Pudgy Indian

It's been almost a year since I have left my second wife. One thing I have learned is I can be happy by myself.

I'm thinking of having a celebration when the anniversary comes.

I often wonder if I want to try that kind of thing again. No one is interested in me, and there isn't anyone that I am interested in. I'm terrified to try that crap ever again. I was so miserable. I get depressed from time to time, but it is much better than the relationships I've been in. There must be something wrong with me to be such a failure at love.

As a failure who wanders alone through life, it feels pretty damned good to be alive. If I EVER have a relationship again, it better make me happier than I feel now. I just don't believe it can.

I have two friends that live in Nawlins (New Orleans), George Ingmire and Rev. Goat Carson. I have been trying to get in contact, but don't expect I'll be hearing from the soon. I hope they are OK.

OK... Hmmm...

I am attempting to read a new novel written by Barbara M. Lantz about Chief Joseph's body being returne to Wallowa. I have only read the first three chapters...and...well...It seems the main character, a white mother of three, makes friends with Chief Joseph's ghost...

OK...Hmmm...

Then, in 1997, Kathy Bradley (the heroine) gets Joseph's body returned (according to the promo materials) to be buried by his father.

OK...

But...the book says it's based on a true story. I can't figure out what true story. Young Chief Joseph is still buried on the Colville Indian Reservation and remains there to the best of my knowledge.

Old Joseph (Cheif Joseph's father), however, was exhumed in the late 1800's during the phrenology (sp?) movement and his head removed in order for white scientists to prove how inferior and stupid Indians were compared to whites. They did this to many races. I heard, but don't know the specifics, that Old Joseph's head was eventually returned, fairly recently.

So, I'm not sure what the true story is that this particular story is based on.

The first three chapters that I have read seem to tell the story of a white mother filled with white liberal guilt about what happened to us Indians and attempts to change the truthful story of our history to make herself feel better. Hmmm....

I hate books like this. The content at best is questionable. I'm an Indian. I read serious non-fiction books about Indian history and current events. I read about people who are suffering similar situations that Indians have suffered under historically. This has a new agey feel. "The Return of Cheif Joseph" is a fictional novel and I'm not sure what "true story" it is based on. These types of novels minimize the Indian experience and solve a much larger on going problem with a simple solution. In real Indian life, it just doesn't happen that way.

Maybe I'm not good at reading fiction. Maybe I should pass this on to someone who might be able to read it, pick it apart, and demonstrate the intricacies of why such pieces of work make me angry.

There are non-Indians that do write respectfully about Indians. For example: The book, "Travels in a Stone Canoe" by Harvey Arden and Steve Wall, which is the story behind their creating the book "Wisdom of the Elders." I went in with a completely closed mind about non-Indians again telling the Indian story, but it wasn't so. They were telling their story about their expereince with these wonderful people. Some of it wasn't so pleasant, like when Harvey got removed at shotgun point from the Crow Reservation.

This book, from what I've read thus far, can be filed in with the likes of "Education of Little Tree," put out as an autobiography of a Cherokee man named Forrest Carter. Yet, it turned out Forrest's real name was Asa Carter, a speech writer for George Mcgovern and responsible for the "Segration now..." speech. Asa didn't have any Indian ancestry. In fact, Asa was so KKK that he particpated in the castration of a black man in 1956 or 7.

Although I'm sure Barbara's intentions are good, to an extent, and she is NOT attempting to put herself off as an Indian, I still find it difficult to read about White Saviors who have come to save the Indians from ourselves. Moving a body is a token (at best) effort to solve a problem much bigger and rarely looked at, the American Indian Genocide.

Well, time to work on an e-mail to send to Barbara herself.

I headed East to West on the Sellwood Bridge at twilight.

The clouds were making a spectacular show on different stages all across the sky.

I look in my rearview mirror to see the two young women walking on the Bridge.

They clouds are dark and ominous in the skies behind them

Like an oncoming storm.

The sun illuminates them.

What a spectacular show the clouds gave last night.

I hope you all caught it.

Love has sucked for me.

I always believed that if you loved somebody they would love you back. Such is not the case, even when you marry the person. I believed that if I gave my all to my partner and did as much as I could to make them happy, the same would be reciprocated. Can you say...FOOL! I knew that you could because more than likely many of you who read this will have done your own foolery in one form or another.

I've been married twice. I loved my wives. The first one insulted me all the time, even calling me ugly. She would look at me in public like she was embarassed to be seen by me. Touching was rare, so along with smashing my self-esteem with insults, she also let it be known by the fact that she really didn't want to touch me. The insults she would give my body were so numerous.

I left her and went to wife number two. I tried to make her happy, but was unsuccessful. She yelled at me a lot. Told me she hated me regularly. No matter how hard I tried to make her happy, I couldn't do it. I was unsuccessful.

It seemed to me, after I left my second wife, that the first one thought I was too Indian and the second one thought I wasn't Indian enough.

A friend and co-worker of mine asked one time, "Were they white women?"

I smiled, "Yes."

"That's your problem."

Maybe, maybe not.

My idea of love was that we would do a lot to make each other happy. That we would work out any conflicts in a healthy manner. That we would be a team and work well individually as well. Such is not the case, at least not for me.

I sometimes consider never trying again. Next month will be a year since I've been single. I've been very happy. No one is treating me like crap. I guess it is too much to ask the people you love to treat you in the same manner, at least those you love as chosen life partners. More often than not, I seriously consider never falling in love that way ever again. I try not to close doors on things, but there you go.

I went to a neighborhood party last night.

It was fun, though the music was inconsistent. I don't talk much at these types of things and no one showed a special interest in getting to know me, but hey, free food and good people.

There was a Czech immigrant there, and he and my housemate, Heidi struck up a political conversation. Due to exhuastion, I was about to head out, but wound up in this coversation as well.

"Yeah, there was the genocide of the Native Americans, but America has paid for that. And there is NO oppression here. I experienced oppression by the Russians in Chechoslavakia."

I was too exhausted to stick around for any official discussion, but I informed Alex that if he believed that there was no oppression in this country he should go to a reservation. I could have also told him to visit neighborhoods in North Portland, have lunch at Sister's of the Road Cafe, check out the Street Roots office, and many other examples, but only "reservations" came out of my mouth.

"America hasn't paid for anything," I informed him about his comment. "And they'll never pay for anything. Not until they collapse under their own weight, which looks like it will be coming soon."

I have hit a wall as far as Revolution goes. Although I still make attempts and still help others in their movements, I don't think America is going to do anything to stop the moster that it has become until it collapses under its own weight. America seems to be a country where people are going to wait for the shit to hit the fan. No one is going to prevent it from hitting the fan. Most people just don't care from what I've observed in the communities around me.

I couldn't predict when or where the collapse is going to happen, but I can tell America is on the road to collapse. Tomorrow? Next week? Next month? Next year? Next generation? I couldn't tell you. What will happen when America collapses? I have no idea, really. One thing I do is keep the old metal surfboard ready to go in case it starts coming down while I'm alive. I plan on riding the waves of collapse. When the surf is down, I'll help rebuild, if there is anything left to rebuild.

I'd much rather have a Revolution and stop this shit before it happens, I just don't know how to make it start, though I never stop thinking about it and trying little things here and there. I don't see anyone or group standing above the fray and getting a Revolution started either. So I wait for the collapse that I see coming.

No reason to stop trying, though. I just think that the formula for change is a little trickier now.

Let's all start a Revolution.

My Blackfoot Parents were in town when I was on Mt. Adams, and I missed them. They said they would be back and I guess they want to be on the show on Thursday.

About five years ago, in a ceremony at Ft. Vancouver, Yellow Dust Woman and Sikupii adopted me, Felicia, Jim Craven, and another woman whose name I forget.

One of the most angering stories they have ever told me was about some scars on their backs, given to them while in different boarding schools in Canada. They were told that they were being given TB tests. They asked numerous doctors about the scars and all they could get confirmed was that they were not TB tests. Finally, one doctor knew what the scars were because he had seen them many times on boarding school survivors.

Turns out that some Christian sects have a superstition that if a body is marked in a certain fashion, that particular person will not make it into heaven and will be shot down the slippery shoot to hell, where I will eventually join them in the afterlife according to most Christian sects, even without the scarring.

So...FUCK YOU CHRISTIANS!

P.S. I WANT EVERYTHING BACK! NOW!

I saw a plume coming out of the top of Loowit (Mt. St. Helens) on my drive in this morning. Does anyone know anything about it?

On my journey home with Felicia last Tuesday, we stopped at the heritage marker about William Broughton, just East of Troutdale. It is the most disgusting and arrogant sign I have ever read. Of course, it is seen as American Heritage to your average American. I read it to Felicia.

The sign is about this cracker ass peckerwood from England. He camped on an island in the middle of the Columbia on October 30, 1792, and claimed all the land in the name of the Queen. I pointed to Felicia's leg.

"That's my leg," I told her. "I claim this leg in the name of...in the name of me. Now give me my leg.

"That is how they claimed our land."

Arrogance at its purist. By right of the color of his skin, Broughton stole all the Indian land in the area and gave it to some cracker ass inbred human back in his country who will never come and see MY LAND! But that's OK! You see, he was white, and white is right in everything they say. Just ask Dwight Jaynes.

Hey, Billy Broughton, here's a retroactive FUCK YOU from me!

Upon examining the map at Trout Lake with Felicia earlier this week, I noticed a camp at some 7000ft called High Camp. Gotta go there.

I planned the hike for Saturday, the day after I returned Felicia to her mom's. Felicia would not have been able to make this hike and I would not have gotten as far as I did with Felicia.

We visited a friend on Friday who informed me by looking at the map that the hike when by a lake and a glacier. Can't wait!

