Archives for category: Folk Stories

It’s been a time of transition. And a time of wondering where to take this blog in future. It seemed I’d reached a stopping point, insofar as developing my case and circumstance of exile, and now is up to the cowardly German politicians to rectify matters or simply to continue to give Obama political fellatio and cover for CIA & JSOC crimes and related, incidental miscreant behaviors of MOSSAD. But somehow I suspect my case will not, cannot stay swept under the rug.  At this point, I only need be patient. The question remains however, is there any possibility I will reach a detente with the intelligence agencies? If they’d back off, I would quit burning them, a message even the most moronic should be able to absorb and act on. So what to do in the meanwhile?

I have plenty of interest in composing folk stories, as well my interest in translation of ancient concept to modern and would prefer to turn my attention to these interests … but I am well aware I have readers looking for politics and satire [both gag me] and feel there is some obligation to appreciating loyalty to my unfortunate brilliance in these matters. So I will wind back burning the criminal agencies, to a point. If they behave well in relation to my personal circumstance, I will likely turn my attention more and more to those interests I prefer giving my attention, which altogether excludes the stupidities of international intrigue. So it will be a process of withdrawal, and meanwhile I’ve settled on my newer, somewhat more benign political target: EXBERLINER [the magazine]

Why EXBERLINER? The magazine is about Berlin, it is in English, caters to expatriates, is largely intelligent, somewhat interesting to me and has a total moron for a political commentator.

“Werner’s Political Notebook” has earned EXBERLINER the savages of this lampoonist and former intelligence professional’s political pen. Congratulations! For the foreseeable future, my intention is to write a monthly column on EXBERLINER.

The October issue [#120] has a brilliant article on Salman Rushdie with extensive quotes from a Rushdie appearance in Berlin, very good reading I would recommend to anyone [who can actually read, of course.] The series of articles on alternative healing are worthwhile particularly because the writers put their own bodies on the line in pursuit of understanding. Most commendable. The sundry information on several scenes in Berlin looks to have entertaining possibilities, and then…

… there is [Konrad] Werner.

Werner’s smug, sideways glance from his black & white photo is set to reassure his narcissism in the mirror, as he pontificates on Merkel & Syria. DO NOT read Werner’s column, if you’d like to discover anything close to truth. The petty Bibi Netanyahus of this world, whose policies Werner embodies with his ill-informed moralizing on Syrians dying in their beds on account of the Assad regime, overlooks a small reality; were it not for western democracies intelligence agencies having facilitated, arranged the arming of, and stimulated the armed rebellion in Syria, Syrians would not be dying in their beds. Oops! Werner’s pushing the USA-Israeli-Saudi alliance in Syria (originally initiated as a stepping stone to taking down Iran before Obama got cold feet) in the guise of a moralism: “The decision the German government makes every day not to shoot down Assad’s scuds means families die in their beds” … makes one wonder whether there will ever come a day ordinary people of European cultural origin can competently assess humanitarian violence, sans ego (it is this cultural ego, a form of chauvinism, drives humanitarian violence and idiots like Werner.) In the alternative, perhaps Werner is merely a pontificating moralist of small mind who has sucked up and re-spewed Netanyahu-AIPAC originated propaganda per the many information operations tossed at the general public by intelligence agencies (intended to spread like memes.) Oh, and Werner managed the otherwise intelligent people at EXBERLINER to give his ill-informed political gibberish print. And the invigorating of al-Qaida (al-Nusra) as a side effect of the western/wahabi alliance effort to oust Assad is to be overlooked as a case of c’est la vie?

Uh, Werner, I hate to inform you (and the people at EXBERLINER) ‘democracy’ has murdered more Syrians, by far, than Assad, left alone, ever would have… and insofar as the purpose in this malignant social phenomena you support with lobbying Germany to become militarily proactive in Syria, I recommend to you a small but informative reading project: ‘The Least of All Possible Evils‘ (Humanitarian Violence From Arendt to Gaza) by Eyal Weizman

EXBERLINER (1)

EXBERLINER (2)

EXBERLINER (3)

EXBERLINER (4)

Post Modern Teutonic Vision (a.k.a. Werner blogged me!)

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Brought to you by the Free Speech Clown

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One of Floyd Heavy Runner’s great frustrations was the Christian narrative had crept into and changed the very fabric [values] of the Oral History of the Blackfeet. This began with the Jesuit penetration of the culture via the women. In the earliest contact times, it was inconceivable [to the Blackfeet] a religion could present a world view founded on a lie. The Jesuits took advantage of this by promoting the idea only ONE man had to die, for the women to discover all of their departed men in the after-life. This was a very effective subversion because Indian life saw many men die, valued and loved by the women men, titans who did not hesitate to lay down their lives that the women might live. By the time the Blackfeet had discovered the Europeans were invertebrate liars, culturally speaking, it was too late. Christianity had a foothold in the culture and this was not reversed, Blackfoot law prohibited killing one’s own people, the only means to stamp this cultural perversion out. Two centuries later, when the Oral Histories were first recorded, after the Blackfoot had been deprived of all freedom and were confined to their reservation, the additional handicaps of Christian interpreters and the American Indian Religious Crimes Codes which risked jail to demonstrate any association with the old ways of spirit, further eroded the Oral Histories. By this time, the stories simply could not be brought forward in a pure state per the ancient narrative.

What I have done here, with retelling the story of Mik-api, is to remove the Christian bias from the narrative and restore the original Blackfoot values. No doubt, this will not be a perfect effect or return to the narrative of 300 years ago, but should give a more accurate idea of the intended lessons of one of the more important stories of the truly ancients, from the times before horses-

Mik-api

Fox-eye had been punished severely by the gods who took away all his near relations, because he was not worthy. He had two young orphaned sisters (cousins) he kept and had made them his wives, by now all that was left. They confronted Fox-eye and implored him, ‘We can’t do this, look around you at all of our family, your family, our family, gone. This has been a big mistake. Everyone is leaving us’

Fox-eye was known to be stubborn. He understood what he had caused. His pride was great, and he could not bear to live with his mistake openly and honestly, he would not correct himself and go on. So he determined to die at first opportunity.

Meanwhile the sisters discussed what might happen, how they might escape a crime against the laws of spirit, which are not punished by man, rather punished by the gods with terrible luck.

As it happened, there was a great warrior of the people, Mik-api, an older man who had never taken a wife. Mik-api could have had any wife he pleased but his heart was merciful and wise. His great power was in his deep understanding of the truly Ancient Beings, the Great Ghosts we sometimes call upon as gods, not the ordinary ghosts, and any wife he might have taken would have to live a mistake free life, or be at risk. He suffered living alone these many years but this was better than bringing disaster on any wife, this was Mik-api’s thinking. So Mik-api had always acted as though he did not notice the many beautiful women who would not fear to die, if only to honor Mik-api with their love and devotion for his great service to the Blackfoot people.

Then, one of the sisters had cried out ‘If only we could marry Mik-api, our mistake has been great already, to marry Mik-api would make no difference for us!’ The other sister said ‘Be careful what you say! The Ghosts might hear you!’ But in fact they already had.

Fox-eye, soon after, went with a few others on a Buffalo hunt. A Medicine Woman had called the Buffalo into a Pishkun with the little stone that faintly chirps like a small bird, the one whose name we do not often speak aloud, and these men were shooting arrows into the Buffalo trapped in the stone corral when they were nearly surprised by a war party of Snake Indians, but their lookout was keen of sight and warned them in time to run back to camp.

Fox-eye taunted the others ‘Who is afraid of Snakes? Watch me, I will not run away!’

The others called back to him ‘Why be foolish and die for no good reason? Most our arrows are spent on the Buffalo, come, return with us!’

But Fox-eye had already determined to die, and stood his ground, waiting for the Snakes rushing at him. He had his bow and arrow at the ready but it was for nothing, a Snake had out-flanked Fox-eye, un-noticed. An arrow pierced his heart from the backside and he fell dead without giving a fight. By the time the Blackfoot hunting party had been able to return with help, they found Fox-eye dead and the Snakes had run away, out of reach.

When the sisters heard this news, they became badly frightened, the bad luck was drawing ever closer, now, there was none left but themselves.  The sister who had wished aloud to marry Mik-api said ‘There is nothing else to do but this; let us mourn Fox-eye on the little hill behind Mik-api’s lodge, until he calls for us. This we must do.’ Her sister agreed and they began those terrible wails that come from the belly and went on and on, day and night. They were not really mourning Fox-eye, he had abused his trust while keeping his orphaned near cousins, but these young women were genuinely mourning the great mistake they had been trapped into, and their own impending doom.

Finally, Mik-api, when he could no longer bear the sound of the girls mourning, he told his mother who stayed with him, those poor girls! Who will avenge them? Who will hunt for them? Go, call them in to talk to me.’

And so the sisters came into Mik-api’s lodge and sat by the door but kept their faces concealed with their robe. Mik-api was about to speak when the bolder sister, the one who’d wished to marry him, spoke first and confessed the incest, told everything, even to the wish she had stated out loud, how it would make no difference if he married them, because they were certain to die anyway but perhaps they could recover their dignity, at the least.

Mik-api was deeply troubled at what he heard, he fell silent for a long time. Then, finally, he said to them ‘Go, return to your lodge. You are young but even I, Mik-api, find what you have confessed to me, a deeply troubling circumstance, with no easy answer. I must visit with the High Priest of Okan and discuss what you have told me. Perhaps there is a way forward for us but I don’t know. I will try to find a way through this.’

The sisters left Mik-api with the first small hope they had known in their young adult lives. Meanwhile, Mik-api sent his mother to ask the tribe’s headman of Sun Dance, when would be a good time to discuss a matter of the deepest gravity.

Nobody had known the cause of the disasters surrounding Fox-eye, only that it was plain a great mistake had been made and had gone uncorrected. When Mik-api was called to sweat lodge to discuss with the keeper of the laws, finally the truth would be known.

The complications in this circumstance, per the known laws of the spirit world, were great. No one would avenge Fox-eye, or mourn him, were the truth to be known. And you cannot ask people to avenge or mourn falsely. So Fox-eye’s spirit would be lingering for a long time, he would be frustrated at not being alive or moved on to the Great Infinity and likely would do rash and angry things.

Fox-eye had to be drawn away from the sisters, they would be particularly at risk. These things and more were discussed.

After, Mik-api sent his mother to the sisters, to collect Fox-eye’s war hammer, his bow, his chert knife and his shield, these items had to be taken from Fox-eye’s burial scaffold. Then he prepared to depart on the war trail to the camp of the Snakes, he would be leaving his own weapons behind. When it was noticed the great Mik-api was preparing for war, many warriors wished to accompany him but he turned them all away, the famous warrior would go alone on the most legendary war journey of his life.

So Mik-api set out but he did an interesting thing on his way, he went to the valley whose name we do not say aloud and came within calling distance of the Cottonwood tree Fox-eye’s burial scaffold was located in. It was nearly dark when Mik-api called out ‘Fox-eye! I have your weapons of war and there is nothing you can do! Now, I will go to the Snakes and make a good showing with your weapons, something you did not!’ And with this grave insult, Mik-api drew the angry ghost of Fox-eye after himself, while continuing his journey. As it was in the old ways of war, Mik-api ran all night and concealed himself well, to rest during the day.

When night had fallen again, Mik-api resumed running. After this second night’s run, Mik-api was already in the vicinity of the Snakes, the border regions between the tribes, for Mik-api was of the Pikuni people, the southernmost Blackfeet and neighbors to the Snakes. With daybreak, Mik-api took shelter in a shallow cave on a cliff-side, a place with a good view. When nightfall came again, there was a storm and Mik-api delayed leaving his shelter. There was a Snake scout nearby, he did not wish to be in the storm either and the ghost of Fox-eye guided, or put it in his mind to go there, taking the Snake to the very cave Mik-api was sheltered in. In the pitch black they touched and both were startled. They began a hand language conversation by touch, Mik-api inquired ‘Who are you?’ The Snake made the sign for his people in a way Mik-api would feel the symbol and ask Mik-api the identical question. Mik-api made the sign of the River People, an ally of the Snakes, and his enemy relaxed. Both laid down to wait out the storm. Mik-api kept himself awake but the Snake slept, a fact for which he would die.

Lying was not an common thing in those days and Mik-api was disturbed in his spirit, and surprised at himself, he had gained advantage unfairly. But the lie was told, the mistake was made, he knew a lightning strike could give the lie away. He was quietly up after he knew the Snake was asleep, while poised with Fox-eye’s war hammer, waiting for the lightning. When the illumination came, he smashed his enemy’s head with a swift strike. After the storm, Mik-api ran again, for the rest of the night, to daybreak. The ghost of Fox-eye was not pleased at this outcome and continued following Mik-api.

By this time, Mik-api was now properly in the county of the Snakes and at daybreak he saw the smoke from the morning cooking fires of the Snake camp. So he very carefully made his way to a vantage point to study the camp’s layout, to spot the lookout sentries and make his plan. He saw that one of the guards was negligent, preoccupied with some craft-work that he put down from time to time, to study the landscape. He was making arrows.

Mik-api came up close behind, stealthily, while the Snake guard was paying close attention to tying an arrowhead to a shaft with sinew, and in one swift move Mik-api covered the Snake’s mouth with his hand from behind, while his other drove Fox-eye’s stone knife into the Snakes heart. It was a silent killing. Then, quietly, he withdrew.

Working his way to the other side of the camp, Mik-api knew the killing would not go un-noticed for much of the day. He wished to be opposite direction of the attention it would draw, when discovered. Perhaps he could then make one more kill and make his escape. He was nearly where he wished to be but not quite, when there was a great cry over the discovery of the sentry he had killed. Fox-eye had put it into the mind for someone to wander the way of the dead Snake. Many of the Snakes were running over there, and Mik-api was caught between a Snake warrior running towards him and his desired maneuver was failed. He realized there was no way to evade discovery. Rising up from his concealment with Fox-eye’s bow, he called out ‘I am Mik-api’ and the Snake had already begun his death chant when Fox-eye’s arrow pierced him, for these were famous words, known widely. Moments later, a second arrow finished him off. But now all of the Snakes were on the chase and Mik-api did not have the distance he needed, but he would try to make his escape.

Mik-api ran for the river close by the Snake camp, it was his only chance. A Snake arrow pierced his arm and he pulled it out while on the run. He had nearly made it to the edge of a high bank above the river when a second arrow pierced his thigh and Mik-api went down. He rolled over the rim above the river and dropped some distance, into the water. There Mik-api swam deep with the swift current, surfaced for air and could hear the Snakes shouting in the distance, went under again with the current and surfaced again, concealed under a log jam. Here he waited until dark, and was not discovered but he knew the search for him would resume in the morning. He moved a log from the bank, with great difficulty, into the water and floated downstream on the log for much of the night, until he was far away from the Snakes. Meanwhile, the ghost of Fox-eye had lost Mik-api’s trail, for as a spirit, he dared not go where the under-water ones lurked. Fox-eye was trapped in the land of the Snakes, possibly forever.

Mik-api had lived to escape the Snakes but he was in serious trouble, still. Now, he had to remove the arrow from his leg, which he did, but he was left crippled and exhausted. Mik-api shouted out loudly, of pure frustration, ‘To come so close and fail!’ and the great one, our brother we call the ‘Big Badger’ because we don’t dare pronounce his name outside of ceremony, heard Mik-api’s lamentation.

In those days, our people and our animal relatives could still freely communicate, and our brother came out of the forest and queried of Mik-api ‘What is the problem? Why is your spirit disturbed?’

Mik-api said ‘look here my brother, I am wounded in my arm and my leg. I am far from home, I cannot hunt, I cannot even walk.’

