Dawnland Voices

Dawnland Voices

"The other thing I wish to add here is that I believe the
paternalistic and patronizing attitude adopted by many White
historians toward the Amerindian intellect is a defensive measure. If
they can convince themselves that the people their ancestors
brutalized, dispossessed, and in many cases exterminated were little
more than savage animals, then they don't have to face up to the
horrors committed by these ancestors. After all, when you simply put
down pests and varmints, who should complain?"
The above quote is from an essay by Daniel Paul which first
appeared in his book on Mi'kmaq history, We Were Not The Savages. (I
plan to read that as soon as I can locate it.) I discovered it in
Dawnland Voices: An Anthology Of Indigenous Writings From New England,
edited by Siobhan Senier. I had been searching for that book for
quite awhile when fortuitously it appeared in the Orono Public Library
as a new acquisition in the space between Indigenous People's Day and
Thanksgiving. It was also when my theories class had studied higher
education theories of race and ethnicity and was gearing up to tackle
religion and spirituality. In other words the timing was purrrfect.
For reasons I will reveal later, reading this book was a life changer
for me. It has now displaced To Kill A Mockingbird which has been my
favorite book in for decades.
Anyway back to the quote. In that piece Paul discusses the
genocide of indigenous peoples by whites including the bounty on
indigenous scalps paid out like in my lifetime money was paid to
hunters for body parts of slain pest animals. He is so right! In
order to commit atrocities while considering oneself a good person and
convince the less blood thirsty members of one's group of the
rightness of the unconscienable, one must demean the doomed. Hitler
alluded to the Jews as vermin in his attempt to wipe them off the face
of the Earth. Slave owners claimed that the blacks were so feeble
minded, heathen, and corrupt they were better off as chattels for
Christians. These days white police officers shoot "thugs".
When I was growing up, although the ongoing genocide was not as
obvious, the demeaning was going on big time. There were these awful
movies in which "injuns" were always up to no good but white hatted
John Wayne was always there to save the day. Television didn't do any
better. Children were encouraged to (or at least not discouraged
from) enacting stereotyped behaviors like those gosh awful war
whoops. In school every year we celebrated Thanksgiving. We made
tacky construction paper and school creations. Many of us
participated in enactions of the Indians keeping the Pilgrims (who
were totally unprepared to occupy their new environment) from
starving. But that was seemingly the only relevant thing they did in
hundreds of years of United States history. And they were supposed to
be gone except for some quaint reservations in places like Arizona
where if you were in the neighborhood you could get turqouise jewelery
dirt cheap.
Of course we kids in our construction paper Pilgrim hats were
never told how the whites repaid the indigenous people for being saved
from death by starvation by embarking on a centuries long campaign of
genocide, theft of land, leaving their hosts bereft of means of
sustenance, and cultural and language destruction. That is one of the
messages of Dawnland Voices. This amazing compilation contains
writings, organized by tribe, that cover the whole history of white-
indigenous relations from when we arrived on the scene, making the
arrogant assumption that we discovered the place, to the much too
current campaigns to "save the man by killing the Indian"'
In Donna Loring's piece we learn that:
"Indians were simply seen as subhuman savages to be disposed
of. Thus began Indian education from the white man's perspective:
educate the Indian in white man's culture and values, and he will
become for all intents and purposes a productive member of white
society. Indian children were forcibly taken from their mothers and
fathers on the reservations and were mentally, physically,
psychologically, spiritually, and even sexually abused. Native people
call this cultural genocide."
That was going on when I was born. And in this part of Maine
Department of Human Service participated in the cultural genocide by
removing indigenous children from families and tribes (probably for
reasons having more to do with cultural differences than actual
neglect or endangerment) and placing them with white foster and
adoptive parents who were totally clueless about their cultural
heritage.
And we call indigenous people savages?
If this was the entirity of Dawnland Voices I would highly
recommend it. We need to know about all that was done to the
indigenous peoples by our people. We can't say "Not my problem. I
didn't do it." Even those of us who didn't personally scalp, hand out
disease laced blankets, or steal land by force and biased legalities
