Shared Spirit / Parting Gifts

This is a Re-Posting, by request:
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I used to be on the writing staff of a blog called Our Big Gayborhood –  I wrote a piece about Cindy, But that blog is no longer online, so I couldn’t send you a link – I have the document in my archive.

My relationship with Cindy is unique there is shared spirit, shared knowing that isn’t really explainable, and an ability to feel what the other is feeling.  That sounds – and is wonderful, but wonderful… isn’t all it ever is.

When I was eight years old, I received an unexpected gift.  Her name was Cindy.  My Aunt June had passed away 2 years previous.  When Uncle Les married Aunt Arlene, Cindy and her brother John, joined our family. Cindy and I were the same age. From our first meeting, we just clicked.  It didn’t take long before we were co-spirits. Cindy had five brothers, no sisters and always wanted one. Although my given name is Linda, and am Lynn to my family and friends… Cindy dubbed me “Lindy” creating the dynamic duo of “Lindy and Cindy.” No one before or since, has ever called me Lindy. As we grew up we remained confidants, co-conspirators and to say we were close is such an understatement! We shared spirit. Our family had a tradition that amoung the three families of cousins, we could take turns staying in pairs at our Grandma’s house, but the rule was never could it be two from the same household.  It was always… Lindy and Cindy that paired up. During one such visit, we forgot to shut the back door and a blackbird got in the house.  Grandma chased that bird from curtain rod to windowsill, upstairs and down throughout the Chicago bungalow with a broom, as we laughed and we laughed and we laughed!  Normally our little Dutch Reformed Grandma was pretty reserved, but she was LIVID! She would quit the chase - every so often - long enough to chastise us - enunciating “ sit on that couch… it’s not FUNNY, stop LAUGHING” which only made the situation MORE hilarious – we collapsed against each other on the couch and just dissolved into each other’s laughter! For the remainder of our lives “remember the bird” was sure to reconstitute the moment and a guarantee a retelling of the tale.  When we were 15, my father died unexpectedly. When Mom remarried, my family moved to Indiana while Cindy’s family remained in suburban Chicagoland.  Even with the changing family dynamics, our bond was unchanged.  We stayed in close contact, but didn’t see each other as often as we would have liked.  This of course was before cell phones, before email… we would send each other long letters, or silly cards and clippings, sometimes just one or two liners, quoting favourite lyrics, usually the Beatles.

As we reached adulthood, we were there for each other through marriage, Motherhood and divorce, through celebration and despair. Cindy was there for me through the devastating loss of my Mother, and called me every December 27^th to give me a long distance hug and let me know that it mattered to her that I was hurting that day.  I was there, when her beloved brother Butch died of AIDS.  When Cindy’s son Zach got into a little bit of trouble, she made the difficult choice to send him to live with his Dad, because she felt Zach needed a male influence… she thought she would just die without him at her side each day. I stood with her and we breathed together and cried together and tried to figure out the next right thing to do.  When I divorced and later came out, Cindy was by my side and she embraced Jen as if she had always been in my life. That is who she is in her innermost being.  This is who we are.

There would be days… that one or the other would just stop – in our tracks “Oh! Gotta call Lindy / Cindy – she needs me!” and we would – and it was a lifeline moment.  One of those moments November 2005, I was furiously packing for an emergency trip to California – my son Josh had been in a horrible accident and I had planned to call Cindy from the airport. She called with “what’s going on… is Josh okay?”  I nearly lost my son to that accident, and Cindy was an amazing source of support. That is who we have always been to each other.

Cindy’s hadn’t been feeling herself for some time, but had kept it from me because of Josh’s situation… she continued to work full time at a low paying job with no health care benefits. Uncle Les had a sudden stroke in December 2005, and although she was increasingly certain that something was amiss with her own health, postponed pursuing answers because in her words “this is Dad’s time.” At the funeral, I made her promise she would go to the doctor.  One look told me things were not right with my Cindy. When the dust had settled after the funeral, she went.  I remember the call, and hearing her tell me “it’s ovarian cancer Lindy, stage 3, they need to do surgery, then I need to get on public assistance. I don’t have any insurance and the treatments are really expensive.” Cindy employed the tenacity of a bulldog and the patience of a Saint cutting through the bureaucratic bullshit, and she got it all arranged. I prayed for insight and skill on the part of the doctors, for energy and healing for Cindy, and for an understanding of what I could do to help her.

