Writing Prompt: The Happiest Day of My Life

I've struggled to pick a day, and I've noticed that as I consider what to say about the happiest day of my life, my mind wants to focus on the saddest moments. I'm drawn to images of my dad lying in a coffin when I was seven, or memories of overwhelming sadness as we crossed the Canadian/US border, having buried my mom in Canada a few years ago. I am drawn to remember the shame of losing my temper, on multiple occasions, and engaging in bouts of really damaging parenting of my two step-children, who were struggling to integrate the grief of their parents' divorce and their father living far away. I am left to wonder if my mind just wants to remind me of these things so as to contrast them with a happy day...that I have yet to remember or imagine, or if my psychology simply rebels at the idea of frivolously exploring a time filled with happiness...as if to do so would betray a naivete and intolerable vulnerability.

I find, also, that I am desperate to find the correct "happiest day" as if the happiness of a day could be measured, and quantified, thus proving that May 3 objectively rated three points higher on the happiness scale than July 22. My mind wants to know that I can justify why I picked this or that day, as the happiest. I'm given to questions about whether my happiest day should be one that includes my kids, or one that doesn't include anyone. Should it be a frolicking memory from my youth or a sober memory from my more wizened years, what, exactly, is the correct choice here?

...OHHHH, THE STRESS OF IT!

For weeks, I had struggled and failed. Hour after tedious hour, each day blending into the next, a stream of failure, frustration, and anxiety. I tried again, and again, and again, and I failed repeatedly. 

I made one minor adjustment and failed; I completely changed one thing and failed; I drastically changed everything and failed; I tried in a new location and failed; I tried then to carefully do what I had tried the first time and failed. 

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, turned my face to the sky, and slid my eyes open. Tentatively I started again. It seemed to be working, I started to feel excited, even elated. Just as a smile began to form on my face, the party was crashed by Dr. Catawampus, who brought failure as I thought, "you'll never get this, Mike!"

Despite the repeated, disheartening and constant failure, I remained obsessed, and honestly, were it not for this obsession, I most certainly would have already given up. My tenacity drove me to keep trying, it felt as if I was on a supernatural mission, and thus I persevered through hundreds of failed attempts, because I believed, in spite of all evidence, that if I simply kept trying, I would uncover the secret, and I would succeed.

Each day at dinner, I avoided the topic, because I did not want to discuss the series of failures. But later, as I lay in bed, drifting towards sleep, my thoughts always returned to the ongoing effort and attendant defeats. Inevitably, I lay there, weighing my options, considering the variables, and imagining how to find success. As I slept, my dreams were filled with images of success or of failure. Each morning, the obsession returned, and I found myself consumed with ideas and strategies, or with anxiety and doubt, as I cogitated over how to successfully accomplish this one task. How to successfully learn this one skill. 

...How to successfully get this one thing RIGHT!

Finally, it happened one afternoon. Suddenly and unexpectedly, I succeeded. I stood there, stunned, unbelieving, and surprised. I tentatively tried again...with a second success. A smile began creeping across my face, which I stopped so that I could try one more time to ensure it wasn't a fluke.

...Again, SUCCESS! 

My arms reached for the sky, as a victory cry left my mouth. I grinned and celebrated, repeating my successful actions over and over again. The environment wasn't ideal, and I wasn't sure I could repeat this success in another setting, but I was elated. A short while later, I led the most important people in my life down the hill and into the rock field. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, slowly exhaled, and pushed off. I pushed down with my left foot, placed my right foot on the pedal, and began aptly navigating my bicycle through the rocks, as I maintained balance. 

I rode towards my parents, turned away, and navigated to the asphalt. I had chosen to begin this demonstration in the rock field because that was exactly where I had first found success, so as I rode onto the asphalt surface, I experienced a moment of panic, fearing a sudden loss of balance, but my balance held, my path remained steady, and I continued to ride my bicycle. I heard mom and dad clapping as I navigated my bike around the area. 

Then I stopped. 

I turned to face my parents, puffed out my chest, placed my hands on my hips, and grinned the biggest grin that anyone has ever grinned.

My parents laughed and applauded. My mom said, "Wow, Mike, you've worked so hard on learning to ride that bicycle, and you did great."

My dad nodded in agreement, adding, "look at that, I couldn't be prouder of you for working so hard until you did it. I love you so much."

That night, my mom made my favorite dinner, chicken and dumplings, and after dinner, we all got in the car, my mom, my dad, my younger sister, and I. We drove to the Sonic drive-in, and each of us ordered a special dessert. I got a huge chocolate sundae. That night I went to bed with the greatest sense of happiness and contentment that anyone could imagine. Since that time, all hard-won victories carry a similar sense of happiness and accomplishment.

So, it turns out, the happiest day of my life is entirely repeatable. The circumstances may change, but the victory and the love are always present. 

After my eldest son and I both earned our black belts in Chung Do Kwan, on the same day, I cried, in private, as I considered the accomplishment that we shared. He was only thirteen years old, and already he had earned a black belt in martial arts. I was so proud of him. 

A few years ago, my happiness raced off the chart as I watched my wife, Tara cross the stage to collect her college degree, only hours after being inducted into the national honor society of social workers.

Years earlier, I bounced excitedly and pointed at my mom, as she marched, with dignity down the aisle of a school gymnasium to collect her degree.

My sister, Mimi was called onto stage, presented with a bouquet of flowers, and thanked for directing yet another sold-out show at the local community theatre. She smiled, and I beamed with pride that she was being recognized for being such a fantastic stage director. 

As a freshman, my middle son was chosen as a varsity goal-keeper for the high school soccer team. I was so happy for him and proud to have him in my life. 

My step-dad stood at the podium, bravely exposing personal experiences of confronting personal bigotries in a way that allowed everyone in the room to see some of their own personal bigotries. I was proud to be his son and to be a part of his life and his family.

Recently, my youngest son was selected to be one of only three jazz guitarists in the whole state for the all-state jazz ensemble. He has worked so hard on music and I’m so proud of the young man he is becoming. So again I got to experience

...the happiest day of my life.

