Reflections on Healing, Renewal, and Living with Vows...

I have been on a healing journey to the heart since the day I was born. As a mother of four, a writer, and teacher, I am continually challenged to find new ideas and connect those ideas with our traditions. This is what has led me to the great state of Minnesota.

The first step to my own healing was the realization that I needed to be healthy. And, that meant I had to change! Quite an undertaking, I tell you. I mean, I have been alcohol and drug free for many years but that wasn’t enough. I was missing an important ingredient that had to do with my own self-determination and spirituality. My life became a disaster two years ago because I had just gone through separation and I was struggling to hold my family together.

So, I worked on myself--physically at first. I lost a lot of weight, adjusted my diet, etc. Then I worked on my mental attitude and began to see results from the shift in my consciousness reflected in everyone around me. I also went through therapy and traditional ceremonies to begin my emotional and spiritual healing as well. I dealt with issues of intergenerational trauma and faced them head on for the first time in my life.

Most of my trauma, I saw, centered on the concept of shame. Much of which wasn’t even my own. This was shame that had been passed down through generations from the time of first contact, I was certain. This element of shame coated everything in my life. I really believed that I had to hide my problems from everyone (and not air my dirty laundry so to speak). So I struggled to maintain a façade of success, while inside I was in so much pain. There were many times when I had the urge to just give up and start drinking again or to take anything just to feel numb. Ironically, it was only when I actually faced the ruins of my world that I was able to identify what I was really feeling. Then I saw the shame slide off my body like water draining from a basin. When it was gone, I felt so much lighter and free.

The renewal came when I actively sought out the ways of our ancestors. I began to ask questions that pertained to our identity as Native people and to our traditional practices. Some questions kept me awake night after night pondering: What does it mean to be Native in this contemporary time? Are we Native only during certain times of the day or week? Or is this something that we are 24/7?

People thought I was crazy and asked me why I even worried about such things. “Of course, we’re Native!” they said, “It’s in our DNA! Right?”

Well, once I started down this path, I couldn’t stop. It became my obsession and I wanted to find out if it is truly possible to live as a Native year round, without compromise. Where no one would actually question our inherent right to practice and develop our traditional ways in accordance to Native beliefs. Is this possible? I had to give it a try. My experience was quite challenging and revealing. Challenging because many people were opposed to the thought of how I was living. Revealing because I found out that in order to live by Native values, I had to let go of my own misconceptions of what that meant. But I did it for nearly two years. During this time, I homeschooled my children and worked from home part-time. And, I lived without many conveniences.

I spent two years examining the values that shaped me. From all of this self-examination, I posed these questions. How did our ancestors maintain their honor and conviction in everything they did? What did they do and how did they do it? I knew that the answer to this was the key to my own sanity.

The answer is that our ancestors walked with honor. That honor was held binding through the making of vows.

So, I decided to make vows to the Above, to the Grandfathers, to the Creator. These vows were to serve my people in the best way that I can. Now I became committed. My honor was called upon. And my honor became my shield…one that I walk with each day.

As I began to put my life back together as a single mother, I saw patterns. More realizations came that if we could all make our own vows, whatever they might be, wouldn’t this make a difference in the way we walked our own life paths? Particularly in maintaining our own sobriety and how we teach our children?

Living with vows means subscribing to principles that must be adhered to day and night. That’s how our ancestors lived.

Extremist that I am, it’s what I strive to follow. And, teach. And, of course the most important lesson for me in all of this is that I do so with my heart in my hand.

Ewithai Wongithe! All My Relations!

- Shonge Xube Wau (also known as Renee Sans Souci)

Return of the Thunders...

My latest poem I read on Friday, April 25 at the Spring Feast hosted by the Minnesota Indian Women's Resource Center.
















Return of the Thunders
By Renee Sans Souci

This is a sacred time!
Where life begins
In the balance of the universe
Blue for the Sky, Green for the Earth
Then all around us
The Life Givers dance and sing...

Our life circles began as one
Energy that is unending
Surrounding us with Beauty
Renewal time known as Spring
When the Thunder Beings come home
To remind us still...

That life and death are one
Ancient miracles that balance
The budding of the trees
And the falling of the leaves
Echoes of voices singing
Songs of Red and Black...

Our life circles breathe
Inhaling a new beginning
Exhaling to honor the past
Sacred Breath a gift to us
From the Thunders, Bringers of Life
Returning. Returning.

This is a sacred time!
Where life begins
In the Return of the Thunders
Red and Black,
Reflected everywhere
Welcome them! Welcome them!
They are home.

Happy I've Got My Kids Back!

My kids came back to me two weeks ago, after spending nearly a year with their dad, Charles.

Our marriage broke up two years ago and the divorce was finalized in September of 2007. We had no disputes over any property. My only request to him was that he make sure that his kids inherit his land in Pine Ridge.

The kids said that they enjoyed their time with their dad. He also said that he enjoyed every minute with them. It was a special time for all of them.

I can honestly say at this time that I hold no rancor toward their father. We spent almost four days together as a family again (just for clarification for certain parties, we made agreements as parents not as husband and wife) here in the Twin Cities before he returned to North Dakota and to Canada (where he has remarried).

So, it is back to me and my kids again. I have my work cut out for me here. I love my kids so much! I missed them greatly while we were apart. Now I feel whole once again.

I do have lots to work on. I work for the Minnesota Indian Women's Resource Center. I am also becoming more serious about my writing. People are taking me more serious too! It's amazing how this is all working out now. I actually get paid for writing! Not much...yet. But I am getting there!

I have a mini-van for my kids. Yippee Skippee! And, I am looking for a place to live at this very second. Last Friday, I was approached for the second time by an Ojibwe woman from Augsburg College. She is recruiting for a Tribal Special Education Cohort Master's Program. I gave it a lot of thought over the weekend and have decided that it's time to go back to school! I've got to keep moving forward. I feel energized...

Planting in January by Jerry Lopez

It is January

The coldest month of the year

And there I was outside in 40 below

Pounding at the soil with a steel stake

Pounding with all my might

I was doing all this pounding to plant a seed

Not just any seed

A seed I just could not seem to take care of

A seed that I thought would do better here than with me

So there I was with the seed in hand

Pounding and pounding away

With every thrusting effort the ground would dent

Then dent a little more, and a little more

Finally the dent would be deep enough

To plant this seed

I placed the seed deep within in this dent

Pulled out my reused glass jar of “organic, chemical free, fare trade, water”

And poured it so ceremonially over the seed

Within seconds the water had frozen

But I smiled, said some words and walked away with all the confidence in the world

For I knew deep within that the seed had everything it needed

It was a seed that could find life in the most challenging conditions

Just not with me

And so I walked away and never looked back

Months later the snow began to melt

The ground began to thaw

The birds returned and the leaves began to bud

The garden was beginning to flower and

Soon the garden took on full life and the people noticed

All those walking, driving, running, and cycling by would stop and look

The beauty of the garden was breathtaking

People could not help but slow down and look

Slowing down and looking was happening to everyone

Looking at such beauty traveled deep into the people

This beauty began to bring peace, love and harmony

Into the minds and heart of all those who slowed down and take it in

This garden was so profound that an entire community began to transform

The people were smiling and greeting each other

People began to pick up the trash and be kind to each other

Parents began to play with their kids and read them books

Kids began to wake up on time and run to school

Or at least walk and not be late

Then one day I walked by the garden

I was in awe

Suddenly the wind was taken out of my chest and offered to the flowers

A tear formed in the corner of both my eyes and my chest pounded slow yet strong

Time began to slow down and slow down some more

Everything came to a stop

I looked around and all but the flowers were a blur

I looked out upon the flowers and asked, “Which of you did I plant?”

But none would answer

I asked again

And none would answer

I asked four times and on the fourth time I asked

“Which of you is the one I planted at a most difficult time

A time when in my hand was my heart

And you the seed was my heart

I planted you here until I was ready to return

Which of you was this seed?”

Again there was silence

Just as I accepted my fate of not knowing

A voice spoke to me and said

Your heart has always been within you

But when you planted me

You too gave life to all of us

Now I belong here with all the seeds

That have been planted by the hearts of many

And so do not worry

There is much more of me inside of you

So go plant more seeds

No matter how hard it may be

No matter what season it is

When you plant a seed from the heart

Beauty will flower and all people will smile

Jerry wrote this for the Spring Equinox which was celebrated last week on March 20, 2008 in ceremony with Danza Mexica Cuauhtemoc...