After the surgery, while she recovered, we talked constantly, and I took on a new role.  She turned to me to research treatments that were being proposed.  Cindy didn’t have a computer and proclaimed herself to be technologically illiterate. It was easier for her to have me find stuff and funnel it to her.  So when the doctors would propose a new chemo cocktail, she’d get the names of the drugs and call me.  I’d search out the most accurate and up-to-date information I could find and get it to her via fax or snail mail. It helped her to know what to expect going into her treatments.  It helped me to feel like I was helping her walk this difficult path in some way.  Cindy confided in me how long and boring the infusion sessions were.  I offered an iPod, but Cindy thought it sounded complicated, so I bought her a personal CD player and commenced making CDs of music that she liked to help her pass the time.  I combed by digital collection for songs that spoke of life and love, songs from the profound to the silly.  I compiled an assortment of musical journeys to help her pass the time and to help her feel my presence during her treatments. 

Over the course of three years, hope waxed and waned. What a blessed gift the summer of 2008 was! Cindy got to share some great adventures with her son Zach, even tooling around on Zach’s bike a time or two.  She LIVED for that boy, that they had this wonderful time together was so awesome!  She was feeling good, and her counts were in a good place. My prayers at this time were those of thanks for the healing and the good times Cindy was experiencing with her son.  Zachary was her life, she would move Heaven and Earth for him.

From the time of her diagnosis, Cindy asked me to be there for her.  “You’ll know what I need, when I need it… you always do” she said.  Although I sure didn’t always feel like I knew, looking at it now, I suppose I did. As various treatments did not bring about the result we all prayed for, she called on me again.  “Lindy” she said “I can’t talk to Zach about this – I don’t want to hurt him any deeper, and I don’t want him to worry, and I don’t want him to feel he has to come home!”  Zach was in Austria as part of a prestigious international education program.  She continued “I can’t talk to Bill (her fiancé), I can’t talk to Mom… they won’t LET me talk about death, and I really, really need to, can you come?” We made a date and I went.  Driving to Chicago I prayed, I asked for Cindy to be blessed with healing, but if that was not gunna happen, I prayed for more good days than bad, and minimal pain. I prayed for days of sunshine, and the physical ability to be out amoung her flowers. When I got there, we talked about death, we talked about fear, we talked about faith, and we talked about love.  She asked me to help with some household chores, changing throw rugs, and scooping the cat boxes and stuff, and then she asked me to do a very difficult thing.  Cindy asked me to help her get out her jewelry boxes, and to pick out something for myself.  Inside I was screaming, part of me wanted to run from that apartment, get in my car and drive far away from all of it!  But that was not what she needed; so we went into her room, laid stuff out on the bed and lounged around together as we picked out a turquoise and coral ring that she called “twisted sister.”  She said “Look Lindy, I’m the turquoise, you’re the coral, and we are all twisted together.”  We hugged and we cried and cried. She said she was going to wear it for a while, load it up with her energy, and then tag it for me.  I assured her that I was in NO hurry and we laughed.  We actually laughed… in relief I think, that even this… could not keep us from being the giggle twins that you see in the picture.  Then she asked me to look at what she had picked out as her funeral clothes. [internal scream “RUN – run from this place!”]  She held up the swirled blue and green skirt and made it swish.  “I always felt like a butterfly in this, I know it’s too big now, but they’ll make it work.” I told her it was beautiful and perfect.  We put everything away, and went to grab some lunch.  She was exhausted by that point in the day, but wanted to get out into the sunshine and fresh air, so we hit the drive thru at Taco Bell.  I will carry, all of my days the spirit memory of her leaning over as we waited in line to pay and go, and saying “Thank you for today – for always being my Lindy. I’ll ALWAYS be with you Lindy!” 