Living Civil Rights Heros from the 2018 two day symposium about 50 years of the Indian Civil Rights Act

In mid-February, I reflected that my tribe, the Lil'Wat in BC Canada, are working towards sovereignty. This caused me to wonder about the general status of US tribes regarding sovereignty and individual rights, so I requested time off, registered for the symposium, and arranged to stay with a friend. Then I waited...studying my tribe’s strategic plan.

Thursday morning passed slowly, as I anxiously watched the clock tick from one minute to the next. I was excited to leave for Isleta Casino and attend the 2:00 pm kickoff. An IT analyst, I imagined a wonky analysis of legal tidbits. I expected intellectual stimulation with a mostly dispassionate unpacking of legal minutiae relating to individual Indians or to tribes.

My expectations were wrong. There was ample legal analysis, but presentations were vibrant, and representative of living, breathing experience. They explored modern legal questions, historical precedent, and areas of evolving legal jurisdiction. The speakers were not only passionate but their analyses of legalized racism and bias were apt. We explored questions, of criminal rights and habeas corpus, Indian sovereignty, police violence, blood quantum requirements for membership, and tribal politics. Each topic was based in the context of tribes’ survival or the transition of Indians from exile and neglect to empowered citizens. The speakers inspired us with relevant topics that confronted personal pain and tragedy, as well as cultural trauma. Healing was available, and everyone was challenged. There were explorations of traditional values informing restorative justice, which highlighted, for me, how our US legal system would benefit from similar innovation. I saw a coalition of sovereign nations strengthen bonds, search for original solutions and look for new ways to incorporate traditional law into the structures that had been forced upon them. Everyone looked to collaborate and bring healing to our communities. This event was transformative, inspired, and hopeful.

The kick-off was a talking Circle at 2:00 pm on Thursday. Twelve Indians from differing tribes, with differing backgrounds and offering differing perspectives shared. They encouraged us to dig deep into conversations and explore uncomfortable truths. They acknowledged Indian progress but focused on what still needs to be done. Many opened with traditional blessings in their native languages and all shared visions of hope and dreams for tribal success and empowerment. I was humbled by the depth of experience, expertise, and accomplishment in the room. I was out of my league, possibly the least qualified and accomplished person in the room.

There were Indian governors and council members. Two seats in front of me sat the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the Navajo Nation. Numerous attorneys held degrees from Stanford, Harvard, or the Indian Law Program at the University of Oklahoma. There were attendees who had argued cases in front of the US Supreme Court. Some had clerked for Supreme Court Justices. There was a federal judge and a representative from the US Department of Justice. I had arrived feeling proud of my success as an IT Business Analyst with a Project Management Professional (PMP) certification, but as I met the other attendees, I realized how very outclassed I was, and I was honored to share the room with such giants.

On the morning of the second day, one speaker, I believe Professor Barbara Creel from Jemez Pueblo, suggested that we think about our favorite American Indian Civil Rights hero throughout the day. I realized, with some embarrassment, that couldn't name any Indian Civil Rights hero. Typically I could name several, but right then, I couldn’t think of even one. I considered Tecumseh but realized he occurs for me like a superhero, rather than a real human being. I set the question aside to focus on presentations.

In the early afternoon, a Navajo elder named Lenny Foster stepped to the podium. He had been part of AIM and he brought sweat lodges into Prisons for incarcerated natives. I wanted to hear him because I used to help prisoners transition from lockup to life outside. Also, in the late 1990s, I wrote articles for Indian Country Today about an Indian prisoners' rights activist, who later died in a car crash. Mr. Foster’s presentation was engaging and inspiring. He spoke with the authority of an elder and his very stature demanded our attention and respect. His spirit shone bright and he clearly had lived through deep pain, which he used to help others.

I listened to Mr. Foster recount his involvement at Wounded Knee and in the occupation of Alcatraz. He talked about his preference to negotiate rather than fight, but he pointed out that sometimes conflict, even violence are necessary.

He talked about surviving numerous armed conflicts at wounded knee and made it clear that he remembered every single firefight because they all terrified him. He mentioned friends who had fallen and referred to the wounded knee activists as dog soldiers. He shared about efforts to hold sweat lodges in prisons across the country and how native prisoners who practiced native spirituality often left prison as free-men, who never reoffended. He talked about challenges in negotiating with wardens, many of whom were resistant to allowing sweat lodges. But he recounted how he kept trying incessantly, and respectfully. He heard "no" many times, but kept asking until he was allowed to help Indian prisoners find a spiritual path. Mr. Foster described criminals healing through the power of tradition, becoming servants for the people. He talked about counseling death-row Indians and about visiting Leonard Peltier, who is near death, and whose sole wish is to die outside the confines of prison.

Then, Mr. Lenny Foster stepped away from the microphone and applause ensued.

Mesmerized by what had been said, I smiled, realizing that Lenny Foster is an American Indian civil rights Hero. The applause began to subside and I thought, "they should give him a standing ovation!" The applause almost ended when I thought, "...I should give him a standing ovation. I'm going to give him that honor." So I timidly rose to my feet and clapped a little louder. My cheeks flushed with embarrassment as I worried that others might look at me and think I was being silly, but I buried that thought and clapped louder. I was inspired by Mr. Foster, by what he had done, and what he continues to do. I stood alone, clapping for what felt like minutes (it was probably 10 seconds) and I was about to sit when I a young Indian a little behind me stood. Then six more rose to their feet and the applause intensified. Across the room, an Indian who had introduced himself as a civil rights lawyer stood and nodded towards us. In a few moments, Mr. Foster was receiving a standing ovation.

Unaware, he walked towards his chair, when another speaker touched his arm and pointed to the room. He squinted against the light and recognized the standing ovation. Then, Mr. Foster stopped, straightened his body, raised both arms in the air and yelled to us in his native language. His face was fierce and his fists were clenched. Some responded in their native language and the applause intensified.