Reflections on Chalchiutlicue by Bawshkeeng Wabigun (Tara Chadwick)

(L to R) Renee, Vanessa, Tara and her son Mictla

Reflections on Chalchiutlicue… notes from the Indigenous Women’s Water Policy and Leadership Training, March 20-23, 2008 @ Lake Itasca Biological Field Station.

Before I read the evaluations that I’m just patiently waiting to unfold, I want to leave a written reflection on the weekend’s event. I returned home to a fresh, soft blanket of snow and a new pint of sap in our maple bucket. It was 40 degrees in Northern Minnesota when we left early this afternoon, and 25 in St. Paul when we arrived here at 5 pm… interesting temperature change.

This weekend was the most recent culmination of years of work toward an endeavor to bring together the scientific and cultural knowledge of our local indigenous communities in an effort to boost our community readiness to engage in strategic systems change in water policy and management in local, state and federal arenas.

We started the journey toward this weekend with months worth of planning, logistics, location, ideas and timelines. Next was the content, resource guide and invitations to presentors and participants. Finally were the reminder calls, registration forms, supplies and sleeping assignments. Thank goodness for teamwork!

We invited all the women we could think of who are engaged in strategic, political, educational, or cultural work with water, especially those who regularly share their knowledge with other people in their community. We even invited women who we know would not be able to join us but who might be inspired to engage their own communities in similar endeavours.

When it finally arrived, the day of travel was difficult and filled with all sorts of obstacles, from snow, to rain, to ice, copy machine problems to vehicle space limitations… many of us made it to our departure point feeling anxious, uncertain and stressed out! But we were determined to begin in a positive and peaceful manner, and so we gathered in the Maynidoowahdak Community Center in honor of the call for 8,000 drums for Mother Earth, and we shared some food, thoughts, tobacco and songs to recenter ourselves and focus on our intentions for the training and on the road ahead.

The road ahead was long, it seemed to take forever to get there. And along the way, it was after all, the first day of Spring, we decided that we must add a workshop on tobacco seed planting. I had to stop at three different stores in Park Rapids, MN, before I could find soil that did not bear the Caution, Warning, Danger, Poison label that indicates the presence of toxic chemicals. Our next plan was going to be digging out frozen soil from the earth to plant the seeds… I am ashamed to say that I found it at the last stop, Walmart. The purchase of the only available package of organic potting soil, which was actually Canadian sphagnum peat moss, intruded on my five year boycott of the monster store. I’m sorry that Simone couldn’t join us from IEN, at least she could have used my scab peat purchase for a discussion about the peat mine that’s being proposed for the Red Lake bog, and the environmental and political impacts that are expected.

When we got to the park, it was dusk; we found a beautiful homey cabin filled with smiling women, and a feast of corn, rice, meat and berries spread out and steaming ready. We ate, and then headed out to find the fire, which had already been lit for the full moon ceremony. It had been snowing the whole day so we weren’t even sure which direction was east. The fire was magnificent, though, warm, huge and welcoming. There were wooden benches arranged around the fire, just enough for everyone to have a seat. We had a beautiful ceremony, and just before the end of it, our grandmother shone through the icey mist, a reminder of how the first water must have looked when it first arrived to surround our gwenawjiweengay mide wahkeeng.

After the ceremony we shared some social singing, drumming and snacking in the main cabin, then retired to our various sleeping quarters. Morning came very soon, I awoke, very uncharacteristically, at the break of dawn, despite my best efforts to sleep for as long as possible, I had to get up and get ready. Beautiful dreams about what lay ahead gave me strength and inspiration to go and talk to the other Midewiwin women about how we could create the offering ceremony that would happen next. I had dreamt about our teacher, gweewisence daywayigun. He was sitting with us, teaching us about the various elements we all have in common with him, each other and with all our living relatives on our mother the earth.

It was he who led us on our walk to the headwaters of the Mississippi. We could hear the loud, strong voice of the water speaking, singing to us, as it went flowing through, over and under the line of rocks that spanned the river; they could be crossed in two or three strides. Our grandmothers arrived first, and began their work, we all followed, set up a place for our teacher to work on the ice which was still strong enough to stand on, over the water at the shore of the Mississippi Headwaters. It was a timeless moment, I think we all felt like we remembered having been there before, remembering the memories carried by our ancestors, realizing as we stood there, that we are making a connection that was lost long, not too long, ago.

Next came the beautiful sounds of creation in harmony. Together we observed, felt and witnessed the coming of a new beginning. After the first song, the sun shone through the icey mist; after the second song, tiny black manidoons appeared among us, barely visible, hopping around on the snow. After the third song, the women spoke, sending their voices of observation, memory and intent into the future, near and distant. The speaking was a collective teaching, all voices equal, all participants active, engaged. The voices identified changes that had occurred over historical time, compared them with previously held observations, qualitative and quantitative measurements encoded in the memory, songs and teachings handed down for generations. The women analysed the differences between our historical and current situation, with the water, the earth and the environment. They posed hypotheses for how things could change, and identified an agenda of the most pressing issues… our voice and Midewiwin perspective in the development of land and water management policies, including a retroactive ban on the commodification and privatization of water; water quality restoration worldwide; access to clean, safe water for all human beings now and into the future. Then they spoke of solutions, benchmarks, what it would take to turn the present course of events to a series of desired outcomes. In the next 500 years… we would like to see the rivers restored to drinkable quality. We do not need to worry about the health of the earth, she will survive, it is us, human kind who are in danger. What befalls our brother the wolf, who walked the earth with Waynaboozhoo, will befall the Anishinabe. What will it take to ensure the survival of our people? What will we do? What will I do?

“lis-ten to your heartbeat, lis-ten to your heartbeat,” my three year old son chants…

The grandmothers echo his instruction. And inspiration. We have knowledge, technology and the power to create the change that we seek. Our only responsibility is to remember our teachings, offer our tobacco, pay attention, reflect and act. Do. Plan. Seek. Talk. Organize. Work. Walk. Speak.

We left the headwaters with a lighter step, and a stronger inspiration, and headed for the classroom, three miles downriver, on the shore of Lake Itasca’s East Arm.

The classroom was actually a basement science lab, with windows looking out on the Lake. At first, the transition from ceremony to classroom seemed too harsh, but we engaged our self discipline and entered together into the academic world of power point public policy, dotted with examples of real life situations that brought us back from intangible social theory to context that we could readily understand. We realized, I realized, that what we are doing is social change theory, only we don’t talk about it or write about it, we just do it. And keep doing it. And keep trying, even if the doing it doesn’t work out! I guess that is called 500 years of resistance and survival in my bedrock guide of (bedrock = below grassroots) growing up indigenous. For me, the development of political consciousness was inseparable from the development of social identity as an indigenous person. Citizen engagement and social activism was a given part of who we are and what we did, not a job acquired skill or a required reading. The lecture was good, though, a primer on what public policy is, means and needs in order to be a successful tool of social change.

Next we came to Grandmother Josephine’s presentation about the Mother Earth Water Walk, a remarkable committment to the ever present question: what will you do? Raise awareness, send a powerful message, work with the water, lead by example, follow our teachings. Josephine and her helpers will be walking through Chicago this May 1st- 7th and there is some concern for the safety of the walkers in this high profile water diversion area that is dominated by corporations who profit from the undeveloped consciousness of the majority of the masses. Josephine would like as much press and media attention as possible on the Water Walk for this year, and is inviting all women and men to participate and support the Walk to raise awareness and bring healing to the water.

After the classroom presentations, we returned to our eating cabin and feasted on buffalo stew. The third part of our day turned traditions and academics into creative practice. We transitioned, this time, into spring seed planting mode. Sharon shared the fruits of her trial and error tobacco seeding efforts. Smudge, tobacco, seed, tobacco, song. No water directly on the plants, only on the soil around the edges, till they’re big enough to plant in the ground about June. Keep covered, warm and constant temperature. Our seeds were planted, ready for us to take home and, hopefully, sprout in four days, a reminder of ourselves and our commitments and intentions.

