, came swimming to the aide of Damien. This was not going to be a scene from a Mandingo or Django movie, where the White Plantation owners get to whip their "n***rs." *Nope, there was a collective scream, "No more." Instead we see a page taken from the movie Exterminate All The Brutes.  Exterminate All The Brutes takes you on a journey of what Colonialism, Civilization, and Extermination was/is at the hands of White people. The crust of the movie is White Colonialism created the world mess and People are pushing back now. 

Image: IBYG_CRYPTO/Twitter

The fight, (brawl as the media has labeled it) between a group of White men, White Women, Black men, and Black Women has caused a media frenzy. Media is framing the brawl as a racial divide, a throwback to Civil Rights Struggles. Other's are saying it has nothing to do with race and it is a "one-off."  I have a huge penis and it is 14 inches long. Yeah, that's right, everyone can lie. The fight is a picture of how things are, for White people and Black people (and People of Color, People on the margins, Indigenous People, the Gay folk and their group). You see here, the White group, were exercising their privilege. They weren't going to move their god-damn boat as they have to right to do anything they want, as it was bestowed upon them at their birth, being white. Yes, being White has its privileges, like the feeling of "fuck off, I am white and you're just a nobody." 

People are charged about the fight, brawl, consequence and whatever you want to call it. The fight on the docks is a postcard from history. The relationship people have with each other is strained and rightfully so. White people carry the arrogance of superiority. It is seen everyday, with a White Police Officer kneeling on the neck of a Blackman, all the while knowing he is being watched as he slowly, painfully chokes the life out of the Blackman. It is the sitting Supreme Court Judge who is the "House-Tom" for the great white masters. It is the White President who can boldly call a whole continent filled with riches of History, Cultures, Treasures, People, and call it a "shit-hole." It is the white man who can shoot up a car filled with Black youth, for playing music and think he is in the right. It is the actor who can dress up in Black face at a Gala event because he thinks he has the privilege due to his Black Girl friend (at the time). 

Call the fight what you will, a brawl, a loving embrace, a cross burning, a toilet being overturned or a Dancing with the Stars. The thing is, it is a paradigm of relations between White colonialism, civilization and extermination, or as we know it, White Privilege. The fight had White people running to their bathrooms in a collective heap of bowel explosions; they were shitting themselves. The Boat-dock arse-kicking of White people is a wake-up. They (white folk) witnessed the boiled egg of white supremacy being cracked by a black hand. They see, in video, the challenge to their white privilege, and it is making them clutch their pearls and Rolexes (Oops, it should be Iphones and Apple Watches now). The fear is there, but still so is their arrogance of dominance. 

The Flip of the Hat was a sign, it was the bold middle finger to the status quo of society. Damien said it for everyone, "Fuck you and your little red wagon." The White Chair used to bash White heads was the exclamation point on the birthday cake of the best surprise party given this year. 

Who You See Here, What You Hear Here, Let It Stay Here

I was doing a night shift at an Adult Treatment Centre (for Alcoholics) when I was 20 years old. I didn't have much to do, just walk around the building as everyone slept. It was an old building with two floors and a basement. It was about 6 in the morning and I was looking out the window of the second floor. The south view was of a big field and the Reserve Townsite across the highway. I saw two people walking towards the Centre from the Townsite and they were holding hands. As they got closer I knew it was the cook, a very nice lady who was always nice to me. The man she was walking with was a friend of my Dad's. He was a married man with a family. So it was interesting and funny to me. I was young and didn't really see "older people" as being sexually active, never mind fooling around. Both of the people are now deceased and I may have not followed the slogan of, who you see here, let it stay here. I may have told a few people about what I saw. In my defense, I am a gossip bag and relatively stupid. 