After a few moments, I straightened my back, raised my right arm, and clenched my fist high in the air. I stood there silently saluting Mr. Foster this way until others did the same. For a few moments, we stood saluting this dog soldier, this elder, this warrior for the people. We saluted him offering silent respect until he sat down, then we too sat. That moment was powerful, it infused the air with purpose and set the space for the next presentation.

The next panel included David Garcia, an elder from the Tohono O'odham tribe near Tucson. Mr. Garcia spoke in opposition to the proposed US/Mexico border wall. He was introduced as an activist who leaves water and rations in the desert for immigrants traveling north. Mr. Garcia talked about his tribal lands stretching across the border into Mexico, and he pointed out that animals travel unaware of those human defined lines that separate two nations. He shared about tribal members traveling North and South for ceremonies and festivals. He pointed out that the proposed wall will interfere with his people and his tribe’s sovereignty. Later, when I caught up with Mr. Garcia, I thanked him for leaving water in the desert. He said simply that he had to. There was no choice in doing the right thing. We are all interconnected and he couldn't just let people die in the desert. He described how members of his tribe feared he might provoke a US Government reprisal and they told him to stop, threatening to remove him from council, but he couldn’t stop because leaving water is the right thing to do. He would keep doing it, even if he lost his position, even if he lost his friends. As I listened, I realized that he too is a civil rights hero. I asked for his contact information and thanked him for doing the right thing regardless of potential consequences. As I write these words, I hope that others will be inspired by Mr. Garcia's commitment and that they will join him in fighting for what is right.

The event closed with a talking Circle, just as it had begun. But one speaker, a young woman who identified as an Acoma Indian, really caught my attention. She was working to complete a Masters of Social Work (MSW) degree at UNM. She talked about her decision to attend school and pursue an MSW so that she could help her people.

Then she paused, her voice cracked, and she said that she had to share her personal story, which she hadn't intended to do. As tears slid down her cheeks, she recounted, in a trembling voice, how she wasn't allowed to be a tribal member. Her blood quantum wasn’t enough. She couldn't learn the language, despite having participated sacred dances since she was 12, she couldn’t join. Despite having gone through the rights of passage, she was an outsider. She talked about being abandoned by her people, and by her elders. Tears formed in my eyes. Her pain resonated in my heart. I am a Canadian Indian, but I grew up in New Mexico because my mom was forcibly taken from her tribe as a child by the US Government in its effort to assimilate native savages. As this young woman spoke, my pain came alive, because, like her, I have been alone and displaced. I've been an Indian, surrounded by Indians but accepted by none.

Then she talked of her work. She talked about going out onto the streets of Albuquerque, looking for homeless people, and getting them help. She’d help them find medical care, or food, or clothing. She talked about substance abuse and how it robs Indians of their future and robs our cultures of a precious resource...people. She talked about finding young homeless Indians who knew that they were Indian, who knew their tribe, but they knew nothing of their tradition or the power in their culture. She talked about people, including Indians who would see these homeless souls, and shake their heads with disgust, complaining of lazy drunk and wasted Indians. She talked about reaching out to these vulnerable Indians, about trying to help them find a way back to their tribes and their traditions. She talked about how they felt the tribe had nothing for them, they felt they were already ruined, and they had failed their tribe...they couldn't return and even if they wanted to, they wouldn’t be welcome.

She paused and then addressed the elders, saying “I mean no disrespect, but you have failed these Indians. You have abandoned them.” Her words were powerful, honest, and they pierced our hearts. She asserted that these homeless Indians had been abandoned by their people and that she now needs help in reaching the brokenhearted and hopeless Indians who littered our city streets. Again, her words were resonant in my heart. I have been sober for 22 years, and prior to getting sober,

 ...I was a drag on society.

 ...I was a lazy and drunken Indian.

I understood the potential of helping these Indians find their way back to the lifeblood of our Indian communities. I knew that the people she was talking about were living into one possible future determined by their loss of power over alcohol or drugs. I knew that their only safe path is to abstain and that they are living inside the hopelessness that once overwhelmed me and which could take me again if ever I fall prey to drugs or alcohol.

As I sat there with tears blurring my vision, I recognized this young 22-year-old woman as an American Indian civil rights hero. And, later, when I told her so, she cried and she hugged me.

The 2018 "50 years of the American Indian Civil Rights Act symposium" at Isleta Casino was a transformative event. It was filled with inspiring warriors for our native communities. It was an opportunity to meet living, relevant and powerful civil rights heroes. It was an opportunity to become inspired and to consider how I want to live. How I want to dedicate my life. I am grateful to have attended and I know that I need to find a way to serve my people and all Indian people.

Ask Mike About Racism: OK Hand Symbol

https://youtu.be/-No_jAT__t8

Alicia asks, What’s the deal with the ok 👌 hand sign? I am afraid to make it now, the problem is it’s kind of a knee-jerk.

Alicia, this is actually a complex question. I had to do a little research, and the best information I found was on the Anti Defamation League’s website. The ADL provides a surprisingly in-depth analysis of the OK hand symbol.

First, the OK symbol has been used in European cultures to communicate understanding, agreement or wellbeing, since the sixteen hundreds. I had no idea about that.

The same symbol also carries significance among Hindu, Buddhist and Yoga practitioners. Roughly, it translates to inner perfection.

So how did this symbol become associated with white supremacist hate?

We have to rewind the clock to 2017, when members of the 4chan site began promoting the idea that when the OK symbol is made with the right hand, it displays a “W” and “P”, which are supposed to symbolize “white power”

These 4chan members did this as a hoax. They wanted to see if they could get “liberals” and “mainstream media” to begin condemning the symbol. However, the gesture was soon adopted by right wing extremist trolls, and in a short time, it was being used by actual white supremacists, and they weren’t using it ironically.

What does that mean?

First, I’ll point out the obvious, it illustrates how some people are just plain and simply, ass-holes.

But, is it OK for you to use the OK symbol, when you want to communicate agreement, understanding or wellbeing? 