Over the next several weeks Cindy’s condition continued to deteriorate.  We talked on the phone often and Jen and I went to see her at the hospital.  “I’m so scared Lindy” she whispered as I hugged her.  She didn’t want her Mom, my Aunt Arlene who was sitting at the foot of the bed, to hear. “Me too Cindy” I replied.  We held each other and cried so hard we shook.  Aunt Arlene said “what are you girls laughing about NOW” which did make us laugh and we cried in unison “the BIRD!”   Hospice came in and Cindy went home.  She wanted to be at home amoung her flowers, and with her beloved Bill, and with her cats.  In those last days, Cindy and Bill exchanged vows; they were never able to marry. Bill was self-employed, with no benefits, but his income would have made Cindy ineligible for the assistance that paid for her treatments and for hospice care. 

One Tuesday afternoon Cindy called with an update.  She said that the hospice nurse was concerned about her rapid weight loss. “I’m a stick, Lindy, and I hurt so bad.  I’m just so scared Lindy, don’t tell Bill I said that, he worries so much as it is.  They’re going to try a different medication to help with the pain, so give me a day to let that kick in, then call me on Thursday… we’ll schedule a visit.  You give Jen a big hug for me and tell her I love her for making you so happy… I love you Lindy!” I told her that I loved her and assured her that I would call on Thursday.  My prayers shifted again.  I prayed for it to be over, for her suffering to end.  I asked our Divine Beloved to take my Cindy home.  I felt like a shit to be praying that… but it seemed to be what she needed and I had run out of prayers.  I called again on Thursday evening – I was on my way home from teaching a night class – I often called on the drive home.  Bill answered. I was alone in the car, on my cell and driving. I asked him how he was, he mumbled something I couldn’t even make out.  I asked “hey is Cindy awake, can I talk to her?” “Honey, Cindy’s gone, she died this morning” he blurted out. “I’ve been on the phone all day, I thought Mom called you” was his reply. That call on May 28, 2009 changed my life. 

I don’t remember the rest of the drive home. I could have been teleported home for all I know.  When I walked in the door, Jen took one look at me and knew something was wrong.  I told her about the call and we clung to each other as we each poured out our grief.  When I walked into the funeral home a few days later, Aunt Arlene accosted me, and said “I have something for you, Cindy made me come and get it near the end – it was SO important to her, if I forget to give it to you, she’ll kick my ass!”  It was of course, the twisted sister, with a little paper tag hanging from it that simply said “Lindy.”

I had bariatric surgery 3 days after we said Toksa Ake (until next time) to my dear co-spirit. This pic is from one of our last visits, Cindy was very sick, so was I, just differently so. When I admitted to the hospital they asked how I was doing, the usual questions. I didn't tell them I was emotionally and spiritually devastated. I didn't want any of my medical team to think I was too unstable for the surgery. I realize now that the buttoning up I did at that time was not without repercussions. Of course I grieved for Cindy in those first days, I mourned my loss, I cried and I wailed, I wrote and I raged right up until the morning of surgery, but then I had to just bottle it all up and put it AWAY, at least until I came home. Once I was home, it hit me hard! My loss, the endless well of grief related to her passing, the feeling of having part of my spirit yanked out – were not great tools for healing from major surgery.

All of those emotions are still.right.there.

There are times that I cannot make my brain REALLY comprehend that a world exists without Cindy's physical self in it. It hurts my heart... daily. At the most unpredictable times, it just wells up and bubbles over and leaves me as hollowed out as a jack-o-lantern.

I cherish the twisted sister, and have it on always, but the gift I cherish more is the gift of walking alongside Cindy as she faced her biggest challenge, and helped her meet her death, on HER terms.  That is a rare and precious thing, and a thing that changes those who walk that path… forever.

When I lost Cindy, something deep, something of me, was ripped loose and just flew away with her.

“Blackbird singing in the dead of night.  Take these broken wings and learn to fly.  All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise.”

