This Picture is from the Brookston POW WOW this last weekend blended in with a little forest from the Rez. c2009
Thanksgiving is a mixed blessing for Indians in America. On the one hand this event really was a celebration brought to Pilgrims by us. On the other, we are still alive. They would have perished right there on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean had my distant cousins not rescued them. The disease the European explorers brought were killing off Indians in large numbers across the east coast and the Wampanoag and the Pilgrims began a tentative relationship in order to insure that they both survive the next few years. They were interested in forming an alliance in 1621 in part because their numbers were devastated by this illness, but this was not an equal alliance. The Wampanoag could have easily wiped out the Pilgrims as a Praying Mantis snatches the life from a beetle, but like their Anishinaabe cousins they saw the potential in the white man for feasible good and balance. The Europeans had been enslaving Indians all up and down the coast of the Americas for generations before they finally arrived at Plymouth, so it was essential that the Wampanoag be wise as these Pilgrims ventured onto their shores. Balance had been disrupted by the wide spread destruction of Native American villages from Narragansett to the Pequot to the Massachuett from the various poxes and other illness brought with the white man. The destruction that came from that period of exra-tribal battling that led the Wampanoag to see the potential of the White settlers (soon to become invaders) as those who could aid, if they chose the way of peace, in developing a balance of power among the waring nations, but to date, the white man had not shown himself to be any kind of partner to peaceful relations among any of the nations already living upon the east coast of Turtle Island.
All was well between the Wampanoag and the Pilgrims at first as their strong leaders established an understanding of equality between them, but then, as time passed, the Pilgrims seeing the Indian land as their own became greedy. They invited their friends and relatives who did not share any common struggle for a foothold on this continent to join them on Turtle Island and they brought with them all of their centuries of inbred hatred of anything that wasn't like them. The Wampanoag were caught off guard and eventually eliminated by an overwhelming invasion of Europeans who now looked with lust upon the richness of the American Coast. The Pilgrim invaders who despised the Wampanoag, their religion, their culture and their very good intentions quickly eliminated their host and took the land and it's wealth for their own. While there were good and bad people on both sides (like any war between nations) the visions of these Englanders to see Turtle Island as their promised land led to the complicit destruction of over 78 million Native Americans across Turtle Island and the eventual humiliation of perhaps the largest organization of Independent free peoples across the world at the time. Very little survives of our East Coast relatives today, with entire peoples being pushed into extinction in a holocaust that has been unmatched in human history.
Fast forward to today:
Last week I went up to Rez and attended a small POW WOW in Brookston, MN. In the morning I walked around the City of Brookston, which is now nearly deserted of Ojibwe Indians and marveled at the well kept houses and the even bigger metal buildings and garages, the Europeanized Americans really do like their technology toys. In the afternoon I went into the woods to the place where my cousins have resettled in a remote village, an "Indian Village" if you will. There was a large community center, Indians are very interested in community gatherings, and a couple of score of houses, built with tribal and casino money our limited fortune coming as of late from the continued greed of our neighbors and their lust to chase after more, more of everything, but especially money. The community center, A kind of "Great House" of gathering was to be our hearts destination where we would POW WOW. There we would honor our ancestors, our traditional ways, let our hearts worship with the drum and let our spirits dance as in days past when we still freely roamed Minnesota without police officers on our tail ready to pull us to the side of the trail for the slightest infraction. While the houses were largely worn in terms of general maintenance, because of the large cost of upkeep, they were certainly habitable. There were no larger metal buildings to keep their trucks and "tech toys" in, for my cousins up north could not begin to afford such luxuries. But I could see, by in large the Annishinaabek were surviving. With the highest unemployment of any group of people in the United States, with the highest level of suicide and the highest poverty rate and the lowest high school graduation rates( and the list goes on....) the Native Americans were still surviving.
The ancestors of the greedy Pilgrims had stolen most of our land and left us deep in the swampland and we destined in our heart of hearts to remain In spite of all the white man has done to destroy our way of life. I smiled through the entire POWWOW, because here in the forest of Northern Minnesota, my cousins were finding in their spirits the path to the old ways, "The Good Path." and returning to their ancestral callings. I hasten here to note, it is not to any good graces of the dominate culture that this is being done, but rather to the good leadership within the tribe that, we still stand like maple rocking to the winds of our native forest. From the moments of invocation and it's reminder to all the spirits around us that we mean only blessing to our Mother Earth, to the joyful shuffle to the feast afterward, where the eldest are still fed first from the most select that we are able to offer, I celebrated. Though battered and bruised, we remain deep among the green boughs and the gray trunks of our ancestors. Even at times, like a wounded tree in the forest that still bears fruit, giving to the entire community it covers out of it's suffering and constant labor to survive, we remain. There amongst our cousins the waawaashkeshi and the makwa who patiently waited for us to return to the Good Path, we remain to provide life and shelter and sanity in a place of the quiet trembling of the birches as they bend before us, reminding us that we are all children of Muzzi-kumic-kwe and under her care as we invisibly pass by.