Yeah, go for it!

I would, however, caution you against posing for any pictures, especially with a group of white folks, while flashing that hand signal. Roger Stone did this with the Proud Boys, a group of right wing extremists, and it isn’t a good look. People might assume you are either racist, or racist sympathetic, like Stone is, and most decent people will assume you’re either an ass-hole, or at the very least ass-hole adjacent.

Goodbye Mom

When my Dad died, I was seven years old. It was devastating. I fell into a hole of grief, from which, I thought I could never escape. At the funeral home, I remember seeing his body, dressed nicely, and prepared for viewing. I was certain that I saw him move...that I saw his chest rise from a breath. Gently, I reached out to touch his face and wake him. I thoroughly expected him to stir, then sit up with a smile, hold me and my sister, and explain how there had been a misunderstanding. But when my fingers touched his skin, it was cold. I retracted my arm quickly, it was a shock. Understanding my Dad to be gone, I crumpled to the floor, crying. Family tried to console me and my younger sister, but our grief was wild and uncontrollable. It would not submit to taming. As adults swarmed to comfort me, I stood and sprinted into an adjoining room where I fell into a chair, sobbing. My body writhed with each sob and I felt certain that I would die from heartbreak, right there in the mortuary.

My Uncle, John Quincy, walked in and gently placed his hand on my back. Moments later, he scooped me into his arms and held me as I cried. He held me, as my mom pulled herself together, pushing through a thick cloud of her own devastating grief, she walked over to hold me and my sister.

That was my mom, stronger than anyone I've ever known. She lived a difficult, but amazing life and to me, she was a superhero. On that day, in the mortuary, some 42 years ago, she was only twenty-nine years old and already a widow, a divorcee, and a domestic abuse survivor. In spite of all of that, my mom, both figuratively and literally carried my sister and me, while she also completed two college degrees, worked as a LASER technician for a National Laboratory, learned to program computers, and remarried a man with whom she shared her life for more than 34 years. My mom was amazing. She volunteered as a teacher for decades, spoke at assemblies and inspired other women to become teachers and technicians. One woman completed college and went on to teach science at a Navajo reservation in Arizona, inspiring a whole generation of Native American youth in Rock Point to pursue education. Later, that same woman contacted my mom and invited us to visit Rock Point and serve as science fair judges. We did this annually, for several years.

My mom was a member of the American Indians’ greatest generation and in my estimation, she was one of them...one of the greatest. They were the generation who were stripped from their families and tribes but overcame that to fight for justice and build something for the rest of us, who have come after. They were the people who saw friends and family killed at Wounded Knee, but who persevered to bring sweat lodges into prisons for Native prisoners so they could find a path to sobriety and right living. This generation faced down incredible odds in their quest for equality and equal protection under the law. They forced through the Native American Child Welfare act so that the US Gov. could no longer kidnap native children from their families and tribes, which had been done to my mom. They built the foundations of a movement which we see blossoming today in a new generation of Native American activists. They came from ashes and built something beautiful. My mom was a part of that in her job and community.

My mom took her last breath just before 9:00 am Mountain time, on Saturday, February 2, 2019. She had been admitted to the ICU at Saint Vincent's hospital in Santa Fe, and on Friday, the day before she died, she saw visitors and seemed both happy and upbeat. I made a point of visiting her and bringing my thirteen-year-old. We joked and spent time talking. No one thought she was hours from death, so as I left when visiting hours were over, I told her that I was going to drive the kid back to Albuquerque for an award ceremony and then to Jazz retreat at Hummingbird Music Camp. I said that the camp should wrap up around five, the following evening and that I'd try to drive back to Santa Fe for a visit with her. She smiled and said, OK. I gave her a hug, and a kiss then left.

In Albuquerque, my child took 3rd place at the National History Day competition. I captured the victory photograph of her with a giant grin on her face as she proudly displayed her ribbon. I sent the photo, via text, to my sister and my mom. It was one of the last things my mom saw. My sister reports that mom saw the picture and received the news of a 3rd place finish and she grinned, saying "I'm so proud." A little while later, she started hallucinating. By the time I started my ascent into the Jemez Mountains, I received a text from my sister, informing me that mom had started hallucinating and that the hospital staff planned to sedate her. That she'd be unconscious and on a ventilator for a few days, while they let her rest, and let her heart and lungs heal. I was uneasy about the idea, but it sounded like they had a solid plan, so I kept driving to Hummingbird music camp, because I was a chaperone, but I planned to visit mom the next evening, even if she was unconscious.

When I arrived, I discovered that there was no cell service. After some time, I was able to connect via WiFi and I successfully placed a WiFi call and received a text message, so I felt confident I could be reached in an emergency. Next morning, my mom took a serious turn for the worse and my father tried to reach me, unsuccessfully over the course of about 20 minutes. He called my wife, who was already in Santa Fe, and she called the Hummingbird main office, which had opened at 8:30 or 9:00 am. By the time my wife reached me, however, my mom had already passed, and again, like when I was seven, I crumpled, sobbing, uncontrollably.

I have known for years that I would one day have to confront my mom's mortality. I have lived in fear of that day for almost as long as I can remember. I have to be honest, the experience was every bit as terrible as I imagined. I cannot communicate the depth of grief into which I plunged that morning. I'm not sure how I pulled myself together so that I could drive to Santa Fe with my child to say farewell to my mom. Even today, I struggle to focus on life's demands. After sobbing for what felt like an eternity, I finally pulled myself together, and I asked another chaperone to enter my kid's jazz workshop and send her out with her guitar and amp. When she came out, I paused, and then said to her, "I'm really sorry, but Grandma Valerie died last night in the hospital." She looked stricken and her gaze fell to the floor. I don't think she spoke for nearly an hour. There is no good way to tell someone that a loved one has died. I just held her and cried, while she stood there, essentially limp in my arms. This was the second grandmother that she has lost in less than three months. Both were very involved in her life.

