Fall 2008 TCJ STUDENT EDITION
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STUDENT EDITION - PAGE 4
Just About a "Half Breed” By Kathryn Roper
The Gift of Life: Friendship By Sheena Begay
Finding Family By Christina Adam
Conflict in the Sand By Jason Young
Kingdom of Heaven By Micki Lindeman
I Had to Change My Life! By Royce Collins
Boozhoo, Anishinabedog By Marjorie Eagleman
 Kathryn Roper |
Just About a "Half Breed”
By Kathryn Roper
Growing up, I heard the taunting of my older, more "Indian” brother saying, "You ain’t no Indian.” His face shining with this kind of scowl that would cover his dark skin, his hair half stuck on his face, "Hey, white girl!” he’d say, reminding me that my dad is white.
Why did my brother do this to me and get so much pleasure out of seeing me cry? Sure, his dad was a full blood, a Red Horse from the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe, but our mom was 15/16 Spokane. Why did he feel the need to tell me every day that he was so much better than me? Mom says there aren’t many Indians nowadays that are as Indian as him.
Crying out, I’d tell him, "Shut up! I am too Indian, leave me alone,” shoving him and telling him how much I hated him. His words continue in my head, and I wonder, Am I really an Indian or not? Am I meant to stand in the middle of this road, looking down both ways in bewilderment? Am I to remain unsure about where I fit in and belong?
I approached my mother once, pressing to know more about my father. I asked, "Isn’t your father the one you get your blood from, or does it even work that way anymore?” Mom could never bring herself to say anything good about my father. I still feel ashamed to be part white. I keep it from whomever I can.
"Mom, am I Indian?” I asked pitifully. She looked down at me, and with this baneful laugh, said, "Yes, you’re Indian. I’m your mom and I’m Indian.” The way she laughed had me thinking I was not getting the full truth of her thoughts on the matter. Is this all just a farce? I thought. The understanding didn’t come.
If only part of me is Indian, then am I in effect just another "half breed” like you used to see on T.V.? The one the Indians shut out and disowned, and the one the whites would never accept as one of their own?
There is hope in the midst of all this insanity: my father’s mother. Here was a woman who would never look at an Indian without disgust, but she loved me. There was no reasoning or logic. I was part of her, and I had no question of her love for me. I miss her.
I know how to make fun now that I’m older, saying things like, "I’m Indian from here up,” pointing to my waist, then commenting about how white my legs are—"I could blind someone”—laughing but with questions remaining inside.
Over the years I have met others like me. It was either their mothers or fathers who weren’t Indian. I never ask if they feel the same as I do. It doesn’t really matter. We don’t speak of it; we are simply together in a silent understanding.
Experience has shown me that the full bloods think of the "half breed” as not quite Indian, much like my brother. The only difference between then and now is that, today when my brother comes at me with all that madness, I just tell him, "Whatever, dude,” and move on. It doesn’t really matter what anyone thinks. I know who I am. I am enrolled Spokane Tribal Member #2121, 15/32nds, and I’m just about a "half breed”.
Kathryn Roper (Spokane), 28, grew up in Spokane, WA, and now lives in and owns a small business in Parshall, North Dakota. She is pursuing a business degree at Fort Berthold Community College in New Town, ND.
Roper has loved writing since a young age and "is happy to have found her voice again.” She attributes her newfound confidence to her supportive husband and her three children (soon to be four).
 Sheena Begay |
The Gift of Life: Friendship
By Sheena Begay
When I was younger, I had five incredible friends: Alice, Diane, Donna, Gayle and Barbara. They were paralegals at a law firm in Burbank, California. Through their friendship, I found out exactly how big this world really is and how huge a person’s heart can be. I was about seven years old when they started sponsoring me by writing to me. They sent so many things that I felt obligated to write back each time; it was hard to keep up with each package.
They always put several $.02 postage stamps on their letters; I guess to show me all the possible pictures on stamps. The pictures varied from Native American jewelry to Walt Disney characters and places all over the world. It was amazing! The number of postage stamps they used made me think my new friends lived far away. I thought they probably lived somewhere across the ocean. Every time I got mail, I would run to my great-grandpa and try to translate to him what my new friends had written. It was a little difficult to explain exactly what they were saying; however, it was even harder to translate where my new friends were from.