Later that afternoon I stood on the Brookston bridge envisioning my great grandfather fishing the St. Louis river In the fog shrouding the green cousins, some of who still stand to remember the names of those who have danced in these woods before us. In the grayness the breeze blew lightly and a Migizi cried down the river somewhere and I smiled as I looked across the bridge into to the forest of my ancestral past. Strength rose inside me to think of my Grandfather being born at the end of this river in the deep hush of the rocking limbs, being born to dance to the honor of the creator, knowing that we dance there today just as those who danced before him danced to the heart beat of the holy song of the drum. There, through time and space I saw them, at once, dancing together in this promised land of the Mahnomen, knowing that time and space no longer hold them and some day neither shall it hold me. Still, we remain, and tomorrow in spite of everything, until the time of our passing, below the shadow of these trees, we shall remain and no pilgrims pride can take that away from us.
In this age, I give thanks, not for any pilgrim upon our salted shores, but rather the enduring qualities of my ancestors of whom I am not worthy, but only allowed to dance before them. There in the quiet hush of time forward and time past, with them, I shall dance.
Click here http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/weshallrem
c2009
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We shall remain. c2009 Thomas Ross This picture is a composite of a couple of dancers from the Fond Du Lac, Brookston POWWOW and some trees by my house in brookston MN. The date function on my camera seems to be off a little. c2009 11/21/2009 |
In honor of the PBS WGBH Boston, Documentary
Personas for Firefox | Persona Detail
Posted using ShareThis
By Rob Capriccioso
s.”Story Published: Feb 9, 2009
http://www.indiancountrytoday.com/e
WASHINGTON – The White House announced Feb. 6 that Jodi Archambault Gillette has been named as one of three deputy associate directors of the Office of Intergovernmental Affairs. It is a historic appointment, as no other American Indian is believed to have ever held the position.
Gillette’s role will focus on overseeing Indian and tribal affairs in the office, which is dedicated to facilitating the exchange of information between governmental entities. In recent years, the office has largely served as a conduit between the White House and state and local governments.
Gillette is an enrolled member of the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe. She previously served as the North Dakota First American Vote Director for President Barack Obama’s campaign.
Recent presidential administrations have appointed key people to work with Indian tribes in the intergovernmental affairs office, including Jennifer Farley under President George W. Bush and Loretta Avent and Lynn Cutler under President Bill Clinton.
Gillette is being heralded as the first tribal member to hold the position.
Politically-conscious American Indians are already hailing the appointment as extraordinary.
Theresa Sheldon, a member of the Tulalip Tribes and a coordinator with the Native Vote Washington advocacy group, called Gillette’s appointment “historic and game changing.”
“Native voters turned out in record numbers to vote for both President Obama and Senator McCain, so there’s a lot of expectation out here in Indian country, based on those campaign promises, that Indian issues will be a priority for the new administration,” Sheldon said in a statement. “Gillette’s appointment, this early in the administration, is a good sign.”
Before joining the Obama campaign, Gillette was the director of the Native American Training Institute, a tribally operated non-profit organization. She has also long been a respected traditional Lakota dancer.
Obama concurrently named Nicholas Rathod and Michael Blake as intergovernmental deputy associate directors.
“These individuals bring diverse experiences and a deep passion for public service to my administration,” the new president said in a statement. “As we work to serve the American people and make this White House as open and transparent as possible, it’s essential that we hear from citizens in all our communities. I am confident that Jodi, Michael and Nick will be valuable members of our team.”
Indian country officials anticipate that Obama will appoint at least one more Native American person to serve in his administration.
Click on the above link to read the rest.
The below story will explain my day.
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City Indians.
The young privileged White Anglo Saxon Norwegian American with a hint of Irish, teacher looked at me and spoke... "You know," she said, "At some point you will just all have to get over it and prove yourselves, you can only rely on the damage to your parents for pity for so long." I looked at her dumbfounded. She was a teacher, someone who is supposed to love my students.
"At some point you have got to make your own money, and quit relying on the good will of others. You've got to make something of yourselves." I stepped back a little, I wondered what she was talking about? Did my 5 years of undergrad work and 3 years of graduate work not count?
