11/22/62---I Remember...

In 1962, I was 7 years old. The previous summer, I'd gotten to see JFK at the Air Force Academy when he came out to the graduation of the cadets there. I remember falling in love with the president because something about him promised a bright future for this young Black girl. H'e'd been behind the Civil Rights movement, and seemed to me to be a really compassionate man.

I, like my peers, was in school, but was home on lunch break when the news came across that he'd been shot. I was taking dried bread to Mrs. Raider next door to us who fed it to her birds, and she told me because she'd been watching the t.v. I ran back home to tell my auntie, and we ran to turn of the t.v. to see for ourselves. I had to return to school, and upon arriving, noticed that the flag was at half mast. When we got into class, we were told to go home, because the president had been killed and school was being cancelled.

Traumas are often either shut out completely, or remembered in vivid detail. I think this was one of the first traumas of my young life. I remember watching with my family over the next few days, seeing the shooting over and over again, until it is now seared into my brain. I remember watching the handsome young president happily waving to the crowds that had gathered in Dallas on that bright November morning/afternoon. Then the shots, watching him slump, watching Jackie in her pink suit with pillbox hat, climb over the seat, the chaos that ensued...the racing away of the limo...the reactions of the crowd...the announcement of his death, the swearing in of the new president Johnson, with a seemingly numb and traumatized Jackie at his side. I can remember the funeral, and as a child, I was so curious about the boots on the riderless horse...watching little John John saluting his father's casket as it went by...

Yes, of course all of these images are online somewhere, yet, I can see them with movement, knowing that they are my own memories of that time in history. I miss JLK and the hopefulness he represented...I miss the innocence I lost when I began to realize, at a very young age, that we live in a world that is often a very scary place. Yet, I retain hope...somehow, I have to hope...


There are so many images that I can't get out of my head. In my book, I mention the bombing in Birmingham less than a year later when the young girls were killed. Then, there was the assassination of MLK...the killings at Kent State, the My Lai massacre, all the hideous images of death from the Viet Nam war...the Columbine shooting, 9/11...

In my therapy program at Naropa, we were taught about trauma and its effects. PTSD as a "mental condition" actually came out of the Viet Nam war, as they began to put together a set of symptoms that the returning soldiers shared upon their return, as well as the feelings and behaviors displayed by those who'd been imprisoned and then released from torture by the Viet Cong, and the NLF during the war.

In my work, most all of us have experienced traumas in our lives, and it's such an important part of healing to be able to work with them. Traumas that aren't dealt with are still in the mind/body/spirit of the person, and will wait there in hiding in the shadows and darkness of the subconscious, affecting ones behaviors and way of living until they are brought into the light. This is no easy process, and I am grateful to be a guide to them, as they begin to uncover, little by little the dark places in their spirits where sometimes awful things have hidden. I have never espoused the idea of having people relive the trauma, yet, there is some value in being able to at least understand why one has behaved in certain ways, and to understand the shame, pain, sadness, fear, anxiety, anger and all of the other emotions that go along with them.

I also have curiosity about the cultural traumas I mentioned above, the many ways in which we see and hear about all that is going on in the world in real time. We get hit with so much, over and over, day by day. Many of the young folks I work with deal with such a sense of hopelessness, and I wonder. I wonder if the constant bombardment, due to the vast interconnections we now have as opposed to 50 years ago, are what cause so many to now feel lost and hopeless about how to be of service or how to try to fix all that is wrong.Yet, at the same time, the interconnections are also helpful in creating places where we can feel less isolated and more interconnected with each other. How might we use this powerful connection to make our lives easier, rather than harder or more painful?

What I do know is that in my world, I am doing all that I can to keep some semblance of hope. With those I work with, I sincerely bless their efforts to understand all that has wounded them, and the strength they experience in trying to make sense of their lives in order to heal. As I watch each of them  come to deeper and deeper understanding, I cannot help but feel there is hope for our world. There has to be a way that if we begin to understand how we are affected by the world we live in, we can see things more clearly, and perhaps there is healing that can occur for us all. Perhaps this is the shift that is spoken of--the pulling away of the blinders, the looking at our world as it is, with all of its ugliness, yet, with all of its beauty as well, and in doing so, beginning to find what it is we can do, how we can have more meaning in our lives...
I have to keep hoping...I have to...

Activism is my right--and I do it from my heart...

I started my path as an activist when I was 8 years old, as I walked with my auntie down the street, holding onto a jar with a candle in it. We were doing that because 4 little girls had been killed that September Sunday morning in the bombing of their church. It was the end of my innocence about a "good world" and that day is forever in my heart as the day I learned to care about what goes on in the world around me.

My belief system is one that says that I chose this skin, and this life as a learning experience. I have worked since I was 8 years old to understand how to defeat the disease of racism, as well as the internalized oppression that was a disease to me, and people of my culture.

My spiritual beliefs come out of a simple understanding that Mother Earth is my first mother--the one who loves, cares and endlessly provides for all of us. It is my duty as Her priestess to connect with Her daily, to tend to Her needs in whatever ways I can, and to listen to and attend to Her children, and bring whatever aid I can to those who may be in need.

I have had occasion in the last week to see and listen to young activists called the "Bee Hive Collective", as well as to gain a greater understanding of all the many ways in which Mother Earth is being raped. I was impressed with the massive amount of information my brain was filled with during this meeting, and grateful for the understanding it brought me of Fracking,strip mining and other diseases being pressed upon our Mother.

I once taught Multicultural classes at Naropa University, and was let go because I chose not to teach about understanding other cultural groups from only a research oriented/intellectual perspective. It was and remains my belief that we can learn things intellectually of course--but we cannot truly understand until we "get it" in our hearts--first.

My activism comes from my heart. I will not endure criticism because I don't know all the right words and politically correct phrases and ways that things must be said and done, who I'm supposed to listen to and how I am supposed to believe regarding political figures, and activist gurus etc. in order to be activist-ly correct. I do my work from my heart and will continue to. This is the way that I know.

I currently wish to simply take whatever things I can gather from my community to the Reservation in Pine Ridge--to the Lakota--my spiritual sisters and brothers. I do this as a way of showing and bringing love to those in need--as has been my way as a therapist, Reiki practitioner, priestess, mother, friend, and sister.