I was thinking about the whole Sinead O'Connor dying at 56 years old thing. The reason it resonated with me is for a couple of reasons: one was her song Nothing Compares to You was released at a time when my wife and I were young and were only a few years into our relationship. The other reason is, Sinead didn't adhere to the whole "what you hear, let it stay here" law. She went public with the Pope and how his Christian Soldiers were raping kids at their pleasure. It was a "State Secret" and no one was to speak publicly about all that "fucking, sucking and let the good times roll" done by the Jesus's team. Of course for the Indian population it was an open secret. We weren't really suppose to acknowledge it. We were to keep it like how you keep your sins to yourself. Except only to be stated in a dark closed closet, where a small window is open and you tell it to another person sitting in the dark with a cloak on. Only then can you say it. With Sinead, her little letting it spill out about all the kids being used as a smorgasbord of sexual desserts by the Pope's boys, caused a roar, an uproar actually. People vomited at the sight of their Pope being ripped in half on live television. Sinead was quickly burnt at the stake. Not literally but pretty close to it. Her professional career, her personal life was actively ruined by Jesus and the good folk of the Cross. All because she did not adhere to what you see here, what you hear here, let it stay here. 

The amount of secrets people are expected to keep is staggering. We live in a world where we are demanded to keep secrets: signing non-disclosure agreements, following privacy laws, and societal norms of denouncing the whistle-blower, the snitch and the rat. We quickly adopt the negative terms for people who expose information, for people who dare to share what they see and hear. We've seen it with people who have exposed the crimes of government, the bad things the military does. Secrets are normal and some are needed, there is no doubt. When to say what you see or hear can be clear as a sunny mid-day in the Prairies or as dark as when you are sitting in the outdoor-shitter at midnight. We just have to trust our own decision, I guess, like when Father Arthur Masse was buggering the young girls in our Reserve. We just put our collective hands over our eyes, our mouths and Masse continued with his desires of the flesh, as he would have known from Galatians, 5:17-21. 

Indigenous communities have been taught to keep secrets. It went against their whole societal ways of living. The little dark closet with the man in a cloak was forced upon them. Confessional Booth, Boxes were the tool of the Church, a tool to keep secrets (and provide verbal porn reading for the Priests).  We Indians now live with keeping secrets as the default. Secrets have allowed all sorts of mold, corruption, abuse, violence, and predators to evolve. The Church was ripe with jackals, hounds and whores with crosses around their necks, and nice gold rings with red gems in the middle: "Enter the confessional booth, a.k.a. the dark box, a piece of furniture designed by Cardinal Charles Borromeo, with a grille and curtain to separate the priest from the penitent. “The box was meant to bring an end to the scandal of sexual solicitation,” writes Cornwell, but tragically it only increased the incidences. “The Borromeo box, for all its physical barriers, still allowed for whispered pillow talk in the dark: the penitent’s voice and breath up close to the confessor’s ear. Many married woman, suffering from domestic and marital frustrations, became addicted to the atmosphere of crepuscular intimacy.”  Can you hear the priest saying, "you dirty dirty whore, tell me more." 

We went from community openness to a closed circle, a dysfunctional society. Well, things are once again changing, the community Circles are becoming a source of openness and transparency. We go into Sharing Circles, speaking to the Creator in front of witnesses. We share without fear inside the Sweat Lodge Ceremony, the Sundance and other Ceremonial Gatherings. We don't rely on the sneaky cloaked man in a dark closet telling us we are forgiven as long as we go do a few silent prayers. Still we have a long way to go. Many of our Chiefs and Councils live with the secrets of what they do in their lofty chambers of decision making. As well the Indigenous lobby groups, like the Assembly of First Nations, Manitoba Metis Federation, et al., are making deals which affect the lowly Reserve dweller, Indigenous Joe and Sarah. Indian People in the political arena getting rich off the financial minnows they get from the Big Sharks, governments, resource companies and other predators. 

Privacy laws can protect the innocent for sure, but those same laws protect the Windigos, the sexual demons, poisonous flies, greedy skunks and wily coyotes. So our communities need to embrace the open voice. Even if it is hard to hear or to see. I would rather our own community draws open the curtains, rather than some government entity, law enforcement Stormtrooper banging on the community door (Financial Transparency Act). I expect to see more Indian leaders taking off their cloaks and exposing pure nakedness of information to the people. 