She smiled at me: "At some point you will all have to get off the public dole and pay your own way." I thought, "Hmmm, for the past 30 years I have been teaching while you were a little girl trying to figure how to cheat your way out of your high school English final..." "Everyone I know," she went on, "ask they same question," she grabbed my hand as if to assure me. "Why don't they just get a job?" I pulled it away and bit my lip.
"You started it... killing innocent settlers. You fought, you lost, we took your land. Why don't you just get over with it? It happened hundreds of years ago... let it go and get on with life."
I remembered the treaty of 1857, I remembered how Relocation in the 1940's divided up my family. I looked at her unable to believe this was the 21st century. I did not speak, just as my Mishomis did not speak when they came for him and took him to the Catholic boarding school. They cut his hair and put him in a uniform and told him not to speak a word of Anishinaabek. They used his labor to pay to run the school and I thought, "He was only 5 years old. How he must have missed his Nokomis and Nimmamma." Did he lay there on that bed so far from his wigwam and weep at night? How did he handle not being allowed to speak to his brothers and sisters, his niijikiwag, his niimisag. but it did not end there. The Lake Superior Anishinaabek did not go to war with the white man like the Dakota did. We made treaties believing the white people would honor them. But then they took our land and our children and later our parents and our traditions. "We should have fought," I thought, "at least we would have that honor. But no," I thought again, "the Dakota are far worse off than we are, perhaps our elders were right."
For some reason my school felt really cold today.
I answered the lady, "You know, I'm part white, but I don't have the papers to prove it." She didn't understand my sarcasm. "We all think you people should just get over it." She slandered as she walked away from me. I left my Media Center and went down the hall to my native student who's mother is in jail and who is living with her uncle. She had left a message with my secretary that something was wrong.
"Mr. Arthur, " I could see she was upset. "They took my sister to a foster home and they are coming back to take me tonight."
"They did?" I was stunned. Her sister spend many study hall periods in my office working on projects for our Native American Program in our building. She is nothing less than 12 years of innocence and mercy.
"I'm going to miss everybody, I'm kind of afraid." I wanted to hug her, but the rules don't allow it. "Here little lady, this is my card, will you call me when you get to where ever you end up?"
"Maybe, I don't know if I'll have the ability to." she stumbled.
I thought of my Dakota student who was sent off to a boarding school this summer... I murmered quietly to myself, "You'd think we still lived in the 1800's."
"What?" she said.
"Nothing, Niimise," I responded, "nothing." we stood there awkwardly for a moment, tears building in our eyes. My stomach was tightening.
"I want to be here." she mumbled. I ached deep within. "I don't want to go."
"I know little lady, my hand reached out to hers, I know."
"I don't know if I'll see my sister again." she haltingly stumbled, The pain in me was unendurable. I shifted as we stood unable to speak.
"I've got to get you back to class, will you contact me when you get to where you are going?"
"I'll try," she opened the door to her classroom. I couldn't look at her anymore. I turned, trying to remember her face the dye in her hair the chubby of her cheeks and I heard the door close behind me. I walked down the hall aching inside, going to rescue another Native student of mine who is failing a class.
The words of the the privileged lady stung like a bee in my ears... "Someday you'll have to stand on your own two feet. Why can't you just get over it?"
I left the building several hours later with those words still biting me. The grey Minnesota sky hung over me like a blanket made of lead. My tears froze on my face as I picked my way through the dirty streets. Not even a bird would call out to me. "One by one they are still being snached away from us," I thought.
I was so cold, so alone.
I was so alone.
"Get over it?"
" it never ends..."
"It never ends..."
A tree by night.
A study in light.
- Location:Twin Cities
- Mood:
contemplative
Some people are aware of Natural time and live in Natural Time. Those of us who choose to live in the presence of the spirit world must do so. Those of us who choose the old ways of the Anishinaubek experience that life in order to be who the Creator made us to be. It is Spirit Time. We are most at peace and most happy if we live along the paths of Natural Time. It is written in our spirits and our hearts to do so. That is not the time that people who have come to Turtle Island to become the dominate society work on when they use a watch or a clock. It is the inner time in the Spirit that shows us the move of the Spirit of the Creator. It is an observance of the flow of events into their fulfillment. It is what the bible speaks of when it talks about the "Fullness of Time coming to pass." I have learned that it is the most natural time within me. It is not rushed or hurried, it is a fullness and when I live by it I am most happy.