Then, after watching a youth video and listening to a poem that reflect our work, our history and our intentions for the present and the future, we were challenged to take on a commitment to produce a creative message, one that reflects the learning that had taken place. In other words, it was everyone’s turn to work together or separately, to do something. Anything. Somehow! This is the exercise with the push that we need to turn the theory, back into action. Two hours later, we had a wonderful time, sharing what we had created. There were posters, skits, singing, drawings, paintings, beading, and cutting:

• Mainstream messaging through music (Mississippi River lyrics, karaoke)
• A Water = Life collage illustrating the interdependence that all the elements of our creation history share, surrounded by four pairs of moccasins that represent the Mother Earth Water Walk
• A red cuxtal and charcoal drawing representing the relationship between water, women and mother earth and reminding us of our responsibility and what could happen if we do not fulfill our obligations.
• The capers of Wally and Dory, the Minnesota walleye, and their run-in with a Red Lake fisherwoman.
• A Publicity Poster for the 2008 Mother Earth Water Walk, incorporating the issues of corporate commodification and privatization of water; bottled water quality, shelf life, and the generation of plastic bottle waste.
• A worldwide water quality and access comic strip storyboard.
• A beaded lace representing the free flow of living water running through the arteries of mother earth (undiverted and undammed).
• A poster for a Midewiwin culture based Younger Youth Water Education Project
• A room-wide game of ring around the rosey, exemplifying the movement of water

The sharing of our creative productions was followed by popcorn and an in-depth documentary titled “Green Green Water” filmed by a Minnesotan woman, about the relationship between Minnesota based Xcel Energy Corporation and Manitoba Hydro. The film focused on the effects of dams and electricity generation on the lives and livelihood of Crees from northern and central Manitoba. It was sobering to see the destruction that a dam produces, so that we can flip on the lights.

At the conclusion of the video, a call to action was spurred by a presentation by participants in the weekend workshop who are also danzantes from Danza Mexica Cuauhtemoc. They related the experience of the Manitoba Hydro dam to the many dams that have been and are being built throughout central and south American right now as part of Plan Puebla Panama and Nafta, Cafta and the current country by country trade agreements that are being negotiated, such as the trade deal with Columbia that is before congress right now. US internal and international policy is driven by the voices of powerful corporations that profit from exploiting and destroying common natural assets such as rivers, acquifers, and land based deposits of minerals and rocks. These trade and “implementation” agreements are taking away the power of indigenous people to provide for and protect our people and common natural assets. The only way for us to regain our power is to reclaim our power. Reclaim our power. As the grandmother shines brightly, watching.

We closed with evaluations the next morning, written and shared, one more offering of tobacco, and a song to celebrate our milestone accomplishment. We have stood together, we will continue to stand together. To Stand Strong. We are the buffalo. The wolves. The turtles. We are the grandmother, Waynaboozhoo, the fire and the water. Atl tla chinolli… the fire and the water. We are agitated, like boiling water, spurred to action. To reflection. To figuring out the answer to our ever present question: What will you do?

Meegwetch. Ome Teotl.

Bawshkeeng Wabigun (Tara Chadwick)
March 23, 2008, Upon returning home from the Water Retreat.

A Language Too Beautiful to Lose...

February 3, 2008
A language too beautiful to lose
By David Treuer

ONLY three Native American languages now spoken in the
United States and Canada are expected to survive into
the middle of this century. Mine, Ojibwe, is one of
them. Many languages have just a few speakers left --
two or three -- while some have a fluent population in
the hundreds. Recently, Marie Smith Jones, the last
remaining speaker of the Alaskan Eyak language, died
at age 89. The Ojibwe tribe has about 10,000 speakers
distributed around the Great Lakes and up into
northwestern Ontario and eastern Manitoba. Compared
with many, we have it pretty good.

If my language does die -- not now, not tomorrow, but,
unless something changes, in the near future -- many
understandings, not to mention the words that contain
them, will die as well. If my language dies, our word
for "bear," makwa, will disappear, and with it the
understanding that makwa is derived from the word for
box, makak (because black bears box themselves up,
sleeping, for the winter).

So too will the word for "namesake," niiyawen'enh.
Every child who gets an Ojibwe name has namesakes,
sometimes as many as six or eight of them. Throughout
a child's life, his or her namesakes function a little
like godparents, giving advice and help, good for a
dollar to buy an Indian taco at a powwow. But they
offer something more too. The term for "my body,"
niiyaw (a possessive noun: ni- = "I/mine"; -iiyaw =
"body/soul"), is incorporated into the word for a
namesake because the idea (contained by the word and
vice versa) is that when you take part in a naming,
you are gifting a part of your soul, your body, to the
person being named. So, to say "my namesake,"
niiyawen'enh, is to say "my fellow body, myself."

If these words are lost, much will happen, but also
very little will happen. We will be able to go to
Starbucks and GameStop and Wal-Mart and the Home Depot
as before. We will tie our shoes the same way and
brush our teeth and use Crest Whitestrips. Some of us
will still do our taxes. Some of us still won't. The
mechanics of life as it is lived by modern Ojibwes
will remain, for the most part, unchanged. The
language we lose, when we lose it, is replaced by
other languages.

And yet, I think, more will be lost than simply a
bouquet of discrete understandings -- about bears or
namesakes. If the language dies, we will lose
something personal, a degree of understanding that
resides, for most fluent speakers, on some unconscious
level. We will lose our sense of ourselves and our
culture. There are many aspects of culture that are
extralingual -- that is, they exist outside or in
spite of language: kinship, legal systems, governance,
history, personal identity. But there is very little
that is "extralingual" about story, about language
itself. I think what I am trying to say is that we
will lose beauty -- the beauty of the particular, the
beauty of the past and the intricacies of a language
tailored for our space in the world.

Yes, that's it: We will lose beauty.

My older brother Anton and I, among many others, have
been trying to do something about that. For the last
year, we have been working on a grant to record,
transcribe and translate Ojibwe speech in order to
compile what will be the first (and only) practical
Ojibwe language grammar. Since December, we have
traveled once, sometimes twice, a week, from our homes
on the western edge of our Minnesota reservation to
the east, to small communities named Inger, Onigum,
Bena and Ball Club, where we record Ojibwe speakers.
We've also taken longer trips to Red Lake Reservation
(to the north) and south to Mille Lacs.

RECORDING Ojibwe speech in Minnesota, where the
average age of fluent Ojibwe speakers is 55, means
recording old people. My brother, at 38, is very good
at this, much better than I am. For starters, he is
much more fluent. And he looks like a handsome version
of Tonto: lean, medium height, clear eyes and smooth
face, very black shiny braids and very white shiny
teeth. This helps. He has made this kind of activity
his life's work; it is what he does.

Right after college, he apprenticed himself to Archie
Mosay, at that time the oldest and most influential
Ojibwe spiritual leader, who grew up in the hills of
the St. Croix River Valley in Wisconsin and did not
have an English name until he was 12 and a white
farmer he worked for gave him a pocket knife and the
name "Archie." He kept the knife and the name for
another 82 years. Archie and my brother were friends.
Deep affection and respect and tenderness ran in both
directions.

The people we are interviewing are also our friends.
There is Tom Stillday, from the traditional village of
Ponemah on the Red Lake Reservation. Tommy Jay, as
he's known, is somewhat famous for his spiritual work
and for his sense of humor; he refers to his knees as
his baakinigebishkigwanan, which means "openers," and
once he described his Indian name, Ozaawaabiitang
(Yellow Foam), as the "puke of the waves as they wash
up onshore." He is a Korean War combat veteran, has
served on the tribal council and was the spiritual
advisor for one or two sessions of the Minnesota
Senate. He is also my daughter's namesake.

Then there is Anna Gibbs, also from Ponemah, also
famous -- for her voice and her special and
spectacular cept by human grasping.

Since we've begun our project, six of our informants,
our friends, have died, including Mark Wakanabo, who
worked as a janitor at our tribal school for decades
until someone realized that since he was a fluent
speaker, it would be better if he pushed young minds
toward the language rather than pushed a broom. He was
a sweet man, about whom I knew very little, except
that he was gentle, with a soft voice. Two of his sons
(identical twins) were my friends through middle and
high school.

