Volume 1, issue 1 update

FIND ◊ YOURSELF ◊ MAGAZINE

Welcome to the premier edition of Find Yourself magazine, we thank you for taking the time to get acquainted with our content. This venture has been one that has been a long time coming and has been a personal dream of mine for some time. I have to say that finding the kind of content that I was looking for to put out there for the world to see seems on one hand, accessible, but then also difficult on the other hand. I’m not going to say that we will be giving our readers something for everyone but rather that everyone has something to contribute. I believe that the issues and concerns, along with stuff and experiences, are what people truly can bond over, and sometimes it’s so easy to overlook the fact that so many people out there do identify with one another. I believe that at the end of the day when the work is done, and we have finished being propagated to , that there is something within us that that brings us back to the things we love like movies, books, culture, current events, music, fashion, and the stories we share with one another when we have a kinship.

These are the things that I find most inspiring in my life. And though not everyone may agree with me, I believe that there must be some common ground that people as people can touch upon through common inspiration. I feel that inspiration comes in many forms, through many experiences, and isn’t always all that it may be cracked up to be. But it is there, waiting to be tapped like a well. For me, this project represents a collaboration of interests and passion, and also self-definition. There certainly is no shortage of advertising and recommendations, that are convincing and useful to some extent, that sort out what the world means to an individual in all of the vast variety that exists. But these are the same exact things that overlook the pure reality of what actually is already there. And each person has a perspective and contribution in the world that exists which may actually be something that we are afraid to listen to, or to accept, or to understand or believe. But once again, it is real, and when we begin to have an understanding and an acceptance we can also begin to learn and grow as individual people together.

I hope that this magazine can highlight all of those things in some way, and I hope that each of you reading this find something within these pages that is not only enjoyable but also interesting and relatable.

Head Honcho, Dawn Webster

Contributors: Dawn Webster Bruce King Damian Webster Elizabeth King Special Thanks to Janet Rogers, Scott Pewenofkit, and The King Family.

Find Yourself Magazine, Issue I, Vol. I JUNE 2013

Contact information: findyourselfmagazine@hotmail.com

Sacred Tail Feather

By Bruce King “This was a good job in a time of no jobs. Ten to noon sprucing up the showplace, dusting, polishing, painting walls and changing light bulbs. Maintaining presentation.

Taking the concept of exhibition, literally, to high levels of fine art. Glamorized custodial work but, hey… Five days steady income. Opportunities on a commission basis. Extra hours during shows or event benefits. No time clock, no pain in the ass boss breathing down your neck. No adhering to contrived marketing pledges. No domestic servitude or class subjugation, no delivering slabs or grounded chunks of assembly line beef. A checklist of sorts, sentences relayed in the mind to pass the time. No forced conditioning to American marketing strategies.

Flipping burgers touted as a career, or the wearing of goofy outfits… a monumental commercial campaign designed to employ the contemporary serf. Getting consumers to believe that imaginary clowns, kings and colonels somehow give a shit about what the masses eat, that’s the true American marketing strategy…convincing the masses to buy the pitch, need the need, buy and eat the product... it will make you special, it will elevate you above the herd, it will deliver you to a scope of acceptance enshrouded with happiness. That, or get to the kids so they’ll cry for the toys and the sugar, and squawk till they get their way. In essence everything’s for sale as long as the pitch is spot on, so sales wise, anything goes. “ So the drifting thoughts went for one Eaglebone, selfanointed philosopher slash gallery janitor(custodial engineer), drifting in and out of the pillory echoes passing for thinking at the bus stop in Santa Fe. If one were to view him in passing, say from the window of a car, he’d appear slouched and uneventful with his bland manner and faded western dress. An Indian for sure, lanky frame, paunchy stomach, long wind-blown hair, copper complexion. There was similarity to many of Santa Fe’s Indian population.

Distinctive markings that identified cultural ethnicity, the hair bone choker being one. A quiet, reserved manner being another. The faded jeans, scruffy cowboy boots and greasy, hung over disposition alluded to the negative demeanor carried more by Santa Fe’s homeless, and that was every race and sadly represented by every culture. A

Santa Fe tag quietly designating him the role Indian in the pool of the poor. Yet, he was not homeless, or poor for that matter, nor drifting or dislocated, he was on his way to work nursing an acid soaked windpipe, a pounding headache, and a vision shrouded more in left over tequila vapors than anything approaching soulful introspection.

Santa Fe, or the marketing idea of Santa Fe, was not much of a departure from that mindset. A role for every and all things “Santa”. Marketing the idea that the mystique surrounding the historic western flavored, iconic town could be visited, absorbed and packaged to take home; not unlike the little glass snow scenes of past popularity; the way the Native American spiritual experience, the historic religious experiment of Spanish settlement, the success of Manifest Destiny taming a brutal, savage, unforgiving territory fits snuggly into this quaint concept like a small glass curio, why, you might just have something snowballing there.

Santa Fe had been capturing the imagination of numerous arts and history buffs for decades. With the advent of recent catering to highbrow taste for classical culture, Santa Fe earned a place on the docket of one of the “must see” playgrounds for the jet setting elites. Movie stars, writers, fashion designers, artists, rock stars, all jockeying for the prime time exposure the trendy little hot spot could generate for wire services on both coasts. It was the Aspen of the southwest minus the absence of brown people, the Jackson Hole on a cheaper scale (thought still costly), the Hawaii excursion minus the sea, beaches and hula girl “aloha” ambience. Noteworthy personalities needing to be seen (and mentioned) doing the ‘plaza stroll’, gathering noted recognition in any number of nightspots, art galleries, and high end restaurants while supposedly letting their hair down, relaxing and escaping from the shark infested paparazzi pools of New York and Los Angeles while exercising the paradox of “getting away from it all” yet cultivating, relishing and creating small town attention and sensationalism.

