Fall 2009 TCJ STUDENT EDITION
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STUDENT EDITION - PAGE 2
Wakarusa By Ruth Laws McLain
Grandma By Laura Loyd
The Flaming Chicken By Winston Cambridge
Ode to the Rocket By Winston Cambridge
Beloved Stomp Dance By Tricia Fields
St. Norbert Swam in the Mill Pond By Justin Gauthier
Transformations By Merissa Storey
Equator By Ross D. Luther
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Wakarusa
(Wakarusa is Potawatomi meaning “knee deep in mud.”)
By Ruth Laws McLain
Five summers, seven summers, most
only ten summers old. They hide in
graves. Spirits of the wetlands.
Charles Panther, Osage,
peeled from mother’s arms
at gunpoint, sent far away
from buffalo hunts, stripped
of moccasins, deer skins,
his tongue silenced.
Five hundred classmates dead,
half with graves unmarked. Murdered,
diseased, brokenhearted. Voices blending with
Wood Duck’s loud wooo-eeek! wooo-eeek!
Henslow’s sparrow, tsi-lick! And
Northern Waterthrush, tail bobbing,
Chee—chee—chee
chip-chip-chip-chew-chew-chew!
Wildflowers, bidens and smartweed,
thrive in lower swales.
Muskrats harvest cattails
to build their lodges
where rough-leaved dogwood,
Indian arrow shafts, thrive.
Dragonfly clutches tall native grass
swaying with the wind, wingtips
translucent. Look close. Home
to the slender glass lizard,
southern leopard frog, rare.
Trumpetvines, visited by
ruby-throated hummingbirds
take root in my soul.
Woodchuck, bobcat and badger
co-exist without treaty.
Elephants and donkeys clad in Armani
walk Massachusetts Avenue and kiss babies,
but not ours.
Army Corps of Engineers
present indefensible blueprints,
numbers unfolded, flipped, twisted.
Propose eight lanes of culpable
concrete shroud-smothering existence
to desecrate our burial grounds,
but not yours.
Charles Panther, restless,
faces east toward the wetlands
buried knee deep in mud.
Author’s note: From 1884 until the early 1900's, when Haskell was a boarding school, some students fled the harshness of the school by escaping through the wetlands. Some perished there, others chose suicide, rather than face the brutality of the school. We believe the wetlands are the burial grounds of some of the earliest students and that they are sacred: "Buried knee deep in mud."
"Wakarusa" is a protest of the proposed construction of a multi-lane road through the Wakarusa Wetlands on the south side of the Haskell campus. Not only would the proposed road destroy the ecosystem, but the nuisance noise from the traffic would negatively impact the Haskell cemetery and the Medicine Wheel which are very near the proposed project.
Ruth Laws McLain (Cherokee, Swedish, Scottish, French) is a full-time American Indian Studies major at Haskell Indian Nations University in Lawrence, KS. She is a non-traditional sophomore, returning to school in her forties. Her husband, Paul, is an Episcopal priest at Trinity Episcopal Church (affiliated with the diocese of Kansas) in Lawrence.
McLain is a staff reporter for the Indian Leader, the oldest Native American student newspaper, operating at Haskell since 1897. She loves writing and hopes that her newspaper work, as well as her studies in the American Indian program, will enrich her abilities as a writer.
McLain was born in Orofino, ID and reared in MS. She has lived in 11 states, and loves the unique differences each offers. After completing her bachelor’s degree, she plans to pursue a master’s degree.
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Grandma
By Laura Loyd
She hangs linens in the wind,
The brightest white and royal blue,
They sway, like trees
In the breeze, So warm
Inside her kitchen,
Aromas arise
Of baking bread and red apple butter
Made by her hands alone.
Her legacy will live on.
It keeps beating,
Like a drum through us all.
The top of a growing tree,
She will remain,
My Grandma.
Laura Loyd (Cherokee) attends Haskell Indian Nations University in Lawrence, KS, where she is following her love of politics by majoring in political science. She plans to earn her B.A. in political science from Mizzou, a.k.a. Missouri State University, and attend law school there as well. Loyd says, “I hope to one day be involved in Native American law and politics.” Her ultimate dream “is to become the first Native American female president.”
