excerpt from COLORS OF MY WORLD (see Aug 31,2010)
Quite often there was a quilting rack set up in the middle of the floor in Grandmother's bedroom. The rack must have been 8 foot by 6 foot.
I remember that square! Grandmother used to wear a dress like that - rosy colored with white lilies and green daisies. Over there was a navy blue square with red roses. It looked like another Sunday church dress. Her Sunday church dresses were as gentle bouquets like her sweet smile. Each quilt became a mosaic of memories recalling events and past times - a Sunday church dress, a first day of school dress, the shirt with the nose bleed stains from an overly energetic son, the printed potato sack that had been temporarily made into someone's underwear during hard times. My aunts, Grandmother and my mother sat around it and threaded the tough white quilting thread through the squares and while the chatter of my aunts fluttered through the room, Grandmother would sometimes doze in the rocker by the window.
I remember Grandmother as she sat in the cushioned rocker with the worn old Bible in its accustomed place - her white, blue-veined hands. Her silvery hair with the sun on it hallooed her age-creased face. Her blue eyes smiled and her lips curved in a quiet agreement with her eyes. Her work-bent body, in the old-fashioned dress of grey with the white lace collar, was covered by a knitted lavender shawl around her shoulders. I can see her lift a gentle hand in greeting, a hand that wiped tears from the cheeks of twelve children, a hand that cooked and sewed for a large, very diverse family. Six sons loved her for picking up their shattered child hopes and dreams and mending them with love and understanding, never a raised voice, but a gentle chiding with "now, child", which brought an intense desire to make her happy. Six daughters loved her for showing them in example the true, inner qualities of a lady. I remember tears change to smiles as she kissed my tomboy sister's bruised forehead. Her faithful visits to the church every week were a part of my faith. She was a peacemaker.
Anticipation was excruciating for my sister, my brother and I as we watched her churn and sing:
"Come butter, come!
Anne's at the gate
And can't hardly wait.
Come, butter come!"
We knew we would get some pale, yellow creamy butter on the hot steaming cornbread that Aunt Helen had just taken out of the oven. I wonder if it is important to know that she did not like Abraham Lincoln? Why do I remember that ? After the churning and the noonday meal was finished, we would gather in the sitting room which later became Grandmother's bedroom as she got sicker and faded away.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
LIFE
excerpt from ANNE'S WRITINGS (See Aug 31, 2010)
A breeze to blow a seed's quest,
A drop of rain to germinate,
A ray of sun to give a life,
Tight bud,
Lovely petals,
Nature's cycle.
A touch to train an errant curl,
A nod to aid a shy, poem teller,
An extra dime in young lunch pail,
Quick hug,
Gentle pat.
Extends birth pangs.
A shrug on hearing a plea for love,
A tear on reaping a loss of trust,
Need from child renews a bond,
Reaching, crying,
Sharing, trying,
Webs of love.
Other faces full of despair,
Other homes with anger and fear,
Hearing, Seeing,
Kneeling, praying,
Hands entwined to serve.
ahr 1990
A breeze to blow a seed's quest,
A drop of rain to germinate,
A ray of sun to give a life,
Tight bud,
Lovely petals,
Nature's cycle.
A touch to train an errant curl,
A nod to aid a shy, poem teller,
An extra dime in young lunch pail,
Quick hug,
Gentle pat.
Extends birth pangs.
A shrug on hearing a plea for love,
A tear on reaping a loss of trust,
Need from child renews a bond,
Reaching, crying,
Sharing, trying,
Webs of love.
Other faces full of despair,
Other homes with anger and fear,
Hearing, Seeing,
Kneeling, praying,
Hands entwined to serve.
ahr 1990
Saturday, September 25, 2010
ONE CHEROKEE'S STORY
excerpt from ANNE'S WRITINGS (See Aug 31, 2010)
A friend of mine and I went to a lecture at the University Of Asheville held by Garfield Long, a Cherokee translator. He was born and grew up in Cherokee, NC. He appeared to be in his thirties. From his birth to four years old he spoke nothing but Cherokee. He did not learn English until he started to school. In his youth he felt distant from his Cherokee history and heritage. It was not talked about in his home. One day he was invited by Marie Junaluska, a much respcted leader of the Cherokee community, on a trip to Tennessee. They walked a five mile stretch of road which was part of the Trail of Tears route. His inner consciousness seemed to take him to another time. He could see wagon ruts and the atmosphere was cold and misty. He saw images of elders and children walking this trail. The emotional impact of this experience stayed with him and he developed a real interest in his background. He was proud to be a Cherokee, proud of his grandparents who had stayed in North Carolina instead of allowing themselves to be forced to go to Oklahoma. He acknowledged that he was still learning about his culture. The remainder of his lecture was a very extensive, and fascinating relay of the history of his people until the present time.
A friend of mine and I went to a lecture at the University Of Asheville held by Garfield Long, a Cherokee translator. He was born and grew up in Cherokee, NC. He appeared to be in his thirties. From his birth to four years old he spoke nothing but Cherokee. He did not learn English until he started to school. In his youth he felt distant from his Cherokee history and heritage. It was not talked about in his home. One day he was invited by Marie Junaluska, a much respcted leader of the Cherokee community, on a trip to Tennessee. They walked a five mile stretch of road which was part of the Trail of Tears route. His inner consciousness seemed to take him to another time. He could see wagon ruts and the atmosphere was cold and misty. He saw images of elders and children walking this trail. The emotional impact of this experience stayed with him and he developed a real interest in his background. He was proud to be a Cherokee, proud of his grandparents who had stayed in North Carolina instead of allowing themselves to be forced to go to Oklahoma. He acknowledged that he was still learning about his culture. The remainder of his lecture was a very extensive, and fascinating relay of the history of his people until the present time.
Friday, September 24, 2010
SPIRIT RUN
excerpt from ANNE'S WRITINGS: also @RACE UNITY. COM (see Aug 31, 2010)
In 2000 a group of youth composed of mostly Native American tribes but also others decided to make a run across the country starting on the west coast and touching the sea on the east coast proclaiming that God is most Glorious!
This is an email I sent out during this event.
When the Spirit Run youth came through Illinois and ran up the steps to the Baha'i House of Worship in Wilmette, with their beautiful radiant faces. accompanied by native drums, crying "Ya Baha-ul-Baha" (God is most Glorious), fulfilling a wish of Abdu'l-Baha to "raise the call though on foot" I was moved to tears. When I heard the stories of their sacrifices to make this 3,000 mile journey of the spirit to teach the oneness of mankind across our country I was inspired and full of awe and wonder. There was a core of nine with backup groups bringing the number to nineteen. The youngest was fourteen and the oldest 30. There was a support group of adults who set up and took down tents along the route, arranged for the food, attended to the bruises and sore muscles and encouraged them every step of the way. One youth who had injured his knee and couldn't run, got up in the early morning before any one else and walked his eleven miles for the day so he would not slow anyone down and could still be a part of the run. Another time when they were behind schedule some of the youth ran in the middle of the night so the miles could be covered and they could still arrive on time for a community to greet them as planned. Some of the youth sent their school work back to their home town by internet after their daily run.
When the leader of the group spoke on the steps of the House of Worship he said that it was not the individuals who needed to be recognized but the message they carried of the oneness of mankind and the need to come together in unity and love. The group of youth had quite a few tribes represented, two Persians, a Guanimanian, a very blonde youth, a youth with Native American, African-American and Caucasian ancestry, a youth with three tribes in his family.
If you are in the upcoming route please make every effort to greet them, this encourages and uplifts them in their journey. Keep them in your prayers. This is not an easy effort for them but they are totally committed to going all the way from Seattle to New York before they are through. When they stop for a meal or visit they start at the very point of their break so not even an inch is missed by them.
Much love in the struggle,
Anne
7-24-2000
In 2000 a group of youth composed of mostly Native American tribes but also others decided to make a run across the country starting on the west coast and touching the sea on the east coast proclaiming that God is most Glorious!
This is an email I sent out during this event.