Norval Morrisseau: Windigo 

And I don't really believe the slogan, "Who you see here, what you hear here, Let it stay here" is as beneficial as Alcohol Anonymous (AA) promotes. Simply because of all the secrecy in AA, there is no way to measure or see the results of success with AA. It has become modern folklore as the only way to sobriety success.  But who in the hell knows. 

Holy Christ, Winnipeg Hero Kyle Klochko Is An Arsehole

Well it is quite a thing to be living in Winnipeg, Manitoba. A couple of bodies, (more for sure) Native Women are buried in the city's landfill, the garbage dump. A serial killer Jeremy Skibicki has been butchering Indian Women and using the big metal garbage bins to trash the Women. So it is known there are least three dead Women in the landfill and perhaps more. Skibicki killed three Indian Women, where two have been identified but the third is not identified. It is sad but Indigenous Women are murdered and go missing in Canada (and the United States) regularly. The police knew the Women were trashed in the land fill, the garbage dump but didn't reveal it, until they had charged Skibicki. It is understandable they didn't want to mess up the case against him, I guess. Skibicki is one of those Nazi-loving, Women-hating, Racist monsters.

Jeremy Skibicki - Indigenous Women Killer 

I noticed being labeled a racist has no real meaning any more. If you are labeled misogynist, or being anti-semitic, or homophobic, then it might have some consequence of damnation. Racism is almost accepted in North America as part of society. So knowing you are a racist, you carry it like a gold trophy and it seems to be rewarded. Winnipeg once carried the Racism torch as being the most racist city in  Canada. A label they earned with ease, but Thunder Bay came in heavy to take the crown. Thunder Bay saw Winnipeg being glorified in the Maclean's magazine article and said "hold my beer." Thunder Bay went on to stomp the Indigenous people and have taken over the banner of being the most racist. A difficult task because of all the competition from White Supremacy provinces, like Alberta, Saskatchewan and the Maritimes where anti-Indigenous sentiment soars like a white dove. The anti-Black sentiment is also high in Canada, but Quebec and Ontario carry top-dog ribbon when it comes to hate on Blacks. 

Manitoba was asked to search the landfill, the garbage dump for the Indigenous Women's bodies. Canada, Manitoba and the City of Winnipeg choked on their perogies and cabbage rolls before saying "ah it's too expensive." What did the daughters, sisters, moms of the Indigenous people do, when they heard the news of "too fucking expensive?' They raised their voices, moved their feet over to the landfill roads so they could be seen. What did the average Winnipegger do? They (media included) spat garbage on the Women through social media. One White man of Winnipeg, took it a bit further, he literally loaded the back of his truck with mud and took it to dump on a MMIW image at the dump. The MMIW image was painted on the road, where Kyle Klochko went to dump his garbage on the mural. Kyle screamed at the folks at the land fill road. He mocked them about their Women being dead. It seems people don't like that kind of thing, so people went to visit Kyle at his house. Police came to look after Kyle. The media news crews came and did stories on Kyle being victimized. Winnipeggers got teeth gashing mad at the people who went to Kyles, calling them angry Mobs. The news did an positive interview with Kyle ensuring he was to martyred for his heroic stance against those "Merciless Indian Savages." 

The Premier of Manitoba has no compassion for the Indigenous people. Recent polls suggest majority of Winnipeggers do not want to spend cash on searching the land fills for the Women. I guess Indigenous Women don't matter. It is quite funny, while there is a push for people to do search landfills for metals. There is an increasing call for land fill searching because of the "precious metals" found in amongst the garbage and  the filth. Land fill searching is actually called treasure hunting. Looking for Indigenous remains is of no value to main stream society. It is really weird what they (society) consider value  in looking in the dumps? A white man was uncharacteristically dumped in an Ontario land fill. Something you really don't hear about.  Guess what happened? That is right, they took searching the dump just like they were searching for hidden treasures. It is of no coincidence that individual was a man and was white. Ah yes there is the treasure. They could use the treasure hunting for metals and do search for remains at the same time, maybe that would gain public interest. 