What Does It Take?

Today is day 3 of the 30 Days of Love campaign.  This is a space of opportunity, by Standing on the Side of Love, where people are reflecting, contemplating, writing and harnessing our passion to bring about peace, justice, and reconciliation by mobilizing the tremendous power of  love to bring about change. Todays topic of reflection is considering a world where the human family lives whole and reconciled. I have been journaling each day, but wanted to lift up todays reflection here.  Today is the Martin Luther King Jr holiday.  A day when we remember, and lift up the myriad ways in which Dr. King lived into the possibility - and affirmed the inherent nature of the human family. 

The human family is - in my belief - whole and reconciled by nature. It is how we are made... we are unified in that we are of the same Source. The Holy Love in the Center of All That Is - is the taproot of the human family, and all of us - ALL of Us - have sprouted from this root and are nurtured by it. In this reality - we are whole - we are reconciled.  When I live in this truth, when I am able to breathe in the peace of that and connect to my human siblings, known to me and not known to me - I am uplifted, I am encouraged. There have been so many people, places and events that remind me that this is so.  Living in wholeness and reconciliation with the kaleidoscopic points of brilliance embodied as my human family - is connecting in the most basic yet the most beautifully complicated way.  

There is another perspective that comes to me in this contemplation, and it bears examination.  Watching the news, or scanning my social media feeds can be like being steeped in toxins.  There is never a shortage of stories of suffering, division, and dysfunction in the human family. It is easy to become jaded, to be cynical and to believe that we are built for conflict, that turning upon our sacred siblings - is just what we do. Mayhem and chaos are at the center of what the media and our fellow beings serve up for our consideration. Detailed accounts of shootings, trafficking of people and substances, imbalances of power and privilege, and the obscene extremes of wealth and poverty form the core of the information stream with which we are bombarded.

I examine each of these today - these two seemingly polar opposite views.  As I hold the tension of knowing that each is real - the question emerges - "what is the essential difference between the two?" For me the difference is a matter of what we do with our armour.

Woven into the fabric of the human family, are threads of conflict, strife, anger, hatred and fear.  There are two ways to respond to that reality - either by "perfecting" our ability to armour ourselves - or by doing the very hard work of creating, nurturing and growing spaces into which we can step with all our vulnerability, and set aside our armour.

The history of the human family has often brought us into violent interaction, a dynamic where we hurt one another.  In an effort to avoid being hurt we have woven a complex fabric of defenses - we have been trained towards - and equipped for - battle. By donning thicker, tougher, and more sophisticated armour and by wielding a numbing arsenal of weapons - blades, guns, resources and privileges - we lock ourselves into a certain dynamic - where we stand in our armour - and brace for the conflict.  When we take this position, we find ourselves at a place of great separation from our sacred siblings, and work in opposition to reconciliation. 

When our arms are full - of the things we have been trained to believe - keep us safe - we cannot pick up tools that forge relationship - we cannot open our arms to embrace.  

I believe that our common connection to the Source - the All - is imbedded in the very core of who we are.  Are we bold enough, to actively look for that in others - to see that Presence in their faces? Can we access our innate fierceness - and unfold? Not if we are standing in full armour, weapons in hand - daring the world to strike. I think we can be fiercely loving of one another. I believe we can be wildly inclusive and work boldly together. I know we can, I've seen it, I've experienced it. If we desire wholeness and reconciliation, we must have the ability to move, and arms that are open.  We must be vulnerable, and find ways in which, we can set aside the armour, and open our arms to the reconciliation and wholeness that only openness and lovingkindness can achieve.

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"Will you let your armor crack, and let the light shine through, can you see it streaming out, as well as into you?" (Terry Gonda)

Contemplating the West...