If you have some need to put me straight about my phrasing or terminology, or to change my thinking about how to best be an activist--kindly keep your thoughts to yourself. If you have something in your heart that you want to share with me that we could share together--by all means, open your heart, as will I, and we can start connecting from there...

Sharing from the Heart

Sharing from the Heart

The morning after the action in White Clay, a debriefing was called for,. It began popcorn style (any one could speak when they wished). After a few folks had spoken, we were asked by Vic, the male member of the family whose land were were on, and who led many of the activities, asked if we could instead go around the circle in the Lakota way—each one taking a turn to speak, one after the other, all around the circle.

Vic even went and fetched the “young warriors” to come to the circle also to say their piece. I was continuously struck at the level of discipline the young men seemed to have. They were always quiet around us, and seemingly to themselves. I also felt from them, an ancestral presence of young men--braves--who would go out to battle for the tribe, and the training that is required for one to be able to go into battle—unafraid, or at least with the spirit of the true warrior.

Each person spoke from the heart, there was so much that was said, I cannot even remember. I said in a post a while back that I would talk about what happened for me, as I have now had time to process it, and feel that I am ready to speak of what transpired.

As I waited my turn to speak, I felt a little uneasy, as I really didn't know what to say. I didn't want to sound trite, and I didn't want to say something just to be saying it. As it was coming to be my turn, I called upon my ancestors to help me to find the words that seemed to be forming inside of me, but had not yet risen to the surface.

What came forth as I began to speak felt so very right. I started by thanking them for having us here, as many of the others had. I also thanked them for the gift they had given me of being able to feel what it felt like to be a part of a tribe. My people were the stolen ones—stolen from their lands, and my people had lost the sense of belonging and connection to each other and to Mother Earth because we never again have had land to call our own. My own family have mostly been colonized, and I don't blame them for this, it is one of the ways we have had to survive as a race—adopting the values of the dominant culture in order to be successful. Yet, in my own family, I have always been the weird one because I honor and worship Mother Earth, because it has been in this way, I have been able to have land that I belong to.

At this point, I broke down completely, and before I knew it, Vic had wrapped his arms around me and was hugging me. I whispered in his ear that I'd never known a father, and those few moments of being in his fatherly embrace completed some missing part of myself. Then I next was surrounded by Debra WhitePlume who was wafting sage at me, and Oluwan who was holding my hand and telling me that she understood. She said “I once met a Black man who reminded me that while we have always known that America was built on stolen lands, it was also built with stolen hands”. This caused me to simply weep out loud, because I really felt a sudden sense of kin and understanding. I realized that throughout my life, I have sought and sought to find my kin—those who would understand the longing in my spirit to belong to a tribe, to belong to a group of people who understood. I cannot express here how very powerful those few moments were for me. I suddenly felt a pain I'd carried for all of my life dropping away, as I felt surrounded by the love of these people, who were in some loving way, taking me in as their own. Also, I was hugged, then by sweet Jessica, another African American who'd been there during the weekend, handling the press coverage of the event. We hugged tightly, and she exclaimed that she'd not thought, herself, how lost she has always felt in America, and in her world, and that my speaking up had also changed something inside for her. We held each other and cried together, knowing for those moments, the pain we knew our ancestors had to have known—coming to this land— brutally stolen from their own..Yet now, also knowing that there are those who get it, who do understand the pain of always having to fight for your rights--the right to live where you want to, the right to your ways, your religion, your life, your very being.

These moments of sharing from our hearts saw many amazing feelings come forth. After what happened for me, another Indigenous woman from a tribe way off the coast of Canada spoke, and with tears streaming down her face, spoke of being a “Red Activist” all of her life, and that work had always been about fighting against the colonization brought on by the white ruling class, and she said from her heart--”now, because you have come to stand with us, we have to make room for you, and take you all in”. In other words, her resistance has been against the Euro rooted ruling class that has oppressed the Indigenous and peoples of color since the inception of “the United States”. Yet, as white folks begin to understand the interconnectedness that the oppressed have always known, we have to let you stand with us and be a part of our struggle—we realize it is truly the only way things are going to change...

As the circle drew to a close, we got to listen once again to the wisdom of Debra WhitePlume, the longtime activist, and wise Indigenous woman among us. She spoke of so much, of education and learning each others' ways, so that we might better come to stand together. Earlier in the weekend, she'd told us the story of the “fat takers”. The story of those who come from all cultural groups who steal from others by taking what is best. It helped us to release the sense of longstanding guilt about the treatment of the Native folk when we realize that we could all be “fat takers”, and how important it is to be mindful of our actions, of learning how to give back, how to share, how to love Mother Earth enough to work for Her and Her children, and to not take more than we truly need from others.

I was a little surprised but joyful in my heart when the time came for a closing prayer from an elder, and all of the Native folks in the circle turned and looked at me. I gratefully offered a closing prayer of thanks to all of our ancestors who had come to stand with us the previous day, and to implore that they continue to stand with us as this battle carries on, for all of their help would be needed to bring forth the change we so desperately need in this world we all share..

The Hunger Inside

The Hunger Inside

Many people in my life wouldn't have known that I battled furiously with an eating disorder for a good part of my adult life up until about 14 years ago.

It is often thought that eating disorders start as a way of filling some hole inside—some deep insatiable hunger that is never satisfied. I think for me, growing up as a young Black girl, I was always longing for love, an unspoken love that never seemed to come my way. It probably started much earlier as a way to have a comfortable friend when the world outside of me seemed cold and without acceptance for my growing spirit.

When I was little, there is a family joke about the picture of me dipping my hands into the sugar drawer and happily eating the sweetness off of my hands. As I grew older, I was rarely forbidden anything as far as food went, and I ate a lot of stuff that my friends at school did—sodas, chips, candy, etc. etc. I don't remember ever being what you'd call “small”.

At some point, I was taken to a doctor who prescribed these pills, and for some reason, I remember the name to this day—Tenuate Dospan—which made me less hungry, but really shaky and I had a hard time sleeping. Though I did lose some weight, as they squelched my appetite, I always felt sort of weird, and it sped up my thoughts and I occasionally felt a little crazy. It didn't last long. I've read that they've improved the formula to speak to the shakiness, but it felt really weird, that's all I remember—I think I was 13 at the time.

