Thursday, March 08, 2007
MO
Yesterday, I was delivering produce to Legacy Meridian Park Hospital.
One of the cooks whom I chit chat with occasionally asked me that question:
"Are you American Indian?"
These questions can go anywhere and I was very apprehensive.
"Yes," I told her.
"And you work at the radio?" she asked
This didn't sound too bad.
"Yes," I said.
"Did you know a guy, musta been about five years ago, his name was Mo?"
"Mo Simmons?" I asked, rather surprised.
"Yes!" she said. "Mo, well, Michael, was my brother. Well, my foster brother."
Mo, for those of you who don't know, was a homeless Grande Ronde poet who would come down to KBOO when Jim Craven was still co-host of "Mitakuye Oyasin" and read. Mo would read some of the most amazing and powerful poetry. He was, as I often told him, a god amongst men. One day, while walking through Colonel Summers Park (I hate that name), I saw Mo stumbling. His liver was swollen and he was walking ver slow. We talked for a bit and I knew it was too late, but I told him that thing I always told him when I saw him and he had been drinking. "Mo, please try to stop. We need you here, Brother." "I know," he would usually respond with his beautiful smile. And I remembered that smile as he joked with his siblings on his death bed in the hospital as they'd reminisce about their history. A history that had the darkness of genocide mixed in with it as they were all separated after that Genocidal General FUCK of an alleged president, Dwight D. Eisenhower, signed the termination of the Grand Ronde Nation in '56. 8 siblings, split up into several different chunks (or was that 12 siblings?), a father, a former tribal chairman, so depressed at the alleged completed genocide of his people by that piece of shit Ike. And there was Mo, joking (as best he could) and smiling and remembering events from his past with his siblings.
And Colleen must have been there and I must have met her, but I don't remember. She told me she was in the room when Mo took his last breath. There were tears almost forming in her eyes, and I knew I would cry sooner or later, but best not at work. She was at his funeral, too, and I must have seen or met her there as well, but again, don't remember.
She told me that she was going to try to find a picture of Mo, former God Amongst Men, and pass it on. I promised to renew my efforts to get copies of the Mo tapes from Jim and make her copies as well.
MO! I MISS YOU BROTHER! SEND REINFORCMENTS! MANY BLESSINGS TO YOU WHEREVER YOU ARE!
One of the cooks whom I chit chat with occasionally asked me that question:
"Are you American Indian?"
These questions can go anywhere and I was very apprehensive.
"Yes," I told her.
"And you work at the radio?" she asked
This didn't sound too bad.
"Yes," I said.
"Did you know a guy, musta been about five years ago, his name was Mo?"
"Mo Simmons?" I asked, rather surprised.
"Yes!" she said. "Mo, well, Michael, was my brother. Well, my foster brother."
Mo, for those of you who don't know, was a homeless Grande Ronde poet who would come down to KBOO when Jim Craven was still co-host of "Mitakuye Oyasin" and read. Mo would read some of the most amazing and powerful poetry. He was, as I often told him, a god amongst men. One day, while walking through Colonel Summers Park (I hate that name), I saw Mo stumbling. His liver was swollen and he was walking ver slow. We talked for a bit and I knew it was too late, but I told him that thing I always told him when I saw him and he had been drinking. "Mo, please try to stop. We need you here, Brother." "I know," he would usually respond with his beautiful smile. And I remembered that smile as he joked with his siblings on his death bed in the hospital as they'd reminisce about their history. A history that had the darkness of genocide mixed in with it as they were all separated after that Genocidal General FUCK of an alleged president, Dwight D. Eisenhower, signed the termination of the Grand Ronde Nation in '56. 8 siblings, split up into several different chunks (or was that 12 siblings?), a father, a former tribal chairman, so depressed at the alleged completed genocide of his people by that piece of shit Ike. And there was Mo, joking (as best he could) and smiling and remembering events from his past with his siblings.
And Colleen must have been there and I must have met her, but I don't remember. She told me she was in the room when Mo took his last breath. There were tears almost forming in her eyes, and I knew I would cry sooner or later, but best not at work. She was at his funeral, too, and I must have seen or met her there as well, but again, don't remember.
She told me that she was going to try to find a picture of Mo, former God Amongst Men, and pass it on. I promised to renew my efforts to get copies of the Mo tapes from Jim and make her copies as well.
MO! I MISS YOU BROTHER! SEND REINFORCMENTS! MANY BLESSINGS TO YOU WHEREVER YOU ARE!
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