When the Spirit Run youth came through Illinois and ran up the steps to the Baha'i House of Worship in Wilmette, with their beautiful radiant faces. accompanied by native drums, crying "Ya Baha-ul-Baha" (God is most Glorious), fulfilling a wish of Abdu'l-Baha to "raise the call though on foot" I was moved to tears. When I heard the stories of their sacrifices to make this 3,000 mile journey of the spirit to teach the oneness of mankind across our country I was inspired and full of awe and wonder. There was a core of nine with backup groups bringing the number to nineteen. The youngest was fourteen and the oldest 30. There was a support group of adults who set up and took down tents along the route, arranged for the food, attended to the bruises and sore muscles and encouraged them every step of the way. One youth who had injured his knee and couldn't run, got up in the early morning before any one else and walked his eleven miles for the day so he would not slow anyone down and could still be a part of the run. Another time when they were behind schedule some of the youth ran in the middle of the night so the miles could be covered and they could still arrive on time for a community to greet them as planned. Some of the youth sent their school work back to their home town by internet after their daily run.
When the leader of the group spoke on the steps of the House of Worship he said that it was not the individuals who needed to be recognized but the message they carried of the oneness of mankind and the need to come together in unity and love. The group of youth had quite a few tribes represented, two Persians, a Guanimanian, a very blonde youth, a youth with Native American, African-American and Caucasian ancestry, a youth with three tribes in his family.
If you are in the upcoming route please make every effort to greet them, this encourages and uplifts them in their journey. Keep them in your prayers. This is not an easy effort for them but they are totally committed to going all the way from Seattle to New York before they are through. When they stop for a meal or visit they start at the very point of their break so not even an inch is missed by them.
Much love in the struggle,
Anne
7-24-2000
Thursday, September 23, 2010
BOARDING SCHOOLS
excerpt from ANNE'S WRITINGS (see Aug 31, 2010 This is lengthy but important info for understanding some ot the tests of Native Americans.
One of the most devastating parts of the Indian community is the boarding school experience by an overwhelming number of children, sometimes as young as four or five, and youth. The first school was in Carlyle, Pennsylvania in 1879. The Cherokee boarding school opened in 1880 and remained in operation until 1954. This is about five generations of children. It worked on the premise "kill the Indian, save the Man". In other words eliminate all that made a child an Indian and make him/her white. In the majority of cases the churches came into the villages and forced the parents through persuasion and eventually force to give the children to the churches for training and education. Sometimes the parents were so poor they did not have the means to feed and care for their children and thought they would be better off in the schools. Sometimes the children were orphans or abandoned.
The usual procedure at the schools was to cut off the hair, which had given the children a cultural sense of identity. They were not allowed to speak their native language, observe any of their culturally-based activities or practice their religion in the ways they were used to. Their names were changed to English names. The punishment for disobedience was severe beatings. Their normal native clothing was taken from them and they were placed in uniforms. Their activities were directed by a series of bells, bells for waking, breakfast, prayer, classes, lunch, classes, supper, and bedtime ruled their days. Most of the children did not speak English so they were forced to learn it in order to survive from day to day. They were also used as cheap labor to sustain the schools.
The children were only allowed to see their parents infrequently and only for short periods of time. There were several ways of coping with this physical, psychological, emotional, and spiritual abuse. Some were more resilient than others but all were traumatized. Some tried to please, be obedient and "perfect", thus losing their own sense of identity. Some fought back or ran away multiple times. Others internalized the regimentation values in order to acquire greater acceptance from authority figures. Some used exercises, boxing, and sports to try to sublimate the anger and confusion. Some learned altruism as a way of lessening the harm of others in the situation.
After leaving the schools in their late teens, coping with the residual trauma took many forms. They had been taught alienation from all that their parents stood for and they felt shame at the old ways. They did not know how to parent, since they had no role models, therefore parenting skills were lacking. Nurturing was unknown to most of them and therefore they did not know how to nurture. Denial and minimizing of the experience blocked the healing process for a large portion of the survivors. Some continued the militarizing aspects and joined the military to continue the pattern they were familiar with. Alcohol, domestic violence, dysfunctional homes were patterns of a lot of the homes of these survivors. It became an intergenerational pattern.
Later studies have shown that they suffered post-traumatic stress syndrome. The high percentage of diabetes is a direct result of a constant state of "fight or flight" in which the adrenalin sugar present in this condition became constant. This altered the normal processing of insulin, became imprinted on the DNA and passed on from generation to generation.
At the present time there are many helping organizations trying to aid in the healing process of the intergenerational problems. The Healing and Wellness Coalition in Cherokee, on which I was allowed to assist, was one of these organizations. We had a goal of facilitating the healing process by acknowledging the past, reviving the culture, offering a guide for them to trained psychologists, therapists, medical personnel and forming or supporting groups vested in this process. The annual conferences are educational and therapeutic.
Cherokee has it's own school system. They offer the Cherokee language and cultural information as well as a normal, state-approved curriculum. A graduate from Cherokee High School must have completed at least one course in the Cherokee language. There is a daycare system in which infants and toddlers are immersed in the Cherokee language in all their activities. It becomes as comfortable as English.
Alcohol cannot be legally sold on the reservation, even at the casinos. This is attacked regularly in referendoms but so far still holds. The tribe's determination to control and heal this problem is taken very seriously.
The tribal council has set aside a plot of land to honor and memorialize the students who attended the Cherokee boarding school. This will be developed as memorial in the future. At the present time there is a traveling exhibit displayed on panels showing pictures and information sponsored by the Kitowah Preservation Education Program.
.
One of the most devastating parts of the Indian community is the boarding school experience by an overwhelming number of children, sometimes as young as four or five, and youth. The first school was in Carlyle, Pennsylvania in 1879. The Cherokee boarding school opened in 1880 and remained in operation until 1954. This is about five generations of children. It worked on the premise "kill the Indian, save the Man". In other words eliminate all that made a child an Indian and make him/her white. In the majority of cases the churches came into the villages and forced the parents through persuasion and eventually force to give the children to the churches for training and education. Sometimes the parents were so poor they did not have the means to feed and care for their children and thought they would be better off in the schools. Sometimes the children were orphans or abandoned.
The usual procedure at the schools was to cut off the hair, which had given the children a cultural sense of identity. They were not allowed to speak their native language, observe any of their culturally-based activities or practice their religion in the ways they were used to. Their names were changed to English names. The punishment for disobedience was severe beatings. Their normal native clothing was taken from them and they were placed in uniforms. Their activities were directed by a series of bells, bells for waking, breakfast, prayer, classes, lunch, classes, supper, and bedtime ruled their days. Most of the children did not speak English so they were forced to learn it in order to survive from day to day. They were also used as cheap labor to sustain the schools.
The children were only allowed to see their parents infrequently and only for short periods of time. There were several ways of coping with this physical, psychological, emotional, and spiritual abuse. Some were more resilient than others but all were traumatized. Some tried to please, be obedient and "perfect", thus losing their own sense of identity. Some fought back or ran away multiple times. Others internalized the regimentation values in order to acquire greater acceptance from authority figures. Some used exercises, boxing, and sports to try to sublimate the anger and confusion. Some learned altruism as a way of lessening the harm of others in the situation.
After leaving the schools in their late teens, coping with the residual trauma took many forms. They had been taught alienation from all that their parents stood for and they felt shame at the old ways. They did not know how to parent, since they had no role models, therefore parenting skills were lacking. Nurturing was unknown to most of them and therefore they did not know how to nurture. Denial and minimizing of the experience blocked the healing process for a large portion of the survivors. Some continued the militarizing aspects and joined the military to continue the pattern they were familiar with. Alcohol, domestic violence, dysfunctional homes were patterns of a lot of the homes of these survivors. It became an intergenerational pattern.
Later studies have shown that they suffered post-traumatic stress syndrome. The high percentage of diabetes is a direct result of a constant state of "fight or flight" in which the adrenalin sugar present in this condition became constant. This altered the normal processing of insulin, became imprinted on the DNA and passed on from generation to generation.
At the present time there are many helping organizations trying to aid in the healing process of the intergenerational problems. The Healing and Wellness Coalition in Cherokee, on which I was allowed to assist, was one of these organizations. We had a goal of facilitating the healing process by acknowledging the past, reviving the culture, offering a guide for them to trained psychologists, therapists, medical personnel and forming or supporting groups vested in this process. The annual conferences are educational and therapeutic.