"Somewhere far, past the huge waters in the direction of where the sun starts his daily journey…probably from England,” I exclaimed. I surprised myself. I just made that up. England sounded foreign and new to my native tongue, and so I began telling more and more people, "My sponsors are from Burbank-California, England!”
It wasn’t until they sent me two maps—one of the United States and the other of the world—that I discovered Burbank was in California in the United States. In fact it was a neighboring state! I felt like a fool. When my great-grandpa heard this, along with my gloomy voice, he declared that since Burbank, California, sounded so foreign, it might as well be in England. I felt a little better, and we joked about my possible career as a cartoon character.
Among the many incredible items my sponsors sent, the most treasured item I received was the Honey Baked Ham they sent every Thanksgiving. In my language, there is no direct translation for Thanksgiving; we only refer to it as "Small Christmas.” For us to receive a huge, Honey Baked Ham by overnight mail during our "Small Christmas” was incredible. That small gesture meant so much to us!
When I was young, my great-grandparents would pass out candy, sodas, popcorn balls or cracker jack wrapped in towels or colorful material (collected from their many years of conducting traditional ceremonies) at Christmas.
My great-grandparents had raised my mother since she was young, so my siblings and I were very close to our great-grandparents, even over our grandparents, and they to us. My great-grandparents had many grandkids besides us, but I like to brag that my great-grandpa liked us more. On a typical Saturday, it was normal for my mom to sew my great-grandma new skirts while my great-grandpa became our guinea pig. Naturally he was our friend, and my best friend.
One hot, Sunday afternoon my great-grandpa and I were sitting outside looking for his sheep. He asked, "So has another letter come in yet?” I could almost read his mind: Honey Baked Ham, mmmm. "No,” I replied.
I turned away from him when I heard the longing in his voice. We sat there a little longer under the huge tree planted outside my great-grandparent’s house while I wiped the tears away and swept my hair behind my ears. How was I going to explain to him that I no longer had my sponsors? Right when I was getting used to having another family, they were gone. For the past four years, my whole family had looked forward to the Thanksgiving Honey Baked Ham, but no more. My five friends had to stop sponsoring me when one of them was diagnosed with cancer. Back then, cancer was somewhat new to me, although I was old enough to know what it did to people.
Great-grandpa started humming a familiar tune, and a few seconds later he started singing. It was a ceremonial song I had become accustomed to hearing. My mother, sisters and I had driven my great-grandparents to almost every ceremony for the past year. He pushed me slightly with his foot, waiting for me to continue talking. My small body of eleven years moved slightly from his small kick and I smiled. I wondered how a person who had survived two strokes, and who now used a wheelchair all the time, could still kick like that.
I stood and dusted the dirt off my pants. I heard my great-grandpa give a great yawn even as he gathered up some small pebbles. I was unsure about what he had planned, but I quickly grabbed a handful of rocks and moved behind him. I started pushing his wheelchair through the rough terrain of the front yard, holding back a giggle as he gripped the arm rests.
I watched as he threw a pebble into the house at my great-grandma. She only looked curiously up at the ceiling as she continued dishing out stew. She was listening to my mom talk about my brothers who were working in another state. Grandpa threw another pebble, hitting her this time. Then she turned around and looked at my mom suspiciously. I tried not to laugh. He kept throwing until he ran out of pebbles, and then he turned to his fry bread. He always did silly things like that to make us laugh.
I recall these memories with warmth and sadness. My friends had provided my whole family with something "exotic” to eat for the holidays. I felt like it was my fault there was no more ham. I tried keeping in touch with my sponsors, but we lost touch.
My dear friend Gayle and both of my great-grandparents have since left this world. Yet, I feel blessed that they gave me one of life’s most treasured gifts: friendship. Rarely do people find it, have it, or keep it. I was completely fortunate to have all that.
I carry thoughts of them everywhere I go, and I still shed a few tears over them at times. They all taught me so much about who I am, where I’m from, and where I need to go. I am confident that wherever I am they are right there, guiding me. One of these days I just may grow up to be as selfless and noble as they were. One day I might even know that someone has been blessed by my friendship, just as we were when my family received that first "Small Christmas” Honey Baked Ham.