I almost had myself talked out of it Friday night. Alone, anything can happen. What would I do if...? Considering my adventures on Hamilton Mountain a few weeks back, I wasn't too sure if I wanted to do this.

I woke up Saturday and the sky was clear. I got out of the house at 6:15am and noticed that there were a lot of clouds to the east. I didn't check the weather reports. Upon arrival at Cape Horn on Hwy 14, I stopped at the viewpoint as the clouds were not overhead, but literally travelling up the river. It was the most amazing sight! The sun shone on the river and the clouds looked like they were walking up a trail. I hopped back in the car and continued my journey. I took 14 to 141 and headed into Trout Lake where I stopped and got a Huckleberry Mocha at the espresso stand at the Y in the road.

I stopped at the viewpoint and told the mountain I was coming to visit.

I arrived at the Divide Camp Trailhead at 9:11. hahahahaha!

Two years ago, I had taken Felicia up this trail. I came across this ancient lava made outcropping of stone in the middle of the forest. I treated it very respecfully, talking, praying, whatever, when I noticed a tiny huckleberry bush growing in a crevice. I ate some of those delicious things and thanked the mountain for it's gift.

I saw what looked like a father and son team coming down. We smiled and told each other what great days we were having.

My next encounter with people was at the Pacific Crest Trail. There was a couple and an older man talking. I headed on down the trail to Adams Creek and ate some. The hike is mostly uphill, but not quite as drastic and tough as Hamilton Mountain. I couldn't see the trail on the other side of Adams Creek, so I headed South on the Pacific Crest where I ran into an older couple who were hanging out. They explained to me that I was to cross the creek on a couple of snags and man placed stones, then walk across what was obviously a dormant lavabed until I saw the trail, pretty much straight across. I did so, and found my way to the trail.

The first cool thing I saw was an outcropping of shale type cliffs above my head, which made me a little nervous about falling rocks. Way at the top, though, I could see this one rock move everyonce in awhile. I pulled on my binoculars and saw a Marmot. I realized, when I saw a falcon later in the hike, that he must have been the lookout. He'd look down at me occasionally, and even said something to me, and then I moved on.

There are many dormant lava flows and all sorts of cool flowers and plants and insects. There were grasshoppers that sounded like water sprinklers. There were places that I could feel were sacred. And the views! WOW!

I came across the lake which was on the Pacific Crest Trail. It was dry with the exception of a little somewhat moist soil in the middle. It was so cool. The soil was all cracked and drying. Not long after that, I was at the High Camp trail. Up I went. The beginning of the trail aint too bad, but then there are times where if there weren't stones piled by humans, you'd have to guess where the trail went. There were little offshoots from these trails were you could get the most spectacular views of Mt. St. Helens and Mt. Rainier and the beautiful forested valleys for miles and miles. It was clear and beautiful. Heading up this trail, I ran into a couple of men who were heading that way as well. That was just above the first glacier and probably the toughest part of the trail.

The glacier was beautiful. What and gray from snow and stones. It was melting and you could hear the creeks formed on the glacier and see the water taking its journey downward. It was so beautiful. I can't begin to tell you. Somebody had written giant letters in the top of the glacier that I later recognized as the name Isaac. Above the glacier there were two offshoots, one on each side of the trail, but I walked along the ancient stones to the smaller glaciers a little above and touched them. With the current trends in global warming, this may become a rarer occurance. I remembered at about that point, that when I was 14 or 15 I hiked Mt. Jefferson wilderness, I believe, in which I had to hike up a glacier to a trail at the top of a ridge. That was the last time I touched one. It was different, though. It was white without the meltoff.

I talked with the two men who were up there and was told you could do some glacier hiking and find a tiny trail above them to continue on. I wasn't equipped really to hike on ice, so I went back to the splits in the trail, checked them out, then found a nice place to sit, look over the valleys and at the mountains so far away, eat some, drink some, and yes, smoke some. Afterall...it is High Camp.

Back down I went, which was much more difficult than coming up. I was wearing only tennis shoes (not a good idea as I could barely walk first thing this morning). I had to be very careful not to slip. I don't think there was a danger of getting killed, but one could get a lot of surface damage from a fall that would be very unpleasant to carry along with your backpack.

At the easier part of the High Camp trail, I saw a small group of young women and I think two older men. I immediately thought church group, but I don't know. As I headed toward them, they didn't notice me until I was about six feet from them. Their packs were off and one of the men was talking intimately to one of the women. Finally, one of the women turns and notices me. She had a kind of confused look on her face, and said, "Hi." I said hi back and went around the group. None of the rest said anything to me because I think only the one woman noticed me until I was past them. I think of the story she'll tell her friends of family. "There was this Indian. He appeared out of nowhere and was carrying a stick with a skull on it. I think they were coming out of the mountain!" Just before I got back to the Pacific Crest trail, I came across a couple with their dog heading up.

It is so sacred up there. At times I would stop and hear nothing. It is a rare occurrance that one can go outside and not hear a thing. Sometimes all I would hear is the wind, other times the creek. Amazing.

A the High Camp Trailhead, I decided to lean Harry... Who's harry?

Harry is my walking stick. He is from Indonesia and I believe carved out of Rattan. The top is a carved skull. I got him at the World Beat Festival back in early June in Salem. My housemate, Heidi, gave him his name. Originally she gave him two names, but Harry seems to have stuck. He also has a leather braid which acts like a pony tell when in the back, or a tie when in the front.

Anyway, I leaned Harry up against the High Camp and Killen Creek Trail signs and took pictures of him with my phone.

When I got to the dry lake, I took Harry to the center, pushed him down into the somewhat soft somewhat wet mud in the middle and took a picture of him. It was about this time I realized that my legs were really sore and I knew I would have problems with my left foot in the morning, but this wonderful hike is well worth whatever minor aches and pains I would receive later.

A little further down the PCT, I ran into a couple of men heading the other way. One said, "I think I recognize you." For a few seconds, I half expected the man to pull out a badge, but he didn't. Turns out he was a fan of the TV show, Native Nations, that I host with David Liberty. His buddy was a fan of the radio show, Mitakuye Oyasin, that I also host with David Liberty. Fancy that! Meeting fans way out in the middle of nowhere on a sleeping volcano.

I somehow missed the shale cliffs on the way back. I don't know how I managed that. I didn't recognize the creek crossing at first, but when I did, I took a picture of Harry at the creek crossing.

I also took pictures of harry on the signs where Divide Camp trail met the Pacific Crest Trail.

Heading back down the Divide Camp Trail, there is a meadow where another trail leads off to the actual divide camp, and in the middle of the meadow there is a metal pole that looks somewhat like a ladder. I'm not sure what this thing is. I took a picture of Harry against that and the sign. At this intersection, I also saw a very large mushroom. It seems out of season to me, but there it was. There was also a really cool mushroom at the beginning of the trail that looked like a model of the Epcot Center except it was beige and white.

Heading down the rest of the way, my body was really aching. Nothing like on Hamilton Mountain. I think it had something to do with the altitude. I'd occasionally stop in the forest and look around at all the beauty, but for the most part, I just kept my head down and trudged on out of there. I got back to the truck at 3:57, another interesting number. I ran into a hiker getting a late start who was going to spend the night somewhere on that wonderful mountain. I was hoping to be home by 5, but obviously it wasn't happening.

I ran over another chipmunk on my way down. It was standing in the middle of the road, and I slowed down to let him finish his run across, which he didn't, and poof, I was over the sucker. I looked in the rearview mirror and there he was just flicking his tail in the middle of the road. I could just hear him: "Hey, Garth! You gotta try this out, man! It is such a rush!" It made me think of the airport scenes in Wayne's world.

Back at Trout Lake I got another Huckleberry Mocha (MY GODS AND GODDESSES THOSE ARE SO DAMNED GOOD). About here, exhaustion was really setting in.

About an hour later, I was in Stephenson Washington, where I checked my messages and found out my Blackfoot Parents were in town and I missed them. They'll be back later, and possibly be on the show on Thursday.

I crossed the Bridge of the Gods, and arrived at home at 6:47.

Waking up this morning, my left foot hurt so bad that it took about an hour before I could walk on it semi-properly. My upper lungs ache, as do my shoulders and my legs. Small price to pay for such a fantastic experience. I feel like doing it again, right now, aches and pains and all.

I read in The Nose in the Willamette Week that the KKK had a rally somewhere in the gorge this last weekend. How the fuck did I miss that?! I'm always looking for a confrontation, and these honest to goodness racists that I have much more respect for than the likes of Dwight Jaynes are always a good spectacle. I can flow with this blatant racism. At least it's honest. Sometimes you can change the hearts of these crazy bastards.

However, it's the subtle racists like Jaynes that really pisses me off. You see, the likes of Jaynes will defend their racism to the death and tell me that all of their racism isn't as racist as...say...I am.

I admire the honesty of the openly racist like the KKK, Aryan Brotherhood, Skinheads, etc. You cannot change the heart of the subtley racist. They are, afterall, right in their superior white skin and don't feel the need to join clubs like the KKK, though they have more in common with them than they are BRAVE enough to admit.

But, still, I don't understand how I missed it. Me! Me who lived three doors down from the Beaverton Chapter of the KKK. Usually I'm more on top of it. I could have had some nice commentary about this stuff if I knew it was happening. Does anyone know any more about this?

Confession: I hate my body. It doesn't really matter to me how I look. I consider myself fat and ugly. But even if I did indeed look like one of those Italian models they use for the half-breed Indian on the cover of romance novels ripping the bodice off of the large breasted captive blonde white woman, there is a good chance I would still hate my body. I have a history that goes with this that I don't wish to discuss here. This is not a bad or good thing to me, it is just the way things are for me and have been reciprocated to me in various ways by various people in my life.