The very large bear replied ‘Do not despair Mik-api, for I know who you are and our peoples are related. I will see you home alive.’ He then brought mud with his hands, to dry over Mik-api’s wounds, took Mik-api to bushes ripe with berries so they both might eat and eventually, over the days that followed, brought Mik-api home, hanging onto the hair on his back. When the camp of Mik-api was in sight near the Sun River, below the mountains we call the Backbone, and the camp guards had seen them in the distance, Mik-api’s great brother let him off and vanished into the foothills.

There was a great commotion in the camp of the Pikuni people when it was announced Mik-api had returned alive and as expected, were he able to do this, the Buffalo Bulls society greeted Mik-api with a full regalia dance. But he had yet to do his most difficult task, to complete this journey. After he had healed and was cutting the rawhide strings that would tie his four piercing to the center pole of Okan, he had to confess his mistakes to the pole, in front of all the people. For the first piercing, he confessed he had insulted the dead, as a calculated strategy. For the second piercing, he recounted he had told a lie to gain advantage for a kill. For the third piercing, he confessed on behalf of Fox-eye, so that his spirit might find peace. For the fourth piercing, he confessed on behalf of the sisters he would marry, so their dignity would be restored. And then Mik-api danced the required four days, first a woman’s day, which is under the Moon, and then a man’s day, which is under the Sun, and then each once again. Before he was finished, and the piercing tore away from his breast, each of the sisters had been allowed to bring him a mouthful of water which passed from their lips to Mik-api’s lips, to ease his suffering, a promise of devotion to this in his future. And it was done. Mik-api lived long yet, for these beautiful women ever after lived carefully and cared deeply for our hero.

And so it was in the life of the great Mik-api, our Red Old Man.

Floyd

In memory of Floyd

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Related:

Life in Indian Country

Collected stories, folklore and anecdotes concerning my many years life with Blackfeet Indians and traversing Native American territories

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„Oh man, Ron, the way those nuns beat us..“  Pat Kennedy

There is no such thing as an Indian in the generic sense. There are a few tribes where the aboriginal language is still fairly widely spoken, several tribes that the language is surviving but is endangered, and some tribes have lost their language altogether. In a scientific sense, language defines culture, and to be really, truly Indian, to think in aboriginal terms, it is very difficult to imagine that you could be, for instance a Blackfeet, and not speak your language. Much more true is the idea that person would be Blackfeet American, like an Irish American or Japanese American, an American of Blackfeet descent, culturally speaking. It is possible to see the world in aboriginal terms in English or other western languages, but it would not be easy or likely for most. The problem is context.

My observation, having been in Blackfeet country for twenty-five years, and most of that time associated with those Blackfeet that still speak their language, is that 80% or more  of the English speaking only Blackfeet were raised out of context of their real culture. Blackfeet blood at birth, hanging out at a few Pow-wows, even growing up dancing on the pow-wow road and being raised in Browning, does not necessarily create a Blackfeet Indian. Likewise, celebrating Saint Patrick and drinking Guinness does not an Irishman make. It would be generous to think that 20% of today’s enrolled tribal members are real Indians in the old sense. That the 80% who are not Indian actually think they are Indian, is a tragedy that reinforces the idea of the ongoing Human Rights abuse perpetrated on these peoples through the continued forced Anglo-centric education in Indian Country. The Whiteman teaches the Indians what the Whiteman wants the Indians to think. And this is what the Blackfeet learn in the Browning schools. Regardless of whether the teachers skin color is White or Red.

The Whiteman’s Social Science is fully aware these people are no longer aboriginal by definition. Language largely defines culture. But nobody has taught this to the English speaking Blackfeet in these public schools. They only learn what the Whiteman intends for them to know. Red Whitemen are teaching Indians in schools on reservations, in English, in the classroom setting of Western Civilization that they are Indians. It simply is not true, culturally speaking. So some things have not changed since the Blackfeet first came under the control of the United States. The Indians continue to be lied to.

Ten years ago I could still follow conversational Blackfeet, but my toungue was never able to shape the pronunciation. If you  wrongly pronounce Blackfeet, in the smallest way, it will more often than not  change the intended meaning and sound silly, even dangerous. So I never spoke. But one of the unquestionable masters of Blackfeet language and Oral History, Floyd Heavy Runner, was my friend and explained the language to me for many years. So I am not afraid to go into what is generally a forbidden area of discussion in the Indian world. Whether real Indians speak their language.

Speaking of who or what is an Indian is problematic these days because of language. My experience was, that to be truly Indian, in no uncertain terms, has almost everything to do with the primary language you speak.

I do have empathy for the people that have lost their language and still identify as Indian, but there needs to be some explanation of why their priorities are messed up.. why aren’t these people largely proactively learning their language rather than playing into a set of circumstances that lets the native languages, and the community of thought and behaviors associated with those languages, continue to die. One big reason for the continued death of native languages is the mandatory western education in Indian country today, the public schools, are not equipped to teach Indian languages, languages which are not predicated on the same ideas as western languages. Teaching Blackfeet in a western school setting is nowhere near as simple as teaching Spanish or German. Not even close.

Definitions of what constitutes an Indian are a major part of that problem. An Indian language definition of what an Indian is cannot be found in an English dictionary. This Indian language definition would be the non western terms in which you see and interact in this world. In short, how it is about you live your life in relation to aboriginal ideas.  If you are not recognizable as able to interact in these terms, which are largely unknown to western  educators, you are not a complete Human Being in the old aboriginal concept. You are not really an Indian in the old sense of what that meant. This is because in the native language, that is where it has not yet been christianized, people are holographic expressions of manifest nature, they are already are everything they need to be, there is only a journey of discovery through observation in the natural world. Here, there is no concept of coincidence, there is no concept of seperation, i.e. the temporal and sacred, and there is no clear boundary between dream and reality. In this world, the native speaker’s focus is allowing for personal space, self restraint, and non interference. These are the boundaries that are emphasized. And it is impossible to ask the typical western educator to teach something they have no concept of. This would include western educators that racially identify as Indian, but are not native language proficient.

Those who don’t have their thinking shaped by native language see themselves as Indian by birthright in Anglo or western terms, conceived of in degrees of blood. This perception is without validity, it falls far short of the original Indian concept, that is, if it is the aboriginal concept that gives the definition of what it means to be native. Because to be Indian is to see the world you live in, in a certain way. This has little to do with whether or not you are full blood, half breed or non native blood, if the definition of Indian stems from the language of the original peoples inhabiting the Americas.

Native membership (in the old sense) was never predicated on race, but on perceptions, especially how the community perceived you. If you think like an Indian, a Human Being, one of ‘The People’, then your actions in the community enabled you to be recognized as such. Many, perhaps most of today’s Indians, would be unrecognizable as Human from this old perspective.

Those who speak the native language fluently are more apt to approach life with great care according to laws built into the language (the stories.) Life itself is lived as an observational meditation in concert with nature in many respects. There are things these people are at great pains not to do. Ever. This is the approach that created the wise old people, the ones that can bring ceremony meaningfully to the people.

Those who do not speak Indian are much more likely to live their life carelessly from the original Indian perspective. Theirs’ is a dangerous road that damages the entire Indian nation. The result associated with this is tragedy. Oftentimes these people are too dangerous to bring into ceremony. Many of them do not know how to be quiet and listen. Frequently they cannot seem to learn the old ways in an authentic sense. Largely they do not evolve through the course of their lives as would be expected of the old way Indian.

This is because Indian Languages formed the development of the mind and shaped the perceptions of the native world. Unlike the western world, where deeper insights into truly useful knowledge are the provence of higher education, and acquiring social skills and learning the basic education are stepping stones for those privileged with opportunities for higher education, the Indian language world provided every child equally a language integrated opportunity for higher education, beginning at birth.

First, in the Indian World, the child learned to see his/her surroundings in terms of the animate. Suckling at mother’s breast, the child sees the effect, hears and feels, the movement of the breeze in the aspen groves and the language sounds associated with that natural phenomena. Already the child is learning, but not about single objects, rather that life and being alive already is an integrated whole, that all things are inter-related. Aboriginal language has already laid the foundation for an advanced understanding of physics, but not in the western abstract. From the first understanding of speech, the native language child knows already that they are a part of everything that is, that in some sense they embody everything that is. Already this child has a foundation laid that will be atypical of nearly all of the children in Anglo society. And it is only after this first great lesson of inclusiveness that they learn to differentiate. But these next lessons will differ from the Anglo concept as well.

Now the stories begin. Again in nature, the stories of Coyote, Magpie and King Fisher, with their sounds integrated into songs (Cree King Fisher song “Kay-kay, Kay-kay, Kanawa Bum), everything that is, in the natural world, is taught in stories that do not differentiate people from animals. The differentiation is in the personalities of nature of which people are an integral part. And because of those personalities, and the stories associated with them, the child is learning the difference between foolish and sound behaviors as well as risks, and how to handle risk. It is all about personal responsibility in the context of nature, with all of nature taught as a single sacred, humanity integrated social concept.

Now the native language child learned to play. And the child’s play was predicated on these stories. By the time this sort of child is ten years of age, he or she already knows how to become a Chief, Medicine Man or Holy Woman. It is all about how you live your life and personal responsibility. At this age, a mere ten years, nearly every child in Indian speaking society could, in a by far greater sense than White children ever knew at the same age, be depended upon to perform responsibly as citizens of their respective nations.

Already these native children were prepared to attend the native language equivalent of higher education, the so called (by the anthropologists) age grade societies. Now, they would be observed by their communities in their personal evolution, with a premium put on an intelligent balance between audacity and self restraint. Having lived right, and advancing through these societies and serving these communities, generally by the age of 45 or 50 years (the truly gifted might arrive at this status sooner) these native language citizens might have earned the right to speak in council as leaders of their respective families, clans, societies,  and nations.

But with the advent of the missionaries and the destruction of the language, a different Indian emerged. When the Native American populace became prisoner on their respective reservations, they were subjected to enforced Anglo educations and a super tragedy ensued.

The early western educators of the American Indian were the missionaries. Other than the basic rudiments of reading and writing, the focus was not on the practical well being of the Indian children in their charge, but their so called ‘spiritual’ well being. The rank superstition the Christian missionaries held concerning native beliefs systems, demanded that the language and associated stories of Native America be crushed in the children. And those languages were destroyed in brutal fashion, through actual physical torture, the figurative rape (and oftentimes literal rape) inclusive of systematic murder, of several generations of native speaking children in government run or approved boarding schools.

How could this happen? Christian ideologues were most concerned with advancing Christianity in native peoples. These Evangelicals, whether Catholic or Protestant, were  not primarily concerned with matters of science and education, rather rank cult superstition is what they taught, and tolerance of the language, ideas and lifestyles of other cultures was not in their curriculum. Either you knew Christ or you burned. Having known the burn of smallpox and measles, now the Indian children were subjected to this new and unnatural disease of spirit, a dark ages cult belief in man’s dominion over the earth, the conquest and control of nature, and the burn of shame in who you would now will become, a thing born in Sin, in a world that will be destroyed because of wickedness. And all Indian thoughts, philosophies and languages were suddenly wicked.

Imagine being 9 years old, not speaking a word of English, suddenly being picked up by the police without notice and delivered to a prison full of Indian children where you are beaten with an iron fire poker the first day you are there, for daring to speak in Indian: the only language you know. As a child, you have been born again in Evil. Because you are not allowed to speak, except in the terms and new language of this apocalyptic event visited upon you, you discover a new life birthed through a violence that came upon you from nowhere, and you could be trapped in this Dantean Hell for years.  Your physical torture, absolutely brutal beatings, even to death, only stops with the rote memorization of Bible verse and complete capitulation to the idea that your former life was shit.

In the original native sense, the survivors among these Indian children were drowned as functional Human Beings in this evil. The strongest amoung them died, those who were most Indian, beaten to death. Association with the original language and stories became so traumatic for the survivors, the Indian children that broke, that these individuals never passed the language to their children. Indian languages, and the knowledge of what it actually meant to be an Indian, in countless cases, died across the Americas.

But you could still be Indian in a sort of lying way. You look Indian. The civilization that physically beat the Indianess out of you still identifies you as Indian, because of the new lie of Race. So now, a generation later, you think that you are Indian, but you struggle to know what that means. You know it means you were conquered. You know it means your civilization was destroyed. You know it means your ancestors spoke, and maybe a handful of your tribesmen speak, a different language. You might believe that because you are able to dress like your ancestors and dance at a pow-wow, you are traditional. But inside you know this is not really true. And it makes you angry. Now your babies sit in front of a television and learn in English what an inanimate object is. The lie grows.

Unemployable, you sit and play Cribbage and Black Jack, endlessly, surviving on welfare and government commodities, your children grow up emulating the behaviors they see on the TV, become criminals and either die or go to prison. “Indian Love”, the beatings that were introduced to your community by the boarding school returnees, the primary lesson learned there, pass on to generation after generation. Whether because you are broke and drunk, or consequently just socially stupid, real ceremony is no longer a part of your life. But ceremony, the ritual observation of and interaction in natural phenomena, is what Indian life really is. But these beaten Indians cannot know it.

But there are the Indians that were not destroyed as Human Beings. In bits and pieces, in a handful here or there, there is a spark of life, the language, the stories, and a more real idea, a greater original understanding of what it means to be Indian, survives. And that idea, that there are still Indians, has rubbed off on some of these otherwise culturally deprived in the community.  But there are still huge problems.

Now, the third generation children of the boarding school Indians want to come home, figuratively; to become Indian in reality. But they do not speak Indian. And for that fact, they cannot easily come home. English language thought and associated Christian culture precludes this homecoming, more often than not. Because the Indian child, these days, receives a western education with both little and inferior knowledge about what it really means to be an Indian from substandard schools that are not equipped to teach language in an aboriginal context. To be westernized, to speak English only, and understand ceremony in the aboriginal Indian sense is not impossible, but is a difficult path.

The first circumstance necessary for the non native speaking Indian to become real, is the ability to realize that non-western knowledge, in this case pre-western Indian knowledge, is not superstitious evil, hocus pocus, or a beliefs system that is foolish and stupid. This is more easily overcome in the present day Indian Country than it is in the Anglo community, because the time of this pre-western knowledge is still close, even functional in some people. Some of the Medicine people can still heal. Some of the ceremony can still demonstrate an ability to manifest phenomena in nature. There is nothing like seeing is believing. Those culturally deprived Indians that have distanced themselves from the fundamentals of Evangelical Christianity and have had a look in the window at their ancestral native world, can see there is something to it. That is the first essential step to their return to being Indian.

But if they stop there and simply imitate ceremony, they are only half way home and stuck. Real ceremony requires the manifestation of natural phenomena in concert with the act of ceremony itself. Whether Buffalo Calling had brought the Buffalo, or Weather Making had brought the weather, these were the empirical proof in the old Indian way of ceremony.

But knowing it can be made to happen, and knowing how to make it happen, is not the same thing. Imitating ceremony, copying it from how it was seen or remembered, often doesn’t work, is not necessarily real. It can be seen as empty and hollow, a ‘nothing’ event. Because the necessary concept to manifest the phenomena is oftentimes not present in the ritualizing individuals. This is the missing language. The native understanding of nature, and an observed cause and effect relationship that is not limited in the sense of Newtonian physics, but is a much wider idea, is built into the language through the stories. Place, time, ritual and manifest natural phenomena, learned from what the stories teach about observations in nature, all will intersect for the real Indian.

But a copied ceremony from the past, absent the authentically trained Medicine people, only serves to reinforce a self-stereotype of what it means to be Indian, among people who only think they are Indian. They look Indian and have Indian ancestry, but reality is they are not complete Indians in the old sense of what that meant. I am not saying this is true in every case, but my own observation is that it is true for most of the Indians I had met that were not proficient in Indian language.  This would especially include the many non native speaking tribal members that actually seem to believe they are “traditional.”