Ya’at’eeh. Shi eiya Sheena Begay yinishye. Tl’aashchi’i nishli. Honaghaanii bashishchiin. Shicheii eiya Dzil Gha’a nili doo Deeshchii’nii ei dabineesa. Tachii’nii ei dashinali. Dii’ at’eego ei asdzani nishli. Naadiin dii’ ei shinaahai aadoo Hoozdoh bee hahoodzoh biyi’dee’, Tse Ch’izhi hoolyeedee’ ei naasha. Hello! My name is Sheena Begay. I am of the Red-Cheeked People clan and born for One-Who-Walks-Around. My maternal grandfather is of the White Mountain Apache tribe adopted into the Start of the Red Streak clan and my paternal grandfather is of the Red Running into the Water clan. This is how I am a Navajo woman. I am 24 years old, and I come from Rough Rock, Arizona.
Begay attends Navajo Technical College in Crownpoint, NM, where she is enrolled in the Law Advocate program. Her career and educational goals are to successfully complete her studies, apply to the University of New Mexico, pass the Navajo Nation Bar Exam, and pursue a bachelors of science in criminal justice. She wants to work on the Navajo reservation as a lawyer. Her greatest inspirations are her elders "and my medicine men and women. It is through them that I am who I am today.”
 Christina Adam |
Finding Family
By Christina Adam
My mother has a history of abandoning family. She got pregnant at age fifteen and left her child with its father. At sixteen, she left another child in a garage. A short while later, she met my father, and maybe he thought he could change her. For a while he did. When she left us, I had a younger sister.
I used to pretend I didn’t have a mother, that she wasn’t around because she had died a long time ago. I had only a few memories of her from my childhood.
I didn’t see my mother again until I was ten years old. She found us in a little town in Oklahoma and brought my sister Elvira and me a radio that was a gift from one of our aunties. She stayed a few days and promised to come back and live with us, to be a family again. From her visit, I learned I had additional siblings, an older sister, Dianna, an older brother, Christopher, two younger sisters, Joy and Ashley, and two younger brothers, Salvador and JC.
Ashley’s dad and step mom used to send us videotapes of her when she was younger. They lived in Tennessee. I barely had a mental image of Tennessee. I couldn’t picture the lifestyle they led. Watching little Ashley on those tapes imprinted an eternal image of a young, smiling beautiful brown baby. To this day, I picture her that way.
I used to cry all of the time, hugging my little sister when she asked about our mother. I would say, "She said she’ll be back, and don’t worry, she’s bringing the radio, too.”
When my mother came back again a few months later, my dad didn’t let her see us. Elvira was asleep because it was very late. My mother was probably coming from a bar. The next day Dad said we were going to San Antonio for a vacation. I knew we weren’t coming back because we took our blankets, my cat, Patches, and whatever else we could fit in the car. I didn’t even get to say good-bye to my friends at school.
When I was sixteen, I met my sister Joy. After months of exchanging letters, she and her adoptive mother came to visit us in Texas. I opened the door when I heard the doorbell, and then I closed it on them. I was shocked at how much we looked alike. Pictures hadn’t prepared me for seeing my younger sister in person. I couldn’t even open the door to let her in. Elvira did.
When I graduated from high school at nineteen, we took a trip to Oklahoma. It was the first time in nearly ten years that I’d left San Antonio. We stayed at Joy’s house and went to a powwow in Anadarko. There I met my oldest sister, Dianna, and my baby brother, Lindy. I also met some cousins, and aunts and uncles, who were my brothers, sisters, grandmas and grandpas in the Kiowa way. I also saw my mother.
When I look at her, I am ashamed to see my high forehead, my round face, and my bad eyesight hidden behind thick glasses. How is it that we laugh in the same high-pitched giggle? How is it we shrink and shrivel our noses the same way when we dislike something? Is this where my sarcasm comes from? Does this explain the large hips and big bones that no one in my dad’s family seems to have?
Last January, I transplanted myself from San Antonio to a school in Kansas. I met my older brother Christopher there. I resemble him a bit. He is the brother I never had as a child, one who could push me down and pick on me, but also defend and protect me. Now he’s the cool older brother who takes me to play pool, converses about real-world issues, and lets me do my laundry at his house.