For the most part, I don't want to be in my body. It is tough to live in this world, especially as an Indian. I have been suicidal at times. The last time though this option has been flatly denied and I was told by spirits that I would live to at least 83, which I wasn't too thrilled about. Still, I hate my body, and occasionally it comes forth and I wind up crying usually by myself somewhere. Most, if not all, of you who read this will never see me do this, at least not about my body. It is something I keep as a deep secret most of the time even from myself. Denial can be a useful tool to keep myself from aching every minute of every day. I have other things to think about that are much more important than my own self-pity about how ugly I feel. Last night, as Felicia and I were falling asleep, though, it came up and I cried for about half an hour then started thinking of revolution because it just seems so rediculous for me to feel this ache when so many people all over the world and all around are suffering much more than some stupid self-pity as my body hatred. I spent the next hour or so trying to figure out how to change the world like I pretty much do every day.

I was not even thinking of writing about this as it seems so petty to me. But I kind of hope that it can somehow help others. I don't want your pity. There isn't a whole lot anyone can do to change this way that I feel. I'm fine with it. It isn't going to kill me or leave me so emotionally debilitated that I can't function. So I aint worried about it. It is just a part of me like my arm, leg, writing... I don't think it will ever leave even if I worked out, ate well, and finally did look like one of those Italian guys I always joke about. I don't think about this part of me for the most part. I have an empire to bring down. I have everything to get back.

Previously, I posted about Dwight Jaynes, a racist editor for the Portland Tribune. Dwight is one of those racist White Boys who will defend their subtle form of racism as completely justifiable. There are so many examples of this in our current U.S. society as to be assumed normal behavior. Kind of like the kid who grows up being beaten by their parents assumes that it is normal for kids to be beaten by their parents.

I have learned not to argue with these incredibly narrow minded white boys (I say boys because women don't do this anywhere near as much, probably because of the sexism they experience in this society and therefore have the ability of empathy). I have tried arguing with these white boys as one can read on the Littlest Blog. I have also seen this behavior at Reed College when Ward Churchill lectured there. During the questions and answers period, the young white boys, about 10 of them, lined up. Their questions amounted to: if we give Indians what is rightfully theirs, what about ME! Not what about "us," what about "me." White boys in the subtley racist category don't seem to see beyond the head of their cocks. No one, STILL, has ever commented on one fact I've noticed Ward Churchill bringing up every time I see him. The fact that Madeline Albright stated that it was an acceptable loss to have over 5000 Iraqi children a month die from preventable diseases. That's 5000 towel head sand niggers that aren't WHITE BOYS, so why should white boys give a fuck. Those kids are well beyond they heads of their cocks. Besides, Madeline Albright is a democrat, therefore her genocidal behavior is rarely questioned by the alleged left.

What's worse, is these white boys are so locked into their white supremacist racist imperialism as for it to seem normal to them. How dare some of us lesser folk suggest that it just isn't the way it is supposed to be, meaning that white men dominate us for our own good, which actually means the privilege they are used to receiving at the expense of us lesser folks.

I could argue with Dwight Jaynes for the rest of my life, and just like Michael Newman, his heart will never feel empathy for the experience of other races or sexes. He is automatically superior via the color of his skin and the fact that he has a cock. When white men get locked in this mode of thinking, there is no changing their minds because, in their opinions, they are white...er...right, and therefore everyone else is automatically wrong (unless they agree with them). They will base this in shoddy science or in pulledoutofmyass.com thinking. It must be white...er...right, if they managed to pull it out of their own superior white male asses, right. And when a white man tells us inferior darkies that he isn't racist, we must just take it as fact, afterall, he is a white man and telling us he isn't racist and therefore he is right (white). In my experience, there is NO changing the hearts of these stupid fucking white men, so I don't bother.

I will, however, point out their behavior so others who are on this side of the tracks, as it were, can see the behavior of these types of people for what it is and decide for themselves whether or not these people are worthy of trust.

Pat Robertson, whom I assume has never been to Venezuela, but owns interest in the same diamond mines that Osama Bin Laden owned or owns interst in, is calling for the assassination of Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez. I assume, though could be wrong, that Pat Robertson owns some sort of interest in say, maybe, the oil industry which has an interest in Venezualan oil.

First, let me point out something: It is mostly the Indigenous people, the most severely oppressed people in Venezuela, that put Chavez in his current position and is holding him accountable for his actions. In a previous post I noted a quote from Pat Robertson I gleaned from the book, "Conquest: Sexual Violence and American Indian Genocide," by Andrea Smith where Robertson stated that we Indians have "...scant wisdom or learning or philosophical vision that can be instructive to a society that can feed the entire population..." etc. Basically stating that we Indians are stupid before the superior intellect of white Christian males, which I must point out here, do NOT feed the entire population. Therefore, Pat is breaking one of the 10 commandments there, thou shalt not LIE! Hmmm! Must be OK, because Pat is better than God!

Pat is breaking another commandment in calling for the assassination of Hugo Chavez, President of Venezuela: thou shalt not kill. Mind you, there are degrees of separation which I'm sure Pat could state are not actually killing, therefore he is not breaking one of the commandments. However, if I tell someone that they should kill somebody for whatever reason, it is the same as using a weapon to murder someone. The weapon I am using is a fellow human being. Therefore, I would be responsible for that persons life. So, it is OK for Pat to commit murder because he is not committing the murder first hand. In my opinion, Pat must see himself above God because if he, as an alleged representative of said God, can openly break the rules his god set forth in stone to Moses, he must consider God incorrect in making such a commandment.

However, being an Indian, I know this to be typical Christian behavior. It seems that since Christ was around, that he somehow made it legal to commit horrible, heinous, and senseless crimes against humanity and all life forms because all one simply has to do is say, "forgive me Jesus," and all is great and beautiful in the world. Christians have raped, murdered, tortured, imprisoned, and enslaved Indian Children in their boarding schools. Christians have committed genocide, slaughtered millions of people, oppress millions of people, and enslave millions of people, which seem to be both justified and unjustifiable by the book they uphold known as the bible. So, the Felony Pat Robertson has committed in calling for an international assassination, will go completely unpunished by his fellow Christians in the alleged Christian administration of the U.S. Government. However, murder, rape, genocide, and so many other crimes are indeed a well known Christian behavior throughout history. Here, I will point out that all the men that sat around the table at the Wannsee (sp?) Conference which decided the Final Solution of the Jews for Nazi Germany were, indeed, Christian, and did, indeed, have the support of the Vatican where a Nazi now sits as pope.

In conclusion, though Pat Robertson's behavior is indeed criminal, it is TYPICAL CHRISTIAN BEHAVIOR. All one has to do is look throughout history. Look at what the Christians have done to Iraq and Afghanistan and the Phillipines, Africa, the Middle East, Asia, the Americas, and indeed, all over the world. Christianity is the most destructive force ever.

I tried reading the bible once. I couldn't get past Lott and his daughters. The book so disgusted me.

Pat Robertson is not an example of the extreme Christian right, he is an example of a typical Christian.

Felicia and I headed for Trout Lake on Monday.

Our first pit stop was Grendel's for drinks and bagels with cream cheese.

I asked the little girl if she wanted to take the long scenic route, or the direct not as twisty and completely paved route. The long windy scenic route it was.

We loaded up on junk food at two different places and chose not to eat it in moderation. What a fun lunch on the road with the kid eating un-nutritious food. Unthinkable crimes at one time. What the heck. We're together, on the road, having fun! It doesn't get much better than that.

First stop was Iron Mike, a mineral spring. There is an old pump fountain not far from where a resort used to be. Mmmmm, like drinking liquid rust. It tickled Felicia to watch me drink it. Off again down the road.

Felicia and I talked a lot about various memories the area brought up. Next stop, Mcclellan Viewpointe, off of Curly Creek Road. Would have been a great view of Loowit (Mt. St. Helens). However, it was overcast. We did get a great view of the hills all around however.

We stopped at Lower Falls off of Forest Service Road 90, on the Lewis River. It is the most beautiful falls. Felicia wanted to climb down a rope that lead to who knows where on a very steep and dusty trail. It didn't sound like a good idea to me, so, after staring at the falls for awhile, we finally moved on.

We looked for Twin Falls, but since it isn't clearly marked, we missed it. I told her we'd hit it on the way back. We took FS 88 for the last 25 mile stretch to get into. Before we hit the larger road that lead into Trout Lake (23 mile stretch), we came across two oncoming vehicles, the first at 18 miles the second at 22 miles. I love roads like that. No other traffic to be reported.

We arrived at Trout Lake Motel, unloaded, and headed for Tahk Lahk Lake, off of FS 23, 25 miles out of town. We swam, and splashed and had a good time. The view of Pahto (Mt. Adams) on the other side of the lake is just marvelous. It is so beautiful. It...no words to it justice. I have seen the beauty that is that mountain. The things I feel when I gaze at that mountain I can't describe. Amazing. We blew up a floaty thing that Felicia and I could not stay on very well, which, of course, made it more fun. We splashed each other a lot, then headed back for the Motel in the late afternoon.

We went for dinner at KJ's Bear Creek Cafe at the crux of the Y in the road in beautiful downtown Trout Lake. I had a huckleberry shake! MMMMMMMMMMM! My new favorite. At one point, the women working there came to me and asked if I'd help open a jar of sliced peprocini. They'd been working on it awhile and just couldn't get it. It took little effort on my part, and later, when paying the bill, I discovered they took the price of the Wonderful Huckleberry Shake off of the bill, thanks to my super human strength (hahahahahaha).

There was a street hockey game going on at Trout Lake School next door to the motel, so we walked over and checked it out for a while. Great view of the mountain from the school.

Back at the motel, Felicia wanted to watch Nanny 9-11. I wasn't into it. When I decided to go to sleep, she turned it on, and all the screaming and yelling that those little shits were doing (I'm sure much of it was fabricated to look good for the television program, I know how Hollywood is) upset me so much that I got dressed and had to go outside. Felicia decided to come out with me and we wound up hanging out in the hammock near the road telling jokes, making faces, talking some serious stuff, etc.