We somberly collected her belongings, climbed into my car, and started driving home, so that I could collect some Native Tobacco, which my uncle had grown, in Canada. At home, I fashioned a small pouch, from tissue paper and a ribbon. In it, I placed a pinch of the native tobacco, and a pinch of sage that my child had gifted me a few years back. I collected several musical shakers that I have, and then my kid and I got back into my car and drove to the hospital in Santa Fe.

When we arrived, my father was engaged in a seemingly endless phone call with the organ donation specialists. I took that time to tie the tobacco and sage pouch to my mom's left wrist, and when my father was finally able to finish the call, we gathered around my mom, I distributed the shakers and we sang the Lil'wat bear song. We sang it four times and we all cried. It is one of my mom's favorite songs, and we are members of the Bear clan. My child is named Mikalh, which is based on the Lil'wat word, Míxalh, meaning black bear. A few years ago, I learned that I'm named after my mom's little brother, who died as a child in an abusive foster care situation, she remembered his name as Michael, but it turns out he was named Míxalh, too. After we finished that song, I sang a Lakota song, which I learned from an Earl Bullhead CD. It was a song that my mom always asked me to sing when I visited her in the hospital. Then we sang Blue Boat Home, one of my mom's favorite UU songs.

Then we made arrangements for a mortuary to receive my mom's remains and we went to eat lunch before going to our respective homes. That night, I visited my sister and father. We talked, and laughed, but we did so through profound sadness. A couple days later, we traveled together, to Santa Fe, to return my mom's medical equipment. At the clinic the staff were sad. They cried and hugged my sister and father.

Then we went to the mortuary, where we made final preparations for mom's cremation. Just prior to that, I had received a call from family in Canada and we found that my tribe, the Lil'wat, Mt. Currie Band, were planning traditional rights for my mom. They rang the bell, announced my mom's death and began the rituals that they do when they lose someone. This news made my father and sister cry. it was unexpected but welcome. We all plan to travel to Lil'wat with my mom's ashes and complete the ceremony with the tribe.

I'm grateful for all of this, for the closeness in my family, for the support of my tribe, who we barely know, but who accept and embrace us as family. I am grateful for all of that, but ultimately, more than anything, I really just wish, with all of my heart that I could have my mom back. For another year, or two. Just to build some more memories and to prepare a little better for her leaving us. I find that I want her and my mother-in-law to see my youngest child grow up. I want both of them to see me graduate college, but that won't happen. I want to discuss Star Trek Discovery Season Two with my mom and travel to Mesa Verde with my mother-in-law, but that will never happen. They are gone.

Grandmas together. Maybe they'll walk among the stars too

On Sunday, I found a paper that my mom wrote when she was completing her second college degree in 1998. It explored traditional Lil'wat stories, and in one section, she describes how, for my people, the Lil'wat, the Milky Way is the ghost path. It is the road that our deceased travel to the land of the dead, a beautiful place, which is warm and lush. It is filled with fruit, and all of the people you've ever loved, or who loved you. Some people stay there and some become star people. I am an atheist, but I like the idea of my mom walking the ghost path, among the stars, to see her dislocated Lil'wat family, and her little brother who died when she was so young, and anyone who she has ever loved or who loved her. It is a comforting idea and one which I'm extending to my mother-in-law, who passed only a few months earlier, in October.

For me, it feels like this is too much grief...too much loss. I am bearing it as best I can, but my heart is heavy and my smile unwilling. I'm doing what I can to carry my son through this, and to walk with my wife as she grieves the recent loss of her mom. I'm doing my best to walk with my father as he grieves the loss of his wife of 34 years and my sister who is having very similar experiences to me.

I loved and admired my mom so much and I can't imagine a world without her. She volunteered as a teacher in local schools. She put together homeless bags and gave them out to homeless people when she went to Santa Fe. She put together care packages for our servicemen and women, who are overseas. She served as President of the Board for the Jemez House Youth Ranch. She worked on National Security projects when she was younger and employed by a National Laboratory. She volunteered at the visitor center near Bandelier, she often carried random gifts with her just so she could give people a gift when she saw that they needed someone to be generous with them, she made small children feel welcome, and she made people feel loved. My mom made this world a better place, in spite of her difficult life.

I hope only to have an impact which is a fair measure of that which my mom had in this world.

In heartbreak and love, I say "goodbye, Mom."

Valerie Rose Adams was Born Jan 27, 1950 and died Feb 2, 2019.
She lived an amazing, difficult, and blessed life
This world is better for her having been here!

The Great Race

I talked at the Los Alamos Unitarian Universalist church on June 10, 2018 about race and racism in the USA.

Here is a link to my talk.
https://youtu.be/4qF_2Voon6g

I Stand With Standing Rock! ...but how to Stand, that's a Tough Question

Originally a Facebook Post:
https://www.facebook.com/mike.adams.754/posts/10210770374481293

I'm struggling right now. I am really struggling! I'm crying as I write this update, because I feel like I need to go to Standing Rock and support my Native brothers and sisters. I feel like I need to do that, so that I can look my son in the eye and say I did what I could to protect our water, and to protect our people.

I am just one person, with very little money, with no political influence, who is overweight, and a little hot-headed. I have people counting on me. A wife, kids, co-workers. I'm managing the software implementation of for a local 911 call center, and that is a big deal. Peoples' lives could depend on it.
But I still need to be in standing rock, holding my head high as I show support for the most marginalized group of Americans this country has. Tears are streaming down my face as I write this, because I can't feel good about any decision I make about this situation. I'm doing the wrong thing no matter what!

This summer, I met my tribe, and heard first hand how they've overcome the trauma that was inflicted on them by having their kids stolen and forced into boarding schools, where they were abused, and molested by adults who were supposed to take care of them. They returned to the reserve and have made something beautiful. Everyone has a place there. They welcomed me, my son, my blond haired blue eyed step-sons, and my white wife...all as family. They said my step-sons are all members of the bear clan. For me, that is what it means to be Indian. It means we stand up for what is right, and we welcome people even if they don't fit what it looks like to be family.