A necessary circumstance to bring real ceremony, absent the language, into your life is the idea that meaningful life is an observational meditation interacting with nature. The idea that the most powerful prayer you can know is how you live your life in respect to all other life. But in English, this idea is nearly impossible to separate out from monotheistic influences because of socially permeated cultural associations and strictures attending western languages generally. The typical English language associated ideas of prayer and meditation instantly invoke separation, the sacred distanced from the temporal, and nature, seen largely in terms of economics, is centered in the temporal. How can that split be mended in a language, English, whose culture generally forbids that they mix? English language civilization acts out the idea of man taking dominion over the earth, nature is subjective and separate, not integral and sacred.

However it does happen, the English language split can be bridged, but it is rare.

A balanced, respectful personality with good observational skills and a strong education in, or a natural gift for, the natural and social sciences, together with possessing a highly conceived knowledge of non-western or pre-western thought that precludes rank superstition of the evangelical stripe, can learn natural ceremony of a high order, and manifest natural phenomena in the original native sense. But what are the chances of that in a community with a boarding school legacy, in a prairie ghetto that knows largely crime, poverty, sub standard education and little opportunity. Consider it is rare already in the educated Anglo world. Can it be made easier? A working model in the wider Indian community has not yet been demonstrated.

The answer, for Indian peoples, THE ANSWER is, can only be, properly taught native language. The lessons, laws and relationships built into native language will reduce crime. Self esteem discovered through native language will reduce poverty. Native language is the door of opportunity, not necessarily into the Whiteman’s world, but into the sense of self and lost opportunity rediscovered. Native language can transform Indian country. The present western educational model has shown it cannot.

Around 1920, the Mohawk language was nearly dead. Today, nearly all Mohawks speak their language. So there is a precedent to becoming Indian in community again through language. But to accomplish this, there must be a motivation to learn the language. It seems someone must tell the ‘almost’ Indians, the Indians who do not speak their language, that they are short, they have missed the mark. They are not really Indian in the old sense. They are truly pitiful Indians at best. I have that on the most solid authority.

When I sat and listened and watched old Mary Ground ceremonially paint the Indians that came to her for Black Tail Dance, I paid close attention. Each Indian was asked their name by Mary, quietly, in Blackfeet. All those that could not respond in Blackfeet, which was most of the people under 40 years of age in the early 1980’s, and a fair number older than that, these Indians were admonished by Mary in English: “It is a pitiful Indian that cannot speak their language” as she painted them with obvious love none the less.

In the early reservation days the Browning Blackfeet, socially speaking, were roughly split into three groups. The “Pagan” Blackfeet, the Christian Blackfeet and the Half-breeds. The Pagan followers of Three Suns were largely centered south of Browning towards Heart Butte. These people were discriminated against by the United States for the entire following century when the USA eventually placed all of the tribes resources and power in the hands of the largely Christian Blackfeet community at Browning.

These ‘favored’ Christian Blackfeet were taught that they were culturally superior to their aboriginal brethren, and eventually the growing class of mixed bloods springing from these people came to see themselves as racially superior as well. The whiter you were, the more educational opportunities you received, and the doors into power were opened for you. This legacy is largely on account of the United States policy of that time favoring Evangelical Christians as the Indian Agents overseeing the reservations. It was purposeful, forced assimilation into “Christian” society. Those Indians that voluntarily gave up their ways to become like the Whites were rewarded. That is historical fact. And this was the beginning of the erosion of the Blackfeet language. Blackfeet who still spoke their language, but growing up in these Christianized families, stopped thinking in terms of praying ‘through’ the Stones, the Trees. They were taught that this was Devil Worship, not to go there. Already, still speaking a language that was aboriginal in origin, these people were ceasing to think in aboriginal terms.

But progress in assimilation was not satisfactory to the United States. In the case of Three Suns people to the south of Browning, aboriginal language continued to be a vehicle for perpetrating aboriginal thought and belief. And this was true for groups in other tribes as well. So the Boarding Schools were instituted. In short, several generations of Indian children were slave labored, beaten, and in many cases raped into christianity, even murdered. Half of the Indian children did not survive. I know of a case of an Indian child having his mouth washed out with soap for daring to speak Blackfeet, but the child did not speak English and thought he was supposed to eat the soap, which was a fatal poison, lye, with his intestinal tract slowly dissolved, it must have been a horrible death.

Indian culture was sent by this treatment of its children on an accelerated road to destruction.

This Boarding School event was fortified by the American Indian Religious Crime Code, law making it a crime to initiate or attend aboriginal ceremony. This policy worked in some cases and in other cases it did not. It is just all about human character. The weaker among these children cracked and let go of being Indian. In the stronger, it just bred their personal resentment. These mentally stronger among them likely were mostly beaten to death, but some survived to come home and went back to being Indians, and used Blackfeet coined phrases such as still existed and I heard in the south of Blackfeet country during my times there.. admonishing little children that “The Whiteman will make you into stew” if they strayed from their parents gaze. This idea would originally stem from the alien Christian communion (reinforced by the legacy of the cannibal ‘Liver Eater’ Johnson, a mountain man terrorist of Indians) and the subsequent fact that the Boarding School generations were forcefully taken from their families, or kidnapped into these schools if found alone, out and about on their own. Half of them never lived to return. Most of the survivors had been “Broken” into Christians, in the sense you would ‘break’ a horse, and ceased to be Indians. Now, they only looked like Indians.

Still, this was not enough. There were never enough boarding schools for all of the Indian children, and the reservations had many small countryside schools where the more remote communities could send their children. The problem for the Whiteman with this was these Indian communities still continued to survive as real Indian peoples because of the nature of their social organization in these remote areas. Indian language and ways were not dying off fast enough. The answer to this Whiteman dilemma, for the Blackfeet, became a social disaster.

The Blackfeet Reservation’s country side ‘allotted lands’ had been initially assigned to individuals that wanted to be in proximity to each other. Now, a generation later, there were extended families and Clan affiliated communities in this countryside as a result. The language and culture continued to survive through these original traditional Indian community oriented relationships. From the Whiteman point of view, this had to be broken up. So the small country schools were shut down, and it was made against the law not to put your children into the remaining schools at Browning and many Blackfeet were forced to abandon their life and land in the countryside and move into town to put their children into school. The consequence was threefold. It created a crime ridden ghetto on the Southside of Browning and it caused many land related self sufficiency skills in these people to be lost. It also destroyed the social fabric of Blackfeet society that kept the clan relationships together and violence in check. The resultant social cost is staggering. High alcoholism and death rates attend this policy, crime is rampant, social values degraded, inroads have been made by gangs, and, murder, Blackfeet fratricide, almost unknown before, is now common.

The economic cost is no less burdensome. The cost of maintaining subsidized urban housing, taken together with the Busing and buildings maintenance budgets associated with this failed social experiment, the price of attempting to police this unnecessary ghetto created on the high plains of Indian country, all self cycle into draining away resources that might otherwise lift these same people from their grinding poverty.

However forced out of their family, band and clan relationships, taken out of the observational nature based context of the Blackfeet language form, and forced into a large regimented English language only school setting, the desired result of the Whiteman was accomplished. Blackfeet language, and consequently Indian ways, had finally begun to die out.

And it is from this new pool of talent, this ghetto, that we are now finally gifted with the Racist Red Indians, and also the educated Indians that turned their backs on their own people. And neither of these distinctly modern mutant social species is truly Indian, they are not aboriginal, though of aboriginal descent, they are not Human Beings in the sense of the ancient Blackfeet ways, rather they both are variants of the new Blackfeet Americans. And not only the Blackfeet. This is the case with nearly all of today’s tribes.

Let’s look at the Racist Red Indians first. These Indians make up a part of the Indians today that identify themselves as ‘Traditional Indians.’ Nothing could be further from the truth, and the pity of it is they do not even realize this themselves. They are racist because they are angry at the Whiteman. Well, who could blame them? Just review the preceding pages. This is inter-generational anger, well justified. But justified anger will not make these people into Indians.

Wearing ‘FBI’ (Full Blood Indian) baseball caps while singing at a Pow Wow drum, they believe they are traditional Indians. It’s not true. I have personally outdone thousands of these Red wannabee Indians with the sweat  equity time I have invested, given to their own elders and I did not see these people there, over the span of 2 ½ decades. Where were they? Busy impressing people with their Indianess at pow-wows. Pow-wows are not even one hundred years old. The pow-wow as we know it today, is a modern invention in Indian Country. Dance contests for money. Fancy Dance. Indian Tacos. Catholic Mass in the Arena on Sunday Morning. You think this is Indian? It’s simply not true. These people need to sober up, go home and learn their language. And then look at becoming part of real ceremony. In that case you might see someone with a Red skin become an Indian.

This is what AIM needs to do. Yes, the American Indian Movement was justified as a political movement. But now it is time to evolve. Are these people, having won the right to be Indians, now going to throw the hard won opportunity away by continuing to be angry? Many AIM members see themselves as Warriors, but they do not have the whole idea of what this term implies, many of these people did not have access to the traditional teachings of their ancestors. Warriors are not soldiers and they are not mercenaries. Warriors, in native tradition, knew violence only as a self defense on behalf of their people and protection of their territories, and in a more limited sense as a right of passage in daring, in sometimes solo encounters with rival tribes. But these latter were more like inter-tribal Olympic events and less like wars in the Anglo sense. These events were steps in a learning process and personal evolution. That process, ideally, leads to a humility and wisdom that secures the future of Indian peoples. This process of a journey in life, of which being a fighter is only a part, was intended over the long term to prepare fair and balanced leaders. Fair and balanced leaders, by definition, cannot be angry. And this is the core reason that these descendants of the Boarding School Indians did not, could not, seek out their elders. Anger.

Anger cannot learn from the winds that are spirit. Anger cannot pray through the trees. If you are angry and you think you are at Sundance, you are only fooling yourself, the gods will not see you in their dreams. Instead, your anger is reflected back and it hits you. These thoughts, from an angry person, do not go through, the gods do not look at them. And in the old ways, if the gods do not see you, there is a diagnosis. The Medicine Men would determine you have lost your shadow. In the old Indian scheme of things, that meant you were no longer a complete Human Being. Another way the truly authentic Medicine Men have described these lost Indian people among themselves is to consider they are domesticated creatures, like cattle, in the same terms as they see the Whitemen in the most general sense.. as separated from reality, devoid of the understanding of the spirit forms called ‘Naaks’, the real communications and the real dreams that come from living in a proper context with nature are alive in these people no more.

And we are, nowadays, living in a world that is nearly without shadow or the undomesticated spirit that sees the real relationship of Man to Nature through the living ceremony. What can be done about that? The answer can only be had from looking inside. Looking inside, in the Indian sense, means finding home. Go home and be Indian. Learn your language. Bring your elders a Pipe and ask what can be done about your anger. Learn to be an Indian. Discover what it means to know of the Naaks.

If you cannot do this, it means in the final sense that victory belongs to the Evangelical Whiteman.

Now, let’s have a look at the other Blackfeet American, the collaborators, the educated Indian that took his lessons from the Whiteman’s world and turned on his own people. These are the ‘Christianized’ Indians that accepted their reward for turning their backs on their culture. When did I ever see these people at ceremony? They were not there either. Since early captivity times, there has always been a privileged class of Indian, beginning with the first collaborators, the Indians that worked with the United States to subjugate their own peoples. And these people were favored with superior opportunities. Ultimately, these were the Indians that were entrusted with the wealth and power of the new, non traditional Tribal Governments imposed on the tribes by Washington, DC. These people became a new Royal class of Indian that looked down on their Indian brothers that had kept the old ways as ‘Uncle Tom Toms.’ Seeing themselves as superior in every respect, they had no respect whatsoever for the people whose lives they were to dictate for many decades.

In the case of the Blackfeet at Browning, one of these Half-breeds that saw himself as racially and culturally superior to his Blackfeet relatives, Joe Brown, cynically held the first election for a Tribal Council under the newly imposed council system at a curious time. Nearly all of the majority tribal members that would have opposed this new government imposed by the United States (and Joe Browns implementing it) were literally out of the country. Sundance was legal in Canada, and the Montana Blackfeet relatives, the Blood Indians, held this event just across the border. All of Montana’s real Blackfeet Indians were there. So this was the moment that Joe Brown held this new and foreign election for a government to replace the traditional Chiefs with the Whiteman invented Tribal Council. Under the rules mandated by the United States for this election, it required only 1/3 of the tribal membership participate. This would be the Christian Blackfeet that did not Sundance, they would be home to vote. Joe Brown, president of the election board set up to oversee this election, certified himself as the first ever elected Blackfeet Tribal Council Chairman in 1936. If Joe Brown, who supervised the ballot count, was honest when he elected himself the first modern Blackfeet leader, then 16.65 percent + 1 ballot of the tribal membership was all that was required to institute the Blackfeet Nation as we know it today.

But it is not likely at all that Joe Brown was honest. This corrupt inception of the present day Blackfeet Tribal Council persisted for at least fifty years. In the middle 1980’s I was with Pat Kennedy at the Pow-wow at Montana State University, Bozeman, Montana. Earl Old Person, Blackfeet Tribal Chairman, was the Master of Ceremonies. During a break in the proceedings he came over to our Drum, the Starr School Singers, to visit. Mickey Pablo, the Flathead Indian Tribal Chairman also came over. I had once heard Mickey state that his father had told him all he would ever need to know about tribal politics could be learned from Earl Old Person. I was sitting at the drum together with Pat Kennedy when Mickey and Earl began joking about stuffing ballot boxes, tribal elections were coming. The joking abruptly ceased when I picked up our  microphone, and held it up towards them as though I would turn it on.

These Christianized Blackfeet see themselves as a superior Indian. They were indeed a new Royal class of Indian under the protection and patronage of this new Blackfeet form of government. For decades the election process was rigged, this did not matter to the United States, these were the people they wanted in power. Tribal wealth became the personal treasury of these people. One of the plums tossed to the new class of Royals that were not actually on the Tribal Council was to be appointed to the Blackfeet Tribal Credit Program.

A partial audit was done internally for the credit committee, apparently to ‘get the goods’ on a single member. It smacked of vendetta. The terms of the audit, to a private outside contractor, was that only a certain one member of the credit committee’s accounts were to be reviewed. Also it was stipulated the result was to be provided to the committee only, per the statement of the auditor at the beginning of his written findings:

“It is understood that this report is solely for your information and is not to be referred to or distributed for any purpose to anyone that is not a member of the committee of the Blackfeet Credit Program.”

A copy of the report was given to me. This report demonstrated the tribal credit committee members loan themselves, their relatives, their “significant others”, and their friends, monies meant for their Blackfeet peoples, and that these loans among themselves are unrestricted, unsecured, and many times are delinquent or defaulted on when new loans are made to themselves, their lovers, families, and friends. Even though the audit zeros in on a singe credit committee member’s accounts, it implicated other credit officers that had signed off on these criminal acts. The audit states as much with the closing remarks:

“Had we performed additional procedures or had we conducted an audit of the financial statements in accordance with generally accepted auditing standards, matters might have come to our attention that would have been reported to you.”

The entire program is corrupt. Many loans are unrecorded, these loans add up to tens of thousands of dollars for single individuals, and I have heard first hand, countless times over the years, from Blackfeet living on the poverty side of the reservation that they were unable to secure fifty dollars emergency money from tribal credit because they had no collateral.

The hard documentation of this corruption was provided to the United States Attorney for Montana and nothing was ever done. Only when the Indians interests directly conflict with the purposes of the officials of the United States, or the USA’s friends in corporate industry, is the United States there to make certain business comes off as it thinks it should. The Blackfeet Nation is intended to starve, to live in perpetual poverty, well into the 21st Century. Amazingly, soundly governed Indian Nations continue to be perceived as a threat by the bully USA, and the cycles of poverty instituted for these peoples by purportedly the greatest nation on earth, must endure.