Luckily, other people are working on making more
Ojibwe speakers. My good friends Keller Paap, along
with his wife Lisa LaRonge, David Bisonette, Thelma
Nayquonabe, Harold Frogg, Rose Tainter, Monica White
and others, have started an Ojibwe language immersion
school named Waadookodaading (We Help Each Other) on
the Lac Courte Oreilles Reservation in north-central
Wisconsin. The school has been in operation for six
years, and all the children in the program have passed
fifth-grade aptitude tests mandated by the state of
Wisconsin. Sixty-six percent of them scored in the top
10 percentiles in English and math, compared with a
much lower passing rate among students in the tribal
and public schools on and near the reservation. And
yet the students at Waadookodaading received no
instruction in English and their math was taught in
Ojibwe.

LAST spring, I went spearing with Keller Paap and Dave
Bisonette on a lake in their treaty area. Band members
fought for and won the right to continue exercising
their treaty rights on ceded land, and so they do. One
of those rights is to spear and net walleye pike
during the spring spawn. It is cold on the water in
April, and it was that night. We took the boat across
Round Lake to the northeastern shore and into the
shallow waters where the fish spawn. One person ran
the motor, the other stood in front wearing a headlamp
and speared the fish with a long pole. With a few
modern modifications, this is something we have done
for centuries.

The night was very foggy. Mist skated over the water
and billowed up, disturbed, over the gunwales of the
boat. We kept close to shore. Round Lake is a resort
lake and many of its bays and inlets are packed with
houses. (It is rumored that Oprah Winfrey has a house
there.) Most of these places were closed up,
shuttered, waiting for the tourists to come in for the
summer. The docks reached down into the lake as if
testing the water, but finding it too cold, drew up
halfway on the banks. Yet here and there, lights shone
from living room windows. And when the house was
perched especially close to the lake, we could see
televisions glowing ghostly and blue.

It was past 10 -- time for Letterman and Leno. Dave
and Keller and I spoke Ojibwe over the puttering motor
and the watery stab of the spear going down into the
water and the clang as it came out with a walleye
wiggling against the barbs. The pile of fish grew on
the bottom of the boat, and they flapped dully, trying
to fly against the unforgiving aluminum sky of the
boat. A dog barked from shore. I could hear, clearly,
Letterman's Top Ten List coming from an open window.
Fish scales, knocked loose by the tines of the spear,
were plastered all over the inside of the boat, and
they sparkled like jewels when swept by the lamplight.

This way of life and the language that goes with it
felt suddenly, almost painfully, too beautiful to
lose; too impossibly beautiful and unique to be
drowned out by the voice of a talk show host or by any
other kind of linguistic static. And I thought then,
with a growing confidence I don't always have: We
might just make it. *

View from the Holy Fire Place...Read at the Wolve's Den in July of '07

Think of My Kids Whenever I Hear This Song...

Yellow by ColdPlay

Look at the stars,
Look how they shine for you,
And everything you do,
Yeah they were all yellow,

I came along
I wrote a song for you
And all the things you do
And it was called yellow

So then I took my turn
Oh all the things I've done
And it was all yellow

Your skin
Oh yeah your skin and bones
Turn into something beautiful
D'you know you know I love you so
You know I love you so

I swam across
I jumped across for you
Oh all the things you do
Cause you were all yellow

I drew a line
I drew a line for you
Oh what a thing to do
And it was all yellow

Your skin
Oh yeah your skin and bones
Turn into something beautiful
D'you know for you i bleed myself dry
For you i bleed myself dry

Its true look how they shine for you
look how they shine for you
look how they shine for you
look how they shine for you
look how they shine for you
look how they shine
look at the stars look how they shine for you
And all the things that you do...

Uncle Oliver's Obituary...

MACY, Neb. -- Oliver Saunsoci Jr., 76, of Macy departed this life Monday, Jan. 21, 2008, at the Winnebago Indian Hospital in Winnebago, Neb.

Services will be 10 a.m. Friday at the Alfred Gilpin Building, with Mr. Frank Saunsoci officiating. Burial will be in Omaha Tribal Cemetery, Macy. Visitation will be held begin today and will continue until service time Friday at the Native American Church (VFW building) in Macy. Arrangements are under the direction of Munderloh Funeral Home in Pender, Neb.

Oliver was born on June 17, 1931, in a home west of Macy. He attended school in Plainview district 151, a country school. He went on to attend Flandreau Indian School. At the age of 17, he enlisted in the U.S. Army and was a veteran of the Korean War from 1949 to 1953. He was a staff sergeant by the age of 18 years old with the 111th Infantry. He graduated from Milford Technical School for auto body repair, which he practiced for 10 years in Lincoln, Neb.

He was a husband to Charlotte Lasley Saunsoci for 36 years, and a father to eleven children.

He was the cofounder of the Lincoln Indian Center and served on its board of directors. He moved back to the Omaha Indian Reservation in Macy and was the director of the Employment Assistance Program. He attended the Nebraska Indian Community College and was one of its first graduates in 1978. He went on to become director of the Omaha Tribal Housing Authority. He served as chairman of the Omaha Tribal Council in 1980. He was an Environmental Health Technician at the Carl T. Curtis Health Center for 16 years. His other activities included being a bull rider and competing in other rodeo competitions. He also was an activist for Native American Rights and a Tribal Spiritual leader.

He is survived by his daughters, Gail J. Saunsoci of Macy, Olivia Saunsoci of Sioux City, Mary Saunsoci and Michelle Saunsoci, both of Macy; sons, Gary Lasley of South Sioux City, Adrian Saunsoci of Macy, Oliver Evan Saunsoci III, Quentin Saunsoci and Brennan Lasley, all of Macy; 52 grandchildren; 46 great grandchildren; and sisters, Eleanor Baxter and her husband Everett of Macy, Maxine Anderson and her husband Gary of Lincoln, Neb., and Cora Belle Saunsoci of Macy.

He was preceded in death by his parents, Oliver Saunsoci Sr. and Mae Blackbird Saunsoci; his wife, Charlotte Lasley Saunsoci; brothers, Franklin, Henry, Gary and Vincent Saunsoci; sisters, Mary Ann Saunsoci Cayou, Anna Belle Saunsoci and Rhea Sue Saunsoci; and children, Timothy, Wayne and Corwin Saunsoci.

A Good Time to Remember Standing Bear

By Kevin Abourezk

As the country honors the legacy of Martin Luther King Jr. this week, I think it's a good time to remember a man many consider to be our country's first civil rights activist.

He is widely known in Nebraska, but I would dare say few have heard of him beyond the state's borders.

He is Chief Standing Bear of the Ponca Tribe.

In January 1879, Standing Bear and 30 of his followers left Indian Territory in Oklahoma to return to their former lands in Nebraska.

You see, as it had done to so many Native people, the U.S. government had forcibly moved the Poncas from their homes and sent them to Oklahoma two years earlier.

But Standing Bear and his followers preferred their homelands along the Niobrara River to the barren earth of Oklahoma.

Then the chief's son died.

But before Bear Shield died, he asked his father to bury him in the soil of his homeland.

Like any father, Standing Bear wanted to fulfill his son's dying wish.

So on Jan. 2, 1879, he and 30 followers left for Nebraska. Two months later, they were arrested, and Standing Bear was put on trial.

The trial of Standing Bear lasted two days. Shortly after it ended, the chief offered this impassioned plea to the court in an effort to prove he was a human being and entitled to the same right to freedom as every human being:

"That hand is not the color of yours, but if I pierce it, I shall feel pain. The blood that will flow from mine will be the same color as yours. I am a man. The same God made us both."

About two weeks later, federal Judge Elmer Dundy ruled that "an Indian (is) a person within the meaning of the law," entitled to the constitutional rights of U.S. citizens.

The decision allowed the Ponca to return to their lands and freed Standing Bear.

For the first time in this country's history, Native people had the right to go where they wanted, to leave the confines of the reservation and roam where they pleased.

All because a father wanted to fulfill his son's wish.

Kevin Abourezk, Oglala Lakota, is a reporter and editor at the Lincoln (Neb.) Journal Star. He is a reznet assignment editor and teaches reporting at the Freedom Forum's American Indian Journalism Institute.

U.S. tribes back Titla’s run for Congress

Paul Giblin, East Valley Tribune


American Indian tribes from across the state and country are pumping money into Mary Kim Titla’s congressional campaign.