After eating breakfast and checking out, we headed for the espresso stand, again at the Y in the road of Beautiful Downtown Trout Lake. I got a Huckleberry Mocha! AAAAHHHHHHHH! My new favorite! IT WAS SO FUCKING GOOD!

Back to Tahk Lahk we went. We hiked around, ate huckleberries and goofed around. I started feeling some bad feelings going around the campground area, but then I was fine. Felicia swam around some. I got in the water with her, but I got really cold after about 15 minutes and decided to get out.

We ate some junk food at a picnic table and felicia decided to start feeding her fellow relations by tossing corn chips for the birds and chipmunks. We watched with joy as the chipmunks would sneak up, grap a chunk-a-chip, then run under the Huckleberry bushes and eat. They started getting real active around us, even jumping on top of the table, which startled Felicia and scared the heck out of the chipmunks. I thought of Mac and Tosh. A few minutes later, two of the little critters climbed about three feet of a tree trunk next two us, and one of the little buggers went flying through the air. About three feet in the air it arked in a crazy twisty summersault and landed out of view. The Incredible Flying Chipmunk. We laughed so hard.

Heading back down FS 90, we again missed Twin Falls and went to Lower Falls where, Felicia actually talked me into taking the rope trail down to the river. I made it all the way to the bottom, but Felicia got too scared the last few feet. I was so proud of her, though. What a brave little girl.

We had an OK dinner in Stephenson, crossed the Bridge of the Gods and got ice cream at the East Wind Drive-In in Cascade Locks, thought of buying fish from the local vendors, then kept rolling instead. Felicia and I talked and talked and talked. She told me I was the best dad ever. I told her thank you and that she'd probably change her mind when she becomes a teenager.

Upon arriving home, I realized how much I miss my housemate Heidi (who gets home today), and how much I can't wait for her daugher (whom I can't stand) to get the fuck out of the house and go back with her dad. Maybe I'll write more about that in another section.

All in all, this was a very healing and wonderful journey. The roads can be rough, but it is fun. I'm currently thinking of taking a hiking journey up the mountain on Saturday and paying a little visit to High Camp. I just love that name, don't you?

I received a few e-mails back from Dwight Jaynes. Nice of him to respond and show his true colors. He reminds me of the white boys who asked Ward Churchill questions that amounted to, "But if we give you control over what is legally your land...what about me?" No questions about what has and is happening to our people, it's all about white men. If you can't explain it in terms of being about white men and their vast knowledge and wealth and ability to belittle us at will, then they just don't want to hear about it. Read the article at www.portlandtribune.com. You can reach Dwight Jaynes in his vast knowledge of Indians and who could tell you more about what it means to be Indian than some worthless dark skinned Indian. He can be reached at dwightjaynes@portlandtribune.com. You can let him know your opinion, and he could tell you how wrong you are, because, well, what the fuck do you know, you're most likely not another vastly knowledgable white man. Here is how his wonderful master highness put it to me, word for word.

"well... how about having me on your radio show if you want counterpoint? be happy to do that... as it was, you did nothing to address the things i wrote... you merely stated a few old cliches that did not apply to the column... guys who played for Boston in the nba are old celtics... guys who played in new york are yankees... guys who played for cleveland's baseball team in the big leagues are indians... guys who played at notre dame are fighting irish... is that a bad thing, too?"

"by the way... do you really think white people would be offended by you calling a team "fighting whities"???? no way... we'd considered honored if you chose that as your mascot.. "

This is my response, realizing the type of white man I am dealing with here:

You are obviously not someone worth talking with. Read the book, "Autobiography of a Blue Eyed Devil," by Inga Muscio. Other than that...

Sincerely

Eugene

PS, I really want to say some things to you that...well...would just be a waste of my time and energy. However, I do plan on pointing out your article on my TV show. Doubt anyone will respond, but what the heck.

Here is his wonderfully superior response:

"well, suit yourself...... but what do you tell all the native americans in the survey i cited??? are 75 percent of them wrong? what do you tell the seminole nation -- who overwhelmingly feel honored to be a part of the florida state athletic tradition? or do you just feel you are more qualified to decide these things than they are?"

You know, you'd figure I would learn, having discussed this crap with so many superior thinking white boys. In fact, maybe I should send the article to Indianz.com. Maybe Ward Churchill would like to compliment on it. Maybe I should send the article to him, as well. I think I will. You know, I have learned not to play with these stupid fucking white boys who only think of themselves and their mastery of knowledge and whiteness. So, I'll give this to all of you and see if you want to play. Here you go!

The following is an e-mail I just sent to Dwight Jaynes, editor of the Portland Tribune. He is supportive of racist sports team names, and even though he is not Indian, calls himself one because he used to play with the Cleveland High School Indians. Racist cracker mother-fucker. I'm hoping to get a counter point to his horrible article. You can read it on their website as well. Here is my e-mail:

Dwight,

I found your article, "It's a name, not an insult," to be quite insulting and offensive. How about a little counterpoint in you newspaper.

You obviously have little understanding of Indian history. How about the boarding schools? The rapes, torture, murder, etc., that occurred at the hands of good Christians in order to turn us into submissive people who would refuse to stand against the crime that IS the United States.

I was most offended by you call yourself and Indian. I won't say what I'd like to say, not that I really think you give a shit. You have no idea what it is to be Indian, and don't you forget that you...I'll avoid the name calling, though I certainly would like to.

These names are a method of genocide. Example, Julius Stryker was hanged at Nuremburg for drawing racist cartoons of jews. It's dehumanizing. When you make something less than human, it makes it easier to do inhuman things to us, which you and your government still are.

I would like to write a counterpoint to your worthless article, maybe with the help of my co-host, David Liberty. I forgot to mention, I've produced a radio program for KBOO called "Mitakuye Oyasin" for about 12 years. My current co-host, David, has been with me for about 2 of that. We also host "Native Nations," a cable access show that will air on chanell 11 at 6pm tonight on MCTV. We will be discussing your little article as well as other issues on the show. I've hosted the show for some 2 years now, most of that time with David Liberty.

So, you willing to give us some space? Let us have a DISCUSSION about this racist practice.

I stated on "Mitakuye Oyasin" this afternoon that we should start a team called the Fighting Whities. We could have slogans like: "Kill them all, little and big, nits make lice," or "The only good opposing team member is a dead opposing team member." Nobody kills like a white man. Just ask one of us Indians.

Sincerely,

Eugene Johnson

Today, on "Mitakuye Oyasin," with David Liberty and me, I have no idea what we'll be talking about. Basically, we will be shooting from the lip most likely on the subject of salmon, the NCAA decision on mascots, the Cobell case, racism, and whatever else comes to mind. So far, these kinds of shows have come off well, but that doesn't make me any less nervous. The show airs on KBOO 90.7fm in Portland or www.kboo.fm, from 1:30 to 3:00pm PST.

The Native Nations TV show, pretty much the same thing. Maybe a call in as well. And if you get a chance to watch it...don't forget..."TREMBLE IN FEAR BEFORE THE SOFT PUDGY INDIAN!" MCTV channel 11, from 6pm to 7pm PST.

Driving down Lovejoy this afternoon, I saw all those young fucking (excuse me)...un-fucking Christians at the clinic on 25th and Lovejoy doing a silent vigil to protect fetuses.

OK, they're pissing me off. Can't run the little fuckers over with the work truck, I might lose my job.

My friend Jim used to describe those assholes a little more honestly, I paraphrase:

They are not "pro-life." At best they are "pro-birth." If they were pro-life, they'd be concerned about what happens to that child after they were born. They would make sure there was plenty of food for them to eat. Plenty of opportunity.

I would add, what about the children in Iraq. I'm not sure what the number stands at, but last I heard it was still around 5000 children a month under the age of five dying from preventable diseases. Just a bunch of sand niggers and towel heads. What about what those fucking alleged Christians did to Indian children in boarding school. Giving Indians the word of God right up their asses with their dicks! What about those heartless Christian fucks that fed our children to dogs? I want some fucking justice from these fucking shitholes.

It's just a matter of time...I'll get everything back.

Again, all of this IS violence against women. Men reminding women that they are owned by them. They get the support of some women who buy into that bullshit, too. To them, Freedom is the freedom of Christian men, preferrably white, to dominate one and all, especially women. "Don't do as we say, and we'll harass your ass at least, or at best, kill you"...as long as they can save your fetus.

FUCKING SHITHOLE CHRISTIANS! FUCK OFF!

A co-worker telling me about customer service this morning:

"If someone whips out their dick and tries to fuck me, I'm gonna whip out two dicks and try to fuck them back!"

What else needs to be said?

I think about Revolution a lot.

I look at the people around me and I wonder how can I get to them. I can't force them into seeing what's going on. I can't force them to ask questions. I can't force them to think critically. Yet, they are so easily manipulated into allowing others to think for them. Their reality is heavily invested in it.

Lately, I feel like I'm waiting. Maybe I'll find an opening. Maybe the big beasty will eat itself to death. Maybe none of the above. Maybe a combination of many things.

We need to take it all back. People are suffering senselessly all over the world so the wealthy can maintain their playgrounds, status, authority, etc.

I don't believe in playing within the system. The system was designed to slaughter and oppress large amounts of people to create wealth for the few. I want something completely different. This system is fucked up. We need to rethink everything. It all needs to change.

I don't know, we'll see what happens.

I needed to pick up a few things at the store. I knew, when I thought about it, that this would be the perfect way in which to live out a little poem.

I walked to the store, a poem in itself in my mostly white neighborhood. Maybe I'd get something to eat at the white normative restaurant just down the street from where I live. OK, OK, OK...this has to be done delicately.