Do you understand why people are so upset about the whole not searching for the Women and why Kyle touched a nerve or two? There is a crisis in Canada, and the United States. Indigenous Women are being taken, being killed and no one cares. Only the Indigenous people care about the Women being taken and in cases slaughtered. There were voices, many voices speaking of this phenomenon, Missing Murdered Indigenous Women (MMIW). The act by Kyle was not only insulting, disrespectful, and hateful but it was really hurtful. We are speaking about lives of Women. Women who are sisters, daughters, moms, aunties, and cousins to all of us Indians.  Kyle is the symbol of Canada and how it feels about the Indigenous people. Kyle brought it out in full display, with the knowledge he would be carried around on the shoulders of his peers and his fellow Canadians. He had no worry of condemnation, his group would rally for him. Kyle not only shit on the three missing Indigenous Women at the Winnipeg garbage dump, he dumped shit on every single Indigenous person in Canada. He showed the world what Canada thinks about Indian Women. The resounding "no" by the governments and the main stream population only signifies the deep loathing against the Indigenous people. Kyle's actions and his visceral hatred was full on display and it resonated in everyone. For the main stream population it was "yeah, speak from your heart Kyle," and to the Indigenous folk, it is "their hate has poisoned their hearts, they don't see us as people." 

So you know what I say, Fuck you Kyle, Fuck you Manitoba Premier, Fuck you Winnipeg Mayor, and fuck you too, Canada and may Jeremy Skibicki be given the stick and never sleep. 

What's in a Name.

Giving a name to your baby is a huge responsibility. They have to carry the moniker for their entire lives. Growing up with the name, where it can be twisted, abbreviated, shortened, or amended by their peers and the relatives. I think about this now and kind of laugh, my name is Steve. Actually, on my birth certificate it is spelled Stephen, like in the Bible. In elementary school, when the teacher did attendance, she or he would call out the names of the kids in class. I remember the teacher reading out my name and saying Stefan. The outburst of laughter can be still heard in my ears, my face gets hot, and my head bows down in embarrassment and shame. The teacher pronounced as it were a French name, Ste-fan. My friend, Smiley, was relentless with his teasing. When he found out how my name was spelled, Stephen, he would call me Step, Hen. I laugh now but I still don't like the name Stephen, like in the Bible (who was stoned to death) and like the horrible disreputable Stephen Harper (put a plastic bag over my head now). The strange thing is my Mom never, ever wrote my name as Stephen or called me that. I never knew it was how my name was spelled. My Mom spelled it Steve. Like Steve not in the bible, but like Steve Irwin, one of the greatest Steve's who has walked this great Earth. Or even like Steve McQueen, and the great Steve Buscemi, both awesome in their own ways. 

I am not sure how the spelling of my name was written the way it is. I know the Baptism Certificates were filled out by the Nuns, so maybe that had something to do with it? My Mom and Dad are dead so I never even thought about asking them. So the mystery of my name will remain for all time to come. When they do a documentary about my exploits or TMZ (maggots) report their scuzz reporting of my demise, they will spell it like in the Bible, Step-hen. But don't fret, my family knows what my true calling is and how I came to be. 

I can't remember why I even broached the name thing. I think it was because of something, but what it was, I don't know. I just know it was not about my name at all. It might have to do with getting the Indian Name or as some call it, the Spirit Name.  It is a good thing to have an Indian name for sure. 

Speaking of me, a friend of mine died yesterday. He went to sleep on his couch and never woke up. It is really sad. This man was bigger than life, a generous, kind and really loud in a good way. The wife and I were talking about our friend. I said, but not in a callus way, that he went in the best way possible, go to sleep, not suffer and just not get up. I told my wife that is how I want to go, and if she could somehow make that happen. She said she will do her best. 

Getting or bestowing an "Indian name" to your child, is one of the best things you can do as a parent. I am speaking of Natives here, not non-Natives and getting their names. One of the many things, the "powers-to-be" did when they interacted with Indigenous folk, was to rename them. Not only their whole community name (thus Indians) but their actually individual names as well. Can you imagine, how crazy that is. I bet they would have named Crazy Horse, Chester if they had the chance. The Leader of our community who signed Treaty One was named Kakekapenais (Bird Forever). His named was later changed by government and his descendants now have the last name of Mann. This practice of renaming people was done everywhere. Who knows how things would have been if those damn pesky Church folk and their government cousins, would have just let people be. I mean who knows, my name might have been "Gone with the Wind" or something cool like that. Instead it's Steve. Actually Steve is a pretty cool name but it's no Hole-In-The-Day. We have witnessed some people change their names in public, lot of famous folk, like  Muhamad Ali. He called his old name a "slave name." 