So today, I need to stay here and care for my family, and I need to get in my car and drive to South Dakota. I'm not going to change the tide of how things will work out there. In fact, I could get hit with pepper spray and die of an asthma attack, or be hit in the head with rubber bullets or a bean bag fired from a 12 Guage Shotgun and die from blunt force trauma. But my people. My native brothers and sisters have been kicked, and beaten, and taken advantage of repeatedly for hundreds years, and right now, they are again coming together to stand tall and protect their water supply. This oil pipeline was originally supposed to cross the river in a different location, but that plan was abandoned, because it threatened the drinking water for the city of Bismark. Isn't it interesting how threatening Indian drinking water is not a problem?

Standing Rock South Dakota is, right now, seeing the largest coalition of Indian tribes to resist an incursion onto traditional lands in more than 100 years. This is history, and I don't know how to be a responsible Indian, a responsible father, and a responsible husband at the same time.

My people are strong, they have refused to be killed off. We have survived many attempted genocides, in fact the Nazis studied how the US treated natives while crafting their final solution.
Guess what, we're still here! I don't know what I'll end up doing in the end. My family can't necessarily afford for me to go, and I honor that, but I am torn on such a deep and profound level, that I don't know what to do and how to make peace.

If you can go to South Dakota and stand with the Indians please do. If you can (and I know you can) call the white house and ask the President to take a stand on this issue, please do:
202-456-1111
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC 2050

Call and write your senators:
http://www.senate.gov/senators/contact/

Call and write your representative:
http://www.house.gov/representatives/find/


If you can send money to support the Indians, please do: http://sacredstonecamp.org/faq/#howtohelp
I don't know what I'm going to to do, but I'm working on figuring it out!

http://thefreethoughtproject.com/10-protest-dakota-access-pipeline/

Fifteen Years Later... a lot has changed, but is anything better?

fifteen years later...

Fifteen years ago, I lay in bed, ignoring my radio alarm clock, when suddenly I woke with a start, incredulous at what I thought I had just heard. I rubbed my eyes, sat up in bed, and listened to an advertisement as I waited to see if the news report that flung me into consciousness would repeat, or if it had been some bizarre dream.

A few minutes later, it repeated. Terrorists had hijacked two planes and crashed them into the world trade center in New York, which had collapsed thirty minutes later. I thought, "crap, this cant really have happened. This is bad, and nothing good will come of it." Over the next few days, I read news papers, and listened to radio reports, but avoided watching the video loop that TV news played of the planes crashing into the buildings and people jumping to their deaths in terror, as the flames and smoke choked them.

I had worked in the world financial center as a temp employee on a few years earlier, and I wondered how my co-workers fared. Luckily, the building was mostly empty, but still...this wasn't the sort of thing the US would sit back on.

Today, I look back at that morning, and those days afterward. I look back at everything that has transpired, and take stock of the current political climate in the US, and I fear that bin laden, despite having been killed by US troops, is inching towards victory. My country is more divided that I remember ever seeing.

We are nation griped by fear, and and divided by political lines, which more closely resemble the fervency of religious intolerance than political disagreement. Our news has been reduced to a feeding frenzy of packaging what is stupid, for mass consumption, because it sells. Our national dialogue on important issues has been reduced to petty name calling, with little to no opportunity for objectivity or facts to temper the animosity and vitriol.

I know that we've weathered other periods of discord like this, but that gives me little solace. Let's just not move backwards here. Let's just not indulge in tolerating and re-conquering (if we ever did originally conquer) the irrational idiocy that allowed us to push Native Americans to the brink of extinction, justify the sin of chattel slavery, or exalt and promote lynch mobs, and jim crow as means of terrorizing minorities into compliance.

Don't get me wrong, I worry about daesh and their brand of terrorism and extremism. I am unsympathetic to what I see of how Islam has been instituted as a form of governance anywhere in the modern world, but to be honest I also have Muslim friends, who are far more decent than what I've seen of trump's supporters on TV, or in Albuquerque. From my perspective, terrorists who are Islamic pose a lesser threat to me, to my family, and to my country than do our domestic terrorists who assault black churches, or a homeless Hispanic people. In this country, our struggle against terrorism ignores, but really ought to focus on White supremacy.

Unfortunately, it seems to me, that we may be further away from that than we were on September 10, 2001, and it makes me sad. What saddens me the most, bin laden didn't do this to us, we did. We've descended into this state of irrationality, where everyone is called a Nazi by someone, and hardly anyone realizes their beliefs are only as useful as the facts they used to arrive at those conclusions, coupled with their ability to make a logical case.

What do you think? Am I being too cynical? Please leave a thoughtful comment, and if you disagree make a good case. Shallow and inflammatory comments will be deleted!

A Call for Cohesive Disruption

-by @NativeMikeAdams

Aug. 17, 2015

#BlackLivesMatter #NativeLivesMatter #CohesiveDisruption

Today’s racial news in America highlights our divisive past, and the concerted effort by some to hide that past, and pretend this country has a pure history of fighting for and forwarding the cause of “liberty and justice for all.” I’ve watched a controversy brew between #BlackLivesMatter and #NativeLivesMatter, and I can’t help but to shake my head in disappointment, because ours is one struggle, which includes two tones of brown skin.

Black American and Native American oppression are twin atrocities, born of the same mother, evolved of the same narrative, promoted and prolonged by the same perpetrators, and champion of the same motives. Our story of horror begins on October 13, 1492. Christopher Columbus had just landed on what is believed to be Watling Island in the Bahamas. He thought he had found sea passage to Asia, and he claimed this land for Spain. A short while later, he spotted Cuba, mistaking it for mainland China, and In December of that same year, he landed on Hispaniola, and thinking it Japan, claimed it as a Spanish holding.