Cherokee has it's own school system. They offer the Cherokee language and cultural information as well as a normal, state-approved curriculum. A graduate from Cherokee High School must have completed at least one course in the Cherokee language. There is a daycare system in which infants and toddlers are immersed in the Cherokee language in all their activities. It becomes as comfortable as English.
Alcohol cannot be legally sold on the reservation, even at the casinos. This is attacked regularly in referendoms but so far still holds. The tribe's determination to control and heal this problem is taken very seriously.
The tribal council has set aside a plot of land to honor and memorialize the students who attended the Cherokee boarding school. This will be developed as memorial in the future. At the present time there is a traveling exhibit displayed on panels showing pictures and information sponsored by the Kitowah Preservation Education Program.
.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
LITTLE TREE IS HOME AGAIN
excerpts from THE EDUCATION OF LITTLE TREE, Forest Carter
In his autobiography, Forest Carter tells of his childhood. He was in a Christian Boarding School for some time and was bereft. The following excerpts are his reaction to coming home to his grandparents and his Cherokee mountain home after this unhappy time.
"I set down and pulled off my shoes, ' I reckined I couldn't feel the trail, Granpa,' I said. The ground felt warm and run up through my legs and over my body. Granpa laughed.... He pulled off his shoes...As we come up the trail....Pine boughs swept down over the trail and felt my face, and run theirselves over me. Granpa said they was wanting to make sure it was me....The spring branch slapped me light, and run over my head and felt me - and sung louder and louder....The wind picked up...it was singing in the pines and would tell everything in the mountains that I was home...Granma run down the mountain. She run into the spring branch and dived at me, and we rolled, splashing and hollering and crying some, I reckon.....The wind sung along with me and squirrels and 'coons and birds come out on tree limbs to watch and holler at me as I passed......I laid on the ground a long time and talked to the sleepy trees, and listened to the wind....The pines whispered and the wind picked up, and they commenced to sing,'Little Tree is home...Little Tree is home! Listen to our song! Little Tree is home! Little Tree is with us! Little Tree is home!...my spirit didn't hurt anymore."
In his autobiography, Forest Carter tells of his childhood. He was in a Christian Boarding School for some time and was bereft. The following excerpts are his reaction to coming home to his grandparents and his Cherokee mountain home after this unhappy time.
"I set down and pulled off my shoes, ' I reckined I couldn't feel the trail, Granpa,' I said. The ground felt warm and run up through my legs and over my body. Granpa laughed.... He pulled off his shoes...As we come up the trail....Pine boughs swept down over the trail and felt my face, and run theirselves over me. Granpa said they was wanting to make sure it was me....The spring branch slapped me light, and run over my head and felt me - and sung louder and louder....The wind picked up...it was singing in the pines and would tell everything in the mountains that I was home...Granma run down the mountain. She run into the spring branch and dived at me, and we rolled, splashing and hollering and crying some, I reckon.....The wind sung along with me and squirrels and 'coons and birds come out on tree limbs to watch and holler at me as I passed......I laid on the ground a long time and talked to the sleepy trees, and listened to the wind....The pines whispered and the wind picked up, and they commenced to sing,'Little Tree is home...Little Tree is home! Listen to our song! Little Tree is home! Little Tree is with us! Little Tree is home!...my spirit didn't hurt anymore."
Monday, September 20, 2010
LIVE ANOTHER'S JOURNEY
excerpt from COLORS OF MY WORLD (see Aug 31, 2010)''
In the early 60s, sitting in my Sunday school class in church, we listened as the title was read - BLACK LIKE ME, by John Howard Griffin. This man really wanted to know and he cared enough to do something! Our class briefly reviewed the premise of the book. His journey into the unknown, disguised by medical treatment to change his skin color so as to get a true, unposed view of what it was like to be a black man in the South. He boarded a bus from the north and got off the bus in a southern town, without a job and knowing no one. This book chronicles his daily struggles, fears and humiliations as he tries to make his way in a world ready to despise and reject him because his skin was now dark. "It traces the changes that occur to heart and body and intelligence when a so-called first class citizen is cast on the junk heap of second-class ciutizenship."..."Whites were saying the right things, showing deep concern over injustices...but never really consulting with black people as equals. The vast difference between what this country was saying and apparently believing, and what the black man was experiencing was embittering."
My stomach wrenched, my teeth clenched, my hands grew stiff from making a fist...as I realized how blind, how unnoticing, how nonchalant my life had been up until then. Looking around in the classroom, I saw uneasiness, irritation, curiousity and a few startled expressions. After this one brief hour of awareness, I never again observed any pursuit of this subject in my church. This was like a vision that was abruptly closed, with no action after the reaction. Why didn't we do something?...But not for me. I felt so churned up ...Any questions or comments I made only brought an uneasy change of subject or the response "That's really too bad but it's changing, right? I was admonished with "Don't make waves" or "What can you do?"
I have been trying to answer that question. So have others, it has changed but not enough yet.
In the early 60s, sitting in my Sunday school class in church, we listened as the title was read - BLACK LIKE ME, by John Howard Griffin. This man really wanted to know and he cared enough to do something! Our class briefly reviewed the premise of the book. His journey into the unknown, disguised by medical treatment to change his skin color so as to get a true, unposed view of what it was like to be a black man in the South. He boarded a bus from the north and got off the bus in a southern town, without a job and knowing no one. This book chronicles his daily struggles, fears and humiliations as he tries to make his way in a world ready to despise and reject him because his skin was now dark. "It traces the changes that occur to heart and body and intelligence when a so-called first class citizen is cast on the junk heap of second-class ciutizenship."..."Whites were saying the right things, showing deep concern over injustices...but never really consulting with black people as equals. The vast difference between what this country was saying and apparently believing, and what the black man was experiencing was embittering."
My stomach wrenched, my teeth clenched, my hands grew stiff from making a fist...as I realized how blind, how unnoticing, how nonchalant my life had been up until then. Looking around in the classroom, I saw uneasiness, irritation, curiousity and a few startled expressions. After this one brief hour of awareness, I never again observed any pursuit of this subject in my church. This was like a vision that was abruptly closed, with no action after the reaction. Why didn't we do something?...But not for me. I felt so churned up ...Any questions or comments I made only brought an uneasy change of subject or the response "That's really too bad but it's changing, right? I was admonished with "Don't make waves" or "What can you do?"
I have been trying to answer that question. So have others, it has changed but not enough yet.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
LABELS
excerpt from @RACEUNITY.COM(see Aug 31, 20100
I have had anxiety, confusion and unsettled feelings about labels given to people by others or themselves. When I first came across the Baha'i teachings about the oneness of the human race I was so relieved and uplifted. As I brought up my children I taught them that there was only one race, the human race, and if they wanted to describe their friends at school to me or anyone else they could use observable distinctions, such as blue eyes, brown eyes, green eyes; hair color variations/ and when it came to skin the variations of pink, white, light brown, brown, bronze, dark brown, black, etc. They called me polka dotted because I had freckles. They knew from a very early age about melanin and climate adaption, shapes of noses from cold or warm air, hair texture from wind, humidity and temperature adaptions.
As they entered school, when they filled out forms, the race blank was listed as human. This usually was unsettling to the teachers. One went so far as to erase this and change it to white. My daughter was incensed and complained but they wouldn't change it back.
As we get into conversations with people it is very awkward to use any kind of label. One has to balance the reality of oneness with the present level of understanding of whoever we are talking to. Some people are very sensitive and offended if they are not acknowledged as what they see themselves to be.
I co-facilitated a summer school workshop on the elimination of prejudice back in the early eighties. The first day we did an anonymous survey with the goal of getting demographics of the participants. The first question we asked was multiply choice with ten different terms commonly used for variations of skin color. The class had around fifty participants and was very diverse. The results showed no impressive bell curve (preponderance of one choice). Every category had some "takers". The second day we read these surveys and talked about why different ones chose different labels for themselves. It was fascinating to me that the intensity behind the answers was pretty spread out. It seemed almost generational. It became apparent to me that using labels was a "no win" situation. Someone would be offended if only one term seemed to predominate.