As I prepare my spirit-self for a ceremony that will take place in the spring, I have been mentally attending to various details, unfolding… relaxing into the open space within me and just seeing what comes. These contemplations have tended to align with the earth elements, and medicine wheel teachings, and how each one of these will manifest into the ceremony. To call this contemplation, isn’t quite right. This is free-flowing introspective practice, which opens the channels of insight. It is really a way of being - with each of these aspects.  I envision them as points of light, like sparks – around which energies, understandings and knowings – gather. For me it is a process of opening myself – growing quiet and seeing what shows up. It’s about listening, watching – waiting - and feeling the vibrations as connected things engage one other.  It’s about how knowings come to me. One point of light around which there has been much activity has been the Western direction on the medicine wheel.

The directional door through which our beloved departed ones pass on their journey to the ancestors, is in the West.  I have a hard-hard time with these passings. A very.hard.time.  When one of my beloved people pass through the western door, if we have shared a close bond. The hole left by their Westing – is like a vortex into which energy is drawn, into which thought patterns flow like the cataract of Niagara. Very recently, with the guidance and perspective of a beloved friend – immersed in his work, a wondrous enlightenment shone through my previous experience with death journeys. Three losses that have been devastating to me, my cousin, my Mother, and my infant Grandson - I am experiencing them anew. Now in addition to the very real sorrow that lives in the memory of each passing, a sense of wonderment also resides.

By relaxing into this open space in the West – and feeling the vibrations as connections are made - I have this beautiful, amazing energy flowing, the strings are thrumming with vibrations. I feel the life-rhythms. It is totally wonderful to me, that the act of Westing, passing away, walking on, crossing over - is a process by which our dear ones, encounter the moment when the trappings of this Earthly existence slide away. Societal rules, morays, constructs, and value systems are just not important any more and we are gifted – with unfettered, unconstrained existence as our essential selves. Our Isness, our Spirit gets to burst forth and move and work and flow in ways that are simply not possible when Earthbound, and clothed in the gift that is our body.  We move and engage in delightful entwinement with our Divine Beloved, how amazing is that?! So the West is a totally amazing spiritual launchpad, so that’s one aspect - I’ll call it Yin.

To balance the ethereal Yin – there is a very physical, very grounded, very substantial Yang. West is where the Earth element resides. Solidity, stability, nourishment, endurance, the sustaining force – all of this is embodied by the Earth element.

Everything.everything.everything.everything is reliant upon Earth. This is true of each element - but Earth, especially so. Earth is richly adorned with traces and pieces of all that has ever existed on the planet, in one form or another.

Earth is connected to our five senses in profound ways. If we allow ourselves the opportunity to lay very still with an ear to the Earth, we can hear the gnawing of creatures, the vibrations of beings in motion within, and on top of the Earth. We can hold earth in our hands and experience through our eyes and our touch-sensing, the dampness, the texture, the heat, the viscosity of that which we hold.  By cradling Earth in our hands, by being outdoors during planting or when it is raining, or as the frost is coming out of the ground, or by digging into the rich, sweet Earth with our fingers - we can smell the bouquet of the Earth, the complexity and the nourishment Earth holds in her particles. We can truly smell the cycles of decay and regeneration going on, in that moment. By chance encounters with windblown Earth, by sliding face first to home plate, or by doing a graceless faceplant, we taste Earth. Sometimes we taste by design – or some of us do – directly, or in particles lifted up by tender greens and fiddleheads plucked for salad that never quite make it to the house. Mom told me many times as a child, that we all needed a bit of dirt to grow. Was this a testament to the merits of randomly eaten Earth, or a witness of the life-long connection to the ground –experienced by her middle child? I dunno. Earth is sacred to me. Truly.sacred. I always-always have a bit of Earth – in the form of rocks, on my person, in my pocket. The lovely plate of rocks in the picture is on my desk at work. There are rocks in each vehicle that I drive. I have an extensive family of rocks that move in and out of my care. It is an act of sacred connection to pass a rock that has journeyed with me, to another beloved soul. Rocks ~ the most solid and substantial of Earth forms, have memory.  Pebbles, stones, rocks, boulders – carry the energy, and contain the story – of every place they’ve ever been. The planet, the ground, the soil, the flesh of our Earth Mother - the place where we connect to our sacred physical selves – this is the West and it is where we all come home.