Having promised riches to the Spanish crown, Columbus marauded, murdered, and enslaved the native population, returning to Spain with as many Native Americans as he could stuff into his ships. On the sea voyage, Indian remains were cast into the sea without regard, and Columbus returned to a hero’s welcome with exotic savages, who could be sold as slaves in Europe. In short, Christopher Columbus founded the trans-Atlantic slave trade, an accomplishment of infamous repute.

The trans-Atlantic slave trade is the source of why 12.5 million African human beings were kidnapped from their homes and families and shipped to the new world as slaves for white Americans. Columbus’ enslavement and campaign of terror decimated the population of Hispaniola, and later, when Native Americans were found to be inadequate as slaves, due to their lack of immunity to European diseases, white colonists began a program of displacement and extermination. This meant that another group would have to serve as slaves. Another group of brown skinned “savages,” who had better immunity to European diseases was found, and the trans-Atlantic slave trade switched directions.

America was born and bred on the notion that neither black nor native lives matter. It was written into our laws, and accepted as “fact” that neither group counted as human. Either could be killed at the whim of white people, and neither had personal or collective rights to exist, live with family, or enjoy freedom. From the very beginning of this democratic experiment, white supremacy has been the law of the land, it is part of America’s genetic encoding.

Just as African human beings were violently ripped from their families and homes, their descendant African American families were torn asunder, as terrified children were ripped from their wailing mothers’ arms and sold to white Americans for any purpose they saw fit. African Americans were dehumanized, tortured, raped, and subjected at the altar of white supremacy.

As some Americans awoke to the immoral atrocity being perpetrated in their own country, some Northern states began to refuse enforcement of the fugitive slave act. Southern states were outraged and soon a rift divided this nation as the south fought to maintain the institution of slavery, and the rights of individual slave owners over the rights of Northern states who didn’t want any form of slavery to exist within their boundaries. This led to the bloodiest war in US history, and resulted in the abolition of American slavery. However, it did not allow African Americans to awake from the nightmare of white supremacy.

In parallel, native people, having no economic worth, were designated as savages and hunted. They enjoyed the right to live in peace, provided the land they lived on had no economic value to the the “superior” white “civilization.” They were stalked, and slaughtered for daring to think their land should be protected from white aspirations to harvest their forests or destroy their sacred lands in search of gold. They were forced onto reservations, enduring death marches which saw natives slaughtered, tortured and terrorized into submission.

A generation later, as Jim Crow visited racial terrorism against black Americans, native America’s children were kidnapped and forced to live in boarding schools. There, they endured cultural genocide, physical and psychological abuse, giving rise to a lost generation of Native children who had no home in America or back on the reservation.

Today, our two peoples continue to live with the consequences of white supremacy in ways that no other group can fathom. We are the most impoverished people in America. Our two peoples are killed by law enforcement and imprisoned at significantly higher rates than any other group. We have both paid the highest blood price to create and support white affluence in America.

I say it is time for us to stand together and disrupt this system of oppression. It is time for us to work together to dismantle systemic racism and overcome the shared atrocity that is our past. We are twin victims, born of the same perverse malignancy that dons white hoods in the dark of night, to hide in cowardice as it rallies beneath a banner of hate to inflict violence on the hearts, minds and bodies of brown people. Our oppressors would have us be silent, but I say we join our voices together and let loose a thunderous demand for justice and equity. For my Black brothers and sisters, your ongoing demand for freedom is itself an act of defiance. Defiance to those who would subjugate you and take what you produce. To my Native brothers and sisters, your survival is itself an act defiance. It is a warriors scream that says “We won’t be hunted to extinction!”

As racial groups, our histories, our subjugation, and our terror have been intertwined. Today, let’s link arms and stand together, holding each other up against the gale of injustice. We should hold our heads tall and let our refusal to be silenced echo through the halls of white supremacy. We are strong and proud, we are twins and our justice is inextricable. Let us be allies and warriors together. Let us create the world that was denied our ancestors. Let us take our rightful place at the table as human beings, who will not be shoved into chains or extinction. Let us work together and overcome injustice.

Sources:

• http://www.understandingprejudice.org/nativeiq/weather.htm
• http://www.theroot.com/articles/history/2012/10/how_many_slaves_came_to_america_fact_vs_fiction.html
• http://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/columbus-lands-in-south-america
• http://www.truth-out.org/news/item/31802-indigenous-children-face-extreme-rates-of-removal-and-state-violence

From Problem to Miracle

Wednesday was just one of those days. You know, the kind that happen and you wonder, "Why?!" or "WTF?" It started out as sort of a bummer. I woke up late, had part of a cup of coffee, which is terrible, because I always need a whole cup or more. Then I went to work without breakfast, so I had a combination of chex-mix, and salted nuts, which got me through till lunch. But the work was piled high, so I worked through lunch, left a little late and raced home for an appointment. It was then that I found out the bad news. For the third, or maybe fourth time in the last twelve months, a high school student in my small town had committed suicide.

I'm a youth adviser for the high school kids in the local Unitarian Universalist church, and I immediately thought about the kids, who would be most affected. Then, I felt all my energy drain and I settled into a sort of mental and physical depression. My appointment was with a therapist, so I talked a bit about how this all felt, that didn't seem to be productive, so I switched topics to how my oldest kids had just experienced a break through in their relationship and our house was no longer a constant battle ground. After therapy, I brought my youngest son to his basketball practice, which was fun to watch, and then I went home and began to wonder about this rash of teen suicides we've been seeing.

So today, a full day has passed, and comments about this suicide have been planted on facebook, from them, conversations have grown, which have included insightful commentary as well as simple blame for society, or television, or bullying, and as I've watched this transpire, I've wondered what there is to say. So now I'm banging out a blog post on the topic, but just like yesterday, I still don't know what to say. I could try to talk about love, or inherent worth and dignity. I could try to talk about taking a breath and getting through the hard times, or how I've wanted to take my own life in the past. I could talk about all sorts of things, but somehow they all feel flat right now.