I sifted through my books before I left having, unfortunately, left my current book at work. Ah! I found it, "Anarchism." A copy of essays from Emma Goldman.

I walked down the street and I thought of a co-worker who tells me I walk like I'm looking for a fight. As I head down the streets of this white neighborhood, I don't smile.

I get into the store, throw my book into the basket and head for my first product, a beer. Not just any beer, a damned good beer. Over to over the counter pharmaceuticals section for a bottle of alcohol. Up to customer service to check out, but not before asking for a package of pipe cleaners.

The counter help is a beautiful old woman. She just let her long hair down in wonderful wavy streaks of black and white. She is short, and sweet, and grandma looking. I set my other purchases on the counter as well as my book.

She rings up my stuff and asks, "are you purchasing the book."

"Nope," I say. "That's my book. You guys wouldn't be selling that kind of book here."

She looks at the cover as I continue to work the debit card machine.

"You're probably right," she said, and I crack a half smile, the first in this little journey.

She bags up my items and as she is placing the receipt in the bag, she says, "that's an interesting combination of things." My body straightened up proundly. I grabbed my bag in one hand and my book in the other and gave this beautiful woman a big smile.

"Thank you," I said, and headed for the door.

On my way to the store yesterday evening, I walked past a man in a red SUV parked on the side of the road playing with a very nice video camera in the back. They were at the corner where Garden Home becomes Multnomah Blvd. in SW Portland at some apartments where a few days before, I saw women holding signs that said, "A Woman Was Attacked Here and the Police Didn't Respond." I noticed a channel 6 logo on equipment in the back of the SUV. I saw a woman in the front seat applying makeup. I knew what they were there for.

Upon my return from the store the reporter was out of the car and some dude had joined them, I assume he was affiliated with the apartments somehow. I eyeballed them all suspiciously as I walked by. I do not trust the mainstream media, and, knowing this shithole fucking country like I do, I'm pretty damned sure the story didn't make it on the air, but I can't confirm that because I can't stand anything on mainstream television, ESPECIALLY the news.

I wanted to talk, but I knew they wouldn't air anything I had to say:

Domestic Violence is a societal problem. This is not a rare incident. Women are unsafe in this country because this IS a rape culture. Women were seen as the property of men not all that long ago in this country. Many still believe they are and it shows. There are slow or no responses to domestic violence. Shelters around the country are struggling. There are bills and courtcases continually tearing at womens lives, trying to force them into submission for seeing themselves beyond the property of men. Women should be treated as our fellow human beings, but just glancing at the shit laws of this fucking WHITE MAN government in the United States, it is easy to conclude that this is a woman hating society. WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?!

Now this is about the part where men start saying that "men get abused, too." FUCK OFF! There is a fundamental difference, you are a MAN! Men are filled with privilege in this country. We live in a DICK based society. It is ran by men, as well as women who try to act like men. Men have safe places to take cover all over this country and government. Not to diminish abuse against men, but please, look at the numbers. No abuse is acceptable. When women leave abusive situations, they are RARELY safe again. Look at police responses to restraining orders and you will know that in this women hating society, women are not safe at all, and that is FUCKING BULLSHIT!

This one incident is getting some attention, but violence against women is happening all the time all over this fucking city and nothing is done to stop it and that...my friends...is not ok.

The petals are starting to fall off of those wonderful roses on the receptionists desk here at KBOO. Think I'll borrow a couple to share that wonderful energy through the next day or two!

Felicia, on the way back from the rez, started asking me about women I know. I eyeballed her suspiciously.

"What are you trying to ask?" I asked.

"Well...I was just...um..." she stammered.

"Do you want me to have a girlfriend, is that what you're trying to say?" I asked.

"Well...I...um..."

"Currently, no one is interested in me. Currently, I am not interested in anyone. Maybe I'll fall in love again sometime, and maybe I won't. Right now, all I know is Life Is Good! I'm happy. I get to hang out with you and I do a lot of things I like doing..."

Felicia wants me to be in love because she thinks it will make me happy. Being in love, thus far, has not made me happy...in fact...quite the opposite. To say I'm a little gun shy is to minimize how I feel about it.

I've been picked up on...but I don't see myself as attractive. I don't.

Man...it's smoky this morning...OH, WAIT!...That's Me!

On the way to the Powwow, I smoked a Hoyo de Monte Rey cigar. On the way back, I had a wonderful smoky experience with a Partargas.

The Cohiba cigar is the cigar of the Cuban Revolution. Cohiba is named after the Cochiba ceremony performed by the natives on the island, who were slaugtered by...good Christian men. When I smoke, I pray.

There is a bastard Cohiba as well using Nicaraguan tobacco. They, as far as I know, are not affiliated with the Cuban brand. A Cohiba sold in cigar shops in the United States are not the actual Revolutionary brand.

On the coast, Felicia and I stopped at "The Devil's Punchbowl," as well as hung out at the "D" River beach area in Lincoln City. "D" is short for Devil as it drains out of Devil's Lake. And, as Felicia pointed out, most of the signs to those places had depictions of Indians (one in a birchbark canoe, we used FUCKING dugouts in this part of town MOTHERFUCKERS!). (Sorry...a little punchy).

I pointed out to Felicia that according to Christianity, nature is Satanic. It is evil. Therefore, they somtimes name nature areas after satan. Indians are considered natural, and therefore evil, and therefore considered close to Satan. Therefore when there are nature areas that are touristy and named after Satan and the gang, they often depict Indians along with these areas because, well, we are considered Satanic and evil because Indians were/are close to nature. Red Devils. Little Red Devils. Less than. NOT FUCKING HUMAN!

I want it all back...NOW!

This morning, coming into the BOO, there are some beautiful home grown roses on the receptionist desk. They are all puffy and sweet smelling and soft and beautiful.

When I told Heidi that I would be getting Felicia up at 5:30 or 6:00 to head to the powwow, she seemed to think it wasn't possible. 6:00 rolled around, she was out of bed in 3 minutes, and we rolled out of the house at 6:20 complete with our good-byes to Heidi who was heading for Hungary that afternoon.

Felicia didn't sleep a wink. We got to Spirit Mountain Casino and ate breakfast. I was stuffed. I whipped out a Hoyo de Monte Rey and smoked my way to the beach. At Lincoln City, Felicia and I played a little at the beach before we headed to the rez.

We got to town as the parade was starting. Oddest parade I've been to. The beginning of the parade was silent. Every parade I've been too is a noisy spectacle. It felt, at first, almost like a procession. There were American flags all over the fucking place. The flag of our oppressor. The flag that flew at Wounded knee. Weird. It got a little more lively. I made Felicia go out and collect candy for me as the paraders were tossing bags full to the kiddies. She knows I won't eat it, but I sure love teasing her.

Upon arrival at my cousins, I had that feeling to RRRUUUUUUNNNNN! The rez is a depressing place. You can just feel it. There are many good things about it, but it is also very oppressive with little to no opportunity.

Trish was at the parade, according to Tyrone's brother. (Tyrone is my cousin Trish's boyfriend that was murdered). Felicia and I started to walk to the powwow when we saw Trish driving with Donovan (her oldest son), and Tyrone (Tyee, or..."Jr." hahahaha) who was just a month old. We hung out at Trish's for awhile and got settled in. Felicia played video games with Donovan. I decided I wanted to head to the powwow, but Felicia wanted to hang out with the kids and play. So, I walked to the powwow myself. I checked out all of the...OH MY GOD! I JUST REALIZED I FORGOT TO GET SOME FRYBREAD! FUCK! where was I?... Oh yeah! I checked out all of the booths and didn't see anything I wanted to buy. Heck, I had money, but no desire to spend it on the things I saw...until...(line Homer everyone...) uuuuuhhhhhhhhh! (don't forget to drool). Dried salmon, smoked salmon, and huckleberry jam! INDIAN HEAVEN, BABY! I saw some relatives there. Ran into lots of old friends I haven't seen in awhile. When grand entry started, I disappeared into the trees. I can't stand the fact that...well...I'm sure you've read my previous powwow posts. Afterawhile, I wandered on back to my cousin's apartment where Felicia and her cousins were bouncing on the trampoline, which they did many times, and Trish even joined in.

I hung out a lot with Miakota, Trish's daughter. She is so damned cute. Her mama can barely keep up with her, and I can see why. She is 4-years-old, and quite feisty. We talked a lot. We didn't always understand each other, but we enjoyed each other's company.

We all went to the powwow later and checked out the booths. The kids all bought a bunch of junk, probably like I would have if I was there age. We didn't check out the dancing because the kids all started whining. Felicia and I did manage to get out there with her uncle, who is 1 year older than her. That's her uncle Ron. We headed on home.

Morning came, and Felicia played with Donovan, video games and trampoline. I watched some of the channel 8 alleged news. MY GODS AND GODDESSES! What a bunch of useless shit corporate news is. I hardly watch TV, so when I do, it usually absolutely disgusts me. Such as a TV show I caught part of called "Sweet 16" I guess. Spoiled rotten fucking ASSHOLES who get gaudy 16th birthday parties...I think of my friends who are hungry and on the streets at these little arrogant assholes wasting...well...I think you get the idea. I also saw a show that involved a group of spoiled rotten cracker ass middle class and above problem children getting straightened out in a back to nature program where the counselors have "Earth Names" (Indian) like Little Big Bear. A bunch of arrogant little well off cracker fucks! Where are the people of color? Where are the poor kids? Where are the FUCKING INDIANS WITH THE FUCKING INDIAN NAMES?!

At noon, Felicia and I headed to Newport and had some lunch. We stopped at Depoe Bay and checked out the shops. There is so much...STUFF...in those shops. Stuff! STUFF! I regretted stopping there, but Felicia had a good time and I did get a call from a wonderful friend.