Early Morning Barn

I wrote this piece several years ago: Each morning, I rise early, so many obligations to be attended to - before even preparing for my work day.  I prepare formula for Honey and Angel, the two baby pygmy goats I am bottle feeding. They were orphaned at three days old, we lost their Momma to a bad heat wave.   With a pleasantly warm bottle in the crook of each arm my first steps outside into the new day take me through morning mists - the morning sky holds the suggestion of an orange sunrise.  Through my ancient choreworn sandals, my toes are drenched in morning dew…a very good start to my day.Though sleep still clings to me, the familiarity of routine carries the sleepwalker to the barn.  The Eastern and Western doors are wide open at this time of year, so it is like still being outside.  As the twins enjoy their breakfast, I watch the sunrise over the distant tree line through the open Eastern door. Barn swallows dart in and out of the open doorway - stitching flightpaths through the misty morning air. Their chirps blend with the bleats of the big goats who would love an unscheduled meal, and the drowsy grunts of a pig rousing from her slumber.  Rhythmic sounds from the nursing goats another layer of sound. The sweet smell of hay, and the earthy smell of manure greet me and it is not at all unpleasant. It smells like serenity. My vantage point to greet the dawning day is an upturned milk crate, where I sit holding goat bottles.  Barn cats swirl around my ankles, a feline interpretive dance troupe - awaiting the unlikely event… that one of the goats won’t finish her breakfast, thus blessing them with milky leftovers.  The earthy smell of manure mixes with the cool morning air and the sweet smell of hay to create the distinct aroma of “early morning barn.”  The clinking of the glass bottles breaks my reverie – the goat girls are all done, and the barn-dancers are out of luck.  They seem to sense this and wander away.   Fully awake and somehow refreshed, I make my way back through the dewy grass to prepare for my work day.  These two worlds - in such stark contrast - work seems mostly like I am playing a part - not written for me...

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*the last line - is particularly poignant for me today*

Prove It!

Pesticide residue carried by rainwater finds its way through the leafy canopy to the forest floor and into the groundwater where it mixes with other compounds and has disastrous affects on the earth’s biosphere. Similarly issues of Indigenous identity filter down through the culture, mixing with loss of language, poverty, struggles to continue traditional spiritual practices, and conflicts between government and educational systems colonially imposed on tribal societies that are in direct conflict with traditional belief systems. The cumulative effect of this toxic cocktail is catastrophic on individuals and tribal societies.

Ask who is Indigenous / Native American / Indian, and you will get vastly different responses depending on whom you ask. The U.S. Census Bureau, state governments, federal government, and tribal societies all have different definitions. None of these definitions define what an Indian is, they define who is eligible for certain services. They cannot begin to define, represent, or describe the historical, cultural and spiritual bonds that guide me as I walk in this life. My Indigenous identity reaches into the in-articulable parts of me. All of the others are definitions - with an agenda.

Native American / Indigenous identity is very complex.   For the purpose of the US Census anyone who claims to be an Indian is an Indian. In the 2000 Census, 2.5 million people identified themselves as American Indians, representing a 26 percent increase over the previous decade. More people self-identify as being of American Indian descent than are enrolled in federally recognized tribes or can prove decadence.  

So you’ve got this totally open concept on the census, if you claim it, name it so to speak. However in almost any other place that you might be asked that is not the case - you’ve got to “prove it.”  It’s all about having “the card.” The Certificate of Degree of Indian Blood (CDIB card). If you are a traditional craftsperson you must have your card to identify your goods as Native American made. To be eligible for a certain forms of financial aid to further your education, you have to be a card carrying NDN. And only Indigenous folks of the CDIB variety, are granted permits to possess certain items of spiritual significance such as eagle feathers.  I’ll talk more about those feathers in a bit.