It was here, Santa Fe, where European (Spanish) incursion predated the colonial establishment of the United States of the northeast by two centuries. Here, in 1680, the Pueblos of the Rio Grande region revolted and drove the Spanish colonists out of Santa Fe executing the first historically noted political and military upheaval to occur in the new world. Cradled in the scenic southwestern backdrop is an undercurrent of shifting political and ethnically rooted vies

for ownership “inheritance” of the histrionic right to interpret Santa Fe. Sometimes portrayed as “tri-cultural” co-existence, the reality recognizes powerful forces constantly competing to rule over the direction the city different would follow into an uncertain future.

To say Santa Fe suffers a pervasive identity crisis is reflective of the state of mind in America. There is a notion existing in Santa Fe that encourages and capitalizes on efforts to shirk one’s immediate reality and adopt the cultural experience of others as readily as the bid for statehood created a stark transition to Americanize centuries of Spanish, Mexican, Pueblo, Apache and Navajo identity to conform to newly founded policy driven ideas about an American identity requirement being met before being accepted into statehood. At the time, politicians back east were not impressed with what the territories had to offer the Union, going so far as calling them “Aztec civilizations” and opposing New Mexico’s bid for state consideration that would last some forty years. Many of the territories of the time endured a slanted racially based bias that had a lot to do with what was considered white Christian destiny striving towards self-induced greatness.

The inclusion of lands laden with stereotypically lazy and illiterate brown people, vicious political infighting, criminality, violence, Indian raids, a dismal agricultural climate and little to offer the industrial push happening in many nerve centers back east, well…statehood? (Sniffsniff) there you have it. It wasn’t until white American settlers surged into the territories (hoping to mine gold, silver, copper and other lodes running rich veins in the mountain ranges) signified a developing appreciation for the cultural foreignness that created an exotic backdrop for territorial distinctiveness. Rather than continually being appalled by perceived lawlessness, white transplants quickly piled into the fray and proved as corrupt, lawless, and morally deplete as any long standing territorial official or politician. Yet, the Anglo presence lent an American character that was lacking in the bid for statehood which eventually coalesced in all the territories in spite of, or because of, the high level of lawlessness, homicides and rampant criminality. New Mexico, at the time of statehood consideration had one of the highest murder rates in the newly expanding nation, but then all the territories were dangerous places to venture into. After the smoke cleared from numerous gunfights and range wars, after the railroad created towns and commerce centers, after water irrigation projects made lands useful for commercial

agriculture the political decision makers back in DC continued to resist embracing a New Mexico as a state simply because they didn’t want to share a white American dream with Mexicans. In spite of the blatant Gilded Age distrust and suspicion (rooted in racism) concerning the Mexican person who was viewed as “ignorant of laws, manners, customs, language and institutions” the territory of New Mexico had a lot to offer in the scenic, historical, and distinctive culturally enriched spiritual-ways department. That has proven persistent, offering immersing one in the uniqueness of land-spirit alternatives as a way of temporarily fulfilling one’s artistic, intellectual or spiritual dimension and at times taken to absurd extremes. The place where spiritual enlightenment equates a shopping excursion speaks of Santa Fe, where one selects what one wants to “experience”, depending on curiosity, appetite and what’s appealing at the moment. Santa Fe figured out marketing strategies back in the eighties when the search for deeper meaning in one’s life went beyond curio and became fashionable. Back when hordes flocked to points of harmonic convergences in search of spiritual confirmation and fulfillment. So Santa Fe has garnered a reputation as not only a convergence point for historical western lawlessness, fashionable bigotry, ghostly energy, but also a contemporary recognition as a new age spiritual vortex.

Santa Fe (Sedona, Arizona running a close second.) offered services whereas one could explore and discover answers to one’s cosmic curiosity and decide if the vast body of offered knowledge connected to a perceived emptiness deeming further investigation and individual commitment.

This effort falls prey to those who can sniff out that void (as many a con in Santa Fe leaned quickly) , who can read a depleted moral landscape a mile away…who are more than willing to define what being a “real…something (i.e. Hara Krishna, Shiite, Buddhist, clairvoyant, medicine man, bruja, curandero, etc.)” means. The notions of not knowing who you are to begin with, or consciously shirking the cloak of one identity for another as a form of fascination or entertainment belabors and defers personal responsibility of adhering to that culture’s (sometimes rigid) accepted values.

There are legions of questionable cultural representatives (regardless of religious roots) more than willing to point out what should be important to you. They are more than willing to offer processes and ceremonial content to assist

you in arriving at these answers for nominal fees and costs.

It becomes evident, in reference to what’s held sacred according to tenets of your culture, that you, regardless of your understanding, have got it all wrong, therefore, you’re misrepresenting yourself and your cultural intent. (Not being a real Muslim, Christian, Indian, artist…etc.) By not understanding, you’ve relinquished your spiritual connection and in doing so, have created a void that only re-connection can hope to fulfill. That’ll be five hundred dollars for spiritual therapy so please schedule an additional twelve sessions and prepare for your sweat, naming and vision ceremonies at additional costs. Now, let us smoke in preparation for tomorrow’s high costs, plastic sweat lodge ceremony...