We checked out some touristy sights, which I'll get into in another post, and then headed inland. We got to the casino (Spirit Mountain), where we discovered it would be a 15-20 minute wait...to wait in line to eat. We had to wait to then wait in line. We went to Muchas Gracias by the DQ in Sheridan. Yes! Sheridan! Named after Phil Sheridan, a killer who loved killing Indians and Buffalo. He enacted to the policy to wipe the buffalo off the face of the earth so he could more easily wipe the Indians off the face of the earth. But I shouldn't be so upset...right...yeah. Got Felicia home around 8:00 and myself around 8:30.

Thursday will be 11 months since I left my second marriage.

First I lived with my sister, Roxanna. She lives like a mushroom (her apartment is always dark). But I had may own room and it was nice along those lines. Our relationship got somewhat strained as we lived together the few months we did. I spent most of my time away or in my room.

During that time, my cousin Trish's boyfriend, Tyrone, was murdered by her old boyfriend and father of her first child, Aaron. This was Jan. 22.

Shortly thereafter I moved in with a crazy woman and was subsequently ejected from her apartment and she kept my rent as well. That's some bad karma to collect for a woman that has had such a hard time. My crime for getting ejected? I had guests over. I became suicidal and prayed hard for my death. I begged my dad and grandma to take me home. They were sympathetic, but a spirit came forward and basically told me, "Too bad! You're gonna live to be in your 80's." 83 seems to stick in my head. We'll see.

I then stayed with a friend of mine and her family, who are also friends of mine. Lisa was so fun. We were all early monring people and would get up, discuss politics or whatever was on our minds, usually to an excellent cup of coffee. We laughed a lot, considering they were clowns. I met a woman who I almost fell in love with at their house, but that was 10 minutes before she was heading off to new adventures somewhere else in the world. Oh well, wasn't meant to be. It was great living with a bunch of clowns. What fantastic, generous, and Loving people. A big *SQUISH* for all of them.

I started hanging out with a wonderful woman and eventually became her housemate. Heidi is one of the greatest people I have ever met. What a great friend. She is taking her dance troupe to Hungary. They are leaving this weekend. Heidi has taken me Contra dancing a few times. It is a blast. I have a hard time asking women to dance, though. I was shot down the last time I did. I don't think their is gonna be any romance, but for some reason it is just hard for me. Now I live with Heidi, her husband who is in Romania at the moment, a new roommate just added a week or so ago, 2 dogs, 6 cats, 5 bunnies, and 4 goats. Life is Good! Life is really really good.

I made many new friends since being on my own. I've lost a few friends, which is OK. Recently, 3 of my friends have died. That sent me into a deep depression that was difficult to get out of and see.

I tried dating early on. I had a mad crush on a woman, but it wasn't mutual. Now she is my friend. One of the coolest people on earth. I went on one date since, but there was no spark for me. I'm just not ready. I won't be taking any steps backward, that's for sure. Sometimes I want a relationship, sometimes I never want to do that crazy shit ever again. For the most part, there isn't anyone interested in me, and I'm not really interested in anyone. At Inga Muscio's debut of her fantastic book, a woman tried to pick me up. I was doing my best to look fat and ugly, too. I was with another friend, and I can only assume that she thought that friend was my date. I know I've made a few women nervous, but I just don't see myself as an attractive person. So, currently, I have no desire to date. There are no women interested in me, that or they hold their cards so close to their chest I don't even know they are interested.

My daughter is doing well. She has trasitioned joyfully through all of my crazy life. I have broke down a few times in front of her, but even my breakdowns are now rare. She is happy. She is cool. She is fun. She is smart. We are going to the powwow this weekend, thanks to my wonderful friend Heidi. She is lending me her husbands truck, since he is in Romania. It will be the first time Felicia and I made this trip on our own. That is going to be so nice. We plan on stopping at Spirit Mountain and having breakfast at their buffet. We will be hanging out with my cousin Trish. It has been a long time since Felicia has seen her family down there.

So, basically, this last 11 months has been the most fantastic of my life. Even with being suicidal at one point, losing a couple of friends, gaining a bunch of friends, a cousin being murdered, 3 of my friends dying, LIFE IS THE BEST! I love my life. I love where I'm at right now. I love my daughter (who will probably grow to be a comedian, professionally or not). I love my friends, you are all so awesome (you know who you are).

Oh...And I will get everything back.

Felicia and I will be leaving Saturday morning to go to the Siletz Powwow. My housemate, Heidi, is loaning us her truck and thanks to my "hush money," I have some for gas and frybread...WOO-HOO! Thank you Heidi!

We will be spending the night with my cousin, Trish. This will be the first time I have seen her since her boyfriend was murdered. She recently (July 7) gave birth to their baby boy, whose name I do not know yet.

My housemate, Heidi, will be heading for Hungary with her folk dance troupe, Sussefusse (soo-suh-foo-suh, sweet foot), this Saturday as well. Her daughter, Lea, will be house sitting helping provide care for the animals. Our new housemate, Judy, is rarely seen by me.

I like powwows. The Indians, the costumes, the dancing, the singing, the community, the frybread, the energy. There are things I don't like about powwows as well. Powwow's are a-political. It is commonly accepted at least here in Oregon that politics are not discussed at powwows. In fact, most Indians in this area (except the young Indians) are willing to talk politics. I also hate grand entry and never watch. The U.S. flag is always flown at the front of the parade. The same flag that flew at Washita, Sand Creek, Wounded Knee, etc. It is the flag of the oppressor. It is the flag of the organization that has and continues to commit genocide against our people. I also understand why it is flown. We show respect to the master in hopes that if we continue to show respect they will stop killing us. Hasn't stopped it yet, but I do understand that mentality. It's called "survival." I personally have just grown tired of the genocide and refuse to watch as the flag is danced before the people the government works so hard to destroy. Veterans are also honored at powwows. Veterans are not necessarily warriors, and warriors are not necessarily veterans, but we now narrowly define our warriors as men and women that join the American armed forces. The American armed forces were also the same forces that worked to wipe us off of the face of the earth. Fighting for the Americans IS fighting for the enemy because the U.S. government is still purposely killing us. I do not hold this against Indian veterans. I know why most people, especially Indians, sign up to kill for the American empire. It is survival. Unemployment is high on the rez. There is great depression on the rez. There are good things on the rez, too, but one of them is not opportunity in this domineering capitalist society. We need to survive, we need to eat. A friend of mine whom I didn't know was a veteran for a couple of years after I met him told me it wasn't something he was "proud of." He renounces his activities as a member of the American armed forces. He doesn't participate or watch grand entries at powwows either.

I will definitely have a great time at the powwow this weekend, but I also have mixed feelings about the things.

In conclusion I'd just like to say one thing:

FRYBREAD!

Indians, meaning the original nations that were in the Western hemisphere before the mass slaughter, are usually defined by our masters in DC.

There is a document from 1926 that states, and I paraphrase; stick to the 1/4 blood quantum as a definition of Indians, encourage intermarriage, and soon we will define Indians out of existence and thus solve our "persistent Indian problem." ...final solution...

This definition comes from the government that has and continues to commit genocide against Indians and currently ILLEGALLY occupies our lands and steals our wealth. It is how the Nazi's defined Jews.

There are many different types of Indians. There are Cherokee's who have little blood but a memory of who they are. There are city Indians. There are reservation Indians. There are Indians with many different types of blood. There are Indians with no Indian blood. There are adoptees forcibly removed from their families who only know they are Indian and feel a sense of loss. There are boarding school survivors. There are powwow Indians. There are political Indians. There are Indians who tell other Indians they aren't Indian or are not Indian enough or are not the type of Indian that constitutes their definition of Indian (defining ourselves out of existence).

I am registered Siletz. One registers dogs, cats, other pets, sex offenders, etc. In order to be recognized as an Indian, one has to be registered with the same government that is attempting to wipe us off the face of the earth so they can tell the world that everything they have stolen from us is now truly officially theirs.

Do you have to register as a white person? What blood quantum are your ancestral roots? What about African people? What about the descendants of slaves? How much Irish are you? How much blood?

Blood doesn't mean shit! It's what you do with your life that has meaning.

Being Indian is for Indians to decide. We used to adopt non-Indians. When you are adopted Indian, you are an Indian, period. No one defines you by blood quantum.

I'm registered as 1/4 Siletz. I'm actually 1/2 (using white man's math). My grandfather is not recognized by my tribe because he was not registered. I don't have any Siletz blood. I have Alsea, Klickitat, Lower Umpqua, finnish, english, dutch, scots-irish. I've also been adopted Blackfoot by Yellow Dust Woman and Sikupii.

Always, I am defined by others what race I am. I am dark skinned, long black haired, fuzzy faced. Most people have a preconceived notion of what it means to be Indian and if I don't fit in those preconceptions, to those people I am not Indian. Or, I may be Indian, but I'm not the right kind of Indian.

Most people will tell me who I am...and NEVER ask. Most will define me before they say a word to me. My closest friends know me better than any, and they define me as their friend. They are constantly finding out who I am, as I am constantly finding out who they are.

People define me by my race because this IS a racist society. People define me by blood-quantum because this IS a racist society.

So, here is a question. America has a wonderful tracking system for it's human beings called Social Security (designed by IBM who also designed the Hollerith machines used to help round up the Jews, Sinti, Romani, etc., during the Nazi regime of Germany), and the official Indian registration via the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Using it's vast propaganda machine, the U.S. government could start a campaign of hatred against Indians (also a great political career making tool as Peter Sorrenson's (D) governor campaign using the possible abolition of Indian casinos in Oregon as a tool to help further his political career). The U.S. does an Operation Northwoods on us Indians and suddenly, based on lies as usual, we are perceived as an enemy. Round ups occur and with the easy location systems of the BIA and Social Security, Indians are rounded up for the gas chambers. What would you do? What would you do if they came for me, my daughter, my family, my friends? What would you do? They'll have FORCE to back this up. They will use their force on you if you get in the way of their round-ups. What would you do?