You know what is awesome? People are reclaiming the right to name themselves and their kiddies, with Indian names. Not sure if it is right to call it Indian Names as this is kind of weird and a mistaken label for who we are, so, the people are getting Anishinaabe names (If I was speaking out loud with people around, someone would go, Ah-ho). There was Indian Woman who wanted to get an Indian name, so she went see an Elder who did Naming Ceremony. She received the name Buffalo Woman. She didn't like being referred to as a Buffalo. She decided to go to another Ceremony person for a new Indian name. She received the name, Brown Buffalo Woman. There you have it, What's in a name. 

I Never Hugged My Mom

I have watched this film "Juste la fin du monde" a few times. Not sure why I watch it, it is not an enjoyable film. There are a couple of actors I recognize, Vincent Cassel and Marion Cotillard. Cotillard, I recognize from the film Inception.  Cotillard had a small role but pivotal and it is the same thing in this movie as well. Cassel was a hit man in the Jason Bourne movie. This film, Juste la fin du monde, is about a gay man who comes home to his Mom, sister and brother, to tell them he is dying. The family dynamics is filled with ugliness, resentment and no compassion. The film just makes me sad. I am not sure why I watched it. Maybe for the feelings it draws out?

I grew up knowing an alcoholic father, my Dad. It bothered me. I didn't like him as a result. I wondered how could a strong man, like my Dad, be so weak when it come to the drink. I hated it, that feeling of not liking my Dad. I adored my Dad, I loved him. My Mom in my eyes was a saint. We all say that about our Moms. In the movie, there is a scene with the young man, who is being talked to by his mom. At the end of the scene, despite the awkwardness of the mom's words, she hugs him and he hugs her back. That scene of the man hugging his mom, had me thinking. I never did hug my mom, even when she was dying of cancer. By the way, the English translation for the film title is "It's only the end of the world." It occurred to me as I was thinking of my Mom and how, for us, touching was not a thing our family did. As I see it now, and hear about it, not many families who grew up with the Indian Residential School experience, hugged each other as well. That is weird and funny. Since the Christian experience is one of love, charity and all the good stuff. 

The thing about it not hugging my Mom, my Dad or my Siblings, it is normal. It is not normal to hug them, never mind tell anyone you love them. But we are changing, I hug, I tell people I love them. It's not weird to hug or tell people you love them. I say it with my wife, my kids, grandkids and my nephews and nieces, it is great. I guess what I used to think about the hug, was it was intimate. To be intimate with your Dad or Mom was not right, gross a sin-like thing. Not sure how the message came to be in my brain, but it took up room in there, just saying "it's forbidden." 

In the movie, you hope there is a chance for some kind of good moment. Sadly the movie plot doesn't take you there, the hero just leaves the home without ever telling his family, he is going to go die. The film leaves you thinking about the future and how it must have been for the family. For me the hero in this story, my story, not that movie, but my movie, there is a twist, a good twist, a good feeling to the movie moment. It was about 25 years ago. I went to my friend David Blacksmith and his Teacher, the Elder Joe Esquash's Sundance Ceremony. It was at this Sundance where I fulfilled my personal obligation to drag Buffalo Skulls and give flesh offerings. I gave 35 flesh offerings, although very small cuts and dragged a number of skulls, maybe four skulls. It was after the cutting of my arms and the dragging of skulls where I hugged my wife and my Mom and Dad were there as well. I hugged my Mom and told her I loved her. This was the very first and last time I hugged my Mom. Granted, I was delirious and overcome with the emotions of sacrifice and ceremony, but I still count it as a win. It took an archaic, old Native ritual, once against the law, to provide me the opportunity to show, to say "I love you, Mom." 