Loyd says, “My interest in writing stems from my childhood. My mother is an English teacher and I owe her much credit for where I am now.” With a minor in English, Loyd continues to work on the poetry she began enjoying back in middle school.
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The Flaming Chicken
By Winston Cambridge
I remember the first time I officially became a “car nut.” I was about seven or eight years old and the series “Smokey and the Bandit” was showing on T.V. I’m still not sure exactly what drew me to the black Pontiac Firebird that Burt Reynolds drove. Maybe it was the look of the car or the fact that no car could ever outrun it. After watching a few episodes, I was hooked. The only things on my mind were muscle cars; with every penny that I could save, I bought a new toy car. It didn’t matter if it was a Firebird, Camaro, Mustang, or Challenger.
My first time riding in a Firebird was a whole different story. My uncle had picked me up to drop me off at Grandma’s house. I was going to spend the weekend with her.
I can still picture the shiny candy-red paint and recall the mixed smell of oil and coconut air freshener. One of the first questions I asked was, “How fast does it go?” My uncle simply smiled and started driving. He made me wait until we were almost there. On the last straightaway before town, he asked if I still wanted to know how fast the car could go. I grinned and nodded my head, and with that he hit the throttle.
The car squatted down and the engine roared to life. It was as if an invisible hand was pushing me back into the seat. The lines on the road started to become a blur. I watched the speedometer rise and fly through the marks. Eighty, ninety, one hundred. I stopped looking when it went past one hundred and five miles per hour. At this point most people would have started grabbing for something to hold onto or yelling at the driver to slow down. For me, it was an odd feeling to be relaxed amidst the loud blast of the exhaust, the howling wind and the rush of going faster than I had ever gone in my life.
When we finally started to slow down, the grin was still plastered on my face. Uncle laughed and told me not to tell Grandma or else she would “ring his neck” for going that fast with me in the car. That experience is one I will never forget.
Years went by and my love for cars only became stronger, so much that it led me to enroll in school at Universal Technical Institute (UTI) in Phoenix, Arizona. There were other schools in the area, but I chose UTI for one reason; they offered “Hot Rod University.” It was basically a 3-month course that covered everything from building naturally aspirated big-block motors, to squeezing the maximum amount of power out of four-cylinder engines using superchargers and turbos. I was submersed in all the information needed to make cars and trucks perform at their very best. During my time there, I honed my car-building skills to a fine edge. I enjoyed every minute of my time spent in class. I was a kid in a candy store.
After graduating I went on to become a line technician at the Sanderson Ford dealership in Glendale, Arizona. I worked there for a few months and was able to save enough money to purchase and build my own car. It wasn’t much, a 1996 Ford Probe GT. I bought it fairly cheap for $800. For the next 3 months I jumped head-first into my project car. Every bit of free time and every dollar I had went into making this car do what I wanted it to do: go fast. It’s almost impossible to recall all the times I worked into the wee hours of the morning, tuning the car to run just right. Going to work on 3 hours of sleep was never easy.
The first time I took the “GT” to the drag strip, I had no idea what to expect. When I pulled up to the staging lanes to heat my tires, I started to feel nervous. I couldn’t shake the feeling, even when I pulled to the starting line. The feeling became worse when the light tree lit up. But when the light switched from orange to green, instantly the nervous feeling disappeared. Suddenly, I felt like that little kid in the Firebird again. The same big grin made its way back as I was flying down the track; I was back in my “happy place.” When I got down to the end of the track, I looked back and couldn’t believe the time that I had turned in. The “GT” had covered the quarter-mile strip in 13.6 seconds at 124 miles per hour.
On my way home I was simply amazed at the monster I had built. The only thought going through my mind was how, just a couple of months ago, this car had been sitting in a junk yard just waiting to be fed to the crusher. Now here it was rolling down the highway, looking and running better than it had when it rolled off the show-room floor. Then I began feeling like that kid in the Firebird again. That is when I realized I had gone full circle. I had achieved one of my dreams. I drove on, thankful that I was blessed to be able to accomplish my goal and have the chance to be doing something I truly love.