There are so many questions that I can’t bring myself to ask. Am I destined to become like her: capricious, conniving and conceited? Am I to become empty? Will I be cold and pretend not to know the wrong I have done in my life?
In a way, I wish she had died a long time ago. I wouldn’t have felt so alone all those years. On the other hand, I never would have found my brothers and sisters. The best thing in my life now is having relationships with them. The hurt in my heart disappears when I see their faces. Whether we’re in Kansas, Oklahoma, Tennessee, or Texas, we’re all connected. We come from the same place; have the same past, and the same background.
My mother’s absence is not reflective of our ties to each other. The mother I used to pretend that I didn’t have has taught me the biggest lesson in my life – the importance of family. Each time I look at my brothers and sisters, I don’t see my mother, I see my family. For that, I thank her.
Christina Adam (Kiowa and Hispanic), 22, was born in San Antonio, TX, and has lived in both Texas and Oklahoma. She enjoys being active in both of her parents’ cultures: her mother is Kiowa and her father is Hispanic. She is a student at Haskell Indian Nations University where she transferred from Our Lady of the Lake University in San Antonio. She is pursuing a degree in sociology and dreams of working among Native people one day.
 Jason Young |
Conflict in the sand: Operation Desert Storm
By Jason Young
In 1997, a dictator named Saddam Hussein stole freedom, like a thief in the night, from the people of Kuwait. Due to that, I served as a soldier in "Operation Desert Storm,” and this story is based on an experience during that time.
Initially, we were stationed in Saudi Arabia. We were more of a police action at first, but this changed in rapid succession. We did a lot of rehearsing for desert and urban combat procedures. We did not understand the reasoning behind this because we were already deemed desert warfare experts.
I am only going to describe one particular battle. We had been in the country for quite some time—in a situation like this, time ceases to exist. I only know that this happened after January 15, 1991.
We were coming upon an enemy fortification, and we were already extremely angered about what we had seen. Kuwait was totally in ruins, women had been raped, babies thrown out of incubators, and bodies had been dismembered. I remember the fiercely hot flames of rage that encompassed my heart and threatened to totally consume my soul; there was nothing, nothing but hate. Hatred replaced all of my emotions.
Sand was kicking up all around me, and I could feel the immense heat from the scrap metal and rounds of fire. I could feel the bullets screaming past me before I heard the report of their rifles. It seemed as though someone else was in control of my body as I yelled out commands.
Sweat streamed down my face, mixed with oil from the violently roaring oil field fires, which stung like fire, but I didn’t have time to deal with that. My uniform clung heavily to my body like some stinky wet oil rag. I could hear my heart racing like a small stampede of horses, and my mind raced as I thought I could never come clean. Their blood was now on my hands.
As we fought in the oil-soaked sand, it felt as though we were trying to tread through wet cement. The smell of the oil fires and death seemed to linger in my nose no matter what I did. The haze from the battlefield hung like the densest and heaviest fog. Another Marine told me that I was bleeding, and I could feel a warm wet sticky fluid running down my arm. I could hear the desperate screams of the other soldiers. We were under heavy fire, which enraged me even further. The anger burned a hundred times hotter than the oil fires and continued to grow with every scream. I could sense a darkness coming over me; it seemed to come from some dark primitive place deep within my soul.
My rifle, now slick and slimy from oil and blood, seemed to fire relentlessly on its own accord, and with each round I could feel the recoil of the buffer spring of the rifle vibrating in my hands. I continued to remove the wounded to get them out of the line of fire. We took out the enemy with extreme prejudice, no holds barred. The whirl of the helicopters’ propellers approaching was a welcomed sound that seemed to fill the whole desert.
I, along with some members of my unit, was highly decorated upon returning home. My battalion was known as "The Walking Dead,” after an event that took place in Vietnam. When we were being decorated, I felt a great sense of pride in being a Marine, and being honored for helping people in war—people who were overwhelmed by extreme violence. Pride sent shivers like ice water down my spine.
Some say I should be proud of the "Valor Medal.” I can only feel a very heavy burden of extreme sadness and loss. I was only doing my job; don’t ever let anyone tell you that freedom is free, because it comes with a very hefty price.
Jason Young was born in Cook County, Illinois. He joined the Marine Corps at age 17, was based at Camp Pendleton, California, and served from 1988-1992 in a special operations unit of "Operation Desert Storm.”