We are "children of the half light" in this transition period and the only way we can function adequately is to be loving and sensitive. Trying to be a "hollow reed" so that our own inadequacies don't get in the way of a loving atmosphere is a mighty task but seems necessary.
Just my thoughts on this complex issue, which should be so simple.
Love in the struggle,
Anne
7-13-99
I have had anxiety, confusion and unsettled feelings about labels given to people by others or themselves. When I first came across the Baha'i teachings about the oneness of the human race I was so relieved and uplifted. As I brought up my children I taught them that there was only one race, the human race, and if they wanted to describe their friends at school to me or anyone else they could use observable distinctions, such as blue eyes, brown eyes, green eyes; hair color variations/ and when it came to skin the variations of pink, white, light brown, brown, bronze, dark brown, black, etc. They called me polka dotted because I had freckles. They knew from a very early age about melanin and climate adaption, shapes of noses from cold or warm air, hair texture from wind, humidity and temperature adaptions.
As they entered school, when they filled out forms, the race blank was listed as human. This usually was unsettling to the teachers. One went so far as to erase this and change it to white. My daughter was incensed and complained but they wouldn't change it back.
As we get into conversations with people it is very awkward to use any kind of label. One has to balance the reality of oneness with the present level of understanding of whoever we are talking to. Some people are very sensitive and offended if they are not acknowledged as what they see themselves to be.
I co-facilitated a summer school workshop on the elimination of prejudice back in the early eighties. The first day we did an anonymous survey with the goal of getting demographics of the participants. The first question we asked was multiply choice with ten different terms commonly used for variations of skin color. The class had around fifty participants and was very diverse. The results showed no impressive bell curve (preponderance of one choice). Every category had some "takers". The second day we read these surveys and talked about why different ones chose different labels for themselves. It was fascinating to me that the intensity behind the answers was pretty spread out. It seemed almost generational. It became apparent to me that using labels was a "no win" situation. Someone would be offended if only one term seemed to predominate.
We are "children of the half light" in this transition period and the only way we can function adequately is to be loving and sensitive. Trying to be a "hollow reed" so that our own inadequacies don't get in the way of a loving atmosphere is a mighty task but seems necessary.
Just my thoughts on this complex issue, which should be so simple.
Love in the struggle,
Anne
7-13-99
Friday, September 17, 2010
DIFFERENT BEACHES
excerpt from COLORS OF MY WORLD (see Aug 31, 2010)
As a child, our vacations were spent at the beach - very relaxed and happy times. We were not allowed to go around the bend at the beach to the Atlantic Beach. Only Negroes were allowed there and they were not allowed on our beach. I used to wonder if they lay out in the sand as we did. They did not need to get a tan, was there any other reason to lay out? I was too busy as a child to get that still. The surf washed my feet as I skipped along and looked for shells. Sometimes I would get too far into the water and a wave would knock me down. Daddy would come running and set me on my feet again, warning me to stay closer to the edge. He was so relaxed in the aquamarine water that he could take a nap as he floated on the top. The white sea gulls could swoop down then make a sharp nose dive into the water and come out with a fish in their beaks. Sunsets on the ocean water proved to me that God had the magic touch - purples, pinks, yellows, golds, lavenders, reds , oranges.
Being severely shy kept me from doing anything but watching and offering a tentative smile when I chanced to spot one of these brown people who were not to be approached. I wondered why? They seemed hard-working, quiet and very kind and helpful. Their eyes twinkled and glowed if I managed to smile long enough for them to see me.
Adults are such a mystery!
As a child, our vacations were spent at the beach - very relaxed and happy times. We were not allowed to go around the bend at the beach to the Atlantic Beach. Only Negroes were allowed there and they were not allowed on our beach. I used to wonder if they lay out in the sand as we did. They did not need to get a tan, was there any other reason to lay out? I was too busy as a child to get that still. The surf washed my feet as I skipped along and looked for shells. Sometimes I would get too far into the water and a wave would knock me down. Daddy would come running and set me on my feet again, warning me to stay closer to the edge. He was so relaxed in the aquamarine water that he could take a nap as he floated on the top. The white sea gulls could swoop down then make a sharp nose dive into the water and come out with a fish in their beaks. Sunsets on the ocean water proved to me that God had the magic touch - purples, pinks, yellows, golds, lavenders, reds , oranges.
Being severely shy kept me from doing anything but watching and offering a tentative smile when I chanced to spot one of these brown people who were not to be approached. I wondered why? They seemed hard-working, quiet and very kind and helpful. Their eyes twinkled and glowed if I managed to smile long enough for them to see me.
Adults are such a mystery!
Thursday, September 16, 2010
SWEAT LODGE
excerpt from CHEROKEE DIARY(see Aug 31, 2010)
There are many rumors in the non-indian world concerning the sweat lodge in the Indian life experience. I hope this sharing of my experience will give it the respect and inspiration it is due.
Curtis and Mary Kekahbah hosted a sweat lodge in their back yard. It was a frequent occurance for them and one I felt honored to be invited to participate in. The fire was started about an hour and a half before time for it to begin. While we were waiting for the rocks (in a pile about six or seven feet wide and several feet high) to heat until they became red hot we helped cover the lodge frame with blankets and a tarp. The lodge was about ten feet in diameter and about five feet high and was framed by oak branches woven in a circle, with a door about four feet high. A blanket door flap was attached. Mary went into the lodge while the blankets were being placed to see if any light was entering. It needed to be totally dark. Rug pieces were placed on the ground around the inside of the lodge.
Outside the lodge was a small raised mound with a saucer of herbs and a smudge bowl. Curtis set the sage in the smudge bowl on fire and then withdrew a pipe, tobacco and sage from an embroidered red case. He waved the pipe and the herbs over the smudge smoke. Then he said prayers to all four directions and to the sky and the earth.
We crawled into the lodge in the order prescribed by Curtis. An experienced person was followed by a novice, until all ten of us were inside. As we entered each of us said the phrase "all our relatives". (Reverence for all of nature is an integral part of the spirit of the Indian) In the middle of the lodge was a hole in the ground about 24 inches in diameter. Curtis explained the sacredness of the earth, the sky, the animals, and plant life which was made by the Creator. We were to remember our loved ones as he sang a prayer. Those who knew it sang along. I hummed it so I could feel the same vibrations that the singers were experiencing.
The red hot rocks were placed in the center and sage was sprinkled on each rock, then drops of water, to cause steam. There were four rounds of new rocks added and requests of prayers such as healing prayers, prayers for nature and gratitude for life. Each person was encouraged to say their own prayer in one of the rounds.
My reaction to this experience was one of peace and fulfillment, a filling of the spirit. It was a profoundly calming and spiritual reaction. I was completely saturated with sweat but didn't feel it. I breathed deeply many times and felt cleansed. I was aware of the transfer and sharing of our atoms as we all inhaled and exhaled. There was a oneness that was powerful. The profound reverence for nature and the Creator's omnipresence and omnipower permeated my senses.
We gathered in the dark outside of the lodge and smoked a peace pipe and prayed, then went inside their home for a delicious potluck and fellowship.
There are many rumors in the non-indian world concerning the sweat lodge in the Indian life experience. I hope this sharing of my experience will give it the respect and inspiration it is due.
Curtis and Mary Kekahbah hosted a sweat lodge in their back yard. It was a frequent occurance for them and one I felt honored to be invited to participate in. The fire was started about an hour and a half before time for it to begin. While we were waiting for the rocks (in a pile about six or seven feet wide and several feet high) to heat until they became red hot we helped cover the lodge frame with blankets and a tarp. The lodge was about ten feet in diameter and about five feet high and was framed by oak branches woven in a circle, with a door about four feet high. A blanket door flap was attached. Mary went into the lodge while the blankets were being placed to see if any light was entering. It needed to be totally dark. Rug pieces were placed on the ground around the inside of the lodge.