People say you should pursue a career in something you enjoy doing. That way it never becomes a job. I had to grin a little bit that my whole love affair with cars had gotten its start from a black sports car with a “Flaming Chicken” painted on the hood.
Winston Cambridge (Navajo) grew up in Crownpoint, NM, where he is enrolled in the Computer Aided Drafting program at Navajo Technical College. Cambridge says, “I have followed jobs to the east coast, the west coast, and just about everywhere in between. I originally wanted to build race cars for a career, then I had a change of heart, and became a carpenter. I followed that career path for a few years, until last year, when I decided that I wanted to try something new, once again.
Cambridge expects “to finish the program by the winter of 2010, and continue in advanced 3-D graphics and design.” The father to 2-year old Joaquin Raekwon Cambridge says, “My ultimate goal is to be able to use these tools to start building and designing custom racing equipment.”
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Ode to the Rocket
By Winston Cambridge
“Oh, Nineteen Sumthin” is all anyone seems to remember of your birth.
Rain, Mud, Snow, “First nights,” and “Yei-bi-chei,” you’ve seen’em all.
It never mattered that your bald tires didn’t match.
Sometimes you even decided to stall at the worst times,
but all it took was a tap on the starter
or a push down the dahiskidii, the hill,
to fix the good ol’ chiddy.
Oh, your muffler and body panels are fine examples
of how versatile baling wire can be.
From the dents and scratches
to the different color streaks of paint,
each has its own memory and story;
some of the details are faint, but still there.
Even though your repairs seem to only coincide
with the seasons – tax-season, pinon-season –
still you continue on down the road without any ill feelings.
And it is for these different reasons I must tip my hat to the one
and only Rez Rocket, ‘cause without you my thumb
would probably be freezin’.
Winston Cambridge (Navajo), grew up in Crownpoint, NM, where he is enrolled in the Computer Aided Drafting program at Navajo Technical College. Cambridge says, “I have followed jobs to the east coast, the west coast, and just about everywhere in between. I originally wanted to build race cars for a career, then I had a change of heart, and became a carpenter. I followed that career path for a few years, until last year, when I decided that I wanted to try something new, once again.
Cambridge expects “to finish the program by the winter of 2010, and continue in advanced 3-D graphics and design.” The father to 2-year old Joaquin Raekwon Cambridge says, “My ultimate goal is to be able to use these tools to start building and designing custom racing equipment."
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Beloved Stomp Dance
By Tricia Fields
Sparkling embers–whirl in the night sky
Carry our prayers and songs up to Creator
Sparkling embers–from a ceremonial fire
Dance lightly to a rhythm with no drum
Men sing ancient songs of long ago
Women and girls keep the rhythm
Turtle shells tied to our legs
Pebbles rattle loudly within them
Men lead, women support
Equal but with different roles
It’s not oppression, but helping one another
That’s the way our people are
Sparkling embers–whirl in the night sky
Carry our prayers and songs out to Mother Earth
Sparkling embers–from a ceremonial fire
Glow warmly around those who gather
Colorful ribbon shirts, vests and hunting coats
Custom made with love and care
Ribbon skirts with lace and family patchwork
Represent who we are, by those who care
Cowboy hats with beaded hatbands
Ball caps with beaded brims
Delicate feathers pinned securely
Worn proudly by fathers, brothers and sons
Sparkling embers–whirl in the night sky
Carry our prayers and songs up to Grandfather Sun
Sparkling embers–from a ceremonial fire
Will never die if we carry on
We dance counterclockwise, one behind another
Songs fast and loud like thunder
Some soft and slow, Native lullabies in the night
These songs I always want to remember
Each time we dance is special
Hardworking hands fan our sacred fire
Bodies dance and sway like waves of water
Then stop quickly, right on beat
Sparkling embers–whirl in the night sky
Carry our prayers and songs up to Creator
Sparkling embers–from a ceremonial fire
Crackle softly with delight
Our eyes sting sweetly from the smoke
Our bodies drip with sweat
Exhausted legs dance every song
Proudly embracing every step
Near and far we migrate home
Friendships made that last for life
Until we greet a brand-new dawn
We’ll dance and sing throughout the night
Sparkling embers–whirl in the night sky
Carry our prayers and songs up to Creator
Sparkling embers–from a ceremonial fire
Dance lightly to a rhythm with no drum
Let us dance for those who can’t
Singing songs for those who’ve gone
We teach our children all these ways
Making sure to pass them on
Beloved stomp dance, our dear friend
It’s time for us to leave
We’ll dance one more song
It’s now our turn to lead!