The father of three "wonderful boys” enjoys being a student at the College of Menominee Nation. After graduation, Young plans to move on to a four-year college to study computer science. He says, "I am hopeful that the knowledge that I will acquire will help in the betterment of the lives of others.”
He started writing poetry when he was sixteen "because it helped express my deepest thoughts and enlightened others.” Young acknowledges "the most influential in my writing is Mahrie Peterson, a tutor at the College of Menominee Nation, who is presently working on her masters degree.”
 Micki Lindeman |
Kingdom of Heaven
By Micki Lindeman
When I was a young child in catechism, my teacher would describe heaven as a place where we were all equal and happy. It was so perfect there, a reward for living a good life. In my mind that place was my grandparents’ home in Linton, North Dakota.
As my mom’s car would steadily pace down Highway 83, I would scan the horizon for the Willow’s Motel sign that was next to the turn-off to their house. We would turn onto a tree-lined gravel road that ran along Beaver Creek. The outside world would filter out and the trees would disappear and open to the beautiful space created by my grandparents.
Whenever I saw their simple white square home, I always felt like I could finally breathe. It was like holding in your breath until it hurt and then finally being able to exhale. There I was allowed to just be a child, an accepted child, beloved just for being me. I was blessed with grandparents who loved me and welcomed me, no matter what.
Elsewhere, beyond the trees, I was just a half-breed, ignored by one culture, tolerated by the other, never really fitting into either. I just felt like I was in the way.
My grandparents include my grandfather Harry, my papa, Ralph, and my grandmother Margaret.
My grandfather Harry was a gentle giant. He was tall and muscular from a lifetime of manual labor. He smelled of motor oil, Brut cologne and cigarette smoke. I don’t remember him speaking much. What I do remember was he was always there. I must have followed him everywhere. I remember always reaching for his large callused hand, or if his hands were working, I would latch my finger into a belt loop on his work pants.
He had beautiful blue eyes that radiated his love for me past his thick bifocals. His eyes spoke things words couldn’t. I always looked to his eyes to know what he might be thinking. I looked there to be reassured when the world didn’t feel right. I remember his tears of pride when my aunt won the Miss North Dakota Pageant. I am lucky. I know what love looks like.
I remember the feeling I had in his presence. I felt safe with him as we’d set and check minnow traps, fish at his special spots on the Missouri, or tend to his huge, perfect garden. He made a living by repairing appliances. I remember traveling the back roads of Emmons County in his Plymouth station wagon to fix someone’s washing machine, dishwasher or lawnmower. Grandpa could fix anything, even my battered, sad little soul. The world is hard on people who don’t fit "the mold.”
In my mother’s photo albums, full of my childhood memories, he is always there in the background, usually assembling or fixing something. He was one of the most important persons in my little life. He died when I was nine. When he died, I had the wisdom to know no one would ever love me that much again. I didn’t feel love like that again until I had my own children. I gave my youngest his name.
I was blessed again when my grandmother married Papa Ralph. He was generous, hospitable and caring. He made me laugh. He was in my life for twice as many years as my grandfather. I don’t remember him ever being angry, but I was angry at the world when he was dying. I didn’t think he deserved to be in that much pain. I remember crying hot tears of rage and hating God for the unfairness. I felt my world was better with Papa in it.
When he was alive, he and my grandmother moved to Bismarck. Even in the new location, their home continued to be a warm welcoming place. I went there when I felt wronged and when I just wanted to feel loved. The feeling of sanctuary and love remained wherever my grandparents made their home.
My grandmother Margaret is a true angel on earth. She nurtures all her children and will defend her own like an angered bear. Today, her home still feels like it is my filter from the real world, where I can be just me.
We all have moments in our lives where were want to run somewhere safe and into the arms of someone who loves us. I still run to my grandmother. I can’t imagine the world without her. I will never take her for granted. When I am with her, I feel like I have value. I will never be able to repay her for the feeling.
Even as an adult, I know she will comfort me. Likewise my children run to her, too. They call her "Grammy.” When my little son Kieran has a bad day at school, like when he’s picked on and called "white boy,” he always asks to go to "Grammy’s.’ I know that feeling of not quite being right to the world.