The hardest part of it all would have been during the Summer months when my grandmother would visit and tell me with that severe, and loveless voice of hers that “you'd be a pretty girl if you weren't so fat”. So after the first time she told me that, and each Summer thereafter, I'd find myself fasting and dieting like crazy a few weeks before she'd come, and no matter how much I may have been able to lose, it wasn't enough for her. Of course, that would only exacerbate the whole thing, and I'd end up stashing food—candy bars and such in the pockets of clothes in the closet, just so I wouldn't feel deprived. She would be trying to make sure I ate less, and of course I felt terribly self conscious eating in front of her, or asking for second helpings, so there I was, in my closet, stuffing down whatever I'd been able to put aside, and hating myself.

In high school, I hid my fat and my pain away by wearing a pair of overalls and baggy shirts most every day, and became a sort of jolly clown. I was well liked, and had a number of friends, but the gaping hole inside grew larger and larger during this time, as I watched all my friends pair off with boys, and go on dates and to proms and dances, while I got to sit at home alone. I threw myself into my school work as a way of dealing with the pain—that and eating—and, grew more and more miserable as time went on. I graduated from high school with a 4.0 average, and a diploma in loneliness. I longed to have a boyfriend, though my friendliness gained me a number of really nice male friends who, in looking back, probably befriended me because I was safe—not dating material or attractive enough to be—and that I was a good one to tell ones problems to, and I was also smart. The hole inside me grew larger and larger. I also suspect that the seeds of my desire to become a therapist were planted here, because I was easy to talk to, and I enjoyed listening.

The Summer before I went away to college, I started a serious diet, with the desire to become svelte for the college days ahead. I ate pretty well—lots of salads, meat, and cut out the sweets and white foods, something I found out later was the way one was able to lose weight. This dieting stint saw me lose a great deal of weight before going off to college, and life changed for me thereafter. As is often the case, I wasn't prepared for the new level of attention I started receiving upon my arrival at Western State. I began to get a lot of attention from men, and was excited, yet at the same time unaware that I was beginning to have a new addiction—sex. Now that I had lost weight, and had to walk up and down the campus, I managed to keep it off pretty well. Yet, the more I lost, the more attention I got, and it became fun to have dates, and to go out partying and to begin to feel what the other girls felt in high school. My first year, I was pretty sedate because we lived in the dorms, and things were still pretty strict back then, curfews and such. The second year, however, I moved to the on campus dorms with a friend I'd met in choir class the year before. I also, early into the second year, began to date one man I'd met, pretty seriously. He took me places, we went dancing, to dinner, etc. and spent a number of nights curled up on my single bed. Gregory would come to be my first true love, even though we parted near the end of the year. I don't think I ever quite understood why we sort of drifted apart, though looking back with my now wise vision, I suspect it was because we had begun to get a little too serious, and he needed to back off. I remember being pretty torn up about this, as I'd become pretty hooked on him. He was tall and dark haired, dark eyed, and to this day, I've not met a man to match him in my mind. We actually stayed in touch for years afterward, and he came to visit me when I'd moved back to Colorado Springs after college. He even at one point begged me to come be with him, but unfortunately, I chose to stay with the abusive man I was with at the time, and I've often wondered about the road not taken. I recall that during this relationship, my eating disorder had abated, and I was pretty happy most of the time, though I could put away some food, I was young and walked most everywhere, so it didn't stay on.

My years with Keith in Denver were, from the beginning, a living hell, though I didn't know it or understand it until years later. He had been abused as a child, so was controlling, and occasionally physically abusive. My eating disorder went into full bloom with him, I began to be bulimic, I'd eat large amounts of food, then go throw them up. I'd also starve myself on occasion, as he took on the personality of my grandmother—shaming me about my size and making me feel that he'd not love me if I was fat. So, he, who'd been a track star in high school, put me on a running regimen, which I completely hated. I also, probably due to the stress of this relationship, developed colon problems, on top of the bulimia.

I finally got away from him after 6 years, and again, my eating disorder began to settle down, and though I was still somewhat bulimic, I began to eat a little healthier. The bulimia, actually continued until after I was married, and was pregnant with my twins. I, oddly , had morning/all day sickness, and ended up being sick most all the time, all the way throughout my pregnancy. I think actually, it was this having to throw up that began to cure me of my bulimia, it just wasn't too much fun to HAVE to throw up, than doing it by choice. A few years later, my ex-husband and I, after a few rocky times decided to split up, and I noticed that my bulimia had begun to back off. Though I had also taken up smoking, another part of my unhappiness in my marriage, and adjunct to my bulimia. It occurs to me that part of what eating disorders do is this feeling inside that one could get rid of the hole that is gaping inside of oneself, when in reality, the person has to learn to love and be kind to themselves first.

My program at Naropa is what began to speak to the hunger inside. We had to learn meditation as part of our studies, and I began to have to literally sit with all of my sadness, unhappiness, and pain. I also came to understand where the hunger had come from. It actually started when I was abandoned as a baby, and that hunger for my mother who'd left me, was never met—though I have always felt that my dear aunties did the very best they could. This lack of my mother, also coupled with, and fueled my sense that I was unloved and unwanted, and I had learned to hate myself. Luckily, the program at Naropa also came with a need to have therapy, and I was lucky enough to have a couple of different therapists who helped me to work through my self-hatred.

At this time in my life, after years of not loving myself, I can honestly say that I love myself and I love my body. I no longer wish to do damage to it, as I had in the past. Over the last 10-12 years, I've come to actually pay attention to my body and what it wants and needs. I noticed that I have lactose intolerance, as many African American older adults to, so I limit my milk products and carry little pills to help digest the dairy should I come across it. I've also come to notice that I don't seem to react well to wheat products, so I've also started limiting my exposure to wheat and also gluten. I quit drinking sodas years ago, and cut out most fried foods, though I still love fried chicken sometimes, and just to treat myself, I'll occasionally have some french fries from Wendy's, though not very often—I love them too much!

I'm also aware that as my body is aging, I have arthritis, so have to do some form of exercise—I enjoy walking, and try to do that at least 30 minutes a day at a brisk pace. I no longer say that I am on a diet, but that I am eating in a manner that is healthy for my body. In fact, I don't think I'll ever use the word diet again to describe the way I feel I need to eat to keep healthy and strong.