Tricia Fields (Yuchi, Creek, Pawnee, Chickasaw and Choctaw) is studying Tribal Services and Native American Studies at College of the Muscogee Nation in Okmulgee, OK. She also attends Oklahoma State University. Fields loves reading and writing Native American poetry and storytelling.
Fields, a shellshaker from the Polecat Ceremonial Grounds and a southern cloth dancer from the Pawnee Nation, wrote her poem about the Muscogee (Creek) and Yuchi stomp dance. The proud mother of four children, says, “I am thankful for my grandparents and great-grandmothers. They were all so encouraging and overcame so much. I hope that I can be just like my grandmothers and make my children proud of who they come from.” Fields adds, “I encourage my Native American people to write down their stories and memories.”
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St. Norbert Swam in the Mill Pond
By Justin Gauthier
In autumn 1934, rail riding was coming to a close for all the summer hobos. Hap and I had ridden the train from Neopit to De Pere and back again once a week to work the foundry for years. A nickel note a week seemed a fair price to give the old woman with rooms to let in the rickety De Pere house we flopped at. Besides, our hoboism allowed us some extra money to bring home for our families, which was the whole point.
The 66 miles of track between home and work got shorter with each week’s ride. It helped that, at times, we shared our car with various raconteurs and generally disreputable characters who usually were vagrants. There were also good people. One was a man that called himself “A No. 1.” Hap took a shine to him right away on account of his affable nature and his ability to tell tall tales that he swore were true.
Generally, the train left the mill in Neopit on Sunday in the early afternoon. We’d hop it in the lumberyard and click-clack our way to De Pere. The pace of the train was often slow in urban areas, and it allowed us time to talk or eat our lunches, which usually consisted of a small loaf of bread, a type of meat, usually venison, and a hard-boiled egg or two.
Just the year before, Hap’s wife had bought him a fancy jug called a Dewar flask, a fantastic invention that kept liquids insulated for hours on end. He would brew a strong batch of coffee at home to bring along in colder weather or a nice, cold pitcher of lemonade to relieve us in the heat. Sometimes we finished the coffee or lemonade and used the urban pit stops to fill the flask with beer or some other libation.
My brother, Happy, or Hap as I called him, was ironically nicknamed. He could be ornery and did not mind fisticuffs. In fact, he relished it. To his credit, he was quite a good boxer and had never been beaten in all the dozens of matches I’d seen him in.
There was silence broken by a thunderclap the night that Hap fought the brute who claimed to be the sparring partner of both Jack Johnson and Jack Dempsey.
He had caught our Pullman on the fly in Pulaski, startling us all lumbering in from the darkness. The city lights filtered in, showing his profile. He had cauliflower ears and a face reminiscent of James Cagney, if Cagney had had his nose broken a dozen times and decided to menace instead of entertain.
“Hello, boys,” the brute said. We grumbled hellos as he plopped down next to A No.1. “Hey, old timer, you have anything to eat?” he said, laying his bindle down and staring hard at A No.1
“Ya, I got this half-loaf.” A No.1 produced the crumbly lump from inside his lint knit sweater and smiled at the stranger. “I’ll split it with you.”
“Thanks, landlord.” The stranger grabbed the half-loaf from A No.1 and began eating the bread with abandon.
“Hey! That’s all my food you’re eating!” A No.1 said. He stood up and began stomping his foot in protest. The stranger pushed him back to the floor. “Shut yer trap, old fool! You’re gonna put me off my feed.”