In order to enroll in a federally recognized tribe, you must be able to prove who you are. During the period of Indian removal beginning in 1831 extensive records were generated for the purpose of identifying Indian populations.  These records took the form of numerous Indian rolls (the Miller and Dawes Rolls for example).  “The rolls” were used for treaties, trade, land claims, allotments, removal, and many other purposes.  During this time period there were a great many Indian folk who were not willing to stand up and say, “yes, I’m an Indian!” Who can blame our ancestors for being reticent? Past interactions with the society “taking attendance,” had been marked with cruelty, inequity, deception and suspicion to say the very least.  At that time, in some jurisdictions people were arrested, convicted and incarcerated (or worse) simply for BEING Indian.  In many places self-identifying as Indian was suicidal!  It is tragically ironic that once we were asked to self-identify and were persecuted for that, to the point that people denied their own heritage to survive. Today our very identity is called into question.

While self-identification as Indian is much easier today, a person may be unable to enroll if their amount of Indian blood falls under their tribal society’s blood quantum requirements; or if the tribal society from which they descend never attained or has subsequently lost its federally recognized status. There are plenty of Indian folks walking around today who belong to “non-existent” tribal societies - according to the federal government. Although each tribal society defines its own enrollment requirements, the federal government decides what Indian nations exist and which do not. Part of the criteria for federal recognition is that there are membership criteria. Many tribes include blood quantum as one of the criteria. In this system, non-Indian is the default, and everyone is approaching non-Indianness. A family line can get more non-Indian, but not more Indian. In setting up rigid requirements for federal recognition and CDIB cards, a mechanism for defining Indians out of existence has been established.  As Indigenous people marry mixed bloods or non-Indians, blood quantum diminishes in each subsequent generation. The fewer members with adequate blood quantum, the fewer enrolled members the tribe has, when this reaches a certain point, the tribe may lose its federally recognized status.  When that happens to tribal society after tribal society, the federal government will finally be freed of an embarrassing obligation.

In exchange for nearly all of the land in what is now the United States, the U.S. Government made treaty agreements promising goods and services to different tribal societies. These goods and services included education, health care, food and annuity payments. Nearly all the goods and services were promised to continue in perpetuity.  A great many of these treaties were blatantly disregarded, but contemporary tribal societies are demanding that the federal government honour the treaty agreements and make restitution to tribal members.  If there were no federally recognized tribes, there would be no one to which such reparations need be made.

Now, lets talk about those feathers. Under the current laws only individuals of certifiable Native American ancestry enrolled in a federally recognized tribe are legally authorized to obtain or possess eagle feathers. What’s the big deal about eagle feathers? First let me clarify that Indigenous people do not worship the eagle or its feathers. Eagles are honoured and considered sacred. They represent honesty, majesty, strength, courage, wisdom, and freedom. Eagle flies higher and sees better than any other bird. Therefore, its perspective is different and it is considered closer to Creator. Our use of eagle feathers in ceremony is that of intention and focus – and honouring.  When we hold that feather, we take our highest spiritual self to Creator through our prayers. The way that an eagle feather is used might be compared to the use of a prayer shawl, or rosary. The eagle feather like these other items are tools for introspection, meditation and prayer. Have people seeking these other items been asked to prove their identity to obtain them? I’ll bet not.  The nature of Indigenous spirituality is that of interwovenness; one cannot separate the cultural from the spiritual.  In demanding proof of our political/cultural identity, we are being asked to prove that we are entitled to practice our traditional beliefs as well.

In Indigenous circles, the issue of tribal enrollment remains controversial.  Thousands upon thousands of people are unable to identify as a member of a federally recognized tribe for reasons such as lack of adequate documentation, low percentage of Indian blood, or political forces within their tribal government. I fall into that category.  People like me exist in a kind of parallel dimension, walking in two worlds, the Indigenous and the non-Indigenous, in a society that does not acknowledge or value who we are. I know my identity. I walk a traditional spiritual path, and honour traditional teachings… as we like to say “I walk my talk.” I am an active participant in a vibrant local Indigenous community. I do not need a piece of paper to validate my identity, particularly one that is issued by a colonially imposed system that is contradictory to traditional views of Indigenous identity. 

I DO resent, that my people, the FIRST people, are the ONLY people that when it comes to our identity… are asked to prove it.