There is an Unnatural time too and it is the people of the Unnatural time that despise the people of the natural time. They run by clocks and appointments and dates and calendars and know nothing of the coming of the finch or the flow of the water from the melting snow or the drop of the pine nuts or the ripeness of the rice. This are about maximizing time and getting the job done sooner and "Time is Money." They are about things and not people they know not the drumbeat of our Mother Earth and they cannot walk in the Anishinaabe "Way." because they have no code but greed. Time to them is another instrument of power and they force more into a moment than the moment will allow and the moment burst like a broken heart overflowing with it's life blood of the most sacred gift of the creator. Time.
You cannot buy it or sell it find it our lose it, in ojibwemowin (the Ojibwe language) it has a hundred words to identify it's different natures, but they are always animate. Time has it's own life. Time travels by it's own design, "ojijise" - it (time) comes; it (time) passes. Time is a life, a spirit unto it's self and is not to be controlled and mastered without great loss. If we entertain it's spirit we gain it's fullness, but if we master it, flood it, fill it, compact it, it dies in our hands and like all things that pass we then must go without it. Does it not seem than when you live in Whiteman’s time, you lose time itself. You never have enough time. That is because time now avoids you because as a community it cannot dwell around it's own when it is crushed. The pain is too great.
In the Circle of Stones it says when speaking of Natural Time, "It keeps the Anishinaubek walking with feet strongly connected to the earth. It make the Anishinaubek able to move in alignment with the earth's time.... Natural time is the kind that tells you when you are finished with a meal or when you are ready to wake up from a good night's sleep. If you pay attention to Natural time, it can tell you just when to call your girlfriend and (I believe this is because you sense her moment in your spirit) and when to study for a test. When you feel natural time, it is much easier to learn another importante Anishinaabe value ---- patience!"
There is no doubt the Anishinaubek struggle with white man's time because it is unnatural and very often unholy. it does not honor the Creator or give peace to the spirit. But we must like all people that the white man dominates work around the dysfunction of the unnatural time that flows according to a clock. My most natural being is dwelt within the confines of Natural Time and for me to move within the walls of the bell schedule or the church schedule is most difficult. I have to have help with doing so at church for there is no room for waiting on the Creator in Church, because the dominant society makes church about the people and not their God. At one time the spiritual people within the church could wait up on the Creator, sometimes allowing 2 or 3 hours to pass in silence enjoying the presence of the Kitchi Manidoo, but if they cannot any longer sense His Presence, how can the wait until He is ready to move? They have no conciouse knowledge of any spirits presence and are indeed frightened with they do sense one near them.
Lately a spirit has been lightly touching me on my shoulder just letting me know that he is there, at first I was surprised by it's intrusion, (spirits should not touch without permission) but now I know I must take heed of it's touch. Somewhere I have given it permisssion to invade my presence and perhaps that is most clearly because I have been crying out to Kitchi Manidoo to show me the way. It is trying to warn or guide me. In Christianity they call these spirits, "Guardian Angels" and indeed they are for the Greek word for "Angel" simply means "Spirit." But if people cannot know the presence of the spirit world they cannot understand "Natural Time." for natural time is a gift of the Great Spirit, Kitchi Manidoo, himself. So they cannot see the path to travel in making their decisions and their feet cannot be safe like hinds feet on high places. Indeed being perceptive to Natural time will distract you from Unnatural time, but you can do like I do and inquire of those people of unnatural time that they help your move in that too. My loved ones and my friends will remind me if I ask them to and then I can honor their moment attached to the clock, but where Natural Time and unnatural Time are in conflict I think it best to follow natural time so that you can see in the spirit realm the path to follow that you might allow yourself to be Kitchi Manidoo's blessing.
You must be wise and careful though, for to move outside of natural time to try to live life among the dominant society is always a loss and it can be deceptive giving you the idea that you have control. But if you a little creature among spirits, ventures into time places you must not go then you could injure yourself and others by walking uncovered among spirits that would be offended by your presence for each spirit has it's time and place. When you are uncovered you can be injured for your disobedience to the territory allotted to other spirits for those moments. You must be humble and understand your place in time and space. To do so is to learn of the Spirit, "Natural Time."
Zhwendaagoz, my friends.
anishinaubek, time, spirit time., natural time, anishinaabe
- Location:In the Spirit
- Mood:
calm - Music:silence
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.”
From: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot (1888–1965)
My friend and Cherokee Sister, Walking Path was writing about a friend who just underwent major surgery for some kind of cancer and she was explaining about the difficulty of recovery with the grandchildren in the house. I understood, but saw it from a different perspective in light of my attempt to honor my father (Nimbaabaa) tonight. How sweet it is to have family, how good it is not to pass alone. So often my Sister guides me in the right ways on the Red Road, but tonight was my turn.