Outside the lodge was a small raised mound with a saucer of herbs and a smudge bowl. Curtis set the sage in the smudge bowl on fire and then withdrew a pipe, tobacco and sage from an embroidered red case. He waved the pipe and the herbs over the smudge smoke. Then he said prayers to all four directions and to the sky and the earth.
We crawled into the lodge in the order prescribed by Curtis. An experienced person was followed by a novice, until all ten of us were inside. As we entered each of us said the phrase "all our relatives". (Reverence for all of nature is an integral part of the spirit of the Indian) In the middle of the lodge was a hole in the ground about 24 inches in diameter. Curtis explained the sacredness of the earth, the sky, the animals, and plant life which was made by the Creator. We were to remember our loved ones as he sang a prayer. Those who knew it sang along. I hummed it so I could feel the same vibrations that the singers were experiencing.
The red hot rocks were placed in the center and sage was sprinkled on each rock, then drops of water, to cause steam. There were four rounds of new rocks added and requests of prayers such as healing prayers, prayers for nature and gratitude for life. Each person was encouraged to say their own prayer in one of the rounds.
My reaction to this experience was one of peace and fulfillment, a filling of the spirit. It was a profoundly calming and spiritual reaction. I was completely saturated with sweat but didn't feel it. I breathed deeply many times and felt cleansed. I was aware of the transfer and sharing of our atoms as we all inhaled and exhaled. There was a oneness that was powerful. The profound reverence for nature and the Creator's omnipresence and omnipower permeated my senses.
We gathered in the dark outside of the lodge and smoked a peace pipe and prayed, then went inside their home for a delicious potluck and fellowship.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
ZORIDA'S DREAM
excerpt from TRINIDAD, WEST INDIES, REMBRANCES(Aug 31, 2010)
After several weeks of adjusting to Trinidad and evaluating where to live I decided to move to the southern part of the island, to Bamboo Village, near San Fernando. I found a real estate agent. He was Britiah and tried to show me expensive apartments in the white section of the island. I wanted to live in a Trinidadian environment, not an Americanized version. He finally found an affordable apartment above a car upholstery shop, overlooking the square of this very small, undeveloped village.
The day we moved in, the owner of the shop came to visit. He was East Indian Hindu, quite friendly and talkative. He asked me if I would meet and talk to his wife, Zorida, who was separated from him. He said he felt that she would be so fascinated with an American neighbor she might come back to him just to visit with me.
The next day she came to visit. She was small, lovely and very shy. We seemed to communicate on a personal level very quickly. It was as if she had recognized me as someone she could trust. I found out as she proceeded to tell me about her year long, recurring dreams, that her recognition of me was much more startling. She said I was in her dream. In this dream she was in a forest full of trees and shrubs. The limbs of the trees attacked her and the shrubs scraped and bruised her legs. As she looked up she saw an elderly man in a long white robe with a white turban on his head and a white beard. He was floating above the trees chanting a prayer in a language she did not understand. She tried to repeat his prayer in his language and when she did she would rise above the trees. The trees and shrubs could no longer harm her. Then she would come out into a clearing and I would be there, take her hand and tell her fortune. I would say the same thing in every dream. "you have had 3/4 of your troubles and only 1/4 to go".
My immediate thought when she described the elderly man was of Abdu'l-Baha, the son of the prophet founder of the Baha'i Faith. I had a picture of him in one of my Baha'i books and showed it to her. She said "that's him! that's him! The man in my dreams! Who is he?" I had a rare tape in my possession which was given to me by the Persian who taught me about the Baha'i Faith. It was a tape of an old recording of Abdu'l-Baha chanting a prayer when he was visitng America in 1912. She got even more excited and exclaimed, "that's the prayer!" She begged me to tell her more and wanted to become a Baha'i that afternoon.
When Zorida told her husband about her decision he became very angry. He was a Hindu, she had been a Moslem and he wanted her to become a Hindu. Zorida and I talked many afternoons together. She told me of the abuse she had suffered from him over the years. He drank and then beat her. She had several miscarriages because of this and was hospitalized several time dues to the severity of the beatings.
I believe that meeting Zorida was the "real" reason I wound up in Bamboo Village, Trinidad.
After several weeks of adjusting to Trinidad and evaluating where to live I decided to move to the southern part of the island, to Bamboo Village, near San Fernando. I found a real estate agent. He was Britiah and tried to show me expensive apartments in the white section of the island. I wanted to live in a Trinidadian environment, not an Americanized version. He finally found an affordable apartment above a car upholstery shop, overlooking the square of this very small, undeveloped village.
The day we moved in, the owner of the shop came to visit. He was East Indian Hindu, quite friendly and talkative. He asked me if I would meet and talk to his wife, Zorida, who was separated from him. He said he felt that she would be so fascinated with an American neighbor she might come back to him just to visit with me.
The next day she came to visit. She was small, lovely and very shy. We seemed to communicate on a personal level very quickly. It was as if she had recognized me as someone she could trust. I found out as she proceeded to tell me about her year long, recurring dreams, that her recognition of me was much more startling. She said I was in her dream. In this dream she was in a forest full of trees and shrubs. The limbs of the trees attacked her and the shrubs scraped and bruised her legs. As she looked up she saw an elderly man in a long white robe with a white turban on his head and a white beard. He was floating above the trees chanting a prayer in a language she did not understand. She tried to repeat his prayer in his language and when she did she would rise above the trees. The trees and shrubs could no longer harm her. Then she would come out into a clearing and I would be there, take her hand and tell her fortune. I would say the same thing in every dream. "you have had 3/4 of your troubles and only 1/4 to go".
My immediate thought when she described the elderly man was of Abdu'l-Baha, the son of the prophet founder of the Baha'i Faith. I had a picture of him in one of my Baha'i books and showed it to her. She said "that's him! that's him! The man in my dreams! Who is he?" I had a rare tape in my possession which was given to me by the Persian who taught me about the Baha'i Faith. It was a tape of an old recording of Abdu'l-Baha chanting a prayer when he was visitng America in 1912. She got even more excited and exclaimed, "that's the prayer!" She begged me to tell her more and wanted to become a Baha'i that afternoon.
When Zorida told her husband about her decision he became very angry. He was a Hindu, she had been a Moslem and he wanted her to become a Hindu. Zorida and I talked many afternoons together. She told me of the abuse she had suffered from him over the years. He drank and then beat her. She had several miscarriages because of this and was hospitalized several time dues to the severity of the beatings.
I believe that meeting Zorida was the "real" reason I wound up in Bamboo Village, Trinidad.
Monday, September 13, 2010
SPIRITUAL STRUGGLE
quoted from PORTALS TO FREEDOM by Howard Coolby Ives, p. 1234
Once on a time a traveller was lost in a dense wilderness.
It seemed that for endless ages he had wandered forlorn.
No path there; no sun by which to get his bearings.
The briers tore his flesh, the pitiless wind and rain poured down
their wrath. He had no home.
Then suddenly, when hope was gone, he came out upon a mountain
side overlooking a lovely valley, in which was set a heavenly
palace, the very Home of his dreams.
With joy unspeakable he rushed to enter.
But hardly had his foot stepped within its precincts when a heavy
hand grasped him by the neck and - back he was again in that
dread wilderness.
But now he was not without hope. He had seen his home.
And with a courage unknown before he set upon his search.
He was more careful now. He watched for signs of the Path.
And strove to pierce the overhanging gloom for gleams of light.
And, after weary search, again he saw his home. He was more carefull now....
But alas, again the heavy hand tore him from the loved home and
back again he was in that vast wilderness.
But now his heart was not at all cast down.
He had his bearings now....
And soon, much sooner than before, he found his home again, and
entered.
This time he felt no fear of grasping hand.
And when it came and grasped, and he was back in that foul wilderness
of worldly things,
He hastened with sure feet upon his search.
The Sun shone brightly now. The songs of birds entranced his ear.
And now he beat a Path. He tore away the impeding underbrush.
For well he knew that he would often have to tread his way back
and forth, while in this world.
But he had found his home, and when the roar of men confused,
And darkness came, he hastened back from self to God.
Once on a time a traveller was lost in a dense wilderness.
It seemed that for endless ages he had wandered forlorn.
No path there; no sun by which to get his bearings.