I thank God every night that we have a place to be where we feel we belong—in our own Kingdom of Heaven.
Micki Lindeman is a Tribal Environmental Science major at United Tribes Technical College. She plans on continuing school with the goal of becoming a lawyer.
She has three sons: Christian, Kieran and Harry James.
She says, "The Tribal College Journal has given me the opportunity to let my voice be heard and helped one of my dreams come true.” She was also published as a winner in the 2007 writing competition. Last year’s entry was about her father’s absence, this year she wrote about those who filled in the space he left open.
 Royce Collins |
I Had to Change My Life!
By Royce Collins
It was a freezing, zero degree early morning. I wondered if I would make it another night -- I hated this heartache. I needed a new love.
My remedy wasn’t working. I was putting myself and others around me in serious danger. I knew drugs were not the answer any more.
We had just started our early morning shift,I had just hung up the grease gun and cleaned my glasses; they kept fogging up on me.
It’s going to be an easy night. Stand back five drill collars and let the casing crew run casing. Drill collars were thirty something feet of long, thick metal pipe, used at the beginning of each drilling line; each one weighing about one ton, depending on how long they were. Casing is a thinner metal pipe that surrounds the drilling line concentrically, basically the outer wall of the well, which is cemented in place.
Our derrick man had called in earlier; he reported the police had closed down the road by his house because of snowy conditions, so he couldn’t come in. Great. So, the motor man had agreed to climb up the derrick and work the job. But before we started to work, he complained of stomach pains and feeling sick like he was going to vomit.
I’d had little experiencing working derricks. When I first broke out on the rigs in the Permian Basin near Hobbs, New Mexico, I pulled units (a smaller version of a drilling rig). Then, the crazy guys that I worked with chased me up the derricks, eager to see what this Indio was all about. And so was I. I did pretty good coming out of the well. It was going back in that I had trouble with. I about dropped every fifth stand (a stand is made of two pipes put together that connect as they go down the well hole). It was crazy! It just happened to be a windy day, and the rig swayed back and forth; the clouds were moving, which produced a natural craziness, if you will. One wrong move and I’d have a couple of missing fingers, or fingers mashed into nothing but flesh, blood and broken bones.
At this site, I was able to latch three smaller drill collars. Those were the only times I have ever been up in the derricks, except a couple of times for routine maintenance. So I harnessed up (the full body harness that derricks use for anti-fall protection) and hooked on to my derrick climber (another protection) and proceeded to climb up the derrick. Once at the top, I was double checking every step for sure footing (snow, cold weather and slick metal all could result in serious personal injury). All this and never looking like I was scared or high as a kite. I tied off my tie-off rope to the back of the derrick board; you must be tied off at all times. I untangled all the "pullback ropes” (ropes used to pullback collars or drill pipe, also used to secure the pipes that come out of the well safely in the derrick), and got them ready to throw around the collars and stands as they came out of the well, which is called "tripping pipe.”
Crap! Here it comes! How did this go? No time to think! Just react! I had watched our derrick man before, and for a little guy, he could perform impressive tasks. My movements and memory were correct, only I had forgotten to slide up the rope after I had a double wrapped on the collar. Pull! Pull! Everything I had went into that pull. They only weigh about two thousand pounds. Nonetheless it shouldn’t have taken my all.
Hurry! Hurry! Move faster! My mind screamed. I held on as tight as I could with one hand, trying not to give up any slack, while reaching for another rope to tie off the collar to the derrick.
Man! What happened? What’s wrong with me? Am I spent? I looked down, and immediately I could see what was wrong. This rig was just slapped together; it was like spare parts put together. Somehow the floor was too big for the derricks, and the floor hands were trying to stand the drill collar too far back!
"Come on! Put out!” they yelled.
"It’s too far back!” I yelled.
"Put out!” they yelled back.
Here it comes again! Only this time I slid up the rope, thinking that might have been the cause of the rope not pulling the collar back as I had expected. But still to no avail, I tugged and pulled the rope and used my weight and pushed down, trying to pull the collar toward me so that I could tie off the collar to the derricks. I got nowhere near the last one and the ropes were crossed! Arms feeling like spaghetti, I waved and hollered obscenities, mad at their ignorance, mad at myself for volunteering.