She wrote:
“I went by yesterday to pick up some things from her hubby, and she was sitting on the ladder in the kitchen trying to catch her breath. Clearly she is not back to herself. I hate to say it, but her kids need to move out. I know her husband knows this. There are about eight grandchildren there, and she is just not getting her strength back like if she were on her own. She picks them up even though she is not supposed to. And I know she loves them so much, but she never gets any rest. It would be good if all of the kids went on a cruise or something (LOL). Maybe even got in a daycare or something. Our little church is probably going to close down due to lack of support financially, so there is another move for her too. I just don't know. Please keep praying for her. last year she was 150 pounds and now about 90. She is so tiny in my arms when I hug her, and I feel so sad for her. She is a fighter though, that is for sure.”
I replied:
“Perhaps it is because of the grandchildren that she has survived this long. In the Wigwam, opposite the entrance was a place of honor for the Mishomis and Nokomis. As elders of the home they got the first portion, the warmest spot and quiet respect by everyone. They did not have to raise their voice for everyone leaned in to hear them. Perhaps this could simply benefit from some of the wisdom of the Red Road, as a family and learn how to wait on their Nokomis. They are close to the spirit world having dissipated in their flesh and no doubt their ancestors listen and know the quality of the household. It is essential to honor those to go before us. The dominant society of today beckons us into selfish solitude, but the Red Road calls us to belonging and part of belonging to honoring those through whom the Creator provides live. Even children must learn to honor and serve. No doubt a little of her self esteem comes from serving her family, the labor that begets is not bad unless she does not know the spirits balance.
If she is only 90 pounds... she could benefit in her soul from the hug of a nimise, for both it's physical and spiritual warmth. To love and be loved is the most important thing to any woman and then to be honored.
I will continue to pray.”
Tonight, I had the privilege of taking my Nimbaabaa out to dinner with my Nimmaamaa and celebrating the day of his birth. A day which in part procured my life. A day that the Creator Celebrated as He called this very good man into being. It was my place to honor him and feed him and care for him. It was my place to comfort him, cloak him and escort him. To encourage him to find the best food on the menu see to his utmost benefit. To honor his shrinking body and to care for it understanding that the “hems of his pants are rolled.” It was my place to seat him quietly to the west in the Wigwam of the restaurant and sit after having our fill and listen to his stories of my Mishomis (Grandfather) who graciously let him date my mom, my Mishomises only child and one of great beauty and grace. To observe how my Mishomis qualified my Nimbaabaa and then instructed him in the ways to honor women.
“ Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?”
They are the Nokomis (Grandmother) and Mishomis (grandfather) of my children. My Nimaamaaa, my Nimbaabaa. Tonight was my time to glory in my 76 year old Nimbaabaa’s recently graying hair and smile as he pushed his dentures into place to see the beauty of this great man who is the grandfather of my children leading them in a path of duty, sacrifice and beauty, by living his life in ways that they will find dignity and honor. Who time and again faced bullets and bombs on the earth and in the sky, with an eye seven generations ahead, believing in the necessity to procure for them freedom even with his life in necessary.
My mother and Father out on a date in Adana Turkey with a Swedish Countess and her husband in 1964. My Father is the guy in the white shirt holding the cigarette and wine (two things he later gave up to be a better dad.)
Tonight was a dance of celebration as we sat facing each other, my heart giving continual thanks for this good man who suffered so much for all of us and even today suffers cancer from his contact with Agent Orange a chemical used to uncover the pathways of the enemy as they moved on our troops through the jungles of Viet Nam. Tonight was my night to hold his little body, to hug his large spirit and bring more healing into his inner-most-being.
If you have not honored your Father and Mother recently, understand that this precious way of the Anishinaabe is also the way of the European Communities for it is written, “Honor your father and mother that it may go well with you and that you may have a long life.”
“That it may go well with you...” I know that this society worships youth and forgets the elderly, but as long as there are those of us who walk in the way of our ancestors, who will ask permission before they take of mother earth or their brothers the animals and trees... as long as we stand. We shall honor those who go before us for that is the “Good Path.” The path we hold dear.
Tonight as we parted at his door, I hugged him and said, “I love you dad.” He squeezed me tightly and looked at me with the warmth of tears in his eyes that said, “It was all worth it. The bombs, the plan crash, the freezing cold of North Korea, the endless stupidity of those in power, the bullet 1/3 inch above his heart, The endless hours in the doctors office getting treatment for things he didn’t even know existed when I was born. The difficulty in holding the line when we needed him to as we grew up. Giving up his car for the night of my prom. All the big sacrifices and all the small.... all worth it.”
Tonight I reveled in honoring my Father and it went well with me and it still goes well with me now.