First, they came for the Jews. I did nothing because I wasn't a Jew...

When people say the word "religion," they almost always mean Christianity. When you hear the word religion on the news, on TV, from people walking down the streets, etc., they almost always mean Christianity. This goes along with the Christian belief that the only religion is Christianity.

In a conversation when someone says the word "religion" to you, do you think of the sweatlodge, sundance, pipe ceremonies, islam, muslim, mecca and the haj, buddhism, praying to trees in the park, speaking to spirits when you're on the hill, thanking the salmon the feed us, laughing, peyote ceremonies, witchcraft, paganism, etc. Probably not. When someone says the word "religion" to you, you most likely think of Christianity.

Decolonize your mind because religion is as individual as a fingerprint. We all have fingerprints, but each one is different. Each one is individual.

When people say religion, it should embrace spiritualities as a whole. When people say "religion" it should not mean Chrisitianity. If people mean Christianity, they should say "Christianity," not "religion." When people mean spirituality in general, that is when they should say "religion."

Don't forget, decolonize your mind and start a Revolution.

The NCAA made the decision to ban the use of racist mascots in post season tournaments. (see the article at: http://usatoday.com/sports/college/2005-08-05-indian-mascots-ruling_x.htm?POE=click-refer).

In my opinion, mascots are a dehumanizing tool of propaganda. It is much easier to push aside and commit genocide against a people if they are dehumanized. In military training your enemy becomes a bug or some lesser life form meant for you to destroy. Indians are seen as a lesser life form for the larger society to destroy.

One of my favorite arguments is "we are honoring you." No, you are not. If you really wanted to honor Indians you would ask us how. Instead, you just assume and then it keeps from getting down to the dirty issues of genocide, such as: rape, boarding schools, land theft, cultural destruction, small pox blankets, feeding children to dogs, toxic waste, etc. Mascots are simply a tool of genocide. Indians are a people to be continually humiliated because we didn't win the war and now our lands are occupied by a foreign power that reminds us every minute of everyday that there is nothing we can do to stop these genocidal maniacs. Yet, we Indians are supposed to consider it honoring to name your sports teams after us. Hmmm! Yeah! Makes sense...not!

I like the idea of a team called "The Fight Whities." There could be a motto like, "No one kills like a cracker," or "hey Indian, want a nice warm blanket?" or "Kill them all, little and big, nits make lice," or "The only good (team name) is a dead (team name)." Cheer: "Sterilize them, Sterilize them, ra ra ra!"

But, that would be different. That would be racist.

But this shit is something I'm used to. I have to let it run off my shoulders. It is a survival technique for me. I put up with this shit everyday of my life. But that's OK. I deserve it. Afterall, I'm just a Redskin Nigger. It's not like I'm really a human being. I'm a Winnebago or Itasca RV, A Jeep Cherokee Chief, an Umpqua Dairy Product, a Lousy Red Nigger Piece of Shit Not Worthy of Life.

I'm gonna get it all back, America. And you'll all have to put up with respecting and honoring each other instead of trying to exercise dominance over others. I'm gonna get it all back. ALL OF IT!

As I continue to read "Conquest: Sexual Violence and American Indian Genocide," by Andrea Smith, I still don't know why I don't want to kill all white people.

As I read about doctors who sterilized our women and children, medical experiments on Indians, giving women abortions without using anesthetics as a for of punishment for not using Depo-Provera or Norplant, and the list goes on and on... As angry as this makes me, as powerfully as I want justice and know I'll NEVER get it, I still don't want to kill all white people. I do, however, have a fond hatred for the alleged medical profession.

When I was 12 or so and my father just started his process of dying, my mother asked his doctor to tell my dad to quit drinking. He absolutely refused.

"Why?! Because he's just another drunk Indian?" my mother demanded to know.

"Yes," he responded. "Because he is just another drunk Indian."

Welcome to my world,
won't you come on in...

I drive truck for a 501C3. When I started there over a year ago, the truck had a large tag on the passenger side. When we finally had the time to remove the tag, within a week, it was tagged again, and we still have yet to remove that one. It's almost a "what's the point" scenario.

A week ago today, I found truck parts left on the driverside mirror. I wasn't exactly sure what they were until I noticed a louder than usual normal truck sound off the passenger side. Upon closer inspection I discovered the air filter housing had been gutted and I assume that the part that was left on the mirror was part of that.

We took the truck in on Friday afternoon to a company off of MLK and Columbia. They fixed the truck over the weekend and we picked it up this morning, only to find out that the stereo had been stolen and the jockey boxes ran through.

In my opinion, the reason why we get targeted for vandals is because we are an easy target. It doesn't matter that we are a service for the poor. We can't afford security guards with guns and clubs to prevent this, unlike major corporations. Thus we are an easy target. It doesn't matter that we help the people. It is just too much for me to think about.

It reminds me of how we on the left are prone to going after each other instead of getting at the roots of our common enemy. There is poetry all over the place, even in valdalism.

Still...it frustrates the fuck out of me.

The Siletz Powwow is this weekend. It is called "The Nesika Illahee Powwow." It is happening in Siletz Oregon and starts on Friday, August 12 and ends on Sunday, August 14. To get there, head south out of Lincoln City, take a left on the Kernville, Siletz River Rd. Go 26 miles to the town of Siletz, park you car, then follow the smell of the frybread to "Government Hill" (not a name I would choose), and have a good time.

You could also take 20 out of Salem toward the coast, then turn toward Siletz when you see the sign.

Saturday, there was a "Gathering of Flutes" event happening at Mt. Hood Community College. It was a good event and a benefit for Native People's Circle of Hope, and cancer survivors network that targets Indians, but helps all people.

I flirted with the idea of buying a flute, but upon discovering the low end prices, and thinking about how much energy I'd put out in learning the instrument, I thought better of it. There were some spectaular pieces there.

I ran into Isaac Trimble, and excellent flute player and maker. I also talked with my co-host David Liberty, who was MCing. After making some rounds, I sat in the back and listened. It was a small gathering, but there was so many different events happening around town.

A student at the college came up behind me and informed me that some elders asked that I sit with them at their table. I was taken aback, not really thinking. His name was Al, and he is from the Pine Ridge reservation. We sat around and talked a little. I didn't say much, I was mostly into listening when amongst people I don't know too well.

We had a great salmon dinner. Shortly thereafter, I left. The auction was starting, and although the crowd was small, there were some good bids happening, so the fundraising worked anyway.

The website for Native People's Circle of Hope is: www.nativepeoplescoh.org.

On Sunday, I decided to hike the Hamilton Mountain trail in Beacon Rock state park. I had hiked this trail once before, some 2 or 3 years ago. Although a tough trail (almost constantly uphill for 4 miles), you get some of the most beautiful views from that trail.

As I started my journey upward, I remembered an old man from the first time I hiked the hill. That first time, near the top, this old man and I passed each other a few times each. When he reached the summit, he changed his shirt and headed down. He had a smile on his face that I never forgot. Heading up the hill on this journey, I saw him as he was heading down. Serendipity.

As I said, you get some of the most spectacular views on this trail. There are no guard rails to lean against, either, and combined with my fear of heights (which isn't as bad as it used to be), I would stand near the edge and look at some of the most beautiful scenergy. The Columbia from this high looks so different. Unfortunately, you get a view of Bonneville (kill the salmon) dam as well. There is an area as you reach the top of the old lava flows that created this part of the world where you can look into crevases and folds that run deep. One of them looks like a person being born into the world. It is amazing.

The wild flowers going up are tiny, but when one takes the time to stop and really absorb what they look like, it is the most amazing sight. Some look like white lotus blossoms as they are blooming. When the petals spread, they look like daisy's with a center that looks like a minature of the Epcot Center. Some looked like thin purples paper cups. My favorites, though, were the jade looking plants. They were tiny with a mixture of red, orange and yellow petals. They had spectacular tiny yellow blossoms that looked like tight tiny crowns.

I made it to the top, 2488 feet. I hung out and checked out the beautiful views you get from that height. I went down another trail about half a mile that lead north and got more views of the inland area that are just spectacular. I started hearing voices come up that trail, so I went back to the summit and gazed for a little longer. A couple came up, probably in their 50's. I left before they finished, letting them have their privacy in this spectacular place, and moseyed on down the hill.

There is a gravelly part of the trail with lots of switchbacks. It is carved into the side of one of the ancient lava heaps. I always wonder at the power that created those things. The wind was blowing and I thought of all of the grasses and plants that cling to the sides of the rocks and are regularly pushed around by the wind. My foot slipped on the gravel, and I tried walking more carefully when my left foot slipped again and I went down. My foot went under my ass as I fell backwards onto the gravel. I swung my right arm out and smacked it on a rock right about the same time as I felt my knee getting gouged. I swung my right arm out to prevent me from falling down the hill. The most that would have happened was I would have been seriously scratched up. I got back up and checked myself out. My arm was OK. My knee, however, now had a scrape with a deep gouge and some missing flesh. I could still walk, so I wasn't worried. I felt the wind whipping around me and I felt like spirits were trying to talk to me. I couldn't tell if they were telling me to get the hell out or upset because I was leaving. I talked outloud with them and continued on down the hill.