So Scared, So I Can Kill

 Andrew Lester is an old White guy who shot a 16 year old boy in the head and then again as the boy lay on the ground.  The teenager, Ralph Yarl, rang the doorbell  to pick up his younger siblings. Too bad for Ralph he rang the door bell of an aging racist. I would bet you money, this old guy is a Christian. You know those Christians, who practice, "love thy neighbour?" So the teenager was shot for being Black. The old guy took a while to answer his doorbell, I guess he was getting his gun, he opened the door, told the teenager, "don't come back around here," and than he shot the boy. Just like that. In one of his statements he (Andrew Lester) was "scared to death." Ralph's crime, was he went to the wrong house to pick up his siblings. 

The "feared for my life," is a police mantra for using deadly force against Black people and People of Colour. The White population has seen how successful the "fear for my life" cry has become. Police can kill without any consequence when they scream, "stop resisting, I fear for my life." White people use the phrase as a "get out of jail free card."  White Women add their tears to the phrase and it works as the perfect weapon against scrutiny of their actions. Those Women's tears, along with a fair complexion, will certainly mean extreme trouble for a Black person. There are many examples of White Women's tears as the lit dynamite to an explosion, where a life is taken. You only have to mention Emmett Till and many people know of the ugliness of White Women and their tears. Society does not find anything wrong with killing Black people and People of Colour. I predict a not guilty verdict for the Old Man with the criminal charges he may receive. When he was first at the police station after shooting an armed teenager, the cops let him go home with no charges. He said he was so scared, the kid was Black and that is good enough for any cop. 

I guess the Black community didn't like it when another White Guy was let go, so they, the Black people voiced their disappointment. The Kansas City Mayor Lucas was made to see the situation didn't look good: "There is no way you can see fear when you look at the kid - if you really look at him, and not just the color of his skin. There is now way you can see fear." said Ralph's Aunt. Mayor Lucas also agreed: "To pretend that race is no a part of this whole situation would be to have your head in the sand. This boy was shot because he was existing while Black." In a similar but different situation, a White guy shot at a car that mistakenly went down his driveway. The people in the car started to turn around but the guy got up from his porch and shot at the car, twice, killing a 20 year old woman. The difference in this situation was the girl is white. No being released after two hours for this man. Talk is the shooter is going to face a long prison term. Just sad and awful situation for the family and friends of the young woman. The thing is the white guy shooter can't use the "so scared, I had to kill," rationale. 

The seeing Blacks and People of Colour as menacing is a great cloak for White People to shield themselves with. I compare it to the cloak of Priests, who are child predators but immune to any consequence, just because of the collar and black suit, or the Nun's Habit. The cloak can not only protects you from racism, it is also used by the sexual predator, the political prostitute and other criminals.  It is so successful even People Of Colour have started to use the "so scared, so I killed" excuse. Maybe not to kill but using the "so scared" to gain some type of advantage. 

In Manitoba the opposition political party is lead by a Neechie, an Anishinaabe fellow named Wab Kinew. Speaking of Indians, did you every hear the phrase, "tough Indian?" Well I guess that would be Mr. Kinew (Kinew is Ojibwe for Eagle - Golden Eagle) and tough Indian is redundant. Mr Kinew is in the news because a former professional football offensive lineman and Member of Provincial Govenrment, Obby Khan, said he "was swore at, shoved" and held in a hard handshake by Mr. Kinew. Mr. Khan used his time in Question Period to say how scared his was; "The leader of the Opposition pulled me in and said 'you piece of shit. How dare you politicize this fucking event. What you did is fucking wrong,' Khan, the minister for sport, culture and heritage, told the legislature chamber later in the afternoon. "I'm emotionally shaken by this. I wasn't expecting that -- intimidation attempts, insulting language and ... when we left the handshake, there was a shove in the stomach." Khan is taking a tried and true method of White society, which is stroke up some fear about the Person of Colour, in this case the Indian guy. It is quite comical in how it appears; this six-foot-four ex-football player crying about the wild Indian. 