The main and interesting thing that has happened for me has been that I now have a good relationship with food. For years, I used to ruminate about food endlessly. I 'm pretty sure that it was my time at Naropa, where we learned to watch our minds that I began to get a handle on the thought process I had around food. I used to spend time before meals, thinking about what I could eat, what I would eat, how much, when, how I'd cook it, etc. etc.. Then, after the meal, I'd end up worrying about what I at, if I ate too much, then, when in the midst of my eating disorder, I'd end up calculating the perfect time to head to the bathroom to throw up.

While on the cushion at Naropa, I became familiar with my mind around all of this, and while it was painful to face, it was the teaching that told us to have deep compassion with ourselves that saved me. I came to look deeper into the thought patterns. I came to understand and have compassion for the lonely child who'd been called names, and who learned to find comfort in food, even though it was always fleeting at best. As a lonely teen, food was my friend, the one I could come to who'd never turn me down, never turn me away, I could eat endlessly. Then, in the midst of the hideously abusive relationship I found myself in, food became my solace, my safe place from the abuse, my comforter. As and older adult, I also used food to stave off the sadness of distance from my bio family who never quite understood that part of the reason for my absence in their lives was my abject poverty—i didn't want them to know that I was a welfare mother, on foodstamps, a failure in our family...

I will admit that I do still allow myself one last comfort food—one that I fall back on when I feel distressed or sad.--potatoes. The difference is that I know this, and am conscious in my choice when I want to indulge myself. It also helps me that I can recognize when I feel distressed, and that a “comfort food” is not a bad thing. I'm also much more conscious because of my eating choices that if I choose to indulge in certain foods, I know I will pay some price. My arthritis seems to be exacerbated by white flour products and wheat, so I try to cut those out completely. I also notice that if I drink lots of water and green tea, I seem to flush out in a healthy way. I do all of this now out of a love for myself, a love of taking care of my aging self, and a desire to remain as healthy as I can, for as long as I can into my elder years.

The most important thing, I think, is that I now have a great sense of self-love. When I look at myself in the mirror, I love the face I see, I love my eyes, I love my body, and I can see my beauty. Learning to watch my mind , via meditation was a great boon to my being. It so helped me to learn to just be with who I am, to find a peacefulness within myself, instead of the great hunger that plagued me for so many years. Of course, there are things I still want—I want to be settled someday again after my journey, and I still wish/hope to find a partner who will love me for all that I am. Yet, I feel content, I do not feel the sense of wanting to eat to fill up the empty spaces, the empty spaces are now filled with love. This love is what fuels my work as a therapist, as an activist, as a mother, priestess, lover and friend. It is a wellspring now, rather than a gaping dark hole of pain. I have also been able to pay more attention to all the other areas in my life where I was mindlessly consuming

I feel so blessed to have learned to understand all the stories I've told myself over the years, all of the stories about who I am not, and why I should stuff myself to the gills with bad food. The stories about why I don't deserve to be loved, the stories about why I'm not attractive or why I should hurt myself rather than love the precious creature that I am. We all have stories, yet, they aren't always good for us to share. I hope that this story has been helpful to someone out there who is or has struggled with an eating disorder. I know that I have gotten stronger every day that I have been able to stop the endless grasping for food, the getting involved or staying in relationships that aren't good for me. But mostly, I have been able to stop the bad stories, and can now substitute them with words of strength, love and deep caring for all that I am, and to move away from anything and anyone that doesn't truly fill me with feelings of goodness and love.

The March on White Clay

The March on White Clay

The step off of any march is always one of the more exhilarating moments of any protest. The circle before helped us all to feel centered and at one with our brethren marchers, with our purpose, welling up in our hearts and minds—always it’s about freedom. Freedom from oppression, pain, struggle, poverty—all forms of slow genocide of any of the human kind. To not have resources and a way to provide the most basic of needs is daunting at best, murderous at its worst to the human spirit. It is no wonder then, that ways of escaping from this way of life are often viewed as preferable, though most often NOT—life enhancing.

Hence, we were there to battle against the sale of alcohol, long a killer among the indigenous, since it was introduced to them by the invaders centuries ago. I was told that it was true that their bodies do not metabolize it well, so that they become addicted very quickly, and that addiction causes deep rifts between the drinker and their family, their community, their tribe, and of course within their spirits. In this town—White Clay, there were also murders, suicides, raping of women, etc. all of the other hideous outcomes of this killer substance.

The women of the family we were staying with, had called for a march—calling it Women’s Day of Peace, as a way of addressing most especially the outcome of what the killer alcohol does to the Life Givers. As a Life Giver, it felt honoring to be there, and an honor to be able to walk alongside my sisters of this tribe to take a stand against that which kills.

The march started out rather festively, led off, by a truckload of drummers around a mother drum, I believe who came with a group of folks from AIM, themselves leading the way. The chanting, singing and drumming were such a fitting backdrop to the movement of the marchers, children and adults with masks, mother’s with babies in strollers, vans and other cars, following along the side, and truly an amazing sea of people of all colors, with White Buffalo Calf Woman waving and floating almost magically behind.

As we got closer to White Clay, the festivity of the moments before began to dim, as we felt the oppressive air of moving into “enemy territory”. At this part in the march, the drums and the chanting/singing, seemed to get slower, and the oppressiveness of this town was actually palpable. In my mind, I could imagine the many years of pain, wrought by hatred, racism, greed—the usual suspects in any situation where a group of people is being systematically put to death—for crimes no more than asking for justice and freedom to live their lives their way—on this land that was stolen from them, and built upon by hands, stolen from Africa, Asia, and all over the world.

The protest itself went on for about 7 hours, it’s hard to even try to capture the moment by moment happenings. There was a little confusion at times, because as was surmised later, we didn’t have the plan completely worked out, as well as not having done the cross cultural work to make sure that we as visitors to this reservation and their ongoing struggle understood the ways of these people. There were a group of older Native men who were with AIM, and who carried staffs. There was yet another group of young Native men, called the Young Warriors, who were, just that, teens to early twenties, learning the ways of being a man—they were identifiable by their chamo wear, and red bandanas, some over their faces, some just around their heads, or both, We learned later, they’d been asked to keep an eye on the children, and to make sure they were kept safe. This would explain why the first major altercation of the day took place when a young boy of 10, we believe was apparently yelling into a police car, and was immediately hit with a long stream of mace from the officer, which was caught on camera, he was then loaded into the car, ostensibly for arrest.. Another group of young men, some of the Young Warriors included, began to rock the car, and others also got hit with the mace. Our legal representative came in at that moment and intervened—getting the young boy released to his mother—who also had been a victim of the mace as well. Luckily we had a team of folks acting as medics who’d put together a mix of Milk of Magnesia and water that apparently alleviates the symptoms of the burning of the eyes.