benefit from all that. I go to the University of Maine which is
situated on stolen land.
But there is so much more to the book. One valuable vein of
wisdom is their relationship to the created world. In contrast to the
conquer and plunder mentality embodied in the phrase "manifest
destiny" the indigenous peoples rocked respect and love for all of
creation. Imagine what this country would be like if we too made
decisions based on the welfare of the seventh generation from ours!
There is much we as individuals can learn on mindfullness and
stewardship.
And there is so much more. There are stories of indigenous
people's lived experiences. There is some of the most eloquent poetry
I've ever read. There are even recipes. I plan to try the cranberry
stuffed acorn squash.
So to whom would I recommend this book? I think it's a must
read for all humans with human hearts and minds. I fear that those
who most need its wisdom (like the folks who are pissed off that
Columbus Day is morphing into Indigenous Peoples' Day) will never pick
it up.
On a somewhat long purrrsonal note, I was raised Episcopalian. It
never really took. I picked up early on the racism and classism of my
childhood church. I was bothered by the idea that all who didn't see
impossibly Aryan Jesus as THE WAY were doomed to burn in Hell for all
eternity. At eleven I refused to buy in in the form of confirmation.
I spent much of my life as ambivolent Christian attending when that
aspect of my identity seemed salient and exploring every denomination
from Pentacostal to Unitarian Universalist. I did not have my
children infant baptized because I felt that I didn't have the right
to make that decision for them. I did take them to church some but
when it didn't take I wasn't all that bothered, not having conflated
morality with religiosity. But while my relationship with organized
religion was lukewarm at best and often motivated by a fear of not
living on after death, my spiritual life was on fire. I believed in
an amazing Creator Being not because someone was preaching at me from
the pulpit to, but because I saw His/Her/Their work in the amazingness
of the created world from the perfection of the tiniest shell or
insect to the majesty of the star lit sky. I walk around in a
constant stare of awe. Right now the autumn foliage is taking my
breath away. Working the soil to grow organic veggies to give to
those who need them or receiving water on a parching, hot day feel
like communion. And I believe in the soul living on beyond the death
not because of doctrinal statements, but because I sense the life
flames in the people and other sentient beings around me. When I read
the book I had evolved into a pantheism that incorporated values and
beliefs major world faiths. Fortunately I found a church that is fine
with my unorthodox spirituality, not to mention my gender fluidity
(which the indigenous people had described and respected as two spirit
for ages). But when I read the book and learned of the many people
who feel the way I do it felt like coming home.
I think Joey's story illustrates this. He was given to me as a
birthday gift. I was privileged to have him in my life for sixteen
years. I adored him from the time I first held his just weaned self.
When I learned how much he loved to cuddle my joy knew no bounds.
When he was three he almost died. That was when I learned that he was
and would always be a medically frail, special needs cat. In that
mind that made him all the more precious. But some people questioned
my judgement. Why keep a defective pet (I hate that word with it's
connotation of owning) when I could get another so easily? For the
rest of his life I closely partnered with his vets to give him the
best possible life. Getting up in the morning even on the gloomiest
of days, I would feel joy in my heart at the prospect of seeing the
best little cat in the world. This was especially true when my
children had grown and flown. A lot of people came to know Joey
through my stories and grew to love him. When I learned that he had
cancer I agreed right off with the vet that buying him good time
through appetite enhancing medicine would be the right option as
opposed to extreme measures. For those three months and three days he
was my world. We were there for each other and even made precious
memories. I hated to lose him but was glad that when the end came it
was quick and not dramatic. He simply stopped breathing. He was
touching my arm, I was petting him, and we were looking each other in
the eye. I know I have been forever changed for the better for his
precious presence in his life and intend to honor his memory in how I
live my life as long as I draw breath.
Great big shout outs go out to today's indigenous people who still
have to struggle to survive and keep their heritages and languages
alive and to the best little cat in the world who has left me a far
better person because of his precious presence in my life.
jules hathaway



Sent from my iPod