Making People of Colour and Black people out as scary is a staple of society. In the movies, in jokes, in fiction writing and in the systems of government,  (Justice, Social policies, Politics) the scary person exists and that person is Black, is Indian, and is Latino. If you are Indian, Black, a Person of Colour, in someone's world you are so scary. So scary they might decide to kill you, figuratively and/or literally. 

Cherokee Fiddle, cause Good Whiskey Never Let Him Lose His Place

 Urban Cowboy is a 1980 movie with a soundtrack steeped in western songs that had great Redneck lines like, "single bars and good time lovers were never true, telling those sweet lies and losing again." The song that really got my attention and one that I liked but over time have become conflicted about, is called Cherokee Fiddle song by Johnny Lee. Johnny Lee if that's not a good old Redneck sodbuster name, just call me Billy Bob Thornton. 

You see, I am a fan of most things Indian. I go to purple in the mood ring colours when I see an Indian hockey player in the National Hockey League, a MMA fighter in the UFC, a football player in the NFL (I spelled out the NHL, because most people don't know hockey), an Indian actor and songs naming Indians. So when I hear songs like Seminole Wind, Come and Get your Love, it's exciting for me. So to hear Cherokee fiddle it made me happy, and not only that, the song is really catchy. The Rosemary Butler back up just complimenting Johnny Lee's lines, "when you smell smoke and the cinder, just slick back your hair," takes the song to a higher plane. Remember I was in just 20 years old when the song came out, I had been to my first Sweat Lodge Ceremony at that age. My Indian-ness was never in question but I didn't have a deep philosophical view of things, I just knew and everyone around me was Indian. Those who were not Indian were not family or worthy of exploration. I know that was arrogant, stupid and limited my knowledge. I didn't ponder too deeply the story and lines in the Cherokee Fiddle song. Well later on, the song did kind of bother me, same thing with the song by Tom T. Hall, Old Dogs, Children and Watermelon Wine. Old Dogs, Children and Watermelon has such a nice melody and you naturally dream of good times but with a little melancholy. 

I wondered if Tom T. Hall was being racist, even though there are no racist lines but the old trope of the Black gentlemen associated with watermelon, does make you cringe somewhat. The line "Women think about they-selves, when menfolk ain't around" is a bit of old style attitudes. So you kind of don't feel all that good about the song after a few years. Well that's what I thought about Cherokee Fiddle and the images portrayed in the song. Michael Martin Murphey wrote the song and he says it was about "an Old Man he saw playing fiddler at a train station one time." Wikipedia has the story of the fiddler player who is actually a Choctaw Indian, named Dean Kirk.  When diving into the lyrics of the song, it doesn't paint a very good picture about the Cherokee fiddler player and his fate. 

The story about the fiddle player is that he "put on a good show,"  "played for the whiskey," and was "not seen again," and "no one missed him." It paints a story deeper than an Indian drinking whiskey but of a people gone forever and no one ever to miss them. "With Indians dressing up as cowboys, cowboys putting on feathers and turquoise on, the fools playing fiddle have gone, folks never going to miss them and the Cherokee fiddle (people) gone forever." The song, the tune is very catchy and it will have you drawn in, but at the end of it, it is a very sad story, even an ugly one. So true of many stories when it comes to the Indian when the narrative is from the point of view by white folk. 

End of the Trail: James Fraser Artist

Some songs to me, are like the sculpture, End of the Trail by James Earle Fraser, they just don't feel right. The End of the Trail is a great work of art but the depiction is just ugly. When I see this Indian, he is at the end of his rope, a beaten man, a person giving up, finished. This is not who Indians are in any way imaginable. This is a distorted picture. And just like the song Cherokee fiddle, says of an entity gone forever where no one missed them at all, it is just distorted images of Indians wanting to be Cowboys and White folks playing Indians, it is wrong. 

Well nope, no way, the Indigenous folk are not dying, not giving up, and not going anywhere. 