This first altercation made it very clear that this was business as usual for the law enforcement in this area, there was no sense that things were different for them, except that there were many folks there with cameras rolling to start the business of recording what acts they had been used to getting away with against the reservation’s people.

At some point close to our arrival in White Clay, the five young people from Deep Green Resistance locked themselves down with long black arm cuffs that essentially kept them immobile and stretched across the whole street, right in the middle of a state highway, into and out of White Clay.

The AIM folks, and the other native people were a little amused I think at first at the idea that 5 young white folks were willing to literally put their lives on the line for them. Not that this was a first in history, it’s clear from the Civil Rights movement that things started to move and change once busloads of white freedom fighters arrived from the North to help and stand alongside as allies. It was also hard for the Native folks to trust on some level that this was actually happening, and that they meant to stick it out until they were arrested. Previous so called “treaties” with the law enforcement had been ignored and forgotten, why would they trust that these young activists were truly there for them? But there they were, and at some point, I saw a subtle shift as the Native folks began to accept what was happening, and got behind it as well. To see that shift was amazing, and I, as another ally person of color, hope with all my heart, mind, body and spirit, that they continue this battle with the folks of Pine Ridge. What has been started is the beginning of a wave that must happen all over the world in order to continue shutting down the systems of power—the systems that kill—the systems that bring pain and suffering to the many. As we have always known, no one is free, until we all are free…

The bar and liquor store owners had shut down for the day, probably thinking it would be short lived as it had been in the past—a couple of hours—maybe. We felt a great deal of pride in that we shut them down for 7 hours—a major feat. We also felt pride in that there were many cameras rolling, every time the law enforcement officers approached, and in the end after a day of pondering, offering more and more legal threats, they finally amassed a large enough number of officers from around the state it would seem to carry the 5 Young Activists off—and load them into—a Cattle Car!

It was no surprise that the following morning, calls started rolling in from all over the country, and most importantly from the Department of Justice. It is our fervent hope that perhaps when those with privilege understand how much they can help situations when people of color and other oppressed peoples are involved, they will do so. It took having young white people being arrested to bring, hopefully, some much needed attention to this situation. We all knew that had it not been done this way, and had there been only Native folks putting themselves on the line, they would have been brutalized, jailed, and as we were told—the women would have potentially been sexually abused. This is what must be stopped. This is what needs to be fought, over and over. I sincerely hope and believe progress will continue to be made—it is time, and that time is now.

After the activists were carried off, there was confusion, and one of the points we didn’t take care of was making sure we got all of our people out of “enemy territory”at the day's ending. Near the end, before the young activists were arrested, there was a moment when we noticed that the sun was going down. Vic, stood and spoke, in his tongue—honoring the directions, we all solemnly watched and followed along. It was a very powerful moment. It was this moment that felt so honoring, even the officers stood by and kept silent for these moments. I always am reminded how important it is that we as non-Native folk always remember that the spiritual part of the Indigenous is theirs and theirs alone, unless they choose to share it/teach it. It is understanding that to steal their practices is yet another form of genocide.

I have forgotten another very powerful moment, that happened earlier in the day when the law enforcement got ready to converge on us. This wind came up out of nowhere. Many gasped, with the recognition that the ancestors we had called upon earlier in the day had made their presence known. The winds were like a white curtain between “us and them” It is my thinking that ancestors were around all day—we also saw dragonflies—another sign that the ancestors were among us and acting to help.

I’d gotten separated from the man I rode in with—an older activist, who said he’d been in the Civil Rights marches, who’d gone to get his car, but had not been allowed to return to the town. We met up later, and rode back to the camp.

The mood back at camp was one of exhaustion, exuberance, yet also, a subdued sense of concern, while we waited. We had been told that they young activists had been taken in, given citations, and released rather quickly, never even having seen the inside of a jail cell. Ironic, how the systems of justice work in this country. A few folks sat quietly around the fire, and in our exhaustion, conversations were subdued and quiet. I spoke for a long time with a Native man who was the husband of one of the women whose land we were staying on. It felt so nice by the fire, as we warmed ourselves and spoke of life. I was reminded of why it is we focus so much on our differences when we are so very much the same. As adults of a similar age, we have children, have known struggle, have survived, become weary of the battles of life. That human connection was so very comforting to me in the moment. I was also struck at the thought that here were Native folks sharing the fire with us, being in our midst, perhaps the walls that had been between all of us down through time might finally be starting to break down, as we began to understand that we could be there for/standing with each other.

TR one of the White Clay 5

Vic

Rachel one of the White Clay 5

Zander one of the White Clay 5

Oluwan: amazing woman! She and Vic were the main leaders

The ritual before the march

The Lock down

Alex  and Zander  Two more of the White Clay 5

Debra White Plume, we were on her family's land, an activist for many years

The Grandmother I spoke of, loved her...

Little by little, folks started drifting back in, many of us had stopped for food in Pine Ridge, knowing that our camp food supplies had dwindled. At some point, the young activists came back and we welcomed them warmly with our love.

The next morning, as could be expected, many were preparing for departure. The usual vat of oatmeal was there for us, dear Iver, what a dear person to keep making sure we had food and coffee in the morning. At some point, a circle was called, and we came together for the debriefing. One of the five was apparently ill and needed to be taken to the hospital—we later learned with dehydration and some form of food poisoning. The activists of DGR, began to talk about what had happened, and at some point early on, Vic asked if they could do this in the Native way—going around the circle, rather than popcorn style. What began at that point was a sharing from each heart in the circle, which I will talk about in my next post.