And it is from this Christianized class of Indian Royals, especially the mixed bloods that were taught to see themselves as both culturally and racially superior to their undeserving ‘Uncle Tom Tom’ relatives, a Royal Class created in the several diverse tribes, that the United States Bureau of Indian Affairs draws its talent pool of employees. Small wonder that somewhere upwards of an estimated one hundred billion dollars is unrecorded, and unaccounted for, to this day, from the treasury that should have served to support these starving peoples.

Relating to the several Indians suing the Department of the Interior over these missing monies in the Federal Court of Judge Royce Lamberth, this is one very salient point that will not come up because neither side will dare open the door to the judge: the fact that the billions of dollars at stake were stolen by the BIA employees in concert with the Tribal Councils and employees of the tribal administrations.

During my years working the investigative case concerning the Blackfeet tribe and looking into Human and Civil Rights abuses by the tribal council, I was familiar with the very issues represented in the lead plaintiff Eloise Cobell. I have first hand knowledge of Blackfeet poverty, and the United States dealings with that tribe, and it is clear to me the marriage between the USA’s Indian Affairs office and the Tribal Councils is incestuous, relating to and driven by control of tribal monies by these Royal criminal cabals.

The history of document shredding relating to these missing monies in contempt of Judge Lamberth’s orders over these past several years should have been red flag enough. I am amazed that the Judge has not ordered a criminal investigation under the circumstance. And has anyone noticed the largely remarkable public silence of the several tribal administrations relating to the records destruction? It is not only the political problem at Interior, that no one wants this to break open on their watch, just try to keep a lid on it until another administration is in place and let them deal with it: The other question is, the follow-up question, is what was the tribal administrations role in the missing monies?

The social history is succinct. Indian Agents in the Department of War in the 19th Century were corrupt administrators charged with creating the original bureaucracy to administer tribes on location. Utilizing for the most part Missionized mixed blood or ‘Christianized’ Indians as assistants who were completely subservient to these administrative heads, the Indian Agents, appointed to their locations by the then so called Great White Father, corruption and embezzlement learned from example became habit within certain privileged Indian families. These Christianized Indian mixed bloods were both favored with tribal administrative positions by the United States and taught to see themselves as superior to their darker, native speaking relatives with whom they no longer shared traditional customs and religion. But now they were responsible to care for these hapless Indians they despised, their ‘heathen’ Blackfeet speaking cousins. When the Department of Interior took over from the Department of War, these same mixed bloods largely moved over to the new Indian Affairs office at Interior, and in tandem with the new Royals in the tribal administrations, the Tribal Councils created by the Indian Reorganization Act of 1934, they refined the theft of their own people’s wealth to an art.

Today it is an entitlement, this theft that has sustained certain families or Cabals within the tribes and the Bureau of Indian Affairs for generations. That’s right, an entitlement. Because the idea unchristianized Indians were unworthy was taught, instilled and sustained by the USA for generations in the new Indian Royalty created in the families that have historically controlled the tribes affairs: this has become a part of tribal culture.

The devil in the argument before the court is that neither side will dare tell the truth. But the truth is, it is the old criminal cabal at the tribal local administrative level that is winning. The tribal councils long time partner in crime, Interior, will never be able to admit that it fostered the environment for its own new Royal employees at Indian Affairs to steal the wealth of the Native Nations in tandem with the new Royals that have historically controlled the tribal councils and shared the stolen wealth.

The ultimate irony is the cynical genius in the suit brought by Cobell- and her own past relationship and closeness to the Royals in her own Blackfeet tribe bears investigation. This is a tribe that has one of the worst Human Rights records in all the Americas when it comes to theft and lack of accountability of tribal wealth while keeping its own people forcibly locked in the deepest poverty.. despite this tribes considerable resources.

If Cobell, who bears the family name of the army scout Cobell that riding together with Joe Kipp, lifted his rifle and shot Chief Heavy Runner dead at the 1870 massacre of the Blackfeet on the Marias River, were to win this case relating to not only tribes accounts, but especially individual tribal member accounts and there is restitution or payout, then one (among several) of the most corrupt administrative organizations ever to exist in the western hemisphere will stand to be monetarily reinvigorated for many years, in this case the prime example given: the Blackfeet Tribal Headquarters/Bureau of Indian Affairs administrative complex at Browning Montana. Now the missing billions will be in a position to be stolen twice. Shouldn’t the head of Interior really be asking the plaintiff Cobell “Et tu Brute?” It is the only sensible question that could come before the court.

Perhaps Cobell’s former position as a finance officer of the Blackfeet tribe is a circumstance of heat that was a little too close for comfort and is what caused Chief Earl Old Person to get cold feet and disappear from this suit. Earl in fact vanished from view in this case precisely at the time he was due to give a sworn deposition and produce documents. Cobell wanted him out and asked for his removal, Interior wanted him in and fought his removal. Earl remained missing for months. What could be the real reason why?

Earl wants Interior to keep jurisdiction over the monies. If the Department of Interior had to give up the trust fund to an independent trustee, then chances are much greater that any historic and present ongoing systematic thefts of these monies would come to light.

These many billions of missing dollars will never be found. The most frustrated Federal Judge in North America, Royce Lamberth, presiding for years over the case trying to account for these monies, should offer an amnesty to BIA employees, just so the Indian Nations and the American People can understand the money has vanished, that the United States created Indian Royal Class has stolen and spent it, these monies can never be recovered. And then the United States Interior Secretary Gail Norton can quit lying to Judge Lamberth about the disposition of the plundered Indians treasury. Then Judge Lamberth could quit repeatedly holding successive Department of Interior heads in contempt of court for failing to provide a lawful accounting that in fact cannot exist. Subsequently the Congress could let Norton’s Bureau of Indian Affairs finish the job of shredding the incriminating documents. The truth would be too terrible to behold. And at least one nonsensical fight will have ended.

Unlike the angry AIM, people who can become Indian again, these Royals can never see home. They dare not look inside and go home. They have murdered by theft, through poverty, starvation and opportunity lost, entire generations of their own Peoples. They can never be Indians again.

A chapter from Penucquem Speaks, my book written at the request of Pat Kennedy. Pat had a nearly complete draft of the book read to him by Lorna McMurray, the completed work was published in 2006, not much more than a year after Pat  had died.

Related:

Lost Shadow

Life in Indian Country Collected stories, folklore and anecdotes concerning my many years life with Blackfeet Indians and traversing Native American territories

Ron Drawing

The Gospel According to Ronald

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A Matriarchal, Libertarian Gospel

Introduction 

Jesus was a man who never claimed to be the ‘son of god’ according to the best available scholarship (the scholarship of ‘The Jesus Seminar’)

That he was an extraordinary man is without dispute, insofar as the majority view of those who actually believe he existed. My own belief in the ‘historical Jesus’ (as opposed to the ‘the Christ’ invented by St Paul and adopted by the church) is based entirely on circumstantial evidence. What had convinced myself is precisely what had convinced Thomas Jefferson, when Jefferson had stated:

“The whole history of these books [the Gospels] is so defective and doubtful that it seems vain to attempt minute enquiry into it: and such tricks have been played with their text, and with the texts of other books relating to them, that we have a right, from that cause, to entertain much doubt what parts of them are genuine. In the New Testament there is internal evidence that parts of it have proceeded from an extraordinary man; and that other parts are of the fabric of very inferior minds. It is as easy to separate those parts, as to pick out diamonds from dunghills.” -Thomas Jefferson

Jefferson went on to compile his ‘Jeffersonian Bible” in an attempt to separate the ‘diamonds from dunghills’ in the New Testament, so as to give the reader some idea of what Jesus might have actually taught. But I have gone much farther; considering Jesus had to deal with the prejudices of his era, my thesis is, were he alive today he would moreover be overwhelmed by the prejudices of this era’s make-believe ‘Christian’ religion created around his name, if certainly not his life and teachings in fact. So I put words on Jesus’ lips that he might or might not have said, perhaps what he sometimes would not dare say; on account of the prejudices of his era, because what eventually became the modern church (of all sects) had adopted a ‘scripture’ rife with words put on Jesus lips to create a necrotic fear-mongering institution. This has enslaved the minds of a large part of the world we live in. My attitude is: ‘let’s puncture the fear and let the rotten aroma out’ of what has been heaped on the name of a man history knew as Jesus.

When creating ‘The Gospel According to Ronald’, I had used Jesus teaching in the ‘Gospel of Thomas’ as the underlying foundation. The reason for this is, ‘The Gospel of Thomas’ appears to have escaped much of the church editing, revisionism and censorship which accompanied the suppression of the Gnostics. Also (I’m laughing as I type this sentence) there can be no claim I have tampered with Christian scripture, because the Gospel of Thomas never made into the Bible.

The original inspiration for this work dates back to my thirty years life with Native Americans of the Northern Plains, as elder teachers from that culture had told myself on more than one occasion, ‘Before the Christians, we lived the teachings of Jesus. It was after the Christians arrived, our people became greedy and violent.’ This makes perfect sense, because the Christians give little attention to what Jesus had actually taught; rather preferring the rules-bound St Paul who invented a murdered ‘Christ’ who supposedly died for sins in a fantasy the historical Jesus has nothing to do with. The result has been nearly two thousand years of ‘evangelical violence’ following the early church suppression of the Gnostics; exterminating the Pagans, murdering the Cathar culture, several Crusades, the so-called ‘age of discovery’ murdering entire cultures around the world, ultimately leading to what amounts to a war on Islam by the religious right in the present day.

In the end, Christian ‘blood salvation’ with ‘giving yourself to the [fantasy murdered] Lord’ is abdicating responsibility for one’s personal life. This widespread, necrotic social phenomena, is undoubtedly something the historical Jesus would have both; been aghast at and have condemned.

These following are secret sayings the historical Jesus spoke, as dreamt up by Ronald. Oh, but Jesus actually DID say something very close to most of what follows… I’ve merely revised and amplified it from an old, matriarchal Native American point of view.  And going to native humor, it was a fun thought to entertain possibility of claiming this following had been found engraved in an ancient mound I’d looted like Indiana Jones, and start a new religion. Hey! It worked for the Mormons…

This is a tribute to a wise man from long ago, a gifted teacher and healer who is almost certainly the most lied about man ever to have walked our planet. We can do better. I’m trying here.

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The Matriarchal, Libertarian Gospel of Jesus (According to Ronald)

Jesus said “Whoever solves these riddles will not taste death.”

“Don’t stop looking just because you discovered something. Search until what you discover disturbs you. With the disturbing discovery, comes a marvelous understanding and ability to deflect those who would rule you”

“If the hypocrites who rule say to you, ‘Man should go to the sky’, the birds will speak something differently to you. If they say to you ‘Man belongs under the sea,’ the fish will revile you. What is important is within you and only after grasping this, will you grasp your surroundings.”

“When you know the inside, then you can know the outside, and you will understand that you depend on a living clock. But if you do not first know what is inside, you cannot know what is outside.”

“The wise old people understand a little child is more cognizant to the truth; whereas you became fooled with the image you project. How did this come to be? You must ask yourself. For there will be many losers who know only one fate.”

“When you cannot know what is in front of your face, what is hidden from you will be doubly concealed. Yet there is nothing hidden that cannot be revealed”

“Don’t be stupid and do those things that will make you look and feel bad, because the wise will see through you. To be truly blind is to fool yourself, imagining only you will know something.”

“When you eat, what you have eaten becomes yourself. And what would eat you, will become you as well.  What will you take from and give to life? You should be careful of what you eat.”

“The greedy take all of the fish,  the wise return many fish to the sea. When the peoples’ numbers are as the fish were of the sea, will you wish you had not been greedy? Pay attention to this!

“One person who understands the one half, is worth more than sixty who do not, and one who understands the whole of it, is worth more than any village of people who live in ignorance.”

“For when one should set the world on fire, should not one wait and be certain all is ashes?”

“Be certain your world will one day be ashes because the dead do not authentically walk and the truly living have no cares. Here is a riddle; the four in the two must become but one. Are you not each female and male? So what must happen when you marry?”

“Associate with those who reject self-importance.”

“I cannot be your teacher if you make me your god.”

And Jesus took Ronald and withdrew, giving him secrets. When asked [after] what had been said by Jesus, Ronald replied “You will hate me,  but you must know these things or perish. Jesus told me ‘What curses Man is men. What curses woman is Man. What curses oneself is oneself. Reject the misunderstanding of Adam, for the serpent spoke the truth and the woman brought no harm upon us.’ Then we shared an apple.”

Jesus said “If you practice humility for the sake of appearance, you can only harm your spirit. To give as a hypocrite is worse than to give nothing. To pray as a hypocrite is worse than no prayers at all. Accept yourself and be grateful. Hypocrisy is the defiler of all, for a good spirit cannot abide the company of a hypocrite.”

“When you have understood these things, become humble.”

“When an inferior understanding claims the unseen, real wisdom will be misconstrued, hated, even greatly reviled, and much conflict will arise, for is not ignorance its own progenitor?”

“And so I give to you things you have not seen to now, what had become the unknown to the human heart. Beware of him who will revile it.”

The disciples said to Jesus, “How will our end come?”

Jesus answered “There was never any beginning and there will be no end; old things will pass and new things will be known. What this will mean to you is for yourselves to determine.”

“Blessed are those who remember this understanding from their time in the womb, for the living stones will reveal their knowledge to them. What is inside yourself will be inside your child. Do not fail a child, for the penalty is severe. Who wills a child to become a vapor? But if you only will look, there are many vapors, the careless creating the careless. Woe unto the careless.”

The disciples said to Jesus, “What is Heaven like?”

He said to them, “It is a place where there is no illusion of self.”

Magdalene said to Jesus, “What do your disciples know?”

Jesus answered, “A day will come when masses of men will die of thirst for want of a cup. The weakest of mine will know a stream where one can kneel to drink with cupped hands. The greatest will know a mountain spring and prostrate oneself with gratitude.”

Magdalene was nursing his child and Jesus said to his disciples, “Because this woman has blessed me with love, this child knows from birth what none of you can you can know except with great labor.”

They said to him, “Then must we become children?”

Jesus said to them, “When the four in the two have become one, when the outside is indistinguishable from the inside, when the left knows the right intimately, and when male and female are become androgyny, only then will you enter the now. And you must to survive, for you are a part of all that you can know, and all that you can know is a part of you.”

His disciples demanded, “Show us this place!”

Jesus answered “There must be light within a light. Dispel that which is dark in yourself and find yourself there.”

“Love those who are truly worthy and in this way love yourself.”

“You see yourself in the eye of another. What kind of person would you be? For what you are is what you must discover in another. Nurture love in yourself so that you may find love nurtured in those you discover to be your friends. If you do not starve to death what is inferior in your surrounding, you will not find the blessed reality. If you do not know beauty in your associations, you cannot know love.”

“Consider the difficulty of a good spirit to walk among the drunk and the dead.  This cannot go on indefinitely,  therefore act on correcting oneself, before it is too late.”

“I marvel at how Man’s mind has come into poverty.”

“Where there are three people living correctly, there you will find divinity. Whether there are two or one, I look for myself there.”

“No prophet is recognized in his hometown, because people have a past memory of this person but this memory is not the person today; it is the same when people cannot be healed by those they have known, for they are caught in the past and cannot overcome and believe. When a known one has not shared the other’s journey, one has not grown with and no longer knows that person. The prejudice of memory is great and detrimental to perception.”

“So when building your mind, make it like a home on a hill, where there is no flood to sweep it away. Do not be caught in the canyons, but bring your sight to where you may see what is on the horizon. What you will see can be shared, this way anyone who cares to, can know. How can it do any good to put a lamp in the closet, behind closed door? Avoid the trap of the blind leading the blind, is it not assured both must come into peril? How many are the blind who believe they see!”