The former Phoenix TV news reporter is running as a Democrat in the crowded race in Arizona’s vast 1st Congressional District. The mostly rural district has the largest Indian population of any congressional district in the country at 22 percent.

Titla is a member of the San Carlos Apache Tribe in southeastern Arizona.

Overall contributions to her campaign are approaching $100,000, and American Indian tribes have contributed more than half of the total, she said Wednesday.

“There is a real excitement about my ethnicity, of course, being Native American. There’s no doubt about that,” she said. “People in general are excited about helping me become the first Native American woman elected to Congress.”

The campaign’s latest financial figures will be reflected in its final 2007 campaign finance report, which is due to the Federal Election Commission by Jan. 15.

Third-quarter 2007 financial reports indicated Titla’s fundraising was fourth among candidates hoping to succeed Rep. Rick Renzi, a Republican incumbent under federal investigation into possible public corruption and not seeking re-election.

Democrat Ann Kirkpatrick led the field with $217,000 in contributions by Sept. 30. Republican Sydney Hay had $108,000, Democrat Howard Shanker $66,000 and Titla $42,000.

To date, 25 tribes have contributed to Titla’s campaign, she said. The list includes the Seminole Tribe of Florida, the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians of North Carolina, the Saint Regis Mohawk Tribe of New York and the Red Lake Band of Chippewa Indians of Minnesota, among others.

“There are tribes all over the country who are giving,” she said. Several tribes have donated $4,600, the maximum amount allowed by law from a single source.

Titla’s campaign chest establishes her as a serious candidate, said Mike O’Neil, president of O’Neil Associates, a public opinion research firm based in Tempe. Her ability to draw contributions from a national base is also telling, he said.

“Number 1, it says that she has presented a credible case to those tribes; and Number 2, the power of affinity,” O’Neil said.

“That’s not enough. You have to be credible. If she’s raised that amount of money at this point, I’d say that she’s convinced them that she’s a credible candidate,” he said.

In October, Titla addressed about 1,000 tribal leaders at a convention of the National Congress of American Indians, a lobbying organization. During her 20-minute speech in Denver, she pledged to address the needs of children, families, seniors and veterans. She also told the delegates she will ensure tribal sovereignty.

Those themes carry across state lines, she said.

“What’s important to remember is that once you’re elected to Congress, there are no boundaries, and people understand that. So there is a real genuine interest all over the country in my candidacy,” Titla said.

She has also received the endorsements of several Arizona tribes.

“I believe that the tribes in the district and outside of the district want to make sure that there is going to be someone in Congress who can be a voice for the tribes and can relate to what they’re going through. And I’m that candidate,” she said.

Titla said that her 20 years as a TV reporter in Tucson and the Valley also have helped establish her reputation among non-Native Americans.

“People appreciate where I’ve come from, how hard I’ve worked to get to where I’m at, and that I’m concerned and that I’m passionate about the same issues that they’re concerned about,” she said.

http://www.eastvalleytribune.com/story/105768

Jodi Rave: Youth a part of Big Foot Memorial Ride

287-mile ride a rite of passage

By JODI RAVE
Missoulian

BEAR SOLDIER, S.D. - When Donaven Yellow of Wakpala, S.D., joined the Spirit Riders, he pledged to ride four years in the Big Foot Memorial Ride, a nearly 300-mile journey dedicated to the Lakota ancestors who died in one of the nation's most horrific massacres.

On Saturday, he began the fourth journey across the South Dakota prairie with 44 riders who will spend the next two weeks on horseback en route to the Pine Ridge Reservation, picking up others along the way until they number 200.

"Riding for two weeks isn't easy," said the 15-year-old Donaven. "A lot of my friends made the same commitment. It gets really cold. You've just got to ride it out.

"A couple of times, I didn't feel my toes. And my legs were shaking. I had a Gatorade in my pocket. I tried to take a drink, but it was frozen solid after a couple of hours. I was really thirsty that day, and I wasn't warm enough to keep it thawed out."

The Spirit Riders were established in honor of a young man who went to the Spirit World on Sept. 21, 2004. The 16-year-old suffered from mental-health issues, said his father, Manaja Hill.

Before he died, he found some peace with horses after riding in the Big Foot Memorial Ride. It was his introduction to the horse culture.

"With his mental issues, that horse turned everything around," said his father. "Here was a kid who was in constant trouble when he was in school. I got called every day. After he got with horses, the calls seemed to have lessened."

Started with 7

So Hill and a friend started a horse program to help youth. In 1998, seven young men from Standing Rock became the first group of Spirit Riders to join the Big Foot Memorial Ride. They've been riding ever since. Adults now credit them for keeping the ride going.

The Big Foot Memorial started in 1986 after several men in different tribal communities shared a common vision to honor the ancestors who died in the Wounded Knee massacre on Dec. 29, 1890.

More than 350 unarmed men, women and children under the leadership of Chief Big Foot, a Minneconjou Lakota from the Cheyenne River Reservation, were shot after making an attempt to seek safety on the Pine Ridge Reservation.

Big Foot's band started its journey after learning of the death of Chief Sitting Bull of the Hunkpapa Lakota. Today, the memory of the slain is honored as horseback riders retrace the trail of the slain Lakota.

Riders now participate in the Big Foot Memorial ride annually from Dec. 15 to 29. They end their 287-mile ride at Wounded Knee, where Big Foot's band was buried in a mass grave.

Keeping a vision alive

In 1992, after adults fulfilled their vision to honor their ancestors' memory in four consecutive rides, they felt it was time to let the vision go, following a wopila ride.

But the youth didn't want it to stop.

"The younger people kept it alive," said Ron His Horse Is Thunder, chairman of the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe and a 12-year veteran rider of the Big Foot Memorial Ride. "For many youth, it has become a rite of passage. They want to say, 'I've done that trail. I've ridden 300 miles.' It's good that they do. It teaches them fortitude, to go forward without complaining. It's so much a part of who we are."

"Now I come to support the young riders more than anything else," said His Horse Is Thunder. "It truly has become a ride for the youth."

Adults contend that youth and horses are a natural fit.

"There's no barriers," said Hill. "There's a natural rule out there - you be nice to me, I'll be nice to you. It's about respect. My son had all these rules. Be still. Don't talk. With a horse, you don't have those rules. A horse will listen to what you have to say, as long as you pay attention to him. They accepted one another. A lot of our kids respond to that."

"Watch the actions of horse," said Hill. "And then watch the actions of child. They mirror each other. When you get them together, they're going to figure out which one's which. If you put a herd of horses out there, and put the kids with them, they're going to find each other."

The horses help build the traditions, or lakol wicohan.

"It's a good foundation to give to our kids," said John Eagle Shield Sr., who has provided that foundation for his own son, John Eagle Shield Jr. "He's 16. And I haven't lost him. He was 6 months old when I'd be holding him in my arms and singing at Sun Dance. He knew ceremonial songs long before he knew powwow songs or round-dance songs."

Carrying one's self

It's a matter of how you carry yourself with all these values, beginning with prayer, respect, humility and generosity, said Eagle Shield. "The youths that follow these ways, I doubt very much they'll have some of these problems ... belligerence, discipline, lack of respect for authority. If they had this foundation, it would teach them how to live their lives."

Donaven Yellow has made the traditions of a horse culture and the values that accompany it a key part of his life as he matures into adulthood. He's embracing values important to being a good human being. It's a way of life that steers him away from being self-centered, said his grandfather.

"His birthday is Dec. 25 - Christmas Day," said Pat Yellow. "He hasn't been home with me for three Christmases now. It will be the fourth one coming up. I don't mind that as long as he's doing his job there on the ride and helping out the other youth."

Reporter Jodi Rave covers American Indian issues. She can be reached at 800-396-7186 or jodi.rave@lee.net.

Abourezk: A Tribute to Floyd Red Crow Westerman

We Must Give Back What This Minstrel Gave Us

By Kevin Abourezk

A lyrical and plainspoken voice for the oppressed.

A gentle but forceful critic of his people's assailants.

A strong, proud vision of Native people as we were.

These are the gifts Floyd Red Crow Westerman has given Native people.

These are the obligations and responsibilities we are left to carry on in his absence.

To the public, he will be remembered as Ten Bears, the wise Lakota elder who gave fireside counsel to Kevin Costner's Dances With Wolves.