About five minutes later, the woman of the couple I had seen at the summit came up behind me. "My husband fell and broke his leg up near the summit. Do you have a cell phone?" I couldn't get reception. She said her husband was OK other than the broken leg, and that it wasn't an open wound or visibly bleeding. I was worried about shock. She headed down the trail before me, and every few minutes or so I'd try 911. I finally got an answer and after several transfers finally reached the correct 911. "A man fell near the top of Hamilton Mountain and broke his leg. His wife walked by and informed me." Then...nothing. Signal gone, and 911 wouldn't work again. Kept trying and trying as I'd head down the hill and I finally got a signal again. Again...the same thing, a couple of transfers, and again, cut off, and again, no reception. About a half mile from the bottom, I finally got a constant signal. After about several minutes of confirming rescue workers being on their way, I was asked to go back up and sit with the man until the rescue workers got there. Back up the hill I went. I was breathing hard the whole way and sweating like a pig when I finally reached the man. There was a couple already hanging out with him.

We all sat around and talked. About five people walked past and talked with us. The man was shaking, but not hard. The woman of the couple let him use her little jacket. We all talked. The man, whose name I believe was Pat (I forget for sure) kept talking to insure consciousness. He'd ask us all some questions. I tried to remain silent for the most part. He asked the couple if they'd "read any good books lately?" Unsatisfactory answers, he directed his attention toward me. I told him about the book, "Conquest." "When I was young, I went to Chemeketa? I think it was called. I was with a choir and we went to sing there."

"Chemawa," I told him.

"Yeah. Chemawa. Anyway, we went to sing there, and it took several years for me to absorb what was happening there. These children were taken away from their families and culture..."

"I want it all back," I told him.

"You'll probably get it back," he said.

"Eh...It's just a matter of time."

He told me he and his wife lived in Africa for a year and he thought it was odd how the different African cultures would go after each other. I informed him of Inga Muscio's book, "Autobiography of a Blue Eyed Devil." I think Inga does a great job of explaining what she calls, "Auto-Genocide."

About this time, the first rescue worker showed up. Upon finding out that my help was no longer necessary, I said my goodbyes and headed on down the hill.

When I finally made it to the bottom (with several slips, but no falls), I saw that it was 3:30. I had left the house at 7am. I thought of going to Stevenson and eating, but I was so tired, I hit Highway 14 and headed West, and finally got hope an hour later.

I'm tired. I figure I hiked 12-14 miles. Half of that is uphill.

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

Comments

I believe I fixed the comments so you don't have to be a blogger to comment on this blog. Check it out and see if it works if you want to make a comment.

Clarifications

Today I host a radio program with David Liberty called "Mitakuye Oyasin." If anyone reads this it will undoubtedly be past the time of the show, but it airs from 1:30 to 3:00pm every other Thursday. Today's show we'll be shooting from the lip.

"Mitakuye Oyasin" airs on KBOO (the BOO), 90.7fm in Portland, Oregon. We can also be reached on the web at www.kboo.fm.

I was hoping to get Andrea Smith for this show, but so far no one is contacting me back.

I've been producing this show for some 11 years now...I guess. David has been my co-host for some 2 years, I guess.

We are working hard on ending "genocide" worldwide.

Tune in and get an earful. Not just this show, there are so many different shows on KBOO. Different music, politics, commentary, radio plays,...KBOO is the most awesome place on earth. Pay us a visit at 20 SE 8th here in "Little Beiruit" ( Portland).

Oh...by the way...just so you know...I want everything back!

"Conquest"

I am currently reading the book, "Conquest: Sexual Violence and American Indain Genocide," by Andrea Smith, whom I hope to have on a future show.

Check this out, something I didn't know. She mentions the Marshall islands. Some of the peoples on the islands around the nuclear testing site suffered fallout from the nuclear bombs. They thought it was snow. Their children are born with horrific birth defects, the most common being jellyfish babies, which is babies born without bones. They way they can tell they're human is because their skin is transparent and you can see the brain. These babies usually don't last more than two days. But wrap you brains around this: Some of the peoples have chosen to no longer pro-create. Auto genocide at its purist. This IS "white normativity" for Marshall Islanders.

Andrea also mentions the drug Quinacrine. It is a drug for malaria, but when shoved up an unsuspecting woman's vagina, it scars the fillopian tubes and makes her sterile. This has recently been done without women's knowledge in third world countries. An act of genocide (article 2d, forced sterilizations). Again, this is white normativity for the darker races of this world.

Andrea also blasts the racist anti-immigration movements and population control movements. These groups target non-whites for racial purity of course.

But really, folks, wrap you mind around the groups of people who have decided to let their nations die because of U.S. white supremacist imperialist environmental destruction that has created large numbers of birth defects. Think about that one.

Breakdown!

After getting home last night, I found myself alone. Good place to be as I went to my room and proceeded to uncontrollably cry. I finally got a break in by reading some of my book. Then it all hit like a bag of bricks. I cried so hard. I went downstairs to the bathroom and found myself unable to make the journey upstairs. I sat and cried at the bottom and petted Blue, one of my housemates dogs. I got back to my room, and cried and cried and cried. I don't know how long before I had to go to the bathroom again, and again found myself incapable of making it up the stairs and crying feircly. I finally got to my room again and fell asleep before anyone else got home.

I have lost three friends in the last two months. None of whom have I been able to make the funerals of.

Dennis was homeless. He was Northern Cheyenne. We would laugh and joke. I would make sure he had something warm when it was cold out. I gave him money. I watched him sober up and talk of heading home, then see him again just after getting out of jail. He would sleep in the doorway of one of the buildings where I work. I'd usually see him sitting on the steps when I'd go pick up the truck for work.

The last time I saw Jan, she came down and pitched for my radio show with Justin during pledge drive. She was in the final stages of her cancer, and she came down to pitch for Indian radio. It was the last time she was here at the BOO.

The last time I talked with Sid was out front of the BOO on the bench. We talked politics. He always had that great fuzzy face smile.

ouch

Crushing free speech wherever they can!

There are several bills in committee that will effectively work to destroy cable access programming; SB 1349, SB 1504, and HR 3146. Basically, these will effectively destroy local cable access programming and sell the spaces to those who can afford it. I attended a meeting last night that consisted of how to suck up to legislators to hopefully get what you want. I will help by not contacting these people and making it knowledge at least on my blog, radio, and television show what's going on with these bills. If I tried to talk with these people I know that I would soon be telling them truths, like their genocidal practices, and things would spiral uncontrollably from their. So there you go. If you can help, please do in whatever way you can.

What's an Indian?

The word "Indian" is a bastardization of the phrase used by Columbus to describe the first people he saw when he landed in this hemisphere. The phrase was "in dios," "with God."

Many Indians prefer to be called Indians, many don't. Same with the term Native American. There are many arguments for both sides. Both "Native American" and "Indian" are used to legally describe the Indian race.

There are many types of Indians. There are Indian adoptees who have no idea about their ancestry. There are Indians whose families, fearing for their safety, denied being Indian. The U.S. government prefers to define who we are because it keeps a firm grip on everything they stole from us. We are defined by mathematics and blood-quantums, part of the genocide to "define" us out of existence. Indians are comodified. Indians will tell me other Indians aren't Indian. Many Indians are described as not Indian enough. Recently, I was even told that I am not an Indian, but a "white man." Growing up, a white cousin informed me I wasn't Indian because I didn't have a horse, eagle feathers, or a bow and arrow. I am always being defined by others, and few want to understand or hear about how I define myself. My tribe, the Siletz, tells me I'm only 1/4 Indian, but actually I'm 1/2. They don't count my grandfather because he was a full blood Lower Umpqua, which wasn't recognized by the master race on our particular reservation. There are so many lords and masters to tell me who and what I am. They know better than me because I am just a stupid Indian and therefore am incapable of telling what is and isn't Indian. All of this hurts. But who cares? I'm just a stupid fucking Indian even though I'm told by yet another lord and master of all the Indians that I am a "white man." In seventh grade, I was told by a teacher (a white man), that there were no "real" Indians left. Thank goodness that there are so many gods and goddesses around to tell me who and what I am, otherwise, how would I know.

My Indian family tells me I'm Indian. I am Alsea, Lower Umpqua and Klickitat. I am also Finnish, English, Dutch, and Scots/Irish, but I'm not forced to get "federal recognition" for that mathematical infraction. My daughter and I were both also adopted by the Blackfoot Nation, so though we have no Blackfoot blood, we are recognized as Blackfoot by other Blackfoot. However, like I said, a new god has come into my life and told me that none of that matters, I am a "white man."

Being Indian means many different things to many different people. We are, however, officially defined by the master race, the white men that run this country.

Here's what that wonderful christian white man, Pat Robertson, one of our many masters, tells us Indians what we are. This is extracted from Andrea Smith's book, "Conquest: Sexual Violence and the American Indian Genocide," pg. 57:

"These tribes are...in an arrested state of social development. They are not less valuable as human beings because of that, but they offer scant wisdom or learning or philosophical vision that can be instructive to a society that can feed the entire population of the earth in a single harvest and send spacecraft to the moon... Except for our crimes, our wars and our frantic pace of life, what we have is superior to the ways of primitive peoples... Which life do you think people would prefer: freedom in an enlightened Christian civilization or the suffering of subsistence living and superstition in a jungle? You choose."

Now that I know my true race is white, since a member of a superior race has told me so, I know what I am. Since white people have constantly told me there are no "real" Indians left, knowing better than some stupid Indian, I know what I am. Thank you all of you others for telling me who and what I am, for how would I have ever known. Just kidding... Here's what I really will say to you: "fuck off."

Another Friend Gone

My buddy, Dennis Bearing, passed away two days ago. His former girlfriend dropped by my work today and let me know. I didn't call last week, thinking he was constantly improving and my personal life was crazy. Dennis was a homeless Northern Cheyenne. He had fallen about a month ago and hurt his leg, which got infected and passed throughout his body. When I first visited him in the hospital, it looked hopeless. A few days later, he was breathing on his own. A few days later, he was feisty enough not to want visitors. My follow up calls were more and more hopeful. I shouldn't have let it slack. I figured I'd see him before he ran off to Montana (Dennis would have loved that pun). That's three of my friends in the last couple of months. fuck