First Nations, the Roma of Canada

 Indigenous Women and Indigenous men, are not well respected or even liked in Canada. Same could be said for Indigenous people in the United States, and Australia. The dislike is driven by the Settlers, the decedents of colonial nations, who now benefit from the country they invaded. It is easy to understand the dislike and in many cases the settlers have towards the Indigenous people; Indigenous people are physical reminders of how Settlers failed in killing them off, and how they stole their land. No one can look at the harm they have done and feel good about it. The result, the Settlers turn their feelings into hatred towards the Indigenous people. I get that and can understand, even if I don't like it. The Settler can see the power held by Indigenous peoples. The thing that does bother me quite a bit, is the same attitudes towards Indigenous shown by the Settler population is now driven by the recent immigrant population. I mean what the heck? New comers into Canada have picked up the Settler's hatred of Indigenous people, the Canadian Indian. The Settlers have systemic structures in place which aids them in perpetuating their white supremacist attitudes and beliefs, so why do new comers adopt the same type of attitudes? 

I know the attitude towards Indigenous people, by new arrivals.  I have heard it directly from the mouths of new comers to Canada. In each instance of speaking with the new comers, they were told not to associate with Indians. This warning came from people in their own community circles; new comers to Canada. You think it would be some conspiracy for people not to engage or develop relationships with Indians of Canada. What benefit comes from not getting to know the Indigenous people? 

I was driving in my 2015 Civic with my IPOD plugged in to the stereo and the Gypsy Kings' song, Bem Bem Maria played. A good song, not one of their best but good still. This took my thoughts to my friend Sorin. I used to tease him about being a Gypsy because he is from Romania and Gypsy's are Roma, so they must be Romanian. He would tell me, "no they are Indians," Indians from India. You see, the Gypsy's have a certain reputation in Europe and they are not well received. My friend was saying that the Europeans (eastern) laugh at Canada and the United States for their recent encounters with Gypsy's, "They don't know the Gypsy's." There are stories of some EU countries, mostly the Western European countries flying planes full of Roma back to Eastern European countries, despite the EU travel agreement. The overall feelings towards Gypsy's, the Roma as they call themselves, are not positive. They have a reputation of being not-trust worthy and a drain on the local economy, you should stay away from them.  Where have I heard this before? 

The Roma, have been disliked for a very long time: "...a key factor shaping the attitudes of Europeans was the itinerant lifestyle so many Romani families practiced during those times. They moved from locale to locale, which engendered an aura of mystery and suspicion about them. Ugly stereotypes formed already in the late medieval/early modern period. "Gypsies" were considered dirty, deceitful, too lazy to work, and prone to steal." This overall sentiment on the Roma is what the Indians in Canada deal with as well. People just have a skewed view of the Indian. The view is amplified by media, the history, the system and by word of mouth. 

Can you imagine coming from a different country, community, a world you all you know is that "those people are no good." What a restriction to place on yourself. I can see it though. I mean look at how the world views the men of India. The men of India place no value on the Women of their country. Women are gang raped, (One Woman reported a rape every 15 minutes on average in India in 2018, according to government...underlining its dismal reputation as one of the worst places in the world to be female.)   women are beaten by the brothers/fathers. Women are outcasts when the husband divorces them. Women have acid thrown in their face if they say reject men. So how do we expect them to treat the Indigenous Women in Canada, when they have no value to their own women, and our Women, our People are considered no good? It is a common notion among Indigenous communities that the Women are being attacked by the new comers. The new comers who have made a big impact in the transport industry; taxis and big trucks/semi-trailers. People believe there is a correlation between the lack of respect of Women in general and the access to women via transport industry. This of course is just a point of view by a community which is under attack. So forgive them if the view may distorted. The point here is the message out there does impact how we see a community, a people. 

So how do we change the view, by word of mouth, or through the media? No one really trusts the media, an industry owned by the rich and only interested in numbers, which means cash. Word of mouth with a group of Settlers who want the Indian to disappear, it's not going to happen. Word of mouth with new comers, who are sold the message not to talk to those people who are not good? Like the Roma, there is a set view of them and of us, and it is not going to change. 

German Photograph of Family of Roma, Marseilles, France, November 1942. Gift of Mrs. Patty Millett, from the Collection of The National WWII Museum, 2011.403.132.

Treaty 9 Indigenous men at Fort Hope in Ontario, 1905. (Dept. of Indian and Northern Affairs / Library and Archives Canada)