On Stolen Lands made with Stolen Hands

On Stolen Lands made with Stolen Hands

 Over the years as a single mom, I realize that I had come to understand poverty, want, need, and struggle very deeply. I lived this every day. I look at my teeth, needing work, and I can remember the hard decisions about deciding whether to get dental care or shoes for the girls—the shoes always won. Even now, my daughters tell me what a great mom I have been, that I have successfully raised two lovely young women who are now—on their own, learning how life really is, without me to soften it for them as I had for so long.

Visiting the Pine Ridge Reservation was an experience like none other I’ve had in my life. We first encountered White Clay, the town where all the alcohol was being sold that was ruining the lives of the Indigenous people on the reservation. If you blinked, you missed this tiny town, and it felt odd to think that this little Nebraska hamlet could bring forth such ire. Though, once we began to listen to the stories of the people later on, it became very clear.

We drove slowly through White Clay, partially out of wanting to see the home of the “enemy” as it were, but also, because we couldn’t help but be overwhelmed at the sight of so many folks stumbling into the streets, obviously intoxicated. Some lying on the ground, or on the sidewalk. Some part of me worried if any of them might have drunk so much that they might have been  dead, and no one knew it yet—we later learned that this wasn’t uncommon. Collectively, we all were probably thinking that this is what the people who vended the alcohol in White Clay were doing to the Native folks from just over the border in Pine Ridge. Before our eyes, we saw, the destruction of the human spirit. We later learned from one of the elders, that until folks who’ve given themselves over to alcohol, gets clean, they are thought of as not having a Native spirit—“they are no longer Lakota”.

After passing through and out of White Clay, we crossed the border into South Dakota, as well as onto the Pine Ridge Reservation. I’ve read a number of books by Native author—Sherman Alexie, so on some level, I was sort of prepared for the kind of lifestyle that he exemplified as being typical for the “Res” as it’s often called. Though, reading about it, and even seeing it in movies like “Pow Wow Highway” I was still somewhat shocked at what I saw. We were still driving slowly, ostensibly to take in what we needed to understand of the people here. The first thing that struck at my heart were rows of “clapboard houses, with all sorts of debris strewn around them. Occasionally you would see a house here or there that was better kept, but, the poverty was so visible.I noticed that rarely did we pass a car with only one person in it, and sadly, many of them seemed to be on route to White Clay.

There were many various buildings we passed on our way to the park where we would camp--a recreation center, the reservation police station, A couple of fast food places, a Pizza Hut, a gas station/Subway. Then, finally out of the sort of business district of town, we came upon the sign pointing out “Wounded Knee”. I could feel my eyes tear up, knowing history, and having read about and seen the movies about the original massacre at Wounded Knee, as well as the occupation of it in the 1970’s by the then newly formed AIM(American Indian Movement) organization. It occurred to me that the inhabitants of this reservation and their ancestors had been fighting for such a long time. The battle against alcohol is yet another of the attempts to eradicate these proud and wonderful people. Generational Genocide is a fitting name for what has been done here.

Somewhere back in history, the Native people were labeled as “savages”. Their religion that loved Mother Earth was seen as wrong, and an affront to good Christians. Even until now, so-called “good Christians” do not recognize their thinking—that as seeing Mother Earth as the provider of our sustenance and all else that we would need. Sadly, the U.S.  government still only gave them land that wasn’t capable of growing food, and for the poorest reservation in the country, there is 80% unemployment. So, for food, most of the people are relegated to eating what is called commodity food—provided by the government. Those with children to support could at least get a tiny amount of money with which to provide for their other needs. It is no surprise that many families live together in the same house, and pool their meager resources. Really? So this is how the first peoples of this continent are treated? It hurt to hear the stories that were abundant throughout the weekend.

So, upon our arrival at Kiza Park, we wre welcomed by the other activists already there, waiting for more of us to come to join the action.

I am glad for my years of camping experience that helped me to feel right at home in camp, where it’s best to pitch the tent, how to avoid the numerous piles of horse dung, given that beautiful horses roamed freely over the land. I think my only complaint was the latrine that (given my sensitive nose) caused me to gag and I admit to resorting to a bush or spot far from the center of things for the rest of the weekend—my bowels, lucky for me, decided to shut down until I came back..

The owners of this part of the land were very gracious to us, and provided us with our first night’s dinner (we came in on Friday) of Spaghetti and meatballs. I’ve not eaten beef or pork for many years, so I sort of struggled throughout the weekend trying to get enough protein, yet afraid to eat too much of the meat, as my intestines no longer have the enzymes to digest it. I worked hard at not complaining, as it occurred to me how much effort it took and how it probably dipped into their personal stores to feed us. I gratefully ate tiny amounts of beef, and shared the big pieces with others.

A seasoned  activist from Canada—a man by the name of Iver, took over the kitchen duties, I was amazed each morning, at his provision of a huge pot of oatmeal and plenty of coffee. Other folks shared of what they’d brought, giving it that feel of true community, where resources are shared, and all bring what they can.

One of the weirdest feelings I had as time went on, was that I’d met a number of these people before. I then remembered back to the dreams I often have, where I feel I’m doing things with others, setting things up, working in tandem, yet when I awake, I can’t remember. Yet, seeing the faces of the 5 young folks, I knew I’d met them before—companions from the dreamtime—perhaps working behind the scenes together to make sure that change would occur.

Throughout Saturday, we learned and talked about what had been planned for the action, and the various parts that were needed to be filled. Given my peacekeeper training, I chose to be on the team of folks who would be responsible for keeping an eye out for trouble and difficulties with the townspeople. One poignant moment happened when during an exercise, I was asked to demonstrate how a peacekeeper might go about their job, and was confronted with three different men who were agitator, as I tried to protect and shield our activists who would be on lockdown. One young man, who towered over me, in height and size did a particularly convincing job as a sort of “redneck” giving me a look that nearly withered me. I suddenly remembered it as being the look I’d received often enough in my life when I’d end up in some place I wasn’t wanted. He and I talked about it later, and he told me of his life growing up with “rednecks” and that his ability to “play” that role came from real life experiences. I had various conversations over the weekend with a number of the young folks from “Deep Green Resistance”, the organization that planned the action.

 As an elder (among the Indigenous, you are an elder at 52) I was so very buoyed to hear these young, knowledgeable folks talk about what brought them to activism, the choice of living in poverty in order to be able to leave at a moment’s notice to go to actions in various parts of the country. They impressed me with their knowledge of racism, sexism, and all the other isms, and their dedication from their hearts to help Mother Earth, and all of Her people. Some of the Indigenous folks were very unsure at first, as they, have have had reason to mistrust and even hate white people for the centuries of abuse.