“With sight you will be a strong person, do not believe a crippled elder, slow of gait, is worthless. What might they see that you cannot? For the mind may become the greatest of eyes.”

“When you have found yourselves, do not worry for tomorrow, for is not that which rules our nature greater than any plan we can make? When did reality care for anything necessitated by your vanity? I assure you, this was never the case.”

His disciples said, “How do we find you?”

Jesus answered, “When you can be naked like little children who hate clothes, and are without shame, you will have found what you need. You must throw out your insecurities like clothes that are too constricting,  to find yourself. If I let you become dependent on me, you will have learned nothing.”

“Hypocrite religions serving ignorance and wealth [and their clerics promoting blood sacrifice] had taken the keys of knowledge and long since lost them. They know not the way themselves and they will not want you to know the way. You must fly above these venomous snakes, as would a dove. Tithe nothing of yourself to this evil.”

“A windstorm blew down a grove of trees. But that tree which had stood alone, was unharmed. For when one comes to depend on deeply rooted principles, challenges may be met bravely. And whoever has surrendered vanity to a greater reality, will know a superior reward.”

“Be observers. ”

His disciples said to him, “Who are you, to know these things?”

Jesus answered “I am the one who listens to the water, the trees, the stones and the moving air. If the birds bless me with a message, who will deny it? Are you not listening of your own accord?”

“Some might damn their father justifiably. But those who give no allegiance to their mother,  cannot prosper. Did she not nurse you? Else how would you be here? Only ingrates despise women with crass behaviors, and ingrates cannot know the Mystery.”

“Honor her that suckles you, even to the present day, for did she not make it possible that you might draw every breath? What she had given remains with you to this moment. With this good, you are able to discover good and if you are able to discover good, you bring greater good into this world.”

“From Adam, through the prophets, to the greatest of men in any moment, none is so great as those among you able to become worthy as a small child. The little children do not know hypocrisy and a small child knows how to be genuinely grateful.”

“Do not be two-faced.”

“If two will work in peace, they will say to a mountain, ‘Move’ and it will move.”

“Those who have come from the knowledge will find a return to the knowledge.”

“We have come from the light, let us return there.”

“We are movement and stasis.”

His disciples said to him, “When will there be rest for the dead?”

Jesus said, “There is no rest for the dead, they walk among you.”

His disciples said to him, “The prophets spoke of you.”

Jesus said, “The prophets also walk among the dead.”

His disciples said to him, “is circumcision useful?”

Jesus said, “No.”

“Are not the poor blessed with humility? Theirs’ will be a greater satisfaction. For the rich burn with anxiety that is unnatural.”

“Whoever has loved a dead body in the person of vanity, has their necrotic reward. The Mystery tolerates these inferior people only for a moment. This moment is as a moment one does another task.”

“Happy is that person who has worked to accomplish learning the Mystery, for this is authentic life.”

“If you cannot live in the now, you cannot live in the future.”

“Don’t be like a carcass that is eaten. Do not jealousies eat you?”

“Be at home within.”

Salome said, “Who do you think you are? You behave as though this were your own house!”

Jesus said to her, “My house is my presence. Should I not be comfortable?”

Salome answered, “Now, I believe you.”

Jesus said to Salome, “The Mystery will find you worthy.”

“A rich man’s plans were meticulously laid, but he died the night before he could bring them off.”

“Feed the street people.”

“A rich banker will not respect your money.”

“A humble man rebuilds from the rubble of the devastated rich.”

“Associating with vanity will yield you nothing.”

“It is a blessing if you are persecuted for the good, because you will have remembered you can live with your conscience.”

“If you have known hunger, you can know gratitude.”

“What is inside you, can save you or kill you.”

“To discover the Mystery is to have a shoddy house destroyed. After, you will know how to build intelligently.”

Someone said “Tell my brothers to divide my father’s possessions with me.”

Jesus said “Why should I do this?”

Then Jesus turned to his disciples and said to them “Remember to mind your own business.”

“Do not grow more than you need to harvest, for that day might come you seek water to irrigate and there will be none.”

“There are many suitors for a beautiful woman, but only one shall prevail. So it is to know the Mystery, many will seek but few will find, because the many only know convention.”

“To know the Mystery is to conserve what is valuable. Will you eat your money, when there is no food?”

“Be light over all other things, to know what is inside a hollow tree, to see your way in a cave.”

“Why be like a reed knocked down in the wind? Do not behave as your rulers.”

A woman in the crowd said to him, “Blessed are the womb that bore you and the breasts that fed you.”

Jesus said to her, “It is true, blessed are those who have known the Mystery from the beginning, for there will be others who will wish a womb had not conceived and breasts had not suckled them.”

“Whoever has come to know our world has discovered illusion, and whoever has penetrated illusion, is immortal.”

“A wise man who refuses to give council, will have saved no one.”

“A man who renounces power can save himself.”

“To be safe within yourself is to be truly warm. To be truly warm, one must love.”

“A light within, is in the eye.”

“If you can only look happy in the mirror, all is fear!”

“Adam came from great power but he died, as must all who embrace the illusion”

“You are model of the universe, how important that you set the example! Let the fox have its den, do not disturb the bird’s nest.”

“If you care only for your body, the soul cannot prosper.”

“Take only what is yours and surrender what is not”

“The cup you drink from is no different to yourself.”

“Master your infirmities and you will know peace.”

They said to him, “Who are you? Why should we believe?”

Jesus said to them, “Do you know your own hand, what it conceals? I did not bring you here, so why would you listen, except that you would wish to know something? Seek and you will find, but to seek, you cannot conceal what is in your hand. If I give what is sacred to pigs, do you believe they will appreciate it? Do not be like the clerics.”

“If you slap a melon just so, you will know if it is good.”

“Be generous.”

“To know the Mystery requires a woman. Her knowledge is such, she can grow and give life. What man among you can do this? But if you will learn her intelligence, I swear to you anything is possible, and this is how a man enters into real knowledge.”

“The Mystery is like a woman who was carrying a child. While walking along her labor began, and she stopped to give birth in the shelter of an Aspen grove. She didn’t know it; but she had been blessed. When she put the child to her nipple there was a great peace in the quaking leaves. Blessed is any such child!”

“The mystery is like a person who must kill someone powerful. While at home he drew his sword and thrust it into the mirror to destroy self-image. Thus he killed the powerful one.”

The disciples said to him, “Your brothers and your mother are standing outside.”

Jesus said “Those here who destroy self-image are my brothers and my mother.”

They showed Jesus a gold coin with the Emperor’s inscription and said to him, “The Emperor demands taxes from us.”

He said to them, “Give to the Emperor his vanity and give to me only what is mine”

“Damn the Evangelists! They are like a dog guarding a long dead body. Do not seek people out with your knowledge, rather let them seek you”

“Be happy when you know from which direction the attack will come, you can be certain the arrow will miss.”

They said to Jesus, “Come, let us pray, let us fast.”

Jesus said, “What have I done? Rather, when the lie has been banished from your hearts and minds, let us feast. For whoever knows the sacred androgyny will be called the child of a whore by the liar. But when you make the two into one, you will be blessed of Eve, and when you say, ‘Mountain, move’ it will move.”

“The mystery is kind to the those who slept on the mountain, for the dream came and the angel loved them.”

“Whoever drinks from a sacred woman’s mouth will become like her; I became that person, and hidden things are revealed.”

“The mystery is a hidden treasure in each of you but you cannot know it until you have searched.”

“Let one who has found the success and become wealthy, renounce success.”

“The heavens are ordered after those who have found what is truly beautiful, and their presence is immortal.”

“Damn those who depend only on the soul. Damn those that depend only on the body. You must be titans upon this Earth.”

His disciples said to him “When will the Mystery be revealed?”

Jesus replied “It will not come by waiting for it. Rather, the Mystery is spread out upon the earth, and you don’t see it.”

Peter said to Jesus “Make Mary leave us, for females don’t deserve immortality.”

Pointing at Peter, Jesus turned to the other disciples and said “Watch out for the dumb one, because that is the stupidest thing I have ever heard!”

*

The Satires

Ron Drawing

Economic theory by Ronald

*

Economics and Moonshine Whiskey

The fallacy of banks and nations buying and trading national debt was anticipated by Mark Twain well over a century ago:

In Twain’s story (from Huckleberry Finn) two half-wit drunks hatched a plan to make money from a jug of moonshine whisky. The plan was to sell the whiskey by the single shot.

These enterprising capitalists had a half-dollar between them. As the day went along and passed into the night, the single half-dollar passed again and again from one drunk’s pocket to the other’s pocket, as they’d bought whiskey shots from each other until their moonshine was exhausted. Badly inebriated, when the time came to tally their earnings from whiskey sales, there was a single half-dollar proceeds in total, and each became convinced the other had robbed him.

This is precisely the principle behind trading debt. The attending bubble created is the misapprehension of reality identical to the Twain drunken characters’ belief they should have seen a profit, but the value of the half-dollar never grows in reality. It’s like economic fracking, as many BTU’s of energy are put into developing the energy source as you can pull out out of the ground, in a race to stay ahead of the curve. The only thing that really happens is, the whiskey jug (taxpayer resources servicing the debt’s interest) is emptied and there will be a hangover and severe resulting illness; at some point a fatal case of cirrhosis.

Screen Shot 2015-01-26 at 10.40.43 AM

http://rt.com/shows/keiser-report/episode-490-max-keiser-104/

21 December 2016 update:

“The two new reports find that US forecasts of [shale] oil and gas abundance are over-hyped, unrealistic, and ignore mounting evidence of an industry in decline”

 *

The Satires

*

Floyd

Floyd ‘Tinyman’ Heavyrunner

*

This retrospective had been originally penned in 2004. It is a chapter from my book ‘Penucquem Speaks’ (graciously ranked five stars by Howard Zinn at amazon.com.) Today it is rededicated to Floyd ‘Tinyman’ Heavyrunner, my friend of 37 years who journeyed to the beyond at the beginning of April. Tinyman was a master of Blackfoot language, including ancient dialect, Oral Historian, Keeper of the Law of the Black Stone, Priest of Okan, and Chief of the Brave Dogs (Crazy Dogs) Warrior Society. Tinyman opened the door to my life in Blackfoot country and a window into its’ ancient past. I wish you safe travels my brother-

Life in Blackfoot Country

I remember the words of my Tibetan friend, Karma Tensem, when he first visited the United States: “Only the sky is the same.”

My first winter in Indian Country was an eye opener. I had never known such real physical poverty, and what greeted me here was the sort of poverty that is a grinding poverty, a gnawing hunger that visits and revisits, month to month. In Blackfeet country, unemployment hovers around a staggering 70%. Some of the luckier Indians still live in the countryside on this particular reservation, and their proximity to the Bob Marshall and Great Bear Wilderness complex on the south side, together with the border of Glacier National Park on the north side, still makes it feasible to supplement the Indian diet with hunting and gathering. But in the winter time, the gathering is not availiable, and the hunting is tenuous at best, because much of the game migrates to more sheltered terrain, and taken together with the storms and snowdrifts, what hunting opportunities, such as there are in the winter, are limited. The more traditional Blackfeet families and clans continue to band together to survive through sharing during this period. Because of the Treaty obligations to the Indians, whereby the Whiteman solemnly promised to take care of the Indians forever in exchange for the surrender of the Indian lands and way of life, these Indians are never supposed to be cut off from state welfare, which is the nominal care given per the treaties today, but the sustenance provided, such as it is, is mean. In the winters, those several that I spent with these people, each season the food would begin to give out, usually beginning around the 20th of each month. On a few occasions, I witnessed entire villages exhausted of food. But these repeated events were just taken in stride by the Indian community.

That first winter I was domiciled in the area of the Badger Canyon, and the village of Heart Butte, my patrons, the old couple Alfred and Agnes Wells, sometimes stayed with their grandson, the young chief Floyd Heavy Runner, on their family’s assigned land near the mouth of Badger Canyon, and at other times, they stayed in Heart Butte village with one of their sons. My income, in those days, was a small veterans disability pension, about $140 per month. I recall it was more than twice the money those eligible individual Indians would receive to survive, so I was well off. I typically put most of my funds into the family pool for sustenance purposes, but saved a little to help the old couple with their travel- to pursue their traditional healing practice. I was a bit like their ‘dog’, which should not be taken in the negative context of the Whiteman, the Indian ‘Dog’ in a traditional context was held in high esteem, a protective soldier of the camp and hard working beast of burden that enabled survival. These old people kept a small handful of cattle on their land, and that first winter I made a better deal for them from a local white rancher, when they bought a few bales of hay against the inevitable storms that would be coming. I also would walk behind the house near Badger Canyon to cut holes in the ice at the edge of a small lake, so those few cows could drink. And I drove for them, whether to shop for better food and clothing prices in Great Falls, or to take them to work their healing practice, sometimes into Canada to the Blackfeet bands of Indians domiciled there.

Our diet was terrible. Often, there was nothing more to eat than white flour and lard, the larger part of the government commodities provided, in addition to the pittance of cash income to the Indians, and on one of these trips that diet caught up with me. I was at Brockett, Alberta, Canada, probably it was in November, where we were visiting the Skinni Pikuni, an identical people speaking the same Blackfeet dialect as the Montana Blackfeet tribe. We were staying with a family that had taken me for a Blood Brother, the Small Legs. I was at my Brother Arthur’s house. Two of my other brothers, Jim and Andrew, were visiting there as well, but we did not see much of Nelson Sr, he was the Band Chief, and was kept pretty busy due to his office. I had come down with severe intestinal pain, unlike anything I had ever known, and was in bad shape. The old folks, Alfred and Agnes, did not work on physical ailments, but attended to matters of mental and spiritual health, basically changing peoples luck, so another old man was brought to attend to me. He conferred with the other Blackfeet present, those that had been with me for the past 12 or so hours of my agony, and then helped me to sit at the kitchen table. Strong black tea was brewed, lots of it. I had an impacted feces, my rectum was plugged, badly, from a straight diet of white flour fried in lard, a diet I was not accustomed to. The old man poured me cup after cup of hot tea and would not let me stop drinking it until I had to go out to the outdoor shithouse. I finally went, and the relief was incredible, better than having sex. Every time I stood to pull up my pants, thinking it was finally finished, I had to yank them down again, after six or seven large defecations, I wondered if it would ever end. When I came back inside, the old man kept making me drink the tea, all morning, until I was pretty much washed clean inside, he wanted everything out. I made trip after trip to the out of doors.

After that visit, I instituted a change in the flour and lard diet at the house where I spent most of my time at Badger Canyon. I realized I could not change the fundamental diet, but what I could and did do, was invest in two gallons of Peanut Butter, the natural variety with oil separation, every 1st day of the month. The new Peanut Butter pre-lubricated, flour fried in lard diet, did not impact anybody the way I had been impacted, after that. Peanut Butter, for the balance of that winter, when there was food to eat, this Peanut Butter was my communion. I had Peanut Butter on every piece of flour & lard frybread that passed my lips, Peanut Butter was my new religious practice.

The next month, December, was difficult, because the money that would otherwise go to food, was largely used up to buy gifts for the holiday season, and some of what food there was, was hoarded to provide for a Christmas Day feast. There were hungry days in the meantime. But this was nothing compared to what happened in January.