But Westerman was much more than a movie character to those who knew him.

So much more to those who loved him.

For Gwen Westerman Griffin, he was and will remain uncle Floyd. The man who would tease her and call her his "magic butterfly."

A smiling, mischievous minstrel who always had time to lend a hand to someone in need.

"Anytime anybody called on him he was there," said Westerman Griffin, an English professor at Minnesota State University in Mankato. "He would bring his guitar with him. He would talk."

This week, Westerman's lifelong endeavor to set the record straight for Native people ended. As an actor, musician and activist, Westerman fought until his final days to educate non-Indians about the trials his people have had to endure.

Born on the Sisseton-Wahpeton Reservation in South Dakota, Westerman had plenty of his own trials with which to contend, including boarding school abuse and an alcoholic father.

As a man, he would carry the lessons of his youth into his activism.

In 1973, when his old classmate, Dennis Banks, and other Native activists took control of Wounded Knee, S.D., sparking a 71-day standoff, Westerman crept past a military cordon around the village to make his way to his friends.

He went on to become AIM's voice in song, traveling the country to raise funds for the group's cause.

His career took a slightly different path when, in 1987, he answered a casting call for an episode of "MacGyver." Westerman landed the role and went on to appear in a number of supporting TV and film roles.

In 1990, fame came calling.

Appearing as Ten Bears in Costner's epic "Dances With Wolves," Westerman instantly became one of the most recognizable faces in Indian Country.

"He was the picture of the Lakota," said Wilmer Mesteth, a longtime friend of Westerman's and spiritual leader of the Oglala Lakota.

And Westerman worked hard to present a proud and honest portrayal of Native people in the movie, said his niece. Many Native people hailed the movie for using real Indians and using the Lakota language.

"It was an incredible opportunity to put forward Indian people during that time period as Indian people, not artifacts," Westerman Griffin said.

Westerman did not take for granted his newfound fame, she said, offering his name and weight to any cause he found worthy.

In his final years, he had begun work on a six-part documentary called "Exterminate Them: America's War on Indian Nations." With the help of his niece, he had completed the first part, "California Story," and had begun work on the second installment, "Great Plains Story."

Westerman Griffin said she doesn't plan to let her uncle's death end efforts to complete the documentary.

Nor does she plan to let his relentless efforts to improve the lives of Native people die with him.

"It's going to take a lot of us to fill in the void that this one man is going to leave," she said. "It's going to take so many of us to carry on his work."

Kevin Abourezk, Oglala Lakota, is a reporter and editor at the Lincoln (Neb.) Journal Star. He is a reznet assignment editor and teaches reporting at the Freedom Forum's American Indian Journalism Institute.

Rain and Rain in the Face....

My oldest son Rain, Magazu, is going to be 9 years old on December 15. I am sad that I will miss celebrating his birthday this year, since he and his brother Remy, and sisters Colleen and Amber are living with their dad at this time. He is growing so tall! He is standing on the left in this picture in the red, white, and blue coat. As I am here today in my office, I can't help but wonder what happened to all that time since he was born.  I am adrift in a time without my kids...

This photo of my children was taken by their father, Charles New Holy. They are standing in front of the gravesite of their Grandfather Rain in the Face. He is the one my son Rain is named for.  

Rain in the Face was of the Hunkpapa Band of Lakota and was believed to have killed Custer at the Battle of the Little Big Horn.

My son looks just like him.  Smiles like him.  My Rain is so sweet, extremely intelligent, and always helpful.  When he was born, the doctors told me that he would grow to be very tall, at least 6'5", they said.  I believe it, he already looks like he is 14 years old.

My children are preparing to ride on horseback beginning this weekend at Standing Rock for the Future Generations Ride hosted by their dad and other members of the Chief Bigfoot Memorial Ride. They will be journeying for the next two weeks in prayer for Native youth.

I will be praying for my children throughout and thinking of how they are riding with their relatives and ancestors.  The thought brings tears to my eyes.  

Found this poem by Longfellow, which doesn't equate to the description I've heard from the descendents. They say that Rain in the Face was tall, charming, and humorous. I believe that rather than this Longfellow person's words. But this is just one's man's words after all...

The Revenge of Rain-in-the Face
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

In that desolate land and lone,
Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone
Roar down their mountain path,
By their fires the Sioux Chiefs
Muttered their woes and griefs
And the menace of their wrath.

"Revenge!" cried Rain-in-the-Face,
"Revenge upon all the race
Of the White Chief with yellow hair!"
And the mountains dark and high
From their crags re-echoed the cry
Of his anger and despair.

In the meadow, spreading wide
By woodland and riverside
The Indian village stood;
All was silent as a dream,
Save the rushing of the stream
And the blue-jay in the wood.

In his war paint and his beads,
Like a bison among the reeds,
In ambush the Sitting Bull
Lay with three thousand braves
Crouched in the clefts and caves,
Savage, unmerciful!

Into the fatal snare
The White Chief with yellow hair
And his three hundred men
Dashed headlong, sword in hand;
But of that gallant band
Not one returned again.

The sudden darkness of death
Overwhelmed them like the breath
And smoke of a furnace fire:
By the river's bank, and between
The rocks of the ravine,
They lay in their bloody attire.

But the foemen fled in the night,
And Rain-in-the-Face, in his flight
Uplifted high in air
As a ghastly trophy, bore
The brave heart, that beat no more,
Of the White Chief with yellow hair.

Whose was the right and the wrong?
Sing it, O funeral song,
With a voice that is full of tears,
And say that our broken faith
Wrought all this ruin and scathe,
In the Year of a Hundred Years.

Obituary for Grandpa Elmer Blackbird...

Grandpa Elmer always had words of encouragement for me. My memories of him are good. He was there for me when I graduated from UNL. I invited him as a guest of honor to my graduation reception at the Lincoln Indian Center in August of 2002. Grandpa Elmer offered a prayer and smudged my family with cedar that time to help me along my path.

I will always be thankful for that...

WALTHILL, Neb. –

Elmer LaFlesche Blackbird, 86, of Walthill died Tuesday, Nov. 13, 2007, at a Sioux City hospital.

Services will be 2 p.m. Saturday at Omaha Nation School auditorium in Macy, Neb. Burial will be in Omaha Tribal Cemetery. A Native American church service will be held Friday evening at the Native American Church in Macy. Arrangements are under the direction of Munderloh Funeral Home in Pender, Neb.

Elmer was born Feb. 16, 1921, the son of Charles Blackbird and Suzette LaFlesche. He was the great-grandson of Chief Joseph LaFlesche, one of the last principal chiefs of the Omaha Tribe. He graduated from Walthill High School and received a bachelor of science degree in education from Wayne State College. He received a master's degree in guidance and counseling from the University of Northern Arizona, Flagstaff. He received an honorary doctoral degree from the Nebraska Indian Community College. He was a World War II veteran, serving in the U.S. Army Air Corps.

He began his teaching career at Lynch (Neb.) Public Schools and continued to teach in the Bureau of Indian Affairs Schools in Colorado, Arizona, South Dakota and North Dakota. He retired from Haskell Indian Nations University in Lawrence, Kan., in 1975, after serving as the head of the guidance department and director of residence halls. After retirement, he returned to the Omaha Indian Reservation and continued work for the tribe in the area of education.

He served twice as the Omaha Tribal chairman and once as a Nation chairman of the Native American Church. An academic scholarship in his honor was established in 2001 by his son, Dr. Russell L. Blackbird, and is presented to a Walthill High School senior each year.

He married Mabel Veaux of LaPlant, S.D. in 1947. They later divorced, He then married Nancy Miller Springer in 1972.

He is survived by three sons, Kenneth Blackbird of Fort Duchesne, Utah, Russell Blackbird of Lawrence, Kan., and Gene Blackbird of Tama, Iowa; a daughter, Ida Blackbird of Walthill; two stepsons, Tim and Leonard Springer; two stepdaughters, Connie Kirkpatrick and Tammy Springer; two sisters, Francellia Clark and Maxine White, both of Macy, Neb.; 37 grandchildren; and 20 great-grandchildren.

He was preceded in death by his parents; a sister, Ida St. Cyr; a brother, Dale Saunsoci; a son, Ray Steven Blackbird; and grandchildren, Memory Blackbird, Jerome Springer and Natavia Parker.