Santa Fe, the reinforced example of Catholic righteousness overcoming dark and savage circumstance lending credence to God’s will. That “will”, rising above man’s frail attempts at divine ascension, proves once again civilization is successful only with God’s blessings (or however that can be construed or defined). An early Santa Fe moniker was the City of Holy Faith. The Pueblo existing early on was called Ogapogee: The White Shell Water Place. Santa Fe, America’s wild-west tribute to a rich era of expansionism, pioneer spirit, Manifest Destiny, range and cattle wars, wild Indians and Billy the Kid. Santa Fe, one of the many transitioning pueblos shedding its original trade-center complexion to economically adapt to shifting societies, successfully dodging the effects of obscurity that rendered many surrounding pueblos obsolete (the Pecos people, Towa speaking, perhaps being the most highly recognized) . Ingredients for a multi-dimensional, multi-leveled identity crisis if ever one existed.

In the mix, this claim to the fame (Santa Fe) became the Madrid of New Spain, the goal of the continental trade route that bears its name, the obscure history of its pueblo beginnings, all elements stepping forward to rigidly proclaim what this town is all about and how one should conduct oneself and their business while existing in the shadow of its past. The past normally voices its own position but the region of Santa Fe, like the history of much of the country is weighted heavily on who you’re listening to at the moment.

Most agree it was corn; sometime around 5000 B.C. that fueled an agricultural endeavor resulting in wonders of engineered irrigation and permanent settlements. Surplus allowed trade and Santa Fe established itself as one of its

major centers. The Mogollon culture had the leisure time to devise baskets and distinct Mimbres style pottery that remained constant through the transition periods of Mogollon to Hohokam and Anasazi. Cultures that dispersed into the various Rio Grande pueblos in existence today. The trade was heavy and if thought is given to the volume of rugs, pottery, baskets, jewelry, artifacts, ancient art, fine art, fashion, cuisine, knick knacks and patty whacks moving out of Santa Fe on a daily basis, not much has changed. A complex system of trade, environmental engineering, architectural structures, satellite communities, bioagriculture development, and logistical planning that supported a population of 15,000 spanning a radius of 400 miles that included Santa Fe, you’d think one would give it up as being anything but primal and uncivilized. One can’t separate the early doctrine of the colonizers (regardless of their origins) of the country who equated being civilized with being Christianized, therefore privileged to move about the world defining who was and who was not human.

Then there’s the persistent presence of unseemly phantoms tucked into the collective closets of the town’s history books, like that old alcoholic, perverted, embarrassing uncle that graces countless families. The one who indulged in dirty land deals, corrupt politics, war, industrial slave trades, brothels, blasphemy and decadent greed. The rich, drunk uncle whose behavior benefitted those whose inheritance could rewrite, therefore omit the embarrassing behavior of the uncle and his shenanigans, arriving at a more palatable outcome. Tolerating his behavior while eyeing the wealth and status he was able to deliver while forgiving what he represents. These figures appear in all of the tri-cultural mixing bowls as well.

The specter of “being different” equates “being wrong”, swings a mighty psychic scythe surpassing rational thought and staying firmly rooted in the corridors of selfdetermined superiority. Descendants of Spanish, latter dayPueblo or proponents of cowboy settlement fables, feel they have the inside track linked to identity and therefore; definition. Currently, travel brochures define the identity of the town, travelogues and connoisseurs of high living paint the portraits of acceptable participation and high society legitimizes the effort. Route 66, Harvey House railroad stations and hotels, tourist destinations, cement tipis, post cards, chili concoctions, sequenced imagery flashing into convoluted thinking for sure. All this historic atmosphere,

this epical landscape and rich, majestic backdrop is lost to some.

you shot the breeze with the clerk his answer was always the same.

Not unusual in minds saturated with leftover libation and over indulgence. Like Eaglebone and his vigil at the bus stand. He retained all this information but it merely served as background for his delusional performances. He had to know in order to maintain his pedestal of local knowledge.

At the moment though, his mind was on loop aroundwaiting on the buh-uh-uh-uh-us.

“Looks like rain.”

Eaglebone was thinking about not looking forward to another day at the Sacred Tailfeather. What he liked to call, shake a tail feather. Eaglebone was thinking about an eye opener, how, maybe by-passing breakfast and going directly to soldiers of the six pack would somehow alleviate the backed up residue he felt churning and burning his stomach. Familiar gases sent threatening vapors up his throat, seeping into his nasal cavities. Sour beer scents riding wheeze labored breathing. His brain, somehow functioning through a throbbing tunnel vision allowed him a departure of sorts, an inner distance shifted to auto-pilot while the mind fired on idle; the body performing the daily functions of routine. Right now, that meant catching the bus and getting to work. Work meant slinging a broom and mop so his focus was off his physical ailment and placed on something important, like making sure the toilet in the gallery hadn’t clogged or backed up due to the ancient plumbing. Pre-turn of the century plumbing. Pain in the ass Canyon Road pipes and plumbing.

Meanwhile, the aftermath of another night at El Farol lingered around him like a visible fog, advertisement really, about the hazards of staying till closing time getting gassed up. If he were a Scrooge character in some Dickensian commercial spot, he’d be visited by ghosts of hangovers past. Weighted and dragging heavy chains of hot pipes, a nauseas and clammy disposition, trembling hands, draped in ragged fabric made up of anxiety and infested with D.T. fleas.

“Might still be half in the bag.” He mumbled to himself.

Burp. “Good for the beans.”

He’d heard that phrase years ago from a grocery store clerk who worked an old fashion, dinging cash register at Johnny’s Market when he lived across Cerrillos Road from the old I.H.S. in the Navajo Dr. neighborhood. Back when housing was affordable and most of the names on the mail boxes were Gonzales, Martinez, Romero and Gutierrez. If

“Good for the beans”.

“Supposed to hit ninety today…”

“Good for the beans” “Glad you guys stayed open through this snow” “Good for the beans”.

Dang, guy, when is something not good for them dam beans? Beans being one of the locally grown staples, green chili being the other. One could sense the soft tribute was rooted in whimsical respect. Even back then, beans were on the way out while cannabis and cocaine dethroned the long standing resource. Beans…one of the sacred three sisters. Corn, beans and squash.