The Rocky Mountain Front, where the Northern Plains meet the mountains, can be one of the harsher winter climates in North America, when winter decides a visit with vengeance is in order. It happened in January. The old couples, Alfred and Agnes, were staying with one of their sons in Heart Butte village. I was out at the Badger Canyon property with the young Chief Floyd Heavy Runner, his wife of that time, Bernie, two of Floyd’s younger brothers, ‘Smarty’ and Francis, Smarty’s wife, Doris, their children, Floyd’s kids Josh and Sarah, Floyd’s 1st cousins Jimmy and ‘Spud’, and a few others, probably about 15 of us in total. There were copious amounts of winter snows, and one day from nowhere, in about 30 minutes time, gale force winds had descended on the houses, creating a ‘ground blizzard’ that made it life threatening to go outside, even ten feet from the door. This wind did not let up for nearly three weeks.

Smarty Heavy Runner was the hero of that time, he strung a lifeline between the two houses, about twenty yards of rope, so it was possible to safely find our way and transverse between them and we could check up on each other. Smarty also made repeated and dangerous journeys into the aspen groves close by, to gather firewood. Nobody else dared to do that. Repeatedly, Smarty returned with an improvised sled made from an automobile hood which he had harnessed himself to, bringing loads of wood. But the storm became so bad that the young Chief Floyd ordered Smarty to stop the firewood forays. We made several communal beds to survive the subzero temperatures, getting up only at appointed times, to make a fire just long enough to eat, drink hot tea and go back into the beds, the combined body heat under the covers was helping to keep us alive. When the firewood gave out, we cut up old nylon radial tires with a hacksaw, to make the twice a day fire for hot tea to drink and have a bite to eat. Suddenly I understood the value of these discarded tires that were kept by the house. Then the food ran out. I remember several can of peas were set aside for the smaller children. I remember dividing up the last can of peas among those kids. For the next five days, nobody ate. We still made the brief mid-morning and evening fires, there were enough old tires, and we had the hot tea to drink twice a day. What impressed me most, was how the Blackfeet children put a brave face on their hunger, never crying, never complaining, just quietly stoic.

Smarty Heavy Runner, up to the time he had been shot twice, crippling him for life, was the toughest, and probably the most dangerous and most fearless Indian I have ever known. He was a living legend of danger in Blackfeet country. I once heard a young Blackfeet wonder aloud in Smarty’s presence, which would be worse: to be shot or stabbed. Smarty did not hesitate. “I’ve been shot and stabbed” Smarty stated, “and stabbed is by far worse.” There is a story of Smarty as a young man in the 1970’s when he in lived in a second story apartment at the Yegen Hotel in downtown Browning. On a summer day, sitting on the window sill overlooking the sidewalk below, Smarty noticed an enemy approaching directly beneath him. Smarty put his beer down, and stating to the other people in the room “I will be right back”, he swung his legs out over the sill and dropped out of the window, landing directly on top of this unsuspecting guy who could only collapse under his nemesis who had indeed fallen on him directly out of the sky. Smarty was right back, his enemy lay devastated on the sidewalk below.

One morning we got up, the blizzard had just begun to abate, but only a little, and we discovered Smarty had vanished with his weapons into the storm. Before noon he was back, covered in frozen blood, and dragging a small deer into the house. I had no idea, in those early days I spent with the Blackfeet; 1) how Smarty survived a hunting foray into the aspen groves behind the house, yes the storm was abating, but not by much, and was by no means finished, it was still a dangerously strong storm; 2) made a successful hunt in near blinding conditions; 3) found the strength to do it, not having eaten in nearly a week. But Smarty was the designated Hunter of the family, and took his responsibilities seriously. He was also perhaps the best hunter I have ever known. I have a grown son that is a world class hunter, I am from a family of hunters, and I know what I am talking about. Smarty was just that good. Smarty also could play a very good game of Chess, I had played him on occasion, he made calculated, but clearly dangerous moves, and he approached Indian life and its adversities something like that. Did Smarty save our lives? No, but if the storm had not continued to abate about that time, he might have. That was the winter of 1977-78, before my ‘Big Psychosis.’ This winter had taught me how to go hungry, the Indian way, and prepared me for both my dream fast, and the Sundances that would follow.

Jumping forward a few years, I recall it was during the winter of  1982-1983, I had returned the Riders house on the Two Medicine River to his family that previous spring, and was staying with Pat Kennedy’s clan at Starr School, north of Browning. By now I was deeply involved in traveling with Pat during the winter months, as Pat pursued supervising the ceremony of the very old ghost religion, Give Away Dance. Typically there is a mid-winter break from this activity, during the worst period of the winter storms, from about the 1st part of December to the beginning of February. This period of recess is timed to the disappearance of a particular star on the horizon, and its re-emergence. I was living in Pat’s small 3 bedroom house with a sum total of 29 people. Even floor space had premium locations for sleeping, those areas that doors opening and closing did not allow the winter drafts to disturb your sleep, and people were not stepping across you coming and going in the night, whether to use the bathroom or whatever.

Typical of the poorer Blackfeet, the village inhabitants that early December used up their tiny bit of monthly money, buying gifts for the holiday season to present to their loved ones. Starr School ran out of food early that month, as did the south side (the poverty section) of Browning, and much of Heart Butte. When this happens, the Indian villages become eerily quiet. There is no energy for the children to expend at play and generally the only people out are either fishing or hunting. The streets look deserted. On the edge of Starr School village, small planes would come and go from the pastureland, the Blackfeet Christian Chief Earl Old Person has no problems, these air taxis pick him up at his house and he flies to and fro from Washington DC at his whim, his failed 50 years leadership of the Montana Blackfeet evident in the poverty and starvation going on around him with little relief. Earl gives his peoples hunger a bit of lip service, but he has not personally gone hungry in many years. Most of his endeavors seem associated with failed attempts at industrial enterprises, like the sawmill at Browning, which had caught fire and never ran again, while his administrations have sold his reservations premium house logs to sawmills abroad, and his people live 29 individuals to the small house and worse. Nothing is accomplished for his people and one only wonders how many of those going hungry in his own village could be fed, were the cost of those wasted plane trips converted to food.

I had gone from Pat’s house on a trip to Helena during this period, and riding along with me was a friend, Donald ‘Tiny Man’ Yellow Kidney. On our ride north, returning home, but before we had arrived back at the reservation border, we observed a large group of Mule Deer beside the road. I asked Tiny Man, “Do you have Treaty Rights?” Tiny Man replied “Damn right I do.” I swung my Volkswagen microbus off of the road onto a snow dusted dirt track leading into a wheat field, braked and killed the engine. The Mule Deer stopped moving as they decided what to do, I had blocked the direction they were traveling. I had my ‘Little Rifle’ handy to the driver seat, and grabbing it up, I chambered a round. The deer were moving again, probably 2 dozen of them, but were slowed by the barbed wire fence that they now had to jump, to go in the new direction the herds leaders had chosen. A very large doe hesitated at the fence, and standing, leaning against the open door of the microbus, while using the bottom of the open window to rest my rifle through the portal, I shot her directly behind the ear from 75 yards. She collapsed just like someone had dropped a large sack of potatoes. I jumped back into the drivers seat, started my little van, pulled into the field alongside her and we had her loaded in the cargo area and were back on the road, the whole episode could not have lasted two minutes.

Outside of Browning, in a safe reservation location, where you can be an Indian in possession of a deer out of season, we dressed the deer and cut it into quarters for distribution. We left one quarter with Tiny Man’s family, brought another quarter to a house where there was soon to be a ‘Black Tail’ (Mule Deer Dance, that was apropos) ceremony, where the meat would see a little wider community distribution, and dropped another quarter off to a large family related to Tiny Man that was needy. The final quarter I could have brought on out to Pat’s family at Starr School, but it was stolen while we were still in Browning and visiting at the other families houses. People were hungry. I drove out to Pat’s at Starr School without any of the Deer meat. I sat at the kitchen table with Pat and told him the story. He was philosophical about it all. While we were visiting, one of the neighbor children came to the house, the neighbors had a little bit of white flour to eat, but no lard to prepare it. Pat’s family had a little lard, but nothing to fry in it. Pat instructed one of his grown daughters to give up their last lard to the neighbor child. I had a little money. I drove back to Browning to buy our house some food.

In the spring, I moved out to a ranch on Livermore Creek, north of Browning, off the road to Duck Lake. The Blackfeet rancher and Honorary Council member, John DeRoche, had offered me a lineshack, a one room cabin, to live in. I shot ground squirrels that had overrun the property, for the most part, to stay busy. By now I was really used to living with essentially nothing, keeping few belongings other than a vehicle and a bit of tattered clothing. After meeting my few obligations in the outside world, I divested myself of most of my improved income (my military service disability had been increased to 100%) sponsoring giveaway dance, feeding people, or now, with summer coming, I would become a pow wow Indian, traveling throughout Indian Country in the region to play the Stick Game. So I was not much use as a cowboy on the DeRoche ranch. I rode horseback along the fences a little and kicked stray horses, mostly, off of the ranch property. I only participated in a cattle roundup once, to return a strayed herd.

While I was at the ranch, and without money, there was a stick game tournament in Browning. Old John DeRoche himself was a sponsor of the tournament, he knew and liked me from times we had played the game together, and he told me to come to town for the games. So I was there, observing but not playing. John felt sorry for me (I was not feeling sorry for myself), and offered to let me pick up the aluminum cans littering the floor of the large area where the games were being held, I could turn them in to the recycling people for a bit of money. I told him I would collect the cans, for him, and that I did not need the money. I was given a box of large (50 gallon) plastic trash bags, the task looked a bit big, there were numerous ongoing games over a large area, but I went to work. Now one of the proudest moments of my life in Indian country occurred.

I was a well know stick game player that had a reputation for being crazy. As a game leader, I had led my teams, on numerous occasions, to victory after victory, throughout the night. I was known as a stick game “Devil.” While building on that reputation as crazy, and a Devil, I had always been friendly with the Blackfeet that were ‘special’, the congenitally brain damaged, and when I played in the ‘open’ games and was a team leader, these ‘special’ people knew if they sat in, I would include them in the play, a chance to play they almost never would otherwise have. Stick game requires keen wits and there is inevitably money on the game, and few game leaders would risk their best players money by including these people in a game. But I did not care, these were my friends, and I liked giving them a shot at hiding the bones. Now these special people returned my favor. Here on a day I was not playing, I had no money, they saw me on hands and knees crawling through the litter of that vast event, retrieving aluminum cans, and the next thing I knew, I had a small brigade of these ‘special’ volunteers helping me.

In less than twenty minutes the entire event was denuded of cans, the half dozen or so 50 gallon sacks, all full, were piled in a storage room next to the events concession sales, and I walked away from a surprised, rather make that an amazed John DeRoche, without so much as asking for an Indian Taco in return. Little events like that are helpful for building on a ‘crazed’ reputation. And there was more than a little extra protection for being widely known as ‘crazy’ in Indian Country. Another advantage of being known as crazy in Indian Country is Indian people eventually get over their suspicion of you. If you were me, and wanted an unveiled look at the inside of that world, this is invaluable.

But I must close this story with a warning to any White that reads this and has the not-so-bright idea that they can do what I have done: to pull it off, you first must know how to be crazy like an Indian. To be crazy like a Whiteman will, more likely than not, just get you killed. Somebody like Smarty Heavy Runner could fall on you directly out of the sky. To many Indians, most White people are already crazy in a particularly White way, which is nothing at all like the Stick Game Devil, Ron West, or the Indian ‘special ones.’ That is largely why you are not trusted there. Your people are dangerously crazy from the native perspective and it is considered really poor judgment to trust Whites in many instances. But there is a short amnesty granted to the Whites that are curious. You are most certainly welcome (and safe) to come spend your money at the pow-wows. And at these events, you may meet truly gracious Indians, Indians who are anxious for you to understand who Indian people are, and how they live: their view of the world. You might discover and make lifelong friends. I just happened to stay around Indian Country long enough, under a set of unique circumstances, to get a real idea of what Indian Country is all about. And it could happen to you. But not like it happened to me.

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Note: Donald ‘Tiny Man’ Yellow Kidney is not to be confused with Floyd ‘Tinyman’ Heavyrunner. Tiny man is a nickname shared by several Blackfeet based on having accomplished tasks beyond their years, as children.

Related:

Life in Indian Country

Collected stories, folklore and anecdotes concerning my many years life with Blackfeet Indians and traversing Native American territories

A former Special Forces Sergeant of Operations and Intelligence, Ronald Thomas West is a retired investigator (living in exile) whose work focus had been anti-corruption. Ronald is published in International Law as a layman (The Mueller-Wilson Report, co-authored with Dr Mark D Cole) and has been adjunct professor of American Constitutional Law at Johannes Gutenberg University, Mainz, Germany (for English credit, summer semester 2008.) Ronald’s formal educational background (no degree) is social psychology. His therapeutic device is satire.

Contact: penucquemspeaks@googlemail.com

Mephisto

Napi Mephisto

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I’m one of the nicest and most unassuming people you’d ever meet. All I wanted was a simple life with a woman who loves me, kids, a garden, a dog, and to be happy. I’d worked hard, for years, sorting out my personal crap and the potential was there

Then, these closet-gay fuckers called neo-cons, went out of their way to louse up my journey to happiness. On account of that fact, this ‘literary endeavor’ came into being

This is an autobiographical novel assembled around various essays deliberately intended to provoke outrage, get teeth grinding, and to put really creepy bugs up stupid people’s butts. Thinking people, on the other hand, could learn a lot reading here

In a world in which 48% of adult Americans believe modern man was ‘created’ in his present form precisely in 4004 BC or alternatively, within the past ten thousand years, and Christian fundamentalism drives the wildly popular sales of Tim LaHaye’s “Left Behind” series of books in which the ‘Anti-Christ’ manifests on Earth as the Secretary General of the United Nations, not to mention the Christian fundamentalist belief  ‘Armageddon’, the Biblical war of the end of civilization set in the Middle East, must occur for the Christian faithful to advance to Heaven and now is the time… (The Economist, Special Report on Faith and Politics), one should shudder at the “The New Wars of Religion.” And particularly moving into 2011 with the USA’s military neo-cons pushing for a war with Iran

I was already acutely aware of the issues as put forward by the Economist’s writers, and I in fact have a deeper understanding of the underlying issues of Christian fundamentalism in some small regard at least, having been to Bible College as one of my several failed stops in attempts at social reintegration following my roughly one and one half years in a war zone, witnessing Man’s violence on Man. Both the war and Bible college, in retrospect, were a very American experience. The first time I put on a flight helmet and a little later reached up and flipped the ‘Nav’ toggle switch on the small console in the gunner’s seat of a Bell UH-1H helicopter, magically the Beach Boys were singing “Good Vibrations” in my helmets headphones as I watched the jungle canopy move a few feet below the landing skids on our aircraft. I was young, I was new and it was exciting, I won’t lie to you. I was thrilled. I was not thrilled, however, one and a half years after, on my departure date of November 8th, 1971, after having participated in this corporate profiteering war against “Godless Communism.” The subsequent mental violence I encountered at Azusa Pacific College (now university) seemed no less ugly, in retrospect, the student intellectual violence over matters of doctrine. To be honest, I have been sorting out both experiences ever since. Do I believe in God? No. Am I an Atheist? No. Nor am I Agnostic

It seems to me that everybody has got it wrong. At least in Western Civilization, which has overtaken the world, and I would argue includes Islam and the classic Far East cultures. Any child should be able to grasp that a Human species which harvests life sustaining nature at a pace exceeding life sustaining nature’s ability to regenerate, is pointed to a wrong direction. Let’s keep it there for a moment, child and species. The math is kinder garden. The entire Human species is complicit, or soon will be, with the destruction of the last wild habitat of a possible handful of Amazon tribes not yet assimilated, to sustained economic development. Sustained economic development is the present western economic model which has overtaken the world, stemming from the Industrial Revolution of America and Europe. To deny this is tantamount to claiming the Moon is made of Green Cheese. Like I once heard a Black woman comedian claim: “Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt”