I hated my life and where it had taken me! I couldn’t pull the last collar. I dropped it into the boomer. I had tied a knot as they had instructed, but before I could grab another tie off rope, the knotted rope went right into the boomer! I needed that rope because it was long enough for pulling pipe and collars.
We still were yelling at each other. Angrier than ever, without thinking, I unhooked the tie off line that protected me from falling to my death. I needed my knotted rope! I climbed into the boomer with no regard for my life, just the task at hand.
I was forty feet in the air, and out of the corner of my eye I could see that the casing crew was leaving. Damn! They were leaving because I couldn’t get it! My hands were wet and frozen, almost useless but then I found a screw driver in my insulated coveralls (taking tools to the derricks is forbidden). If the toolpusher (the boss of our crew) had seen me, I could have gotten fired. But I broke the knot!
"Come on! LET’S GET IT!” I yelled angrily. I pulled the collar first, and then they stood the collar back. Nope! All we did was fight each other, three men on the floor trying to stand one collar back, and me trying to pull back the collar and tie it off. When all three jumped on the collar, that just slid the wet rope out of my already wet gloves! There it went into the boomer. Again obscenities flowed out my mouth! The next collar I was able to tie a knot before I unlatched the elevators releasing the collar to me, but the results were the same.
There is no way! They were standing the drill collars too far back! And again I
unhooked my safety lines and retrieved my rope.
This went on for what seemed like hours; it got colder, which meant daylight was a couple of hours away. Frost had formed on top of my head by the time the driller motioned me to come down. I am not going to quit now! I wanted to try again, or I’d never hear the end of it! I saw him climbing up the derrick, and I thought he was going to be angry at me for dropping those collars. I was already on the defensive, when instead, with a deafly calm voice, he said, "Let’s take a break.” Feeling like an angry child, relieved but disappointed, I came down. On my final step I reached to unhook the derrick climber and realized I had not even used the climber to come down. I had wondered why I felt heavy coming down.
I realized that night that I was better than all that and that I was meant for something better in life, far more respectable and safer than being a drugged-out roughneck. I have a new love today and that love is my clean and sober life.
Royce Collins, Navajo, is majoring in Computer Automated Drafting at Navajo Technical College in Crownpoint, NM. He is of the Folded Arms People clan and born for the Salt People clan. He is an officer in the college’s AISES club.
Collins did not finish high school "because of my stubbornness.” Instead, he chose to earn a G.E.D at the age of 21. He adds, "I went nowhere fast. It took me years of learning life’s lessons before I realized I wanted more out of life than what I had dealt myself. I soon realized the value of being an individual and that life does not stop for anyone. The things I have learned I could never write on paper.”
 Marjorie Eagleman |
Boozhoo, Anishinabedog
By Marjorie Eagleman
Naagiizigookwe indizhinikaaz Ojibwem.
Waawaashkeshii nin doodem.
Akoonaamedaawanggaasang Indoonjibaa.
Marjorie Indizhinikaaz Zhaaganaashimowin.
Ni-wiidige.
Stewart Eagleman ezhinikaazod Ninaabem.
Nishwaaswi nigaanisag indayaawag.
Ashi-bezhig-ni nu shi shay-u.
Ni-min-wedam gi kinoo’ amaa-goo Yaan ji nitaa Ojibwemoyan.
Ingii Ojibwem iko gakina dash geggo ingii wanendaan.
Niin indoonjibah Ojibwe Ashinishaabekaa.
Niin indoonjibaa mashkawaa wah-ow chi-ayah wug anishinaabe-gaagiigadoog-wug.
Niin ingitiziimag dash gaye nimishoomis Nokomis gaganoonidiwag iwapii Ojibwe.
Nitam apii nin Gikinoo’ amaagoz Ni dibaajimowin api bangii ikwezens ni gi-izhaa oodenaang wiijiiw nimishoomis miinawaa nookomis.
Ishi adah-wi-ga-migong widoo kaw wiinawaa.
Nii aanikanootaw Ojibwem zhaaganaashimo.
Mii debwetam inde’an gichi-ay’aag miin bima’a doo ji-ni-inaan ashishinaabekaa wii zhaabiwii.
Niin miniigwechi wedam izhi ayaan gikinoo’ amaagoziyaan noongoom.