Looking up and down the expanse that is the main franchise artery known as Cerrillos Road, Eaglebone could not decipher anything resembling an approaching bus.

“Walking, good for being half in the bag”. To which he began the one foot in front of the other trudge-shuffle that would carry him into the hills to his post at the “shake a tail feather”. Off to work we go…hi ho, hi ho. One thing about Mr. Eaglebone, he always went to work. He had that touchstone of personal security that dictated he always sought and secure gainful employment and once having done so, gets his ass up and goes to work. Even with his wonderment upon wakening…where the hell am I and what time is it? His dedication to answer this incantation hinged on robotic behavior. Every day, like clockwork, no matter the dark depth of his disposition, he got up and went to work…by god. Even the deepest haze of over indulgence could not deter him from his daily route. He had things to see and people to do. A hangover was a small impediment to making good gravy, that’s why God made antacids on both counts. Besides, what’s a little acid reflux when it comes to maintaining an aura of celebrity, granted, a concocted one, in the heralded community of Santa Fe’s “Indian art scene”, its fame just the same. Either way, you had to show up. Showing up on time was better.

“Hey bro’…yo, bro’.” These guys popped up out of nowhere. Down on their luck panhandlers, lost in the sauce alcoholics, war dazed veterans, many of them brown

people. How they suddenly materialized out of nowhere was beyond Eaglebone. He had seen these poor discarded souls in front of stop and shop stores, soup kitchens, and gas stations all over town. Sometimes they gathered in groups of three of four, no doubt pondering how to make the day’s take stretch into a full night of wine drinking or sardine sharing. Usually the group was made up of Indian hobos who Eaglebone had taken to calling “gathering of nations”. There they were though …scruffy, greasy, shouldering a stained and tattered backpack, desert khaki pants, old combat boots, red bandana attempting control over a head of long, wind-blown, unruly locks.

misrepresented realities bore down on his convoluted take on self-respect to the point where being a con-man was akin to being intelligent as opposed to being deceitful.

Delusions did carry benefits, like his rugged appearance alleviated him having to shell out some change to a “brother”.

Eaglebone swore they were all the same guy. Most of the time they were from the local Pueblos playing the “Indian brother-god bless you” line. Other times they were local Hispanics waving an empty gas can in front of you claiming to have kids in a car that had run out of fuel. “Just need a couple of bucks to get back to Espanola…or Chimayo…or Santa Rosa, man…bro’.” The white guys were usually bearded, carried a cardboard sign, “will work for food” and nine times out of ten had a dusty, white hippie chick and dog in tow. They all wanted the same thing, whatever change you could muster. Eaglebone had read a recent article about these people sometimes clearing a couple of hundred bucks a day, depending on how long they worked it, and how aggressive they were. The journalist doing the piece even approached the ones with “will work for food” signs and offered them work. Nine out of ten declined citing medical ailments. The city council was pushing legislation for them to obtain a permit from downtown to panhandle. Like these hustlers are going to register and pay for a license to bum off of people in parking lots. So, if they’re caught panhandling without a permit…what? They get tossed in the can where there’s three hots and a cot?

He remembered his own time in that barrel.

The fellow gazed at him without answering, finally…

Eaglebone was always ready. “How you doing, bro’? You got any spare change?” He’d inquire of them sincerely. He knew how to work the pathos…

They would eye him for a moment, realize he might actually be in their boat, shrug and move on. Eaglebone could shoulder a convincing delivery. Having come from a convincible array of social ills himself he knew the problems most Indians, or poor people for that matter, faced on a daily basis. Dependencies of all manner, abuse of all manners, rates and statistics of depressing and deplorable reflection, recidivism, xenophobia and

This fellow was different. He had a black eye and a smile that seemed genuine in spite of the missing teeth. He’d recently been roughed up and Eaglebone was honestly curious.

“What happened to you?” he inquired.

“You’re Indian, inet?” says Mr. Scruffyskinbro.

After eyeing his cultural kin, Eaglebone knew the guy was going to push the “relative” card.

“Where you from, bro?...wait, lemme guess.” The bro peers intently, puts a hand to his chin, rubbing stubble lightly passing for whiskers. “…up north, the woods…Minnesota?”

Eaglebone, through his own fog, assented, being impressed. “Wisconsin, pretty close…”

“Chippewa!” The guy exclaimed, pointing a finger at Eaglebone.

“Close again…Winnebago…”

“Hey. You don’t say Winnebago anymore…it’s Ho-Chunk, yah?

Eaglebone had to laugh, he was right, of course. A politically correct and up to date Indian vagabond setting him straight.

“Okay Ho-Chunk, got a deal for you…”

Eaglebone started to protest.

“No it’s simple. I make you laugh, you slide me a fiver. Eh? You don’t laugh, it don’t cost you nothing.

“You ain’t going to try tickling me or some shit like that…?”

Eaglebone said.

“No, no. I’ll tell you story. One of those ‘this happened to me” stories, aye. You game?”

Eaglebone, moving beyond hesitation said, “Alright, go ‘head”.

“You know how us Indin (his accent made it sound Indin)…us Indin guys are always trying our best to be as good as white guys. Well, the other day I decided I was going to do that. So, I walked into a red necked cowboy bar and told the bartender to set me up, today I’m taking the day off like you white guys here. The bartender goes “why you taking the day off?” I told him, cause I’m sick, like you white guys, you take a day off when you’re sick, right? He gets all concerned and says “well, how sick are you?” So I says, “Well, I just got done screwing my sister” and all these white guys get mad. One big old mean cowboy says “we don’t appreciate that kind of humor in here” and he walks up to me with a bottle of Jack Daniels and holds it up to me and goes “what’s the difference between Jack Daniels and John Wayne?” I shrugged and he says “Jack Daniels is still killing Indians!” and busted me over the head with that bottle! Then all them white guys pile on me, slugging and kicking me in the head. They were whipping me so bad; I thought I was back in foster care…”

By this time, Eaglebone was laughing and digging into his pocket. He handed over a five.