Science and Religion, the great argument, both have it wrong. Science cannot deny it has provided the means to destroy the planet through provision of technology. Religion cannot deny it has failed to instill sustainable Human values that would prevent the planets destruction. Environmentalism as we know it, is a joke too, just more denial. Because the planet has produced a principle of cancer, Sustained Development, where we have already reached a point of no return for civilization, as we know it. To return to a balanced state in Nature, at the least in a presently unchanging social circumstance, most of Humanity must die. If the world’s leading scientists already know this, then they are lying to you by withholding the information or perhaps it is a ‘State Secret.’ Maybe none of them wants to be the first to stand up and say in no uncertain terms “It is all over for us.” If they do not know it, they are just plain stupid

This can all be covered up by arguing that Religion is even more stupid. That would be correct if something could be done about it. That is the problem. Nothing can be done about Religion except tell ignorant people the truth, everyone is almost certainly going to die on the present path. Of course to the ignorant Christian fundamentalists, that translates, yes, everyone except us, because we get to go to Heaven. They actually believe that, and that only makes them equal to those scientists that believe there is a possible ‘saved by science’ future, the greatest of oxymoron. Science put us in this circumstance and asking Science to save us is like using wild land fire control technique in the urban setting: Lighting a backfire. Set fire to the bottom of the building to take fuel away from the fire raging at the top of the building. It makes about as much sense

Here we live in an existence where Sustained Economic Development’s exploitation of nature allows a Saudi prince to own an Airbus 380 super-jumbo jet as a personal flying palace, a $300 million, 240 foot double deck fuselage with a wingspan just short of the length of a football field weighing in at 560 tons. A resource devouring colossus for friends and family that is nothing short of the western world’s greatest individual expression of what I have named “Ego Priapism.” What would be our world’s foremost collective expression of Ego Priapism?  Space exploration. What is the point of exploring Space? To create an Ark, to escape our planet wide self-destructive madness? Our Human race should be quarantined. Or we should kill the most massive ecologically destructive projects of science and technology, such as Super Jumbo jets and Space exploration and the immense resource demands of these lunacies, as an investment in intelligence. And as an argument to the Cosmos and Mother Nature that we are worth having around. It makes more sense to make that statement, than to pander to the planet-wide life threatening technological aggressions of Science or the moral aggressions of Religion. Because in the end, they are both exactly that: The same Mental Aggressions. The bed partners that screw out of biological drive and hate, they hate themselves and hate each other with the resource raping of the entire planet, attended by technologically driven wars of faith and religion. It’s all the same thing folks. I’m calling it ‘Honky Mentality’, regardless of Race. Because it all began with the Industrial Revolution, and that happened in Honkydom

In the following ‘Novel’ I am going to take a little bit of Tim LaHaye’s “Left Behind” Anti-Christ away from him, reduce this bit of Anti-Christ to a good guy that is a Devil, albeit a harmless but otherwise highly threatening to peoples common fears Devil, to make a point. That point would be that I was able to learn more about Western Civilization’s foibles of science and religion from a man that had never been to school, completely illiterate, but spoke seven (now dying) Native American languages fluently and who was able to show me reality that does not exist for most of today’s world however, a reality that was once the predominant intelligence of at least two continents: The Americas. He showed me more real intelligence than any Western education, secular or religious, by far. It is a sometimes ‘satyrically’ MEAN read. But it is lucid, something lacking in our increasingly maddened world of the faith driven politics of Religion and the equally ignorant secular god named Science. If there were actually such a thing as a Native American god, it would be androgynous and its name likely would be “Lucid.” Of course the typically paranoid fundamentalist Christians would note the first four letters of that Native god’s name and freak out at the idea of Lucifer. Fine by me

It occurs to me to say an Anti-Christ might not be such a bad thing if one were to dispassionately study Christian fundamentalism. Christianity is a schizophrenic religion and the fundamentalists have the one half of it: that half following the teachings of Saint Paul. Paul’s intolerant teachings are diametrically opposed to the teachings of the Jesus who preached tolerance. It was Paul who made Jesus into the ‘Christ’ from whom we learn our cannibalistic social attitudes: concerning deferred responsibility for our behaviors and meanwhile pursuing the destruction of our planet. It has been established in research it was Paul’s followers who put the words on Jesus lips to conform Jesus to the idea of their supremacy and disregard of living an intelligent, responsible and accountable life. These monotheists need not concern themselves with intelligent living on Earth because they all have a better place to go to. This fundamentalism, in one form or other, has been around a long time. If an Anti-Christ came along to undo a bit of Paul’s work and get people pointed more towards the original ideas of, one could say the ‘un-Christianized’ ideas of the Jesus of history, that would be a good thing

I had a Nazarene professor who had a great regard for some of the secular writers, particularly Albert Camus. He had arrived at the conclusion atheism is Christian civilization’s prodigal son, the rebellious runaway living in denial. He got that right. Because the behaviors all stem from the same mental structures, whether secular or religious, for both. What he could not experience at all, and at that time neither could I, was the thought there could be non-Western mental structures framing an altogether different reality. This is on account of the Western Ego, which in a way, can only see its-self in its ‘imprisment.’  This small book, a mere ‘novel’ of hard hitting social criticism through satire, sets out to explore framing that ‘other reality’

Each segment and character has a point. If you become caught up in either mirth or outrage at the more crude or rude assertions, you will miss those points. So, hate it, love it, but above all pay attention if you want to get it. Up front, here it what ‘getting it’ is all about. People who cannot look at their behaviors, cannot let go of their behaviors. Psychologically ‘imprismed’ mentality, i.e. the Western Ego, cannot see anything beyond the mirror image self. That image must be broken for any individual, or even the World, to be healed

This book is an experiment in juxtaposing idiocy with intelligence, callousness with sensitivity, the obscene with the sacred and chauvinism with feminine awareness. It is a twisted book, deliberately. What might have seemed sympathetic or even smart ideas are sometimes trashed by inverting roles. By the end, a thinking person should question not the intelligence of Humanity, but solely the intelligence of Western Civilization

I am only good to the Indians. Whether their skins are White or Red (or Black or Yellow.) Why?

The most recent genetic research has all sorts of politically correct Social Scientists freaking out at the idea it will be misconstrued to bear out White Supremacy in intelligence. Their own lack of intelligence is to fail recognizing there are different kinds of intelligence in Humans. These politically correct scientists measure by a yardstick that is culturally biased to Western Science which originated with Western (European) mentality or intelligence, a world-wide contagious and malevolent social phenomena

Anyone can learn this mentality to one degree or another, but how useful is it?

Perhaps other people’s genetics are predisposed to an intelligence the European cultures do not know how to measure. Or perhaps it is merely a matter of how our brains are organized differently in disparate cultures. Read and think about it

The Characters

Stone Child is raised Indian in a White skin and subsequently immersed in a strict and stratified (hierarchal) charter school with a hidden administrative fundamentalist White Supremacist Christian agenda: posing as a liberal arts prep school. Because Stone Child has a White skin he is admitted to the school despite the school’s ‘fixed’ lottery admission which normally only allows a few select minority students, to conceal it’s Christian racist/fascist agenda. Discovering he is a “Pagan” child, Stone Child, a sensitive, kind and caring boy, is persecuted with covert but extreme hostility by the Christian staff at the school

Grandpa and Natooauts are a Plains Ojibwa shaman and Blackfoot shaman respectively, both have tribal kin relationships to Napi Mephisto

Spotted Buffalo is a German and the only non-native male Napi has ever known to achieve a fluent understanding of a universal shamanic concept called ‘the timing’

Napi Mephisto, father of Stone Child, is a Devil to the Whites at the school, but in fact is a mere man on an odyssey of personal evolution seeking to discover integrity in himself. He will trust people who easily betray him, including the woman he loves, and discovers how not to hate

Pompositee Succubus is a brutal White racist woman who has risen in paternal fundamentalist Christian society by adopting a male ego to compete. She is the school principal

Bozo is an example of a man who actually believes he is a good guy with credible motivations and yet has a remarkable American ‘good old boy’ chauvinism ingrained in his character, a trait he cannot see in himself. Bozo’s character, because he is always drunk, plays in the presence of women those traits many American men profoundly manifest behind the backs of women… a typical hypocrisy and common social phenomena. Although Bozo actually believes he has views sympathetic to liberal causes, he unconsciously works to destroy those causes with his personality, attitudes and approach. This is because Bozo’s draw to the cause is to stroke his own ego, more so than to do the right thing

Bozo is also a metaphor for the ‘progressives’ on the right and the left, people who do not realize the extent to which neo-con fascists play the game for keeps

Ego Priapism is a man who exhibits every sort of chauvinist, misogynist behavior imaginable. He epitomizes evil manifest in Christian behaviors

Christine is a sensitive, highly intelligent and physically beautiful teacher at the school who struggles to be free of depression stemming from child rape, is defeated by trauma, having contracted herpes from abduction and rape again as a young mother, sees her self esteem destroyed again and again, by men rejecting her because of her rape, herpes and a subsequent mastectomy. Finally, Christine is defeated once more by her own behaviors stemming from adopting aggressive male behavior to survive at the school and consequent instinctive retaliation against Napi who is in love with her

Christine, who does not know of the school administrations secret racist agenda, plays into the fascist’s hands when she deliberately flunks Napi’s son Stone Child, while taunting Napi he can do nothing about it. She does this because of her fear based anger at men and the school’s male teachers who exploit her fear when Napi has fallen in love with her. Christine, feeling sorry for herself, descends into insanity when she subsequently discovers she is actually loved by Napi, her rape and mastectomy would never have stood in the way of Napi loving Christine, the very sort of man she had finally hoped and dreamed of meeting. Or perhaps Christine is merely a cynical act

The teachers Vance, Jack and Marcus are the best friends and protégés of Ego Priapism. These characters are part of the school’s fascist/racist agenda who exploit Christine’s fear at Ego Priapism’s inspiration, seeking to use Christine to destroy ‘the devil’ Napi and drive Stone Child out of the school. Vance and Marcus are retired CIA agents, Jack is a fundamentalist Catholic

The Plot

Vance, with assistance from corrupt law enforcement, makes Napi a target of investigation at the school and in fact masterminds Christine’s abduction and rape with a view she will be manipulated to kill Napi, when her fear is exploited to suggest the ‘criminal’ Napi is bent on doing her and her child harm. Vance went on to personally attempt Napi’s murder

Napi’s dilemma: How do you help law enforcement organizations and intelligence agencies with critical information they need, when elements of the same had been coming after you hard, on false pretenses, with a view to cover their own crimes you had been in (involuntary circumstance) process of uncovering? Who/how/when to trust?

Christine mutates into a cynical cyborg, uncovered before the end of story as former CIA working together with corrupt undercover cops exploiting her tragedies while she is playing into trying to frame Napi for trumped up crimes even as Napi is blowing the lid off the real crimes by administration at the school

A happy ending??? Those have eluded me. But Napi is supposed to have learned not to hate regardless of the outcome. That either rules him out going crazy or makes him insane in a world where hate is normal

Perhaps Christine has been institutionalized by her ‘friends’ and Napi is unaware and eventually moves on to someday discover her fate

But I cannot know, and the story does not say, because her fate is unknown to me in real life. The book has morphed from a fictionalized account of real life events, to straight-up non-fiction at the end

Napi Mephisto can be read online HERE

For a free pdf copy of Napi Mephisto you may freely share with anyone, email a request to:

penucquemspeaks@googlemail.com

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ve34

Free Speech Clown Series

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How George Carlin Gets Jesus Kicked Out Of Heaven

George Carlin: So, where are we?

Jesus: The Native Americans call it the ‘Wolf Trail’

Carlin: Well, anyway, I like it better here by the campfire

Jesus: Verily

Carlin: So, how come you never returned?

Jesus: I did, many times. But on every occasion, I was killed by Christians in a pogrom before I could accomplish anything. So, I tried to return as a woman and even that didn’t work

Carlin: What happened?

Jesus: Maybe you haven’t heard the joke.. a girl was murdered and all the Jews were freaked out and figured they’d soon be dead, because it was assumed she was a Christian. Then the rabbi came running out shouting ‘Wonderful news! The murdered girl is Jewish!’

Carlin: That’s not funny

Jesus: Well, when you’re still hanging on the cross, nailed up by the church for 2,000 years, it has its humorous aspect. Just like the body parts of the saints, cut to pieces and scattered in churches everywhere, that’s why you don’t see them in heaven. And the Indians stuffed on shelves, locked in the basement of the Smithsonian. It’s a little bit like the circling buzzards of Native American humor, it takes some getting used to

Only the REALLY BAD people were in Hell, Richard Nixon, Muammar Gaddafi and L Ron Hubbard were anally banging the same plastic blow-up doll of Condoleezza Rice.. and hoping she would arrive before they’d have to share with Kissinger.. meanwhile the CIA was exploiting pedophelia in the Church with blackmail- using the confessional to pass instructions on destroying secular justice to corrupt religious judges- on the earth Jesus could not get back to- “give unto Caesar what is Caesar’s” notwithstanding

Satan’s lack of humor and the company he kept, precluded George and Jesus lodging there, now that they’d been evicted from above. So they were camped out in the Milky Way hoping Mel Brooks and Lenny Bruce would wander by

Jesus: The new Mel Brooks comedy ‘Fell Behind’ is GREAT

Carlin: The rip on Tim LeHaye? A real riot!

Jesus: Absolutely, what a gem! I wish I could grab Mel by the ears and kiss him right between the eyes for that. You’ve seen it?

Carlin: Oh yes! what was your favorite part?

Jesus: When the Hutaree Militia arrived to save the President and discovered he was Black and named Hussein, my god that tore me up.. it was better than the scene from Blazing Saddles when the Black Sheriff saved himself from the welcome committee, I was laughing to tears. Which part did you like?

Carlin: Sarah Palin as President of Romania, you know the scene, Vlad the Impaler rising from the dead and coming at her with the dildo.. and how she pretended to faint so she could take it without being unfaithful-

Jesus: My god, that brought me to tears too..

Marilyn Monroe and Jane Mansfield had been discussing who is hot, George or Jesus, playing a fantasy game of ‘draw straws’ just to see

BathBabe

 Most the Pentecostals and nearly all the conservative Catholics were in Re-Education Camp Purgatory, the two Marys were re-teaching Sunday Sex Ed School there, Virgin Birth was a huge embarrassment, as well Jesus relationship to Magdalene had to be straightened out and it was the joke cracked at this, had caused Jesus and George’s exile

Carlin: Millions said you were coming, were you wearing a condom?

Jesus: [laughing] There’s no right answer..

which began a fight between those Catholics and Pentecostals who were NOT in Re-Education Camp Purgatory. There WAS a right answer, eviction for the controversial personalities

Subsequently, George and Jesus, with time on their hands, LOTS OF TIME, were having a philosophical discourse

Carlin: So, where are the Jews?

Jesus: Waiting to be saved from themselves, but it’ll never work.. uh, George, would you do me a favor?

Carlin: Certainly, what’s that?

Jesus: Do you see those bolt cutters over there? ..

G&J Bolt Cutters

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The Satires

 

 

Boiling River

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In the Summer of 1976, I was walking alone in the forest outside of my hometown (West Glacier, Montana USA) returning to my house from a visit to some Blackfeet Indians staying in a tipi a mile or so away. Not paying attention to the fact I was not on a trail but walking through the forest simply by familiarity with the terrain, my foot rolled into a small depression concealed by leaves and I heard a bone in my ankle break (the talus) with the sound equivalent to the crack of a 22 caliber pistol. I was about 1/2 way home, out of earshot of anyone and thought  .. ‘well, this is pretty stupid circumstance’

Sitting on the ground, I felt over my foot and determined what to do. I tore my shirt into a makeshift wrap for my ankle, to give it some support, stood up and leaning against a tree, looked around for a suitably strong walking stick. I spotted one and hopped on one leg to retrieve it, and completed my journey home.