Hap was a blur as he darted to A No.1’s side. “You alright?” he asked.
“Ya, I’m okay, this bindle stiff just got the drop on me, that’s all,” A No.1 said.
“Hey! Watch who you call a bindle stiff, you old tramp. I’ll grease the rails with ya,” The stranger said through a mouthful of dry bread. “Say, I’m dry. Any of you no accounts got any swill?”
Lightning flashed as he stood and began stalking the floor, addressing each man personally. “My name is Luke Briar, from Spokane, Washington. I’ve fought with Jack Dempsey and Johnson. I rode the rails from coast to coast and border to border. When I ask for a drink, goddamn right somebody better jump up and get me one!” Thunder pealed.
Hap’s Dewar flask lay next to me, and Luke’s eyes brightened as he spotted it there. “Well, friend, what’ve we got here?” Luke snatched the flask, inspecting it in the cone of the lantern light we all sat around the edge of, seeming pleased. He shook it and heard liquid sloshing around inside. I stood up to confront him, but Hap was already between us. He whispered to me, “Let me take care of this, Si.”
Luke was twisting the cover off when Hap snatched the flask out of his hands. “That’s my flask, and I’ll be damned if some blowhard is gonna lift it without even knuckling down for it.” Luke looked impressed at Hap’s speech. “Well, you talk tough, but…” Luke never finished this sentence, trying to dry-gulch Hap by pushing him out the partially open door of the car. Hap dropped his flask and gripped the edges of the door. Luke backed up and took the stance of a seasoned fighter as Hap hung outside the door.
There was a slight taste of copper in the air as Hap forcefully pulled into the railcar. Using momentum, Hap swung, and as he did so, a bright flash filled the car. A deafening clap of sound burst in the confined space. Illuminated, blank faces witnessed a bolt of lightning strike Hap in the back and travel in a dazzling blue bolt through his arm and straight into the surprised face of Luke Briar.
Luke was launched off his feet, through the opposite wall of the car into the dark, rainy night he’d come from. Hap was a smoldering heap by the door. I tended to him and discovered that he had burnt his back and arm, and miraculously, he seemed fine.
Hap changed after that night. He became penitent, attending church obsessively. We never found out what became of Luke Briar. Hap never fought again.
“Posoh, my name is Justin Gauthier.”
An enrolled member of the Menominee Tribe of Wisconsin, Gauthier is studying liberal arts at College of Menominee Nation in Keshena, WI. He says, “I hope to focus my career efforts towards the betterment of the quality of life for my family, friends and fellow tribal members. Pursuant to my studies, I intend to seek employment in either the social or academic fields.”
As he explains it, the impetus for Gauthier’s stories “was a combination of homage to my grandparents Louis (Si) and Arline Washinawatok and my parents John P. Gauthier and Andrea White.” He says, “The process of writing the stories was influenced by W.P. Kinsella and Winston Groom.”
Instructors Ryan Winn, Dennis Vickers, Vicky Besaw, and Nichole Argall are acknowledged by Gauthier “for their guidance and good counsel.” He adds, “Feel free to read more of my writings on my blog at myspace.com/justingauthier76”
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Transformations
By Merissa Storey
Walking through the hollow hallways of my college has not always been the easiest of tasks, especially that first day. I remember walking in the doors of the Mikinuk Building, not looking at anyone. I noticed the polished floors, the crowded tables, and the distant conversations I could only faintly hear. I felt my gut and my nerves becoming incredibly tense. I imagined that even Buddhist monks deep in meditation in the vast mountains of Thailand could hear the irregular beating of my heart.
As I stepped into the classroom, my bewildered mind started to flood with doubting thoughts. “What if I fail?” “Am I smart enough for this?” “What am I doing here?” I wondered if anyone else felt this way; I doubted it. The first class was intense; the instructor seemed passionate about her work. That day she assigned a thought-provoking and creative assignment. She asked us to read a short story by Maya Angelou entitled “Complaining,”and to respond to just one question: “What types of people have you observed and don’t want to be like?” It only took a few seconds of thought before I knew what I would write. There is only one type of person I don’t want to be like. That person is me.