Omaha Tribe's Stabler, WWII vet and author, dies at 89

Sioux City Journal

WALTHILL, Neb. -- An Omaha Tribe member whose autobiographical book, "No One Ever Asked Me -- The World War II Memoirs of an Omaha Indian," chronicled his experiences as a soldier in that conflict, died Monday at his residence.

Hollis Dorian Stabler, 89, was born in Hampton, Va., and grew up in Walthill, Oklahoma and Kansas. His Omaha Indian name is Na-zhin-thia, or Slow to Rise. He enlisted in the Army in 1938 after a stint in the National Guard. He remembered being a cavalry man when that still meant horses, but he later became a member of the 67th Armored Regiment under Brig. Gen. George Patton.

In July 1943, Stabler's 2nd Armored Division saw action in Sicily. With debilitating heel infections, he was left behind in a Naples hospital while his division went to England. It was then he volunteered for the legendary Darby's Rangers. He fought a number of campaigns with the Fourth Ranger Battalion in Africa, Italy and France.

He was wounded at Anzio in Italy. His brother, Robert Stabler, a soldier with the 3rd Infantry, was killed nearby.

Stabler earned the Purple Heart, the French Freedom Medal, Bronze Star, American Medal, the Combat Infantry Medal and others.

His final campaign was along the French Riviera where his 1st Special Services Force liberated Nice and Monaco. "We called it the champagne campaign," he told the Journal with a wry smile several years ago.

Stabler saw 28 months of combat during his seven-year enlistment, and more agony and death than he will tell of, said his daughter, Wehnona St. Cyr. "He's very proud, not just of his military service, but because of the culture he comes from. It's so important," she said.

In "No One Ever Asked Me," Stabler recounts some horrific battle scenes, telling his tales matter-of-factly. He also tells of bigotry and how he dealt with it, but he doesn't dwell on those incidents. He told a Journal reporter in 2005 that he didn't mind that his fellow soldiers called him Chief. But, one time, a soldier from another unit noticed Stabler's new corporal patch and said, "'They must be scraping the bottom of the barrel.' I hit him. It made me mad all of the sudden," Stabler recalled.

He handled other racial confrontations with humor.

Many of Stabler's "war" stories tend to favor the humorous events. When stationed in Monterey, Calif., he said, future President Ronald Reagan was a Reserve officer with his unit. Reagan's wife, Jane Wyman, beautifully dressed, would drive out to pick him up. "We would wave and wave, you know," Stabler said with a wink. "He thought we were waving at him!"

Finding the Beauty....

Went to a really good sweat last night! With several new, good friends. Thanks to all of you who were in there. It was most helpful to me. I am bringing this poem back again. I just can't help it! Everything moves in circles, you know! Hopefully, this will also help others who are making their way on their paths, to understand that there is beauty all around us. We just got to find it.... We all go through stages of death and rebirth in various ways.

And, as always, this is dedicated to my friend, brother, muse, and fellow teacher/artist, Robe Walker, member of the A'aninin, or White Clay Nation of Montana.

Finding the Beauty

The search began a few years ago.
A question that arose continually in mind,
Where is the beauty?

Surroundings that were once familiar
And loved became unbearable intimations
Of all that is inevitable.

In such there is no reproof.
Only a certainty that what has ended
Is akin to the origin of a new sun.

There is the sacred in that.
Because we come from the stars.
And there lies the beauty.

Like the Sky People who arrived long ago
Then emerged as the Earth People.
So too will always be the Sacred Circle for us.

A Rapid Walker once responded,
That beauty is found in that there is no
Separation between the Earth and the Sky.

Indisputable understanding and knowledge.
This answer has helped to settle a wonderer,
Who now finds the beauty everywhere.

- Renee Sans Souci

Life Just Keeps Getting Better...

One of my favorite songs by Staind that I like to listen to from time to time. Just serves as a reminder for me to keep in mind about where I am at and what I need to do...

SO FAR AWAY by Staind

This is my life
Its not what it was before
All these feelings I’ve shared
And these are my dreams
That I’d never lived before
Somebody shake me
Cause I, I must be sleeping

(chorus)
Now that we're here,
It's so far away
All the struggle we thought was in vain
All the mistakes,
One life contained
They all finally start to go away
Now that we're here its so far away
And I feel like I can face the day
I can forgive and I’m not ashamed to be the person that I am today

These are my words
That I’ve never said before
I think I’m doing okay
And this is the smile
That I’ve never shown before

Somebody shake me
Cause I, I must be sleeping

(chorus)
Now that we're here,
It's so far away
All the struggle we thought was in vain
All the mistakes,
One life contained
They all finally start to go away
Now that we're here its so far away
And I feel like I can face the day
I can forgive and I’m not ashamed to be the person that I am today

I'm so afraid of waking
Please don't shake me
Afraid of waking
Please don't shake me

(chorus)
Now that we're here,
It's so far away
All the struggle we thought was in vain
All the mistakes,
One life contained
They all finally start to go away
Now that we're here its so far away
And I feel like I can face the day
I can forgive and I’m not ashamed to be the person that I am today...

Feedback about your beautiful Poem...Breathing in the Here and Now

Hi Renee,

I would like to share your poem that you shared in
Macy, Breathing in the Here and Now ... the students are working on learning about
America and the western frontier and of course the
Indian Policy of that time...then they thank God are
studing what is happening in Indian World during these
modern times...

What I would like to do is share your notes for how
you wrote your poem...then the poem...this way they
get a chance to do two things...one get to know you a
little bit...and get to know a Indian person in there
sheltered, narrow experienced life...two they get to
understand how people produce the work that is
produced...and maybe this will inspire them to also
produce poetry from what is happening in their unique
life and life experience...

Let me know what how you feel about this and your
feedback...I have 130 students and I need to copy the
material and get in line for the copy machine...

much love to you and your Bahai family..smile

- Blair Nichols, Tennesee

************************************************************

Hi Renee,

Let me say, thank you for writing your poem and for
sharing something so sad, and powerful...and making it
a means for healing for many.

I asked the students how did they like it... out of
the five classes, the reponse was the same... they
were awed...quiet, and appreciative...they were very
quiet, as I presented it with appropriate music
playing in the background...and I tried very hard to
let my self be free and let the words fly and express
the emotion that is there...since you cryed and prayed
while working on the poem...the spirit was there...

the students seem to sense the message and some came
forward and said they liked it...they felf it was the
easiest poem they had ever read...they liked that they
could understand all the words...that they were not
fancy and beyond meaning...they said they could see
the pictures... and could feel the words...and
understood the message...and felt a man or woman could
say all these words...they expressed gladness they had
a chance to meet you through your words...they liked
the story of Mack the frog too. One well read student
expressed that you were in his opinion an excellent
writer. Mine too.

Again thank you very much. I did also share your bio..
after we finished I have a set of 40 poems left.. so I
decided to share them with the English Teacher...who
knows where that will lead, this was a history class.
God Bless you Sweetgirl...Sacred Horse Woman...

much love

- BLair Nichols, Tennesee

Latest Poem...

When we had the Honor the Youth Spiritual Run in June. I stayed in contact with Kevin Abourezk (Lakota) of the Lincoln Journal Star after he'd written an article about the spiritual run. He suggested to me right after the run that I write a poem about the issue of Native youth suicide. I told him that I would do that...

I spent much of this summer contemplating how I would write this poem. In particular, since this is such a topic close to my heart, how do I really write such a poem?

First of all, I interviewed several women. All survivors of sexual abuse and suicide attempts. I started out well enough, but I came to a stop when I realized that I didn't know how to describe what was happening. Instead of forcing the poem, I let it rest for several weeks, until I made a breakthrough on Friday night after meeting underground hiphop artist, Felipe Coronel, better known as Immortal Technique. After hearing Immortal Technique's message in one of his powerful songs, was I able to come to terms with what I needed to do next...

This was not easy to write. I prayed throughout and cried often as I finished it...

For all our Native youth...

Breathing in the Here and Now…
By Renee New Holy

Each day as I awaken anew
I give thanks for this time that I’m living safely
On this earth, our Grandmother
Breathing in the Here and Now…

But I can look back in the years,
When I was young and every moment was a battle to survive…

There were days and nights that often made little sense
Because I was drowning in the onslaught of degradation
Praying for oblivion from any mind numbing substance
And I held together remnants of myself seemingly

With safety pins and duct tape
Old standbys even for the soul…

There were no boundaries respected
How could there be?
When all that we once believed in as a people
Was torn away with little regard for our humanity.