I think the problem is bigger than any of that. I think it is something that encompasses all of that. It is the air we breathe, the thing we're not really aware of. It lives in our community and our conversations. It breaths every time we look at someone and think, "wow I wish there was something to do, but they don't want to change. All we can do is feel sorry for that person," If we're really honest, isn't that last sentence a little more like, "I really feel sorry for that loser?" For the past day, I've been wondering what we are doing wrong? Why are our teens killing themselves? What is the source of their overwhelming stress, or their feelings of worthlessness, or shame, or lack of hope? Why can't they imagine a future that needs them and that they should live to experience? I've been asking these questions and it just occurred to me that maybe its because our society has a deficit of meaningful compassion. That people are so quick to say, "laugh, and the world laughs with you, but cry and you cry alone."

Last week my kids took a course in San Francisco and on the last day of the course, the parents were asked to come sit in another room and participate in what is called a parent coaching session. The coach asked for two volunteers, whose job would be to write what we said on two chalk boards. The first chalk board was to filled with parent statements about what we're worried about with regards to our kids. The second chalk board was what qualities a perfect parent has.

The first chalk board was filled with worries about things like our kids being lazy, or slovenly. About poor grades, or a lack of respect. About being argumentative, or defiant, or bullies. At some point, while we were calling out things that we are worried about, I gasped and realized that all of those worries are caused by our love for our children. So later that evening, when our kids came into the room with us, the leader asked if there were any parents who wanted to share something with their kids. I raised my hand and stood up. I took the microphone, looked at my kids and described how we had filled a chalk board with complaints and worries we share about our kids. I admitted that I had contributed heavily to the list. I said that some how some wires seem to have gotten crossed in my head and that while I was getting angry and being pedantic. While I was being frustrated and upset, complaining to my kids about their grades and telling them that they are being lazy. While I was hurling various insults, what I really meant to say was, "I LOVE YOU! I love you more than anything you could imagine. I would do anything for you. I want you to be safe and grow up to be happy people. I love you and I apologize for telling you instead that you that you are flawed and can never be enough." I stood there crying in front of fifty teenagers and all of their parents, and admitted how horribly I had failed to communicate what I meant.

I told them that they could count on me to remember how to say I love you and that they could count on me to look for how they are right, for how we could be a happy family, and how we could increase the love we all have for each other. I've had an increase of moments like that recently, but that one just flooded my mind and it makes me think that there may be something important in that story.

Maybe the important thing is actually a simple thing. I'll start by saying that today is the last day of Hanukkah, and yesterday, my little town was shook by tragedy. But Hanukkah is a time for miracles. So I submit that maybe a huge component of what we're doing wrong is simple to address. The most important thing that my kids taught me the other week, is that they aren't defined, nor is their value assessed by their grades. They are perfect, and my job is to see how great they are and encourage their greatness. This isn't always easy, and I've already failed countless times. But in the end, nothing great can be accomplished without lots of failure. So maybe our focus has been wrong, and that is why our kids feel hopeless. Maybe our job is not to direct them into a future where they'll have some 9-5 office job and bring home a good pay check. Maybe our job is to see them as miraculous and trust that a miracle always has a bright and inspiring future, which may be hard to imagine to an observer.

Maybe we need simply to give freely of our love and when we offer guidance or criticism, to offer that feedback from a place of love, rather than anger or frustration. Maybe we need to teach our kids that it is more important to help our fellow human beings than to be successful in business. Maybe we've been trying to solve a spiritual crisis with educational theory, and intellectual band aids.

Not current - but still true. Nine months later, Newtown still haunts me!

--by Mike Adams
I wrote this on December 22 of 2012, and I couldn't quite post it at the time. Maybe it was too raw. I just found it and decided to go ahead and post it now.

Words can't express...

Last Saturday evening, December 15th, after everyone was in bed, I finally sat to read about the headline news that I had been avoiding. I clicked my browser to the Washington Post and read about a disturbed young man, who murdered his mother, and then then went to the school where she worked and executed 20 little kids between the ages of five and seven. He finished by murdering school staff prior to turning the gun on himself.

My eyes filled with tears and for more than an hour I wept. That was nearly a week ago, and tonight, as I sit here banging out these words out my eyes again are filling with tears. I am overcome with an immediate sense of what we've lost.

My little bugaboo is seven. He is beautiful, excited about life, adventurous, bursting with curiosity, and easy to love. Every morning in December, he bounces down the stairs, scampers to check the advent calendar and delights in gifts left behind by elves for him and his brothers.

I might get in trouble for telling you that he has a secret super hero identity. He has only shared this information with me, his mom and his brothers. I've been sworn to secrecy, so I won't reveal which superhero he is. He is concerned that “robbers” not use that information against him while he fights crime.

Last year, I helped coach his soccer team, and each Tuesday & Thursday, I worked in vain to create order out of chaos. I coaxed and cajoled a group of six and seven year olds trying to direct their focus to moving a soccer ball in one direction or another. Ultimately, there wasn't much interest in soccer. However, I was amused by the light saber duels that took place during both soccer practice and soccer games. These kids were fun and excited. Each one a miracle, a beautiful treasure, our hope for the future. So as I read about the tragedy in Newtown Connecticut, I couldn't help but to imagine my little soccer kids being gunned down. I imagined the fear in their eyes and the screams as they were violently sent from this world. To be honest, I can't bear the idea.

It is impossible to imagine the pain of losing a tiny little person, who calls me Dad or coach or uncle Mike. These little people represent my hope for the future. They are pure possibility and sheer inspiration.

To the school staff who sacrificed their lives protecting our little babies, I say thank you and more importantly, I'm so sorry you lost so much. Though my words are insufficient and I can say nothing to adequately honor your memory and sacrifice, it is all I have and it is what I can offer at this moment along with my deep sorrow.

To the parents, struggling to survive this tragedy, I can only offer my deepest condolences. I can't imagine what you are going through. Your future has been stolen from you and it is horrible. I am so sorry that you have to endure this tragedy.

To my own kids, the kids I coached, the kids I know from Sunday School, and the kids from my son's school, I say you are beautiful and I love you.