Mr. Scruffyskinbro took the bill, tipped his eyebrow and literally went whistling off.

It’s an art form, Eaglebone thought, Indian art. Santa Fe’s Indian art scene had waned as of late. Reaching climatic proportions back in the mid-eighties, the artistic output back then enjoyed international recognition and acclaim.

Euro-centric acceptance and approval legitimized the new Indian artist and their works as fine art. Every Indian artist who could visually get a painted warrior up on a painted horse or a sexually simmering Indian maiden (obviously nude under a buffalo/wolf hide) in the glow of a camp fire on canvas could sell their work. Gorman had achieved worldwide renown with his recognizable, simplistic Navajo female figures. Houser and Hyde boosted the action in stone cutting. All the high profile galleries were trying to find a Red Star, or a Biss or Buffalo to hang on their walls.

Many of these young people had known only poverty in their beginnings but they quickly caught on to the fact that they were hitting it big. Aberbach had thrown his considerable New York commercial weight behind Cannon and Scholder in the late seventies igniting an unprecedented increase in purchasing, and the new art flourished in Santa Fe. Most galleries, and there were quite

a few, handled “traditional Indian art”. Tradition meaning silver and turquoise jewelry, rugs and pottery, and “Bambi art” paintings depicting lost cultural eras. The old guard galleries, critical, deemed the new age “Indian art” trendy and without traditional merit. But they scurried to get in on the momentum and either encouraged the “traditional” artist in their stables to make the transition to the “new art forms” or moved to recruit the big time newbies who were partying all over downtown.

A lot of credit for this new movement had to be attributed to the talented artist coming out of the Indian art school that was once the Santa Fe Indian School, the Dorothy Dunn Art School, the Institute of American Indian Arts, and back to being Santa Fe Indian School. The action downtown cashed in on the groundswell, opened galleries and created a new market.

The times gave birth to a lot of fly by night endeavors.

Flukes, and rip off ventures posing as legitimate businesses came and went with astounding regularity. Then there were galleries that weathered the sorting out processes and managed to be regarded as something of a legacy.

Sacred Tailfeather emerged as one.

This establishment had traveled a path worn smooth by many of Santa Fe’s noted fine arts galleries. Out of town investments, humble beginnings, change of locations, owner squabbles, litigation, scandals, theft and notoriety where known and unknown artist, buyers, agents, investors, relatives, ne’er do wells and every other personality type hovered around the action, savoring the energy the entrenched business generated. Sacred Tailfeather. Contemporary Native American Art. Mystical.

Sacred interpretations. Regional, Indigenous charm and beauty. Come, sit by the fire. Selling points dressed up to accommodate the mysteries of the sacred.

The gallery housed an impressive roll call of recognizable names; Scholder, Red Star, Howell, Houser, Biss, Gorman, Cannon, Vigil, Hyde…on and on. Mostly reproductions and second market items but top of the line name items just the same. The days of featured artists for the Tailfeather lay in the past. Reproductions or not, the inventory paid Eaglebone’s room and board. His party time was financed along with his pretentious atmosphere padded by the legends of Indian artists who he claimed to have known, partied with, shared coke and women, and skillfully interjected his presence into some of their better known past stories. (CONTINUED ON PAGE 16)

Adventures of 30 something or whatever…

By Donut Fondue

usually followed with some kind of obvious mental reference to how old I am nowadays??? Or “Why?” or my ultimate favorite “Don’t you know about your biological clock?” And I do, actually having been able to complete both Anatomy and Physiology 1 AND 2 in college. I get it folks.

Back in my day (HA! I love that I can say that now). Rather, there has always, ALWAYS been a “teen parent” presence, always. Other generations had better ways of covering it up or just plain failed to address the issue at all. My generation didn’t really have a choice but to deal with all the outdated Sex Ed, baby-think-it-over dolls and lifetime movies about the plight of the struggling 15 year old parent. We logged hours of mild sex education, structured for just boys or just girls, in separate class rooms, after we washed our hands and faces and prayed (Kid-ding about that last one.) It was lame really, two cartoon faces smiling and having sex in the most machine looking way under cartoon blankets in the cartoon moonlight.

Kids! I love ’em. The smaller the funnier I always say, gullible and giggly, curious and honest as H-E double hockey sticks. Watching them grow and learn all the epic things that have become dull and repetitive to us old cynical 30 something folk, ‘O my word they’re balancing, THEY’RE BALANCING’ and Boom! We have a walker! The amazement of walking is reborn. Babies spark cool moments like that; teaching us patience and kindness in the raw. Eventually they get to the point where they talk back. You find out all the amazing little thoughts and ideas they have about this world. Good ol kids. They bring things back to life, discover feelings and wonder, they fall in love with things that blink and fly. Little opinions form. Old stories are new and exciting again. Everything is climbable and tasty to them. Tacky clothes in smaller sizes become way cute. What’s not to love?