No thought was ever given for the consequences
That all our generations have paid for in blood.

The rapes began with our nations, first.
Our lands, our spirits, our minds, and our dignity
Were stripped away like so much bark from the fallen trees.
This violent legacy continued on, unchecked, unstoppable.

And was passed down from generation to generation in lateral degrees
Like unwanted heirlooms hidden away in shame…

Shame! Because of the shame!
A code was maintained while innocence was blamed!
And silence reigned under more threats of injury
That was held over my head like an executioner’s blade!

Who was there to hear my screams anyway?
When any protest I made was looked upon in mute agony shared by us all

Is there anything akin to rage and despair?
They are familiar friends in impossible moments such as this
A deadly combination that requires darkness for completion
And all the while I danced as my spirit caved in on itself…

I swirled with bright blue lights down into midnight
Where I lay in an abyss of being that had never felt the day…

At last, I thought, with a shiver of relief
I’ve found an escape from the pain and the question
That plays over and over and over, relentlessly asking…
Do I matter to anyone in this life?

There were no responses to this non-rhetorical question,
That caused me such misery just for its very existence.

But my answer came slowly when my eyes blinked open
And the realization that I was still alive confronted me
In this hospital room,
where my tears ran like the River Nishude.
Unrecognizable to anyone who didn’t share the sight.

Doctors came and went in my room.
Then a therapist arrived along with a social worker.

And they began to ask why I tried to take my own life?
Wasn’t I doing well in school?
What was my home situation like?
Was there abuse?

I turned away from their probing questions.
Cutting into me like utility knives, which is what they were to me.

Then I lay in solitude for quite some time under lock and key.
Where solutions to my problems were being discussed
Between all interested parties and others who held a stake in my life.
All I wanted to do was go back to sleep and dream.

Drifting…in a dream of another time, of a voice full of love…

“Return to your life now and get what you need.”
Echoed this voice clearly into my left ear. “Washkon! You’re going to be alright!”

I knew that there was no one else in my room
And only one person in this world ever spoke that way.
She was my aunty who used to always take care of me.
Before all the desolation and destruction entered my life.

In that moment I realized that love exists in any time.
And can heal you..like it healed me...if you allow it too.

A new understanding was given to me that night.
So I made the decision to step back onto the path of life
Knowing that my journey is just beginning
That good health and happiness exists in every breath.

But only if I want it to…when I breathe...breathe...
Breathing in the Here and Now.

THE NEBRASKA DISPATCHES

Monologue to tell tale of Standing Bear, tribes
By Travis Coleman,
Sioux City Journal staff writer

Four years ago, Christopher Cartmill was no more than a curious outsider interested in the tales of Nebraska's American Indian tribes. Now, he's being trusted with telling the story of its members and one of its most heralded chiefs.

That transformation is documented in "The Nebraska Dispatches," a monologue based on journal entries Cartmill wrote while researching a play he was set to write on Chief Standing Bear of the Ponca Tribe of Nebraska.

Standing Bear successfully argued in U.S. District Court in Omaha that an American Indian is a "person" deserving of certain rights. The decision allowed the Poncas to return to their land in modern day Knox County, Neb., that had been previously taken from them by the federal government.

But before he could write that play, Cartmill said he needed to learn more about the area's tribes, which led him to Renee New Holy, an Omaha tribal member from Macy, Neb.

"I felt that it was vital," said Cartmill, a playwright originally from Lincoln, Neb.

But after first meeting on the Omaha Indian Reservation, New Holy questioned why Cartmill, a non-Indian, would be interested in the stories of Standing Bear and other tribal people.

"(I told him) to tell this story, you have to understand what we've been through as Native people," New Holy said. "I saw myself as a gatekeeper. If you make it past me, you may have a chance to do something pretty awesome."

Cartmill wanted to write about the "powerful" story of Standing Bear's desire to go home, Cartmill said. But "Dispatches" details the changes he and New Holy went through in the year they spent together, also featuring the "bad use of cowboy boots and a very small car," Cartmill said.

"I was pretty ill prepared for the journey," Cartmill said.

"The Nebraska Dispatches" can be seen for free at 4:30 p.m. today at Valentine Parker Jr. Center in Macy. Following the performance, New Holy is set to perform a poem on American Indian youth suicide.

"Dispatches" is the first of three plays, with the last two using actors to tell Standing Bear's story. Those performances are set to be performed in the Omaha and Ponca tribal languages, Cartmill said. Cartmill has performed "Dispatches" in Lincoln and shows are planed in New York City later this year.

While those plays are still in production, the lessons Cartmill learned on American Indian life over the past year continue.

"It will never be done now," Cartmill said. "It's too much a part of my life."

So Much to Write, So Little Time...

There has been so much going on this summer. Each day has been totally amazing. I have received so many gifts in the people I 've met, in the experiences, and in just being alive! I will be writing down more and sharing photos. Today is a beautiful day where I am in Lincoln, NE. The sunlight is streaming through windows that sit at a rounded corner of the house. I want to be outside...

While in Minneapolis...

Still going strong here in the Twin Cities.

Enjoying all the sites and sounds. I've taken up bicycling again after 17 or 18 years...I am so glad that I trained before the HTY Spiritual Run. This is what is enabling me to ride a bike!!! I cannot describe how enjoyable this is. Unbelievable!!!

I went bike riding with my friend/sister Betty Martin the other night and we were flying through the bike trails at Nokomis Lake. It was to say the least exhilarating. Made me feel like a young girl again. It took me back!

What more can I say?

I am enjoying the ride more than anyone will ever know...

Run brings honor, awareness

By Travis Coleman
Journal Staff Writer

MACY, Neb. -- Its been awhile since Barry Webster was asked to run so far.

The 40-year-old used to run full-court fast breaks and relays as a junior college point guard, but that was two decades ago. On Thursday, though, he agreed to shake away the rust so he could lead more than 20 American Indian runners from the powwow grounds here to Omaha for the first leg of the fifth Honor the Youth Spiritual Run.

"Its important for me to be involved. It's a great cause," said Webster, vice chairman of the Omaha Tribal Council in Macy.

Webster and other participants want to raise awareness of American Indian youth suicide, drug and alcohol addiction, tobacco abuse and violence.

From Omaha, the runners will pass through Lincoln, Neb., on their way to the Prairie Band Potawatomi Reservation in Mayetta, Kan., more than 200 miles from Macy.

Webster was asked carry a 10-pound eagle staff akin to the Olympic torch shortly after arriving at the grounds around 6 a.m. The staff had been blessed by an Ojibwa elder before the first spiritual run, from Minneapolis to the Red Lake Indian Reservation, in 2005. On Thursday, Webster ran with the staff for a few yards before handing it off to Red Lake Tribal Chairman Floyd "Buck" Jourdain, who had driven 10 hours from his home reservation in northern Minnesota to run in the event.

"We think these are very sacred and significant runs," Jourdain said.

Before the eagle staff arrived in Red Lake in 2005, Jourdain said, the reservation suffered from a rash of youth suicides. Since, there hasn't been a single suicide on the reservation, he said. The spiritual run sparked an awareness of youth suicide on the reservation, and together, the community was able to begin to fight the problem.

In 2006, the Omaha Reservation was much like Red Lake. There were four youth suicides that year, but after runners bearing the staff arrived in Macy from Rosebud, S.D., there hasn't been a suicide.

But on both reservations, there still are numerous suicide attempts. That's why the run continues each year.

Ricky Saunsoci runs for those who have taken their own lives, but he also runs to represent his Omaha Tribe and his family. His niece, 11-year-old Colleen New Holy, said the suicides on the reservation were hard to deal with. But the run helped the community heal, when it arrived in 2006 and again when it left on Thursday, she said.

Saunsoci jogged out of Macy on U.S. Highway 75 with a group of runners from the Honor the Youth Organization in Minneapolis, the sun already popping out sweat on their backs and faces.

Saunsoci said he'd probably stop in Decatur, Neb., nine miles from Macy. He hopes that's enough, he said, to "honor the youth."