Jibwaa bi-izhaayan gikinoo’ amagozi gaween gikendan dibi akeyaa niwe izhaayun.
Wa’aw mii aanapii ni onedam ge gikendan ni inwewin-an Bakisi ni, bimaadiki ji inge bana’w.
Niin bagosenim akina daa ayaaw wa-aw bezhigwan bawaazh ishkonamaw inwe winen,
bawaazh izhi gashki’ ewizi wijii Gichi- Miigwechiwenim!, naandamaw minowe
aanikoobijigan ji a’aw wiinetawaa abinoojiinhyag gaye noozhishenh-yag
wii ayaan ni sidotam idash ayaaw, nanda-gikendan gida Ashishinaabe-gaa giidowug.
Ninawind Anishinaabe zaagi abinoojiihn-yag gichi-ayaa’aa’g Aabaji
Inwewin naadamaw Anishinabeg zoongizi izhi-ayaa Anishinabe bimadizi.
ingitiziim-ag Gina’amaadim ondendi gagiigido wiinawaa wiinetawa daa gaga noonidiwag endaad miinawaa chi nii’mi’i diwag mamigaade animiwizh onji endaad
O’ozhichigaade miigiwe ashininaabe bimaadizi.
Aanikibijganag Niibowa waawiindawa wiinawa gaa wiikaa bwaanawi’ danakamid.
Wiinawa inendam mish izhaamagad ayaa wenipazhi jaaginige.
Inaadiziwin an maskwowizi aanapii ninawind nagajitoon inwewin Gikinoo’amaad
niniijanis-ag idash-gaye noozhishenh Yag.
Miigwech bizindawi-ag noongoom mii dash dibaajimotow ni bawazzh.
Wa’aw mii’ow miinik waikidoo-an noon-goom.
Hello, my fellow Indian friends
(English translation)
By Marjorie Eagleman
In Ojibwa, I am called Noon-Sun-Lady.
My clan is the deer.
I come from Maple Plain.
Marjorie is my name in English.
I am married.
Stewart Eagleman is my husband’s name.
We have seven children.
We have eleven grandchildren.
I like coming to school and learning Ojibwe.
I used to talk Ojibway, but I forgot everything.
I come from the Ojibwe where there are many people.
I come from a strong tradition where Indian people talk to each other in their own language.
My parents and my grandparents talked in Indian language.
The first time I came to school I was told a story about when I was a little girl.
I would go to town with my grandfather and grandmother.
I would go to the grocery store and help them.
I would translate Ojibwe to English.
I believe in my heart that our elders gave us a path to follow so that our many people will survive.
I am thankful to be going to school today.
Before coming to school I didn’t know which direction I was going.
This is when I decided to learn my language, which was a part of my life that was missing.
I wish that all could have this same dream of saving our language, a dream to accomplish with a great big "Thank you!,” to help carry on the voice of our ancestors so that our children and grandchildren will have an understanding, and seek to learn to speak an Indian language.
We are Indian people of a nation that loves our children and elders and use the language to help our people to become strong in our Indian way of life.
My parents and their parents were forbidden from speaking Indian. They could only speak it at home and at ceremonies.
They were taken away from their homes and forced to give up their way of life.
Our ancestors were promised many promises that were never able to happen.
They thought it was going to be easy to take everything.
Our way of life becomes stronger when we use our language to teach our children and our grandchildren.
Thank you for listening to me today, to tell you my dream.
This is all I am going to say.
Marjorie Eagleman graduated this year from the Lac Courte Oreilles Ojibwa Community College in Hayward, Wisconsin, where she attended the St. Croix Outreach Site. She is an enrolled member of the St. Croix Ojibwa and lives in Cumberland in Wisconsin.
Eagleman plans to pursue a master’s degree in Native American Studies with an Ojibwa language emphasis. Her interest in writing the language of her ancestors is to reclaim what she lost while attending public schools and to learn a new way of life. She says, "My earlier schooling was really difficult for me, I had a hard time understanding what was being taught. I think I may understand why, now. The teachers didn’t take time to understand me.”
Thankful to all her instructors, Eagleman says they helped her "open up my eyes” and pushed her to her potential. She adds, "I have found that I can accomplish and succeed in whatever I put my mind to.”