Miigwech, Nimbaabaa.
(Author's note: Often I will use Ojibwe words and phrases to honor my ancestors, because I do not write just for you, I write for them as well. Coming home late in life to the way of my Anishinaabe ancestors, I now understand my connectedness and obligations like never before. I write these word Mishomis, remembering that you may read them and if you choose to it his my hope that they are my arms wrapped around you in gratefulness.)
- Location:My Wigwam
- Mood: grateful
- Music:Acuradio, Textures
Adana Turkey Fall 1962....
The sun sparkled on the rail just behind the Turkish bus drivers back. I was just six years old and about to witness my second killing at the hands of the Turkish authorities in ten months. I sat about six rows back in the Bluebird U. S. Air Force bus that was taking me to second grade. The front of the seat was a chrome metal and the bus was loud, cold and bumpy. Everything still feels harsh… cold and intense when I think about what took place. The colors are more vibrant…The Blue on the Air Force bus more blue. The sun ducking in and out of the clouds more intense…perhaps because children experience sight sound and smell more intensely at those ages.
My sister sat on the driver side of the bus, close to the window. She wore her white and blue dress with her white socks and her short cropped dark brown hair that my dad had argued with my mom over just a week before. He hated her getting hair cuts. Her blue ribbon of cotton cinched the dress tightly to her skinny body. She crinkled her face as she sat in the sun. Her freckles seemed to bounce off hear cheeks with each bump. I sat in the isle seat in my dress slacks, white shirt and black and white sneakers, my lunch bag tight in my hand. My short toe-head blond Air Force buzz of a haircut was a typical military style for all little soldiers. We were the pride of the American family, spit-polish clean in every way. I hadn’t gotten used to this bus ride and didn’t like feeling so alone, being kind new on this bus, so I was a little lonely for the comforts of home and the closeness of my mother. I didn’t like my sister being in charge of me…but in this case she was.
The older kids were singing something in back… some early Elvis songs and the bumps in the road were thudding loud on that cold frosty morning in October or November. That was unusual because Adana was rarely intensely cold with frost. It was a rocky smelly dry and dirty area of the country. We passed some sort of prison on the way to school and in front of it was a large open field… it looked like the crop had been harvested just a few weeks before, lots of open clumps of dark dirt. Across the road on the other side was a stand of trees, not a large one but enough for a little kid to think it was large. The bus smelled of someone’s bagged lunch and it was noisy with voices. Not a lot of kids, just loud kids.
Then it happened
Then out the left window, as we approached the seven or eight foot walls of the prison, I could see the first man slip over the wall. His body hugged the wall and slid off of it. I watched transfixed. Then the next and then next and finally the fourth man slipped over the wall and there was shouting in the distance and suddenly men in dark uniforms chasing after them. I think the prisoners were in dirty coveralls and they were burly men…They held up their arms yelling at the bus to stop. Then I heard a few cracks and at first the dirt leaped up around them and our bus driver slammed on the breaks pushing me into the back of the seat in front of me and my knees smarted as the hit the aluminum back. Kids on the bus were screaming now and my sister started to scream. The bus was now at a full stop and I could see the bus driver leap out of his seat and yell for us to all get down below the seats. I stood up and turned to the window.
I looked out the window just in time to see the machine gun kick in and the bullets find their mark in the first mans back. Time stopped as he trembled at the impact of the bullets and he stumbled. Then he was pushed up in the air a bit and dropped. The bus driver moved past me pushing heads down, but he missed mine. My sister ducked and I continued to watch the second man begin to tremble as the first man collapsed first to his knees and then face down into the earth. Clack, clack, clack thud, thud, thud the noise was constant now. Dirt leapt all around as the second man, stumbled now perhaps forty yards away when he hit the ground permanently on his side, almost fetal, rolling. I turned my head quickly to check behind me and the kids in back were all almost down. I looked back to the two remaining men running, where the first two were older and heavy, the third was young and skinny. I saw him just as he hit the ground also on his side, but he just dropped straight down like his feet came out from under him. His legs continued to move as he lay on his side, they kicked the air not far off the ground. The sound of gunfire was continued it volley and dirt was still leaping all around. Then suddenly my head was pushed straight down by the strong hands of the bus driver, but I kind fought at him and tried to see over the edge of the window I was now below. I don’t know why, but I thought I had to see. The crackle of the weapons lasted just ten seconds longer and then ceased then staggered again and then were silent. Everything was still and the hand of the bus driver relaxed a little on my head and now I could smell the gun powder and see the smoke. The bus driver rose quickly, releasing me completely and ran for the front of the bus. I stood and looked at the bodies laying in the dirt a couple of them had slight jerking movements. They seemed so close, in my mind the words “not far away,’ hovered. I was frozen, I stood transfixed. Staring. Time hovered menacingly.