The briers tore his flesh, the pitiless wind and rain poured down
their wrath. He had no home.
Then suddenly, when hope was gone, he came out upon a mountain
side overlooking a lovely valley, in which was set a heavenly
palace, the very Home of his dreams.
With joy unspeakable he rushed to enter.
But hardly had his foot stepped within its precincts when a heavy
hand grasped him by the neck and - back he was again in that
dread wilderness.
But now he was not without hope. He had seen his home.
And with a courage unknown before he set upon his search.
He was more careful now. He watched for signs of the Path.
And strove to pierce the overhanging gloom for gleams of light.
And, after weary search, again he saw his home. He was more carefull now....
But alas, again the heavy hand tore him from the loved home and
back again he was in that vast wilderness.
But now his heart was not at all cast down.
He had his bearings now....
And soon, much sooner than before, he found his home again, and
entered.
This time he felt no fear of grasping hand.
And when it came and grasped, and he was back in that foul wilderness
of worldly things,
He hastened with sure feet upon his search.
The Sun shone brightly now. The songs of birds entranced his ear.
And now he beat a Path. He tore away the impeding underbrush.
For well he knew that he would often have to tread his way back
and forth, while in this world.
But he had found his home, and when the roar of men confused,
And darkness came, he hastened back from self to God.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
INTERNATIONAL JOURNEY OF HEALING
excerpt CHEROKEE DIARY (Aug 31, 2010)
Told by Lynda Prince at the 2004 Healing and Wellness Conference called "Healing 500 Years of Pain, Creating a Peaceful Spirit" in Cherokee NC in Sept., 2004.
Lynda is president of First Nations (Alaskan tribe). She took a delegation of American Indians to Belfast City, Ireland and met with a member of the British Parliament who represented Ireland. The trip was about reconciliation, healing, and restoration of the American Indians. President Andrew Jackson, the former US President who signed the Indian Removal Act, (resulting in the Trail of Tears and other relocations of Indians from their land.) He is considered a citizen and hero of Ireland. The purpose of the visit to the estate of Andrew Jackson (his Irish mother left Ireland pregnant with him to come to America) in Northern Ireland was for the delegation to educate the citizens of Ireland about Jackson's political stance culminating in the removal of American Indans from their ancestral land. Three Cherokee went in this group. Unless you confront your pain you can't move on. The ceremony of healing in Ireland was for forgiving Andrew Jackson. This was an example of Healing for Ireland....In another blog I will tell you of when the Irish came to Cherokee.
Government were excited about the traveling of the Native Americans and welcomed them. She met many leaders of countries. When she had an audience with the Pope there were other leaders of state there but the Pope came to her first and talked eagerly to her.
"Our protocol as Indians is love, honor and respect. When our travel group went to Israel we met with the mayor of Jerusalem, gave him a headdress and asked him if we could play our drums and sing an honor song to Israel. We would dance our prayers. He gave us permission. The Jews came to us crying and saying 'you are singing our song'. They explained that the words we were singing was in their ancient language and was the name of God and honored God. We were validated by the first nation of the first nations. God's name is in every song of all Native American songs."
If we forgive we release ourselves from our oppressors.
Told by Lynda Prince at the 2004 Healing and Wellness Conference called "Healing 500 Years of Pain, Creating a Peaceful Spirit" in Cherokee NC in Sept., 2004.
Lynda is president of First Nations (Alaskan tribe). She took a delegation of American Indians to Belfast City, Ireland and met with a member of the British Parliament who represented Ireland. The trip was about reconciliation, healing, and restoration of the American Indians. President Andrew Jackson, the former US President who signed the Indian Removal Act, (resulting in the Trail of Tears and other relocations of Indians from their land.) He is considered a citizen and hero of Ireland. The purpose of the visit to the estate of Andrew Jackson (his Irish mother left Ireland pregnant with him to come to America) in Northern Ireland was for the delegation to educate the citizens of Ireland about Jackson's political stance culminating in the removal of American Indans from their ancestral land. Three Cherokee went in this group. Unless you confront your pain you can't move on. The ceremony of healing in Ireland was for forgiving Andrew Jackson. This was an example of Healing for Ireland....In another blog I will tell you of when the Irish came to Cherokee.
Government were excited about the traveling of the Native Americans and welcomed them. She met many leaders of countries. When she had an audience with the Pope there were other leaders of state there but the Pope came to her first and talked eagerly to her.
"Our protocol as Indians is love, honor and respect. When our travel group went to Israel we met with the mayor of Jerusalem, gave him a headdress and asked him if we could play our drums and sing an honor song to Israel. We would dance our prayers. He gave us permission. The Jews came to us crying and saying 'you are singing our song'. They explained that the words we were singing was in their ancient language and was the name of God and honored God. We were validated by the first nation of the first nations. God's name is in every song of all Native American songs."
If we forgive we release ourselves from our oppressors.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
PRIMDAD AND RAMDI
excerpt from TRINIDAD, WEST INDIES, REMEMBRANCES (see Aug 31, 2010)
One of the families I met and got to know was so poor they lived in a shack with a dirt floor. They had only one bowl and spoon, which was reserved for company. They used banana tree leaves for plates and used their hands to wrap their food in a flat bread called roti. It is similar to a flour tortilla but is soft and tasty. The father of the family, Primdad, felt badly about being so poor until he heard his wife, Ramdi, say the following Baha'i prayer called "Blessed is the Spot":
"Blessed is the spot, and the house, and the place, and the city, and the heart, and the mountain, and the refuge, and the cave, and the valley, and the land, and the sea, and the island, and the meadow where mention of God has been made, and His praise glorified." Baha'u'llah
He was a carpenter and she took care of their little garden and the one cow that provided the milk for their seven children and also was a means of earning a little money when they were able to sell the milk. Their devotion to each other and to their sweet childen was a beautiful thing to see.
One of the families I met and got to know was so poor they lived in a shack with a dirt floor. They had only one bowl and spoon, which was reserved for company. They used banana tree leaves for plates and used their hands to wrap their food in a flat bread called roti. It is similar to a flour tortilla but is soft and tasty. The father of the family, Primdad, felt badly about being so poor until he heard his wife, Ramdi, say the following Baha'i prayer called "Blessed is the Spot":
"Blessed is the spot, and the house, and the place, and the city, and the heart, and the mountain, and the refuge, and the cave, and the valley, and the land, and the sea, and the island, and the meadow where mention of God has been made, and His praise glorified." Baha'u'llah
He was a carpenter and she took care of their little garden and the one cow that provided the milk for their seven children and also was a means of earning a little money when they were able to sell the milk. Their devotion to each other and to their sweet childen was a beautiful thing to see.
Friday, September 10, 2010
THE ENERGY OF LOVE
excerpt from WISDOM OF OTHERS (see Aug 31, 2010)
"The day will come when after harnessing space, the winds, the tides and gravitation, we shall harness for God the energies of love. And on that day, for the second time in the history of the world, we shall have discovered fire."
-Tielhard de Chardin
Quoted in CANFIELD AND HANSEN, 1993, p. 1
Used in MANAGING WITH THE WISDOM OF LOVE
by Dorothy Marcic
"The day will come when after harnessing space, the winds, the tides and gravitation, we shall harness for God the energies of love. And on that day, for the second time in the history of the world, we shall have discovered fire."
-Tielhard de Chardin
Quoted in CANFIELD AND HANSEN, 1993, p. 1
Used in MANAGING WITH THE WISDOM OF LOVE
by Dorothy Marcic
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
BOY'S PRAYER AT POW WOW
excerpt from CHEROKEE DIARY (see Aug. 31, 2010)
Summer of 1993 - When living in Gainesville, Florida I attended a community pow wow as opposed to a public pow wow. I think it was a blessing that it was my first pow wow. It gave me a deeper appreciation of the spiritual nature of Indians that isn't as apparent in the public pow wows. My reaction to the drums and round dancing resonated internally. It felt like a part of me. My daughter who had a passion for dancing turned to me and said "this is where my love of dancing comes from. I feel it inside."