Shots of a full on actual anonymous vagina gapping to reveal a blood-soaked patch of hair coming into the world caused us all to look away and gag. Images of a circle of 80’s brace faced teen mothers, exhausted but managing to do their bangs and hold their crying babies sharing the realities of skipping prom for mother hood and work. Then came the “baby” projects. Carrying around 5 pound sacks of sugar as babies for a week and some classes didn’t allow your baby so you had to find a willing homie to baby sit right before chemistry or P.E. The robot babies that the school pressed on the couples were the worst, a robot baby so demon it came with three different keys that indicated ‘diaper change’, ‘play’ and ‘attention’. That baby would wail every 3 minutes if it wanted, 2 am even and as loud as a small radio and the real kicker? The robot baby digitally stored the amount of time it took for you to get the right key into it. I hear the attention key got the most use.

I LOVE to lounge more than anything, in good PJ’s snuggled in delightful bedding for as long as I can get away with. I love to dabble in everything and anything and THAT keeps me busy and hectic and I love that too. My life is so random and I’m lucky to have people in my life who understand that and even support that. However, I also live in a society that tells me kids are the new “it” accessory. Like a microwave or Plasma TV or some kind of designer purse.

And when I run into people I haven’t seen in a while, society once again reminds me “You don’t have ANY kids?”

Then came the wave of girls that didn’t listen, or thought they knew what they were doing, or were in love, or just didn’t care. The pregnancy would pass and then there’s someone else that comes first, or is at least supposed to.

Some of the moms didn’t want to let go of the teenage dream and once they knew baby was with Granny or Auntie or whoever was down to make a quick $20 bucks for a couple hours, well those of us who watched those kids know how that goes. Some of the girls really tried, as

long as they could and with plenty of help. They stayed home, or they traveled like a brown bag special, baby on one hip, diaper bag on the alternate shoulder. Suddenly trips to the mall were shorter than the amount of time it took to get ready to go shopping. Movies got harder to sit through because baby woke up. Going out to eat was hard because baby was teething. I watched them work minimum hours for minimum wage with little sleep, just to get some diapers or whatever else that busy babies hospital bill came out to be from over exposure. Kids are NEW folks, and the public is an extremely germy place. You don’t learn too much of that in high school.

And the boys. Sometimes the boys were around for as long as they could stand it. Some chipped in with their little afterschool jobs or hit up Grandma for some babysitting time. I’m sure good teen-fathers exist, I just don’t know of any personally.

Nothing can prepare you for the real deal baby. I hear that over and over again. No matter how much money or years’ worth of time you’ve had with other kids, once you’re knee deep in it, then you get the big picture, in HD, 3D, double D all in your face. I laugh at the “sex-ed” of my time but the school can only teach so much. Sure, the shock factor is mild enough for a young brain to think “this is difficult” but hardly ever “impossible”. Last year in my technical writing class, I was assigned a 5-8 page proposal and I chose ‘installing a for-credit semester long sexual education class for freshmen grades statewide’.

or are you purchasing a 10 pack for 20 bucks? Was your child born with Eczema?. Asthma?. Are they incurring hospital bills? You’ll also need wipes, blankets, bedding, car seat, and the clothes. Babies grow fast and so do the price tags for their clothes. I realized not only had I found an actual use for high school algebra, but those numbers alone were enough to make a grown ex working woman figure in her own budget. Now THAT was a lesson and a reality check, from a semi-adult perspective.

But the kids, I can’t help but smile and laugh when I think of all my little smiley fuzzy headed nieces and nephews I’ve encountered in my lifetime. Meeting them when they were big as a football or right at my knee and seeing them again when they’re big enough to sass back. They soldier on and grow while their parents figure out their lives in maybe not the most graceful of ways. I see the differences in the kids that were born to teen parents and the ones who were born to someone older, experienced and stable. It’s neither good nor bad, but the difference is definite. One thing that remains, a child never stops longing for their parents no matter what. Foster kids, kids left for a whole night, kids left for years, long for their parents and their own little ideas of what a parent should be; present and “attentive”.

Kids get bored with toys, movies, gadgets and material shit, they get sick off of too much sugar and they grow out of clothes, they have questions and need new shoes.

Sometimes they just need to know that if shit goes down, mom or dad is going to make things alright again.

I’m not even going to get into the jerks that bring their kids in the middle of a break up. No, I’m not going there today. I will however express that I am bumping Cypress Hill at a very loud volume and while I plan on playing it in the future soccer van, one day I won’t be able to bump my music because baby is sleeping. I fully plan on having kids.

Really cool ones. No baby bashing here.

I had designed one lesson to give a real world budget for working teenagers who sometimes can only work a certain amount of hours at minimum wage on a workers permit, regardless of availability from dropping out of school or getting a G.E.D. Teenagers would have to calculate expenditures for necessities for baby only, all things considered, I’m talking are you a breast feeder or spending $9 on a can of formula that baby is gonna go through in 3 days? Are you washing feces and urine from cloth diapers

Remember that whole TALK BACK sentiment? The first word. The first sentence. They sure learn to talk back alright.

They start to figure out their voice, what they stand for, their personal morals and values, whether they want to be like mom or dad or not. They tell on you without knowing it, they see a bottle of wine and recant about how you passed out on the couch after drinking a whole bottle of wine to yourself, ya lush. They tell people when you skip out on a trip to the park because you had diarrhea. They tell their friends about their parents’ business, or drinking

binges, or who’s a cooler parent. Those kids that were left behind divulge their parents’ problems as much as the parents do.

Kids learn about cops, strangers having to come in the apartment to shame and scold out the “Adults” of the situation. Kids pull the teen card, recalling when you left them, where you left them, how long they cried, or whatever else they can throw at you to excuse the fact that they skipped out on curfew, stoned or drunk or experimenting. Yes it comes full circle as those once cute little rascals now tell you how they’re gonna be, where they’ll be at and they’ll be needing your money to do so.

Too young to work, they don’t care if you give it to them or not, there are plenty of disagreeable ways they can get it or worse, steal it. Kids discover the power of rebelling and all the ways to twist their dissatisfactory pasts to their advantage.