Suddenly the bus crunched into gear and I lost balance almost falling into my seat. I don’t know why but everything seems to stink and as fast as the bus could pick up speed we moved past the prison. Smoke still in the air. I feel queezy deep inside, out of balance. The sun was brighter now and the greens and tans and browns of the field contrasted the bodies laying in it as the guards stood over the bodies and we continued down the road. Suddenly my sister, crying hysterically pulled me into my seat just as we slipped over a slight grade in the road and first the field disappeared and then the dirty off white walls of the prison passed from view. There was sobbing on the bus, but in muffled tones and nobody said anything aloud. The bus sped down the road to school.
When we got to school the bus driver hopped out of his seat and leaped off the bus forcing the door closed. Not many kids were crying now, but nobody spoke. We waited a long time and then an adult in a suit (probably the principal) came on the bus and said several things. Some of the older kids answered, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying… it was like I just couldn’t hear him in English even though he was an American. Then slowly he turned got off the bus and the bus driver got on the bus. The man in the suit went into the school but some Ladies in dresses got on to the bus and just stood there looking at us and talking quietly to themselves, then the man in the suite came back and spoke to the bus driver, he started the bus and the ladies got off the bus and the door closed and jerked into gear and we went back home.
When we arrived at my house my sister went in crying and the bus driver asked to talk to my dad. My mom called me over to the living room and I sat on the floor with my sister. I remember my family talking in hushed tones and walking nervously back and forth. My mom pulled out a game, monopoly, I think and set it up, but we didn’t play. I think the bus driver left brought the rest of the kids’ home and came back to us. The longest time passed. I remember him at the door a second time. A lot of time must have passed because it was getting dark and we still hadn’t played the game. I couldn't do anything. There was a kind of a buzzing going on inside of me. We just sat there. There were hushed voices and the bus driver came into the living room and sat down with us. We didn’t say anything, but he smiled rubbed my head several times and spoke to my parents held monopoly parts in his hand and finally awkwardly put them down and left. Before he left I stood and he rubbed my fuzzy head again…he had wet brown eyes on his opulent face they tried to communicate hope, but tears floated in them. His arm dropped and he went out the front door.
My mom called me back to the game and I returned, but I don’t think I really played. I think I went to bed early and skipped dinner, although I has sat at the table for a while… I really didn’t want to eat. I just felt funny inside…kinda sick and dizzy, detached and lost and the darkness closed in and scared me. I didn’t want to be awake in the dark. The sheets were cold and I just lay there in silence, not having spoken for the longest time, perhaps since the shooting, I quietly began to tremble to the cold and I wept silently…at length I fell into sleep.
C2006
My sister sat on the driver side of the bus, close to the window. She wore her white and blue dress with her white socks and her short cropped dark brown hair that my dad had argued with my mom over just a week before. He hated her getting hair cuts. Her blue ribbon of cotton cinched the dress tightly to her skinny body. She crinkled her face as she sat in the sun. Her freckles seemed to bounce off hear cheeks with each bump. I sat in the isle seat in my dress slacks, white shirt and black and white sneakers, my lunch bag tight in my hand. My short toe-head blond Air Force buzz of a haircut was a typical military style for all little soldiers. We were the pride of the American family, spit-polish clean in every way. I hadn’t gotten used to this bus ride and didn’t like feeling so alone, being kind new on this bus, so I was a little lonely for the comforts of home and the closeness of my mother. I didn’t like my sister being in charge of me…but in this case she was.
The older kids were singing something in back… some early Elvis songs and the bumps in the road were thudding loud on that cold frosty morning in October or November. That was unusual because Adana was rarely intensely cold with frost. It was a rocky smelly dry and dirty area of the country. We passed some sort of prison on the way to school and in front of it was a large open field… it looked like the crop had been harvested just a few weeks before, lots of open clumps of dark dirt. Across the road on the other side was a stand of trees, not a large one but enough for a little kid to think it was large. The bus smelled of someone’s bagged lunch and it was noisy with voices. Not a lot of kids, just loud kids.