Saturday was jam packed with all sorts of trainings, role playing, connecting, puppet building, which brought out all of the children from the family whose land were were camping on. What a joyful time it was to talk to them and work with them, knowing it was for them their parents and grandparents fought and died.

At the end of the day, we ended with women and men’s circles. We women were lucky enough to get the fire pit, as we went late into the night, and it began to get cold. My sisters and I were led by a woman from a tribe that was located on a small island way off of the coast of Canada. Mostly we told our stories—in my work, always a powerful thing—to understand who we all were, to connect sister to sister, around our pain, and our triumphs. It was shocking to me to hear that most all of our lives had been touched in some negative way by the very alcoholism that was causing rape, murder, suicide and death to numbers of the people of the tribe. If nothing else, we bonded over this fact, and even now, it saddens me to think of the alcoholism in my own family and in my ex-husband, who I left for the reason of not wanting my daughters to be affected by the meaness and violence he would display when he became drunk. Indeed, it has caused me to reflect back to times in my life when I myself have abused alcohol out of sadness, loneliness, or desperation. I am clear that while I’ve been a more mindful drinker in recent years, I will become much more vigilant in times to come, and I realized that after this powerful weekend, alcohol holds no attraction for me, given what role it has played in my life.

Yet, there is also a part of me that can very much understand that in conditions of severe poverty and centuries of hopelessness, alcohol can be a balm for the gaping wounds created by racism, sexism, pain, sadness, loss, lack, fear, and anger. I’m also aware that it can damage and even destroy relationships, families, friendships, marriages, communities, and clearly, whole groups of people. What a powerful weapon to use against a people, thus creating genocide far into the future, as each new generation takes it up. Stopping it now before anymore would be affected seemed to me to be a great purpose for us to take up banners, and walk beside our Native sisters and brothers.

Sunday morning started early, the mood of the camp was pensive and focused. I noticed as I glanced around the first morning circle, that most of us had on clothing that one might see as “war clothes” I chose to stand with the Native women by wearing a skirt, allowing my power to be unhindered. It wasn’t until hearing that from them had I even thought about it. I wear skirts and dresses a majority of the time. I always feel more flexible, less hindered, more powerful somehow.

There was still a lot of bustling around, putting finishing touches on the large puppets that Jennifer, one of the women I’d rode with, and a friend of more than a few years, as we each have twin daughters of the same age, and we met as our twins became friends. She’d fretted for sometime over the puppets, taking on a task she didn’t feel suited for. Oddly, the work got done, and the children were very excited when it was time for the march later to be able to wear and carry them, The main figure was a roughly 10 foot tall puppet of “White Buffalo Calf Woman”, a Sacred Being of many of the Indigenous tribes. Given that the March and Action were termed as a women’s march for peace, it felt apropos to have Her there. She lent a certain magical quality to the day, with her white flowing dress and black braids

As we gathered in our final circle to prepare for the action/march, the mood had become most somber. The five young folks who were planning to lock themselves down in the middle of the road in White Clay looked nervous but determined. I had deep respect for them, as a woman of color, I’ve never, during all my years as an activist sought to be arrested or to do jail time—I know what happens to people of color in jails and prisons…I might not have come out alive, as many of my sisters and brothers of many races have not. Indeed, we know that to be incarcerated often means getting a taste of the cruelest and most despicable behaviors that law enforcement officers can dish out. Yet, oddly, I chose an Orange role (red means you are highly likely to get arrested, Orange means you could possibly be arrested if you’re not careful.)

As the circle came to an end, and the 5 came forward, a lovely elder from another tribe who’d come from New Mexico, said a few words, and asked if I’d offer a prayer. I felt most honored to do this, and felt the words pouring out of my mouth, as my best priestess self rose to the occasion. I called upon the help of all of the ancestors of those who were gathered in that circle, as well as the ancestors of the land on which we were standing. In that moment, I felt the familiar rush of energy that happens within me, when I am filled with spirit. The woman next to me from the Canadian tribe was apparently feeling it as well, for we were both shaking and realizing that they had come forth for us, and as I have always done, I knew that the energy was to be given to the young warriors to help them to get through the day. Again, the elder from New Mexico spoke and offered a very touching send off gesture where we face each other, take each other’s opposite hand, and each kisses each other’s hand, then place both of each other’s hands on one, then the other’s heart.While it sounds very simple, it was so very loving and powerful all at the same time. I was so struck at how these rituals that the Native people provided for us, helped to create not only a sense of connection and community, but to bring forth the strength and power needed from the other realms—ancestors, helping spirits, guides—who are more than willing to lend their aid to us for causes of justice and freedom for those of us on this side of the veil.

So, finally came the time to load ourselves up into cars and get ready for the caravan to the meeting place, before the march into White Clay. As we all began to arrive, it seemed that some wonderful convergence began to happen, and the whole thing took on a festive atmosphere. Many folks from the reservation started to arrive. Many wore red bandanas around their foreheads—especially groups of young men who also wore camouflage type clothing and some wore the red bandanas as masks. Again, we circled up—a much larger group now, and Vic helped everyone to know what was coming up, so we could all be prepared. As always, there were more prayers that always lend such a meaningful atmosphere to any moment.Then, as the time came, we began to form a line for the march—women and children in the middle, with men on either end—I reminded myself to be mindful of the ways of the people we were with and not to go into my feminist thinking about how we women can take care of ourselves. In their culture, men, as warriors, and the younger men as warriors in training had always been the ones, in most tribes, to be on the front line—keeping the women and children safe. When I thought about it, it actually make a great deal of practical sense—the women are the lifegivers as they call us, and the children are the future of the tribe—the future must be protected. Though, I noticed, that as an elder woman, the rules are a little looser. Later during the day, it was a joy to watch one of the grandmothers, who had lost some of her children and grandchildren to alcohol, fearlessly yelling at the officers, and letting it be known that her voice would not be silenced. She reminded me of my own Granny, one of the women who raised me—a daughter of my great great grandmother—herself part African, and part Cherokee—her deeply lined face, wisdom in her eyes from years of pain, loss, worry, and joy, strength and courage. I loved her deeply in those moments as I loved my own Granny.