I remember what it was like to be 13 years old, not a trouble maker but a trouble participant, still thinking my friends and I were so sneaky. Little things like telling my parents that yes I’m going to the mall with Jane Doe and her Mom, but not telling them said mom would be dropping us off, alone. Then there were the infamous “sleepovers” that were actual parties. I drank and had a bad mushroom trip at an 8th grade dance. I failed a grade, I tried to buy smokes for friends, I got smashed at my 18th birthday party and totally got busted. Still, my antics were pretty mild and at least my parents taught me to watch my own as and scram if things got hairy. As stupid as that sounds (and it was lengthier and more mature how THEY put it, but basically that’s what it boiled down to) I learned what they meant when some girls I had ditched school with got arrested for stealing jeans at the mall. Meanwhile I was headed to “headquarters”, the bus stop where we agreed to meet to catch the bus back to school for a flawless victory. Instead, ‘home girls’ were cuffed, booked and our high school was flagged with notification. Long story short, it was a small school and they were just too good at their admission records.

Later on in high school, my friends chose boyfriends, dreams, success, different paths and some chose to be parents. That terrifying life changing role that is sometimes incomprehensible to even a married 30 something year old woman. At 18. I couldn’t even figure out what to wear at that age sometimes, yet alone make decisions concerning

another little person that I would be responsible for. We all made choices.

Doctors have an “idea” of how kids should be, and scientists have some chart they follow that defines “normalcy”. Aunties have a look from the outside in. We watch the meltdowns, wipe the snot noses, load them up with candy and give extra hugs. We give them whatever in the world they want because their parents won’t. We try to cram in an animal visit, play park session, kids museum stop and toy store trip as fast as we can because they’re only ours for a few hours. We’re obligated to be the funnest, game to paint noodles or watch Scooby doo 90 times in a row and make birthday cakes out of Play-Doh and leggos.

Aunties cherish their slice of parenting and the best buddy roll. I honor the Auntie code, what happens with Auntie stays with Auntie, unless you’re acting up and not listening, THEN I’m gonna tell your Ma. And when Auntie is down for the count after the babysitting hustle, the kids go home and Auntie comes alive, realizing “Auntie can do whatever the hell Auntie wants now!” Live off of $20 bucks for the week. Stay out until 3:32 am and be at work by 6am and leave early to drive to Vegas with some friends on a whim, or finish up that gah damn Microbiology reading, or get sick and sleep in. Auntie gets to eat ice cream for breakfast in bed and sky dive and lose a job and not have to really worry just yet, Auntie can pawn in that TV or donate plasma or work at a bar. It doesn’t sound like much really, but it’s a little bit of room, a little bit of freedom that you really don’t appreciate until you’ve taken care of a sick baby or a homesick baby or a brat kid who’s really just frustrated and wants mom. You hear the screaming kid going on and on for the best dramatic scene award in the store right in the isle you need to be in and you’re thinking “OH MY GHAAAD! SHADUUUUUUP!!!” But you’re really feeling like “take that poor baby home and lay them down already”.

At least I do.

So no, I don’t have any kids and I don’t understand the struggles of a parent because I understand the struggles of a parent. I go on and on about my nieces, or my new kid sisters, and all their antics that make me so proud and amazed. I love kids, everybody’s kids, and I’m extra nice AND mindful because someday those kids will be bigger, stronger, bossier, better, faster than me. Someday those kids are going to see for themselves what this world is

really about. And in their little history book minds, I’m cool with going down as the cool chill Auntie.

Wampum, and It's Influence on America.

By Damian Webster The US Constitution is not a direct copy of the Haudenosaunee Great Law, but it has many roots from it. The Great Law is the oldest living participatory democracy in the US, and some say it’s the oldest living democracy in the world. The people who came here were fleeing religious persecution, and only knew of divine rights and monarchies. They found Native democracy, learned from it, and used it to

make their own union under many of the same principles.

The Circle Wampum is a circle of wampum strings which represent the original 50 chiefs from the five nations. It’s in a circle, where they are arm and arm, united, and they will protect everyone inside that circle. The original 13 colonies saw this, and fashioned their first flag in the shape of a circle as well. The 5 arrows that the Peacemaker bound together are replicated by the 13 arrows bound together for the US.

The Haudenosaunee have a tree of peace, and at the top of the tree of peace, sat an eagle, which was to be the lookout for any danger approaching them. The US used this eagle, to hold the 13 arrows bound together. The Haudenosaunee chose the white pine as a symbol of their peace and unity, because the needles are in bundles of 5, representing the 5 nations. The US chose the olive branch, with its 13 leaves, to represent the 13 colonies. This wasn’t the only wampum or symbolism used by the US. The preamble of the Constitution resembles the Great Law in that it talks about unity as well as providing liberty. The government of the Haudenosaunee breaks down into the Elder Brothers, Younger Brothers, and Fire Keepers, while the US resembles this with a two house Congress. The women of the Haudenosaunee had the power to “de-horn” the Chiefs if they conducted themselves poorly as leaders. Likewise, the constitution allows for the process of impeachment.

All of this is good material to learn, but how did it influence the US Constitution? The Haudenosaunee were prominent people in the north east, where many colonies were developing. The Haudenosaunee were powerful with their military as well as with diplomacy. The procedures of the Haudenosaunee were witnessed and partaken by many of the early US leaders. The procedures happened so often, that US leaders began to adopt the native practices.

It is said that when several leaders were arguing over land, an Onondaga leader told them, “You’re never going to amount to anything until you learn to work together.