I have always been quiet, reserved, and unapproachable. In social settings, I shy away from people and usually refrain from speaking unless spoken to. This has been an annoyance my entire life. I came out of the womb not wanting to face the world.
It has affected my life down to its very core, its essence, in a profound way: in the way I speak, the way I feel, and in the way my life has unfolded and continues to unfold. My passive personality has been a hindrance to my academic career and to my social life. It also seems to affect the way people perceive me. People do tend to pick on shy people, with seemingly good intentions. Trying to get me to talk is a great past-time of many people. Most fail. It’s not easy being the cheese always standing alone. People don’t understand that it is against my nature to be outgoing; it is just the way I am.
I had a certain self-loathing air about me, and I saw the great need to change. If there were one type of person I didn’t want to be like, it was the pessimistic, passive, and prickly personality I had become. The fears that overwhelmed me had changed my identity into someone that I didn’t even recognize.
Walking into that class for the first time was distressing, but what it inspired me to realize made the whole experience worthwhile. At the time, I wasn’t quite sure why I was attending college. Everything in my life was filled with uncertainty. Needless to say, I didn’t have much faith in myself or my ability to become who I wanted to be. Then, slowly, I began to realize the potential I had, not only as a student, but as a human being as well. This class, this college, and these people, have all opened my eyes to new ideas and new ways of thinking. I see that what I have to offer the world is ultimately meaningful, and that to suppress the power to create meaning in our lives would be a tragedy. I regard this realization as a gift. I now know the true meaning of my own life. Looking into the future no longer elicits fear or dread. I now look forward to discovering the things I can create.
In the future I hope to utilize my writing as a catalyst for awareness and change. Looking back on my time spent at community college, my eyes are not clouded. I can only see the good in what I’ve learned. These hallways no longer seem hollow. Instead, they are filled with inspiration. While I know there is still a long road ahead of me, I will never forget where I took my first steps and who inspired me to continue on.
Merissa Storey (Bay Mills Indian Community) attends the Bay Mills Community College in Brimley, MI. She plans to major in journalism and pursue a career in writing. As a member of the Bay Mills Indian Community, she enjoys the sense of family and is interested in community involvement. Her hobby is photography.
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Equator
By Ross D. Luther
In the midst of the South China Sea
Upon the imaginary line
That divides the world
Between North, South
Scorching yellow orb
Deep azure water
Chambray sky
Salted air
Drab gray hulk that is the USS San Bernardino
And the seagulls squawk and scold
Dolphins and flying fish compete to lead the ship
At the boundary the ship drops anchor
Natives paddle home earnestly
Wives and children await the day’s catch
Meanwhile on deck Marines stand tall
All eyes observe the arc of the horizon
All hands must pay homage to Davy Jones
As a maritime tribute
Charges against the polliwogs are filed
Required dues are paid in full
Rituals are now past tense
Rest and relaxation near
A sergeant yells, “Well done, Charlie 1/7”
The liberty bell is sounded
And the Jarheads descend on Bali
An old Navy tradition is to be heeded
At the crossing of the equator
Transformation occurs
Into an old salt
That has sailed
The seven seas
Ross Duane Luther (Laguna Pueblo and Chippewa) is a sophomore at Haskell Indian Nations University (HINU) in Lawrence, Kansas. Luther is a Marine Corp veteran of the first Gulf War and is employed in Facilities Operations at the University of Kansas. His girlfriend, Nina April, and his sister, Winona Hansen, a 1993 graduate of HINU, coaxed him into attending college. He says he should have started “some twenty odd years ago.”
Luther started with a degree in American Indian Studies in mind, but may switch to a writing degree. He says, “Since I have gotten a taste for writing, I’m leaning toward writing fiction, poetry and short stories.” Taking a creative writing class in the summer of 2008 got him started. “I am very thankful to Trish Reeves, a wonderful English teacher, who exposed me to poetry and short stories,” he adds.