Now then, back in the ‘70s everyone (all the cool, hip, white kids anyway) wanted to be Indian. At the very least, they wanted to be able to claim they were part Indian (ya know, they’re great-great-great-great-grandmother was half Cherokee or some such). There was big-ass romanticism of Indian culture. You know, swoon they’re so in tune with nature, so spiritual swoon. They're all strong, fierce yet gentle and fair warriors, swoon.
As filmmaker Chris Eyre (Cheyenne/Arapaho) has said:
It's a literally romantic notion to see Native people dying.
Yup, nothing sexier than a romantic, noble death, especially one with long flowing locks clothed in nothing but a loin cloth. SWOON!
Me? At the scary age of 12, learning that Indians, unlike elves and fairies, were actually REAL was amazing. I read Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee. It took forEVER to get through (a heavy and horrifying read for a 12 year old). Fellow students gave me shit “I can’t believe you haven’t finished that yet. You’re just carrying it around to look cool.” Hah, no.
Did I want to “be an Indian.” No, I wanted to be of 100% Italian descent instead of just half. If my father’s famiglia had emigrated from, fer instance, Catania instead of Belfast, Killorglin and the Black Forest, I’d have beautiful olive toned skin, happier, more demonstrably loving parents, a way cooler last name and we wouldn’t be moving every damned year. Right? RIGHT?!!! Yeah, not so much.To my mind, being your basic Euro-mutt was def not sexy or hip.
In any case, fast forward to moi at 30. I figured it was time to give back to the community around me. Time to volunteer for some worthy cause. My first choice was to work at a women’s shelter – help women escaping abusive situations. I knew/know that dangerous relationships are complicated. Not all victims have sufficient strength or drive to get out and stay out. I knew myself well enough to foresee unhelpful, raging asswipian behavior, on my part, every time a woman, especially one with kiddles, chose to return to her cretinous bastard spouse or beau. It was best for all that I ixnay shelter work.
Our mission is to assist Native American residents with basic needs and educational expenses; to provide opportunities for cultural and spiritual enrichment; and to increase public understanding and awareness about authentic Native American history and culture. (source)
John was the Executive Director of the Massachusetts Commission on Indian Affairs and the Supreme Sachem of the Wampanoag Nation. Burne was his amazingly brilliant, kind wife (now widow) and the prime mover behind the MCNAA.I made clear that I wasn't Native, I just wanted to help in any way I could. They let me in. I stuffed envelopes, worked the gate or in the kitchen at powwows and (this one’s hilarious) ended up being sort of a shield for Burne at powwows. EVERYone wanted to talk with the beautiful Indian lady, Slow Turtle’s (OH swoon) wife and partner in all things.
Shield, you say? What? ¿Que? Eh, we’d walk the powwow grounds, collect fees from vendors, she’d chat with them and the swooning guests while I silently (ominously?) stood by. After a bit, I’d “diplomatically” cut off the convo saying something like “Burne, we’re due back in the kitchen now. Autaquay needs you.”
In my 40s (when I became a regular at MGH’s OR) I faded out of the volunteer corps. Then, in my 50s, I was caring for/hovering over The Amazing Bob.
Two things occurred to me after I found the photos yesterday.
- I’d like to go to a powwow because I KNOW I’d be able to feel the music of the drum and that’d be 5,000,000,000 kinds of awesome!
- I think it’s time to begin volunteering again. Though I can’t answer phones, I could stuff envelopes, run errands and do other oh-so-glamorous, necessary things.
Oh yeah, you'll feel the drums. Tune into (so-to-speak) kwso(.org) online, our local Reservation Radio. Many drum circles to choose from.
ReplyDeleteI remember those day's. They were ... difficult. This is perhaps not a bad time to tell the story. I am Ten Bears, and have been for many years though the connection to my ancestry is peripheral at best. It's not like I went on a spirit quest or ate peyote and a little voice whispered in my ear. I have done those things and avoid the voices whispering in my ear, but how I came about is far more mundane: it was in the paperwork, the Metis`, the mixed ancestry, and because it rhymed with my "christian" some third louee (3rd Lieutenant) up the line decided it would be a good call-sign when I was assigned to a helicopter unit in Vietnam. Stuck me through almost twenty years of helicopter logging, construction and various other vertical lift services after the Army, and when that all fell apart twenty-five almost thirty years ago and I went to college and university and became a part of the Internet it followed me.
Nothing romantic about it.
Heh – though I wasn't (still not) a swooner, I think the story of how you got your name IS romantic. Me? The only other name I’ve ever had was The College Bitch – not exactly a handle to spark the imagination. Got it back in my carnival days.
DeleteMaybe, for me, romanticism is all in how captivating I see the story and want to "hear" more.
I'm very sorry your powwow days were difficult. As always, if ya care to share, I'd like to know more.
Thanks for the KWSO tip – I will DEF check them out!