My ‘home’ at that time was a metal shed with a dirt floor, I was unemployed and pretty much broke and seeing a doctor or using an emergency room and being billed, was not an appealing thought. So I packed up minimal camping and survival gear and a few paperback books, and hitch-hiked to the north entrance of Yellowstone National Park.

Just inside the park, you won’t see this in any of the official literature, is the natural drain of the ‘Mammoth Hot Spring’, where a large stream of very hot water erupts from the ground and flows a short distance into the Gardiner River. It is in the river canyon below Mammoth, about 2-3 miles south of Gardner, Montana, where the road from Gardner to Mammoth crosses the Gardner River (there is a sign marking the 45th Parallel) is a parking area my last ride had dropped me at. With a makeshift crutch, I hobbled the 1/2 mile or so upstream along the riverside trail and arrived at Boiling River for my convalesce.

For the next ten days or so I spent my days soaking my foot (at times my entire body) in the natural beauty of my surroundings, taking breaks to sun myself while reading paperbacks on the ledge above the river. Elk and Bison had wandered by, the sky was big and beautiful. The river has cut away much of the bank since those days, as it slowly moves in a seasonal migration towards the opening in the ground whence the hot water flows, one day the flow of the hot water will likely emerge directly into the cold flow of the Gardiner River. But still today as in times past, one should be able to find the place in the mixed hot and cold water flows to suit your desire, it is quite a marvelous experience to shift ones body from hot to cold and back to hot with minimal effort.

America was less fascist and our National parks less policed in those days, there was no one giving me any problem for having a small tent pitched 50 or so yards from the Boiling River hot spring. Nor was it any big deal, in those days, to ‘skinny dip’ (bathe in the nude) at Boiling River, people worked these things out with common sense, or as in the case of what I had witnessed one day while sunning like an Iguana (in my cut-off blue jeans), sometimes fate works these things out for us, and that is ok. Or mostly that would be the case and people who could not handle the nude bathers would find somewhere else or another time to enjoy. Life was more relaxed.

It was late mid-morning, I was reading ‘The Greening of America’ (it never happened, obviously) and a group of about a dozen hippies or so had arrived and all had jumped into the river naked, no big deal. They were enjoying the varying pools where the hot mixed with the cold, after each season’s high water people would gather the smooth river stones and build submerged dikes to shape the current into bathing pools of varying temperatures. Not everyone was naked but those who were not, did not seem to mind those who were.

But then .. it happened a Girl Scouts troop was coming up the trail, from my perch above things, I could see what the others could not, an old and a young scout master and about 15 teenage girl scouts with towels about to discover at near point blank range that their planned soak was populated with naked people.

The older woman was up at the point of the troop and coming upon the place where the trail first opened to a view of a dozen naked hippies in the water a mere 15 or 20 meters distant, she turned like a drill sergeant and ordered her girls to stop in their tracks. The girls obediently did so, but also you could see there was a certain spirit of rebellion stirring, obviously the nude hippies were no threat, there were women and kids among them, it was not like some motley lot of dirty old men. These were more lenient times and the girls were not horrified, they only wanted into the water, real hippies being a common social phenomena of that era, they’d yet to become extinct and this was no big deal to the girls, it was plain to see.

Now, the scoutmaster ladies had separated themselves to one side to have a ‘Plan B’ conversation out of the girls hearing and I swear it must have been the serpent from the garden that freaks out the misogynist Christians, had something to say about what happened next.

It just so happened a very large Bull Snake, six foot (two meter) length, frequented that area and liked a pile of old lava slabs to sunbathe himself and the two scout masters had picked those very lava slabs to stand on and have their conversation. The Bull Snake choose that very time to come up for his morning sun and emerged precisely between the women at their very feet .. sending the two scout masters into what appeared to be opposite direction levitations with accompanying screams. By the time they had recovered their composure, too late, all discipline had been lost, and their girls were in the water with the naked hippies.

Recipe for recreating an outdoor hot spring in your bathtub:

Hot water on demand, a large window open to a beautiful day and one packet of ‘natron’ (baking soda or Epsom salts will substitute for Americans) and a deep tub. Close your eyes while soaking and engage memories of more innocent times, all the while imagining any sound of traffic is French and Japanese tourists soon to be gored while posing for photos with Bison…

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The Satires

 

Exiled

Dreamt up at an out of doors café in Sant Feliu de Guixols

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Napi. Just who is this guy? Napi is many things. Napi is a teacher, an archetype, our Blackfoot ancestor and much more. Napi is a god, he is like Jesus or a holy man. Napi is the devil, Napi is the first real human being, Napi is a fool, a friend, and the trickster- Old Man Coyote. Essentially Napi is all the possibilities embodied in any Blackfoot MALE

Everyone learns from Napi (his stories) in Blackfoot culture, and the idea behind Napi is to foster what is sane and healthy in men and put strict controls on what is not. Because men are men, there are the men’s Napi stories which are supposed to always be cleaned up in the presence of women (sorry.) Culturally speaking, some of the men’s Napi stories simply should never be told in the women’s presence at all

Did the women have the prurient Napi stories? Men were never admited (NEVER) to the women’s secret societies, so we (men) supposedly must accept at face value the idea the women only knew the cleaned up versions of Napi stories. But because I am Napi (a Blackfoot male) onetime I tricked one of the old ladies into an admission of sorts, that is I made a reference to Napi’s butt

When one of my elder woman teachers was present, I had an opportunity to identify myself in the Blackfoot language.. and instead of using my proper Blackfoot name Pee-ma-na-kwan (man with a rope), I identified myself as Penucquem (Puh-nuck-qwee-um) or that is to say I identified myself as Napi’s rectum with the proper/formal expression

That drew a belly laugh from the old lady, the spontaneous and deep sort of laugh burst out that would make a man think she had heard the dirty stories the men tell (but only behind the women’s backs.)

In actuality I cannot know, it may be she simply believed I am an asshole, that interpretation works just as well. And as she was my elder teacher, I had to stop there, because she subsequently gave a look of spine shivering evil, as though daring me to die for having breeched her dignity and caused her involuntary laugh. It is safe to say I never broached the subject with her again. She was what would be known in the old matriarchal times as a Ni-na-wa-ki, or a woman that was the highest form of Blackfoot chief. You do NOT cross these women

I will come back to Napi, and how he ate his own ass for lunch, but first I think I need to explain Indian humor is more typically healthy, and give folk here in the outside world some idea of how it works

Native humor is all about keeping things honest, in a fun and entertaining way, and consequently, this humor is often self-deprecating in a gentle or harmless way, that is laughing at having made a fool of oneself, or jokes can be created with a little license describing another’s encounter with life’s many surprises. Spontaneous jokes are appreciated, a quick, creative wit is a prized possession in the personality. The taciturn Indian is a face presented to the outside world only, within the community life is filled with fun and liveliness in most conversation.

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A Honky Snow Cone

I was at a pow-wow in the southwest where people did not readily know me as an Indian.. looking like ZZ Tops. I was watching the dancers, there was a Rastafarian dreadlocks White guy doing what appeared to be a stoned southern style war dance, overly exaggerated and out of time and I was amazed at the Indians straight faces as this guy made an incredible spectacle of himself. I could not help but laugh, it was that ridiculous

I was thirsty, it was hot, I walked to a concessions stand to see the possibilities with this fresh memory of someone that made me feel pretty stupid about my original race. The Native ladies ceased their conversation, normal when a White comes into earshot, I noticed that and realized they would not know I was Indian. As I approached the stand, I did not have a joke in mind about my Whiteman appearance but being Indian, it had to pop out

The only refreshments on sale were all sugar laced poisons, generic colas and other pop, and I did not want any of that. I ordered what I figured was least sugar poisonous, a snowcone. The (quite pretty, actually) young woman dutifully scooped the crushed ice into the paper cone and then turned to face me and asked “Which color?” (sugar syrup, red, blue, green or yellow)

I asked “Can I have it just as it is?”

She seemed surprised “No color?”

I replied with the perfect musical reservation inflection: “We could just call it a honky snow-cone.”

She looked down at the cone of pure white ice she was holding for me with a dumbfounded expression and the other girls broke out in involuntary laughter but quickly recovered their straight faces and gave this what looked like a Whiteman with perfect Native expression a suspicious look (wondering for a brief moment what had happened, is it safe?) but I had got them

She broke out in a gentle and wry, but friendly smile as she handed me the little cone of ice and took my money.. as I said quietly “I am diabetic” and she replied while now smiling in a truly sweet way and with genuinely friendly voice, also quietly, “Thank you.”

That “Thank you” stated more than the outsider would ever imagine. Indians don’t typically say thank you except in sincere heartfelt circumstance. It was ‘Thank you for being genuine’ and ‘I recognize now you are Indian’, and it was ‘Thank you for the joke and bringing a great laugh into our day.’

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Who Framed Melvin Bunny?

Because men are men (yes, in Native America as well) and because the culture is breaking down and becoming western, the humor is becoming ever more dangerous, as it must, to serve keeping the culture honest

So, to another real life Indian story. I hate to do this to my old friend Melvin Running Rabbit (his Indian nickname is Melvin Bunny) but here is how it is in Indian country today. It is a story about accountability

Melvin (if he is still alive) is a really good guy but he had a blind spot. He never looked at the possible consequences of those times he occasionally ran with the wrong crowd when he liked to go out of town to indulge in a really good Indian drinking binge, and those can be pretty stupendous events. I had checked it out for myself on a couple of occasions, any damn thing can happen, it is crazy to drink with Indians or, better said, when Indians drink, crazy things happen, like waking up from passed out with only one braid, the other having been cut off. Melvin was destined to a bigger joke. The Indian joke that backfired, but as the Indian world is not logical, neither are the consequences.

Melvin had, with several other Indians, drunk himself into the oblivion that seems required at these often extraordinary events, in a motel room in Great Falls, Montana, in the 1990s. There was a popular animated video out at the time: “Who Framed Roger Rabbit”

As it happens, there was one late arrival to this drinking binge who did not pass out to the typically near comatose condition and he was feeling a bit hard, or hard up. So he pulled the pants off of a passed out woman, used her like an ultra-conservative Republican on viagra would use a plastic blow-up doll for sex and then he had an idea for a joke. He pulled the passed out Melvin’s pants down and dragged him on top of the passed out woman he had just squirted full of his stuff, and left. That was a bad joke, but it gets better

If he had not done that second part of his criminal act, but rather had pulled the woman’s pants back up instead, he likely would have gotten away with the rape, because every Indian woman that attends these binges knows the risk, it has happened many a time and is often the joke story of the modern Indian drunks. She likely would have been disgusted with herself, having discovering what had happened to her, taken responsibility for being there and let go of it. End of story

But as fate would have it, along comes a family member looking for her and stumbles on the passed out old guy, Melvin, lying on top of the much younger woman, both with pants down. He called the cops and Melvin went to jail and was charged with rape

Melvin professed his innocence at his arraignment, the Indian humor telegraph was working hard on the story, supposedly in his cell Melvin was given a Viagra pill, a playboy magazine and a paper cup, to get his DNA and the subsequent big story on the Indian humor telegraph was:

“Who Framed Melvin Bunny?”

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Napi Eats His Butt

I close this essay with a story of the proverbial trickster, our Napi. There were many stories of Napi holding philosophical conversations with his rectum, and this is where typically the Napi stories become really dangerous.  If you can understand this story, then you will have a good idea of how to see where human nature has gone wrong in the Whiteman. Because this is the Indian story of the Evangelical Whiteman, the Whitemen we have met in Andrew Jackson and George Bush. It is about the Whiteman that rules America today. It is about corporate America and nacissism in the extreme. It is about narcissistic men like Barack Obama. It is about a man that does not learn from his mistakes. It is about a man that does not put two and two together concerning the consequences of his actions. It is about a man that does not understand his relationship to essential functions in nature necessary to his survival. It is about a man that does not pay attention or listen. It is about a narcissistic man so full of himself, he lies to himself about others good intentions. It is a story about how not to live your life. And perhaps most of all, it is a story about recycling old and failed ideas. The name of this story is “Napi Eats His Butt.” The story is told by Napi’s asshole, Penucquem, and it goes like this:

Napi had been to a great feast with his brothers. He returned to his camp very full of food and tired. Napi curled up to sleep by his fire, and you know where a dog’s nose is when he curls up to sleep!

Spuurrpp! Napi farted and it woke him up, his eyes were watering. Napi said aloud ‘Well, that was really rude’ and curled back to sleep…

Spuurrpp! Napi’s head popped up again, irritated, Napi shouted at his rectum: ‘Penucquem! If you won’t let me sleep, I am going to teach you a lesson!’ Napi curled up again.

Spuurrpp! That really did it. Jumping up, Napi grabbed up Tail, out of harms way, and sat on his campfire to get even with Penucquem. “Yii! Yii!” Napi really took off, like only a hurt dog does, and this started him on his travels.

Napi moved for a long time, he was thinking of how Penucquem had bit him really hard when he had tried to punish him, he didn’t understand how his asshole could do that to him while pushed down on the fire. It was Penucquem that should have cried out and ran away.

So Napi kept moving and thinking, he was traveling a long time in a big circle…

Napi walked and thought about it for so long that finally the large scab fell off of his rectum and still walking in a circle, he came across the scab and said “What do you know! Dry Meat!” Napi was getting hungry again about this time and he was happy to have found the dried meat some Indian had lost.

The Magpies shouted out to him “Napi! Don’t eat that! It fell off of your rectum!” Napi shouted back to the Magpies “You’re not fooling me, you just want this dry meat for yourselves!”

And then very delicately because there was not much of it, and with a lot of savor because he was hungry, and very deliberately, so the Magpies would envy him while watching, nip by nip, Napi ate his butt.

“Hun Neow Wah Nee Moo Oosss” (This is what your ass has to say)

The best part of the story about Napi eating his butt is, it was just such a good story I couldn’t help myself, I stole it from the Crees. I stole it from Wee-say-kay-cha (the Cree trickster) and gave it to our Napi. It’s a Blackfoot story now-

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“Two Medicine Men, both teachers, visited the big city and took in a service at the cathedral. Returning home, they took their Indian students on a journey of ‘Discovery.’

“First, they killed the nicest kid in the group and told the rest it was their fault for being born. But now, if they would eat the nice kid and drink his blood, calling it communion, they would not be held responsible for anything, ever.

“And this conferred upon them the right to tell other people how to live their lives- what they can and cannot do”  –Penucquem’s Journal

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Two Indian Jokes

Two Northern Plains Indians talking about the Southwestern tribes, originating with one of the Northern Indians experiencing married life among the Apaches, beginning with a question: “Well, what did you discover?” Answer: “Apaches are feral Navajos.”

After I’d moved to New Mexico, and Floyd HeavyRunner called to see how things were going, Floyd asked me “Are they (the New Mexicans) on Indian time?” I answered “No, they’re on Mexican time.” Floyd: “Mexican time? What’s that?” Myself: “They fall asleep and forget.” Floyd [belly laughs] “That was good.”

Related:

Life in Indian Country

Collected stories, folklore and anecdotes concerning my many years life with Blackfeet Indians and traversing Native American territories

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A former Special Forces Sergeant of Operations and Intelligence, Ronald Thomas West is a retired paralegal/investigator (living in exile) whose work focus had been anti-corruption and human rights. Ronald is published in International Law as a layman (The Mueller-Wilson Report, co-authored with Dr Mark D Cole) and has been adjunct professor of American Constitutional Law at Johannes Gutenberg University, Mainz, Germany (for English credit, summer semester 2008.) Ronald’s formal educational background is primarily social psychology. His therapeutic device is satire, uh and yeah, he grew up with and spent most his life in close association with Indians…