Why don’t you make a union like us?” Many leaders marveled at the complexity and unity of the Iroquois “constitution”(Great Law). US leaders were no strangers to these guidelines, and adopted many of the ideas of the Haudenosaunee. It is said that the founding fathers took about 70% of the Haudenosaunee ideas, and used roughly 30% of its ideas in the final draft of the constitution.

What is a wampum belt? Wampum is made from quahog clam shells which are purple and white. The shell is harvested and then made into long cylindrical beads. A majority of the clam shell tends to be white, so purple beads are harder to come by. The beads were very difficult to make and took a long time to finish. Once finished, the beads were used for many purposes. They were strung and carried to represent ideas or messages, and sometimes used a verification of an important message. They were also strung together in belts. Even though they’re called belts, they are not worn around anyone’s waist; rather, they’re used as mnemonic devices. They were of various widths and lengths, and had various designs which were used as symbols of agreements between people, as well as nations.

The nations are all united by a line of white wampum, which symbolizes peace. The purple all around it represents the time of war. On the ends, the roads of peace extend, so that any nation who needs protection, and wants to follow the “Great Law of Peace” can follow the white roots and find shelter under the tree of the Haudenosaunee. Oren Lyons (Faith Keeper for the Onondaga Nation) likes to refer to this as the first “United Nations”. It was a confederacy, and each nation would look out for the others. They were united in their beliefs and ceremonies, and each one was seen as equal. Each nation had a role in the confederacy. However, each nation maintained its sovereignty. This is similar to a federal and state government relationship.

Women played a very prominent role with these belts, as they were the ones who strung the belts together.

It has also been said the women approved or disapproved of the agreements in the belts. The belt

that is sited most as contributing to the US Constitution is the Hiawatha belt, and its link to the Gayënëshä’ go:wah or “Great Law of Peace”.

Hiawatha was an Onondaga man who helped The Peacemaker unify the original 5 nations of the Haudenosaunee. They were the Seneca, Cayuga, Onondaga, Oneida, and Mohawk. The nations were in a bitter war of attrition for many years. They fought so hard for so long, people didn’t know what it was to die a natural death.

Women and children feared their own men and hid from them.

The Peacemaker went from nation to nation, and eventually united the five warring nations by teaching the principles of peace and carrying a good mind. When he did, a belt was strung to symbolize that relationship. Before it was made, he held up an arrow and easily broke it. This was to demonstrate the fragility of a single nation. Next he bound five arrows together with the sinew of a deer, and could not break it. In this, he showed the five nations how they would have strength if they were united in one heart, one mind, one spirit.

The belt shows the five nations in relation to their locations in the state of New York. On the left side is a square for the Seneca. This square is connected to another square, which is the Cayuga. The next is a tree, representing the white pine or great tree of peace. Some also refer to it as a heart, and it represents the Onondaga nation. The next square is the Onieda, followed by another square for the Mohawk.

The US Constitution was adopted on September 17, 1787, but it has its early beginnings among the Native Americans of the north east; particularly, it has its roots in the Haudenosaunee tradition (Iroquois

Confederacy). The current flag of the Haudenosaunee is based off of the Hiawatha belt which represented 5 warring nations coming together in peace and unity, while maintaining their sovereignty as independents.

IDLE NO MORE FOREVER

By Dawn Webster On a brisk winter day near downtown Lawrence, KS community members gathered at South Park. Those that gathered for the Idle No More rally came together peacefully for what seemed to last only about 40 minutes. We all came together and listened to the singers on the drum. Everyone participated in the round dance that was being held. I have to be honest, when I initially decided to attend I knew nothing about the Idle No More Movement. I had heard and read a few things, but I also wanted to understand what the people were taking away from the message.

At first glance the Idle No More movement brought up thoughts like, “Here we go again” thanks to my inner dialogue. Having grown up Native I learned the history about Native People in the United States from family, friends, and in both high school and college. Through all of this I have gained insights about what has happened throughout the course of our relationship with the Federal Government. And with American society as a whole. I grew up in the city, but I have roots with my people. And I can still see what happened in the past continuing to happen today.

In many ways, hearing about another tribe being forced to go through land rights issues, and modern day Indian Removal, brings about a sense of helplessness. There has been little progress made, throughout history, in recognizing the sovereign rights of Native People all over the world. For these reasons I often try my best to not become so emotionally invested in learning about what is transpiring. I think about what those families must have felt like to have to endure such hardships and the hardships of the people today.

But often times I find that there is always more to any story than what initially meets the eye. Even just trying to break down where it began is an undertaking. We could go as far back as looking at where the tribes were before any other settlers came, which would require us to recognize the Indigenous population that thrived in the area. That would bring us to the treaties that were made once settlers did come and what followed. This aspect would be undeniably hard to absorb since we would have to recognize the wiping out of Nations.

There were so many families. Women wore shawls and winter jackets with native designs and had their kids there. There were many signs that people had made to also show support, and people of all ages had come together for this event of over 250 people. There were students from Haskell Indian Nations University, there were local faces and students that had become townies.

There were also people from the Lawrence community that came out and participated which I felt as a welcomed sight.

Many of us were taking pictures, recording and in general showing support, and then suddenly everyone headed out. It was peaceful. There was no need for teargas or cops or dogs. And though I can’t speak for everyone who was a part of it, I did feel as though I had been a part of something that happened that I felt I needed to know more about.

We could go back to when Shell Oil Canada originally started their plans to take the natural resources in Alberta, Canada. And it’s not that the tribes had not resisted prior to this point, but we would once again be forced to see the definition of shady land deals and land grabs. We could also start the day when Bill C-45 and C48 were passed. This undeniably sent a message to tribes that would be losing their rights to clean water.

They would also be losing their say in having a shot at

maintaining a sustainable environment for the surrounding Native communities.

which she is chief of