The speaker at the mike advised the audience that this was not a performance but a community prayer pow wow and if we could participate in that spirit we were welcome, otherwise we could leave quietly. That intrigued me but the thing that affected me the most was one of the round dances. The speaker announced that the next dance would be a prayer dance for healing requested by a young boy who looked to be about 8 years old. He said his grandmother was sick and he wanted to dance the first round by himself as a prayer for her and then anyone who wanted to dance for healing could join in the rest of the round dance. The boy seemed totally unaware of the people watching him as he very reverently danced completely around the circle by himself. His whole body seemed involved in this very spiritual experience expressed in the physical action of the dance.
Summer of 1993 - When living in Gainesville, Florida I attended a community pow wow as opposed to a public pow wow. I think it was a blessing that it was my first pow wow. It gave me a deeper appreciation of the spiritual nature of Indians that isn't as apparent in the public pow wows. My reaction to the drums and round dancing resonated internally. It felt like a part of me. My daughter who had a passion for dancing turned to me and said "this is where my love of dancing comes from. I feel it inside."
The speaker at the mike advised the audience that this was not a performance but a community prayer pow wow and if we could participate in that spirit we were welcome, otherwise we could leave quietly. That intrigued me but the thing that affected me the most was one of the round dances. The speaker announced that the next dance would be a prayer dance for healing requested by a young boy who looked to be about 8 years old. He said his grandmother was sick and he wanted to dance the first round by himself as a prayer for her and then anyone who wanted to dance for healing could join in the rest of the round dance. The boy seemed totally unaware of the people watching him as he very reverently danced completely around the circle by himself. His whole body seemed involved in this very spiritual experience expressed in the physical action of the dance.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
WHAT IS A FAMILY?
When we come into this world, ideally, we are in the care of two loving parents, adoring grandparents, caring aunts and uncles. We feel safe, nurtured and trained to be a healthy, happy human being. We know each other, we share common goals, and hopes for the future. We support each other in times of stress or pain.
SO? You know all this even if your particular family didn't quite measure up to this ideal! Nothing new, huh?
Well! Just suppose we really believed everyone on this planet was our family.
We would "know" each other. I would "know" your story and you would "know" ,my story. We would know each other's personalities, joys, and sorrows.
How do we "know" each other? Face to face if possible, talking and laughing and playing together, comforting each other during the tough times.
Since geographically that is not always possible then it only stands to reason that we must find another way to feel like "family".
This blog is what I have discovered about my "family". In my travels to other countires or other neighborhoods it was face to face. I heard the stories of some very interesting family members.
In my reading and attending courses and conferences I learned more stories of my human family.
This blog is not about me but about those stories and ideas that helped me get to know my human family. Some are funny, some are painful but all are real.
They are your family, too!
Want to meet them?
Want to learn what I am learning?
Stay tuned!
SO? You know all this even if your particular family didn't quite measure up to this ideal! Nothing new, huh?
Well! Just suppose we really believed everyone on this planet was our family.
We would "know" each other. I would "know" your story and you would "know" ,my story. We would know each other's personalities, joys, and sorrows.
How do we "know" each other? Face to face if possible, talking and laughing and playing together, comforting each other during the tough times.
Since geographically that is not always possible then it only stands to reason that we must find another way to feel like "family".
This blog is what I have discovered about my "family". In my travels to other countires or other neighborhoods it was face to face. I heard the stories of some very interesting family members.
In my reading and attending courses and conferences I learned more stories of my human family.
This blog is not about me but about those stories and ideas that helped me get to know my human family. Some are funny, some are painful but all are real.
They are your family, too!
Want to meet them?
Want to learn what I am learning?
Stay tuned!
Monday, September 6, 2010
FIRST"RACE"MEMORY
excerpt from COLORS OF MY WORLD (see Aug. 31, 2010 blog)
Red clay, green grass and blue sky; blondes, red heads, brunettes; pink, red-burned, white, freckled, tan and olive - those were the colors of my childhood. In the very early years I did not miss the other colors - the browns, mahoganies, ebonies and the almost blue-blacks. You have to experience something to miss its absence.
I must have been about three, maybe four. Sunday, after church, my family always ate dinner (Noon) at Grandmother Hunter's house. The dining room was a pastel green. The dining table, which seated 14, was a rich, dark mahogany as was the long buffet. The buffet always had a fresh bouquet of flowers from the yard. On the wall hung still life paintings of flowers, which Aunt Leona had painted. They called her the "black sheep" of the family. I wondered why. She was not black nor was she a sheep. She was definitely more fun than all the rest. Her laugh was boister, she lacked the "gentility" of a lady, but Grandmother thought she was wonderful even if she didn't wear a dress and did smoke. Grandmother loved everyone, even Aunt Martha. Anyway, back to Sunday dinner. Lunch was the noon meal every day of the week except Sunday. Sunday dinner was golden fried chicken, white and tan biscuits, home churned, sunny butter, fried green okra, sliced red tomatoes, chips of cucumber soaked in vinegar, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes or potato salad and thick, creamy light brown gravy. I was stuffed and restless watching my aunts, uncles, Mother. Daddy, my older brother Billy and my baby sister Sara Frances. We were gathered after the meal in the sitting room, which was also Grandmother's bedroom. Even though Grandmother had a lovely formal parlor across the hall, no one used it, at least not that I ever saw. Grandmother's room was huge and cozy.
I wandered into the kitchen, past the wood burning stove and the work table in the middle of the room, past the counter full of mason jars and crock pots full of interesting leaves, seeds and stuff, back to a little corner table next to the kitchen window.
Coffee, yes, like Daddy's, without cream - that was the color of old Essex eating in the corner, hidden away behind the tall wooden churn and the big white porcelain stove. His eyes were black and wary. I leaned my four year old, skinny body against the small wooden table he used as a dinner table. What was this manner of man! He did not look dirty but he was so dark! Grey hair in tiny coils hugged his head. The palms of his hands looked faded and pink, not dark like his arms.
Dark brown eyes softened and twinkled. I edged closer. Without dropping a single crumb, his gnarled hands continued their journey through the biscuits and gravy, slowing down for the chunks of ham, then speeding up with the soft, bacon-flavored green beans, and lingering over the orange sweet potatoes. A mason jar of iced tea washed down the remains. I leaned against the little table, completely absorbed in his wrinkled, brown face. No words - just watching. He seemed tired in his worn dusty faded overalls. Quietly, without a word, he returned my gaze. His face was gently, patiently smiling as I stared.
"Anne! Get out of here. Come back to the sitting room!" sharply jarred my spine and sent me back out of the room. This Aunt Martha, who never saw the good, who seemed bitter and abrasive, domineering and hateful, shoved me into the room with the others. My aunts and uncles, my daddy and mother, my sister and brother sat mute, unable to defend or protect. They never challenged her. She was the one who inherited the personality of my grandfather. He died before I was born but the stories of his brutal parenting made me glad I never knew him.
As a child, I watched as my aunt screamed at the elderly, gentle, sweet, dark-skinned laborer on her farm because he smiled at me. I knew she no longer belonged in my heart family from that day on. "You know better, Essex! Now get out of here and get back to work," came from the kitchen in angry tones as my aunt shooed old Essex out into the screened-in back porch and through the back door. Bent and subdued he went back to the barn and to chores that rightfully should have been done by my stronger, younger uncles. They spent their time telling jokes and put downs sprinkled with the "N" word. I could not allow myself to even say the word it was so cancerous to me.
"Stay away from him," she said as she came back in.
Thus began the journey to get to know all the colors of my world.
Red clay, green grass and blue sky; blondes, red heads, brunettes; pink, red-burned, white, freckled, tan and olive - those were the colors of my childhood. In the very early years I did not miss the other colors - the browns, mahoganies, ebonies and the almost blue-blacks. You have to experience something to miss its absence.