I lost some of this when my computer went down…I hope it will be recovered, or I will rewrite it.

Unafraid to be Open

(This was mostly written during the dark few weeks before I went to the reservation where I feel some profound experiences happened for me. I am still processing what happened there) 

For many years, I’ve been afraid to let others see me, truly see me. I think I had always felt a need to protect myself, my life, my actions, my very being from scrutiny. Some of this probably comes from being around people all of my life who have taken actions on any number of levels to hurt me.  When I was younger, it had to do with my skin color, as I grew older, it had to do with my desire to be liked/loved, in recent years, it’s been more to do with jealousy, or envy of my development as a being, and the integrity with which I try to run my life. I have come far, and it’s taken a lot of blood, sweat and tears to get where I am—which is why I’ve never understood the jealousy.

 I have also had a sort of reputation to uphold as a strong woman, a strong mother, a strong priestess, a strong therapist, etc. etc. etc. in ad nausea. I’ve always been afraid of letting anyone see behind those facades that I somehow thought I had to keep up.  I’m laying it all down for now, I’m tired of it all—really. I always felt the need to keep it up for those around me. With my daughters gone, and my life as it is just now, I don’t think it really matters. I truly don’t care anymore what anyone thinks of me—from now on, I plan to be just who I am, and who I wish to be in any given moment.  

 I was raised by an amazing bunch of women, and I say bunch because there were my two great aunties, my one great-great auntie, and, there were a number of female cousins and a great uncle all in the house when I was growing up. They all taught me various pieces about growing up in a world where one wasn’t always welcome, where one had to struggle against some status quo, where one was judged by the color of ones skin rather than the content of ones character—ala MLK. 

I learned to hide. I had a boss once who identified this quality of mine, the ability to hide oneself in plain sight. I could be right there, seemingly accessible, seen but actually hiding. I have done this in my family, my work situations, my various jobs, etc. It’s a great skill to have—being invisible at will. Yet, it also allows one to create a façade, or a mask that one wears to cover who one might really be. Mostly it was done out of survival, yet also out of some sort of need, as an introvert, to get some inner space and time away from the prying eyes of all those around me who are infinitely curious about who I am, and what makes me tick.(I ask that you buy and read my book—She of Many Colors: A Black Woman’s Journey to Self Through the Divine Feminine, if you want to know a good part of who I am.)

I grew up with dreams and aspirations like any other child growing up. Somewhere along the way, I came to understand the hideousness of racism, and the effects of internalized oppression. I don’t remember when or why I came to hate myself, but I’m pretty sure it started after I got into school, and had to face down the mean kids who would taunt and tease and call me names…

Move to now, after many years of schooling, and a program for my Master’s degree that caused me to really look at all that I’d been through. I’ve come to see how I have had to learn to hide the pain, the struggle, the poverty, then, over the last few years to keep working to hide as well as to overcome a deep depression that set in after my mother died. I realized only lately that I had no one to impress anymore. I had no one to impress as to how good I was, how perfect, how successful, etc.  So, little by little, my true self has been seeping out under the edges. I can no longer pretend that I’m perfect or that I have it all together. I am truly sad to let down those who’ve needed to put me up there as some shining example of all they ever wanted to be…I am who I am. Someone who feels still out of place in a world where people are mean, where people use each other, where  we have lost a sense of the sacred. I have tried to keep it alive in my own life, yet, at times I falter. At times I am overcome and overwhelmed by what is wanted of me—needed of me…in all the many hats I have to wear…and at night, I am alone…for many years now, and I’ve grown weary of it, so deeply weary. Yet, I’d rather be alone than to spend my time with those who can’t be authentic, and those who only want something of me without being willing to be reciprocal.

 I’m only me, a very flawed individual. As I have watched over the last few weeks, my identity disintegrating, it has become very clear that some rebuilding will be in order. I’m not sure where to start, but I feel this journey is where I will be able to get some ideas.  I have been able to take stock and see what I’ve got left—what are the essential parts of myself that I am still carrying?

I love myself. I didn’t always, but I do now, and it’s taken work to get here, and I’m glad I’m here.

I love my twin daughters. They are the main beings in my life—besides myself.

I love my friends, those people who’ve stuck it out with me through thick and thin, good and bad, they’ve always been there. There are very few of them at this point, and they know who they are.

I love my family because I came from them in this lifetime, and they taught me values that have guided me all of my life…We are very different however, and don’t always agree, but I love them just the same.

I love my work as a therapist, I deserve to be paid well for the fact that I am really intuitive and good at what I do. I no longer allow people to take advantage of my skills…

I’m finding that I love to write.

I’m a multi-faceted individual, there are many sides to me, and I can show any one of them, and each of them is still me. I don’t care if anyone is shocked at some of the parts of me that exist—the very sexual me, the little girl me, the flirty seductive me, the powerful me, the passionate about causes me, the activist me, the me who says just what she thinks, and more, much much more.

I abhor violence. I hate violent acts, I become physically ill at the sight of cruelty to any being, I cannot stand violence in any form. I hate few things and war is one of them. I live to bring about non-violent change in the world.

I am at my core very loving. I love to be kind, it causes me a visceral feeling of warmth and connectedness when I can be loving or kind to someone or something. I love to smile and laugh with babies, clerks in grocery stores, street people, anyone I encounter who looks down trodden. I love to be loving.

I love Mother Earth. I love Her with all my heart mind body and spirit. I will always do what I can to protect and take care of Her. 

I love my spiritual path, it has led me in the most amazing directions of growth and learning. I could not at this point in my life, give it up or trade it for any other set of beliefs, for they represent truth to me. I will serve as a priestess until the day I die. I will do what is asked of me, especially if it is for the greater good.

I chose the path of the healer. I will continue to heal myself, and those around me who wish it, for as long as I breathe air.

I will endeavor always to not bring harm to anyone or anything.

I will always hold that love is indeed the key...

So ‘that doesn’t sound like a bad basis from which to start. It would seem that I am still mostly intact, though shaken to my core. I’m not sure how I will be re-forming myself, but I’m glad to know that there is a core left that is easy to work from. I know that the Tower card of the tarot has been sort of intense this time around. I’m having to be more authentic, more real, less dependent and as me as I can be. I can’t really be anything else—can I?