Then it happened
Then out the left window, as we approached the seven or eight foot walls of the prison, I could see the first man slip over the wall. His body hugged the wall and slid off of it. I watched transfixed. Then the next and then next and finally the fourth man slipped over the wall and there was shouting in the distance and suddenly men in dark uniforms chasing after them. I think the prisoners were in dirty coveralls and they were burly men…They held up their arms yelling at the bus to stop. Then I heard a few cracks and at first the dirt leaped up around them and our bus driver slammed on the breaks pushing me into the back of the seat in front of me and my knees smarted as the hit the aluminum back. Kids on the bus were screaming now and my sister started to scream. The bus was now at a full stop and I could see the bus driver leap out of his seat and yell for us to all get down below the seats. I stood up and turned to the window.
I looked out the window just in time to see the machine gun kick in and the bullets find their mark in the first mans back. Time stopped as he trembled at the impact of the bullets and he stumbled. Then he was pushed up in the air a bit and dropped. The bus driver moved past me pushing heads down, but he missed mine. My sister ducked and I continued to watch the second man begin to tremble as the first man collapsed first to his knees and then face down into the earth. Clack, clack, clack thud, thud, thud the noise was constant now. Dirt leapt all around as the second man, stumbled now perhaps forty yards away when he hit the ground permanently on his side, almost fetal, rolling. I turned my head quickly to check behind me and the kids in back were all almost down. I looked back to the two remaining men running, where the first two were older and heavy, the third was young and skinny. I saw him just as he hit the ground also on his side, but he just dropped straight down like his feet came out from under him. His legs continued to move as he lay on his side, they kicked the air not far off the ground. The sound of gunfire was continued it volley and dirt was still leaping all around. Then suddenly my head was pushed straight down by the strong hands of the bus driver, but I kind fought at him and tried to see over the edge of the window I was now below. I don’t know why, but I thought I had to see. The crackle of the weapons lasted just ten seconds longer and then ceased then staggered again and then were silent. Everything was still and the hand of the bus driver relaxed a little on my head and now I could smell the gun powder and see the smoke. The bus driver rose quickly, releasing me completely and ran for the front of the bus. I stood and looked at the bodies laying in the dirt a couple of them had slight jerking movements. They seemed so close, in my mind the words “not far away,’ hovered. I was frozen, I stood transfixed. Staring. Time hovered menacingly.
Suddenly the bus crunched into gear and I lost balance almost falling into my seat. I don’t know why but everything seems to stink and as fast as the bus could pick up speed we moved past the prison. Smoke still in the air. I feel queezy deep inside, out of balance. The sun was brighter now and the greens and tans and browns of the field contrasted the bodies laying in it as the guards stood over the bodies and we continued down the road. Suddenly my sister, crying hysterically pulled me into my seat just as we slipped over a slight grade in the road and first the field disappeared and then the dirty off white walls of the prison passed from view. There was sobbing on the bus, but in muffled tones and nobody said anything aloud. The bus sped down the road to school.
When we got to school the bus driver hopped out of his seat and leaped off the bus forcing the door closed. Not many kids were crying now, but nobody spoke. We waited a long time and then an adult in a suit (probably the principal) came on the bus and said several things. Some of the older kids answered, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying… it was like I just couldn’t hear him in English even though he was an American. Then slowly he turned got off the bus and the bus driver got on the bus. The man in the suit went into the school but some Ladies in dresses got on to the bus and just stood there looking at us and talking quietly to themselves, then the man in the suite came back and spoke to the bus driver, he started the bus and the ladies got off the bus and the door closed and jerked into gear and we went back home.
When we arrived at my house my sister went in crying and the bus driver asked to talk to my dad. My mom called me over to the living room and I sat on the floor with my sister. I remember my family talking in hushed tones and walking nervously back and forth. My mom pulled out a game, monopoly, I think and set it up, but we didn’t play. I think the bus driver left brought the rest of the kids’ home and came back to us. The longest time passed. I remember him at the door a second time. A lot of time must have passed because it was getting dark and we still hadn’t played the game. I couldn't do anything. There was a kind of a buzzing going on inside of me. We just sat there. There were hushed voices and the bus driver came into the living room and sat down with us. We didn’t say anything, but he smiled rubbed my head several times and spoke to my parents held monopoly parts in his hand and finally awkwardly put them down and left. Before he left I stood and he rubbed my fuzzy head again…he had wet brown eyes on his opulent face they tried to communicate hope, but tears floated in them. His arm dropped and he went out the front door.
My mom called me back to the game and I returned, but I don’t think I really played. I think I went to bed early and skipped dinner, although I has sat at the table for a while… I really didn’t want to eat. I just felt funny inside…kinda sick and dizzy, detached and lost and the darkness closed in and scared me. I didn’t want to be awake in the dark. The sheets were cold and I just lay there in silence, not having spoken for the longest time, perhaps since the shooting, I quietly began to tremble to the cold and I wept silently…at length I fell into sleep.
C2006
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