I must have been about three, maybe four. Sunday, after church, my family always ate dinner (Noon) at Grandmother Hunter's house. The dining room was a pastel green. The dining table, which seated 14, was a rich, dark mahogany as was the long buffet. The buffet always had a fresh bouquet of flowers from the yard. On the wall hung still life paintings of flowers, which Aunt Leona had painted. They called her the "black sheep" of the family. I wondered why. She was not black nor was she a sheep. She was definitely more fun than all the rest. Her laugh was boister, she lacked the "gentility" of a lady, but Grandmother thought she was wonderful even if she didn't wear a dress and did smoke. Grandmother loved everyone, even Aunt Martha. Anyway, back to Sunday dinner. Lunch was the noon meal every day of the week except Sunday. Sunday dinner was golden fried chicken, white and tan biscuits, home churned, sunny butter, fried green okra, sliced red tomatoes, chips of cucumber soaked in vinegar, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes or potato salad and thick, creamy light brown gravy. I was stuffed and restless watching my aunts, uncles, Mother. Daddy, my older brother Billy and my baby sister Sara Frances. We were gathered after the meal in the sitting room, which was also Grandmother's bedroom. Even though Grandmother had a lovely formal parlor across the hall, no one used it, at least not that I ever saw. Grandmother's room was huge and cozy.
I wandered into the kitchen, past the wood burning stove and the work table in the middle of the room, past the counter full of mason jars and crock pots full of interesting leaves, seeds and stuff, back to a little corner table next to the kitchen window.
Coffee, yes, like Daddy's, without cream - that was the color of old Essex eating in the corner, hidden away behind the tall wooden churn and the big white porcelain stove. His eyes were black and wary. I leaned my four year old, skinny body against the small wooden table he used as a dinner table. What was this manner of man! He did not look dirty but he was so dark! Grey hair in tiny coils hugged his head. The palms of his hands looked faded and pink, not dark like his arms.
Dark brown eyes softened and twinkled. I edged closer. Without dropping a single crumb, his gnarled hands continued their journey through the biscuits and gravy, slowing down for the chunks of ham, then speeding up with the soft, bacon-flavored green beans, and lingering over the orange sweet potatoes. A mason jar of iced tea washed down the remains. I leaned against the little table, completely absorbed in his wrinkled, brown face. No words - just watching. He seemed tired in his worn dusty faded overalls. Quietly, without a word, he returned my gaze. His face was gently, patiently smiling as I stared.
"Anne! Get out of here. Come back to the sitting room!" sharply jarred my spine and sent me back out of the room. This Aunt Martha, who never saw the good, who seemed bitter and abrasive, domineering and hateful, shoved me into the room with the others. My aunts and uncles, my daddy and mother, my sister and brother sat mute, unable to defend or protect. They never challenged her. She was the one who inherited the personality of my grandfather. He died before I was born but the stories of his brutal parenting made me glad I never knew him.
As a child, I watched as my aunt screamed at the elderly, gentle, sweet, dark-skinned laborer on her farm because he smiled at me. I knew she no longer belonged in my heart family from that day on. "You know better, Essex! Now get out of here and get back to work," came from the kitchen in angry tones as my aunt shooed old Essex out into the screened-in back porch and through the back door. Bent and subdued he went back to the barn and to chores that rightfully should have been done by my stronger, younger uncles. They spent their time telling jokes and put downs sprinkled with the "N" word. I could not allow myself to even say the word it was so cancerous to me.
"Stay away from him," she said as she came back in.
Thus began the journey to get to know all the colors of my world.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
CHEROKEE TRIBAL GROUND COFFEE
This coffee house became a very important part of my loving experiences in Cherokee. I spent many an hour sitting on the back porch of the coffeehouse watching the river and sharing stories and thoughts with friends. Watching the ducks, otters and birds dip in to the river was a peaceful time.
I grew to love the co-hosts, Natalie Smith and Leon Grodsky and Natalie's son Galen who would crawl up into my lap and share his latest projects or toys with me. Natalie was Cherokee, artist and an art education major. Leon was a muliti-media artist who has had exhibits throughout the world.
Their vision was to focus on Native American renaissance and provide a place for local Cherokee artists to show their work.The presentations made in their art gallery and large lounge area were many and varied. I learned so much and was inspired by the many artists who came through. Many of the blogs you read concerning happenings in Cherokee occurred there.
I grew to love the co-hosts, Natalie Smith and Leon Grodsky and Natalie's son Galen who would crawl up into my lap and share his latest projects or toys with me. Natalie was Cherokee, artist and an art education major. Leon was a muliti-media artist who has had exhibits throughout the world.
Their vision was to focus on Native American renaissance and provide a place for local Cherokee artists to show their work.The presentations made in their art gallery and large lounge area were many and varied. I learned so much and was inspired by the many artists who came through. Many of the blogs you read concerning happenings in Cherokee occurred there.
Friday, September 3, 2010
LENORA
excerpt @RACE UNITY.COM
Beloved friends,
In our ongoing struggle with making a better world, we have dwelled a lot on color - sometimes to a wearying degree. I woke up at 5 a.m. this morning with the following thoughts full blown in my head, unable to go back to sleep, so I wanted to share them with you.
I hope Ed Barber, my friend and former boss in Florida, will read this to Lenora.
Lenora
I have a friend, blind from birth,
But she has vision.
She sees the oneness of human hearts.
We had some interesting talks.
Some on color, some on pain, some on mirth.
What is color to Lenora?
White is milk, brown is chocolate.
Black is the tangle of her tight curls.
Yellow is the warmth of the noon day sun.
Red is the smell of a rose.
Blue is the touch of a summer breeze.
Green is the feel of a leaf or blade of grass.
Pink is milk and strawberries.
Orange is her morning juice.
What is pain to Lenora?
Wondering why her son is shoved at school or worse.
Wondering why her ideas aren't heard.
Hearing despair in a friend's voice.
Hearing anger and frustration over just her being.
Sensing distrust without having said a word.
What is mirth to Lenora?
A quick hug from a friend in greeting.
A touch to her cheek in deep conversation.
My clumsy attempt to describe her pretty dress.
My spelling something instead of her.
Holding her hand in a strange place.
Clapping to the sound of gospel rhythm.
The joy she hears in my voice when I see her.
What is a saint? Lenora
What is a friend? Lenora
Who do I miss? Lenora
Love, Anne
8-17-96
Beloved friends,
In our ongoing struggle with making a better world, we have dwelled a lot on color - sometimes to a wearying degree. I woke up at 5 a.m. this morning with the following thoughts full blown in my head, unable to go back to sleep, so I wanted to share them with you.
I hope Ed Barber, my friend and former boss in Florida, will read this to Lenora.
Lenora
I have a friend, blind from birth,
But she has vision.
She sees the oneness of human hearts.
We had some interesting talks.
Some on color, some on pain, some on mirth.
What is color to Lenora?
White is milk, brown is chocolate.
Black is the tangle of her tight curls.
Yellow is the warmth of the noon day sun.
Red is the smell of a rose.
Blue is the touch of a summer breeze.
Green is the feel of a leaf or blade of grass.
Pink is milk and strawberries.
Orange is her morning juice.
What is pain to Lenora?
Wondering why her son is shoved at school or worse.
Wondering why her ideas aren't heard.
Hearing despair in a friend's voice.
Hearing anger and frustration over just her being.
Sensing distrust without having said a word.
What is mirth to Lenora?
A quick hug from a friend in greeting.
A touch to her cheek in deep conversation.
My clumsy attempt to describe her pretty dress.
My spelling something instead of her.
Holding her hand in a strange place.
Clapping to the sound of gospel rhythm.
The joy she hears in my voice when I see her.
What is a saint? Lenora
What is a friend? Lenora
Who do I miss? Lenora
Love, Anne
8-17-96
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
PRISONER/WRITER
excerpt from WISDOM OF OTHERS
"He marked the days on the wall
Small scratches in gray cement
The man who had warned the world
The voices of the voiceless
Alone, undernourished, he could have survived
The cold, the damp, the lash could not kill him
But for want of paper and pencil
He starved."
SURRENDER:CANDLES IN THE NIGHT, p. 61, Kathleen Eagle
"He marked the days on the wall
Small scratches in gray cement
The man who had warned the world
The voices of the voiceless
Alone, undernourished, he could have survived
The cold, the damp, the lash could not kill him
But for want of paper and pencil
He starved."
SURRENDER:CANDLES IN THE NIGHT, p. 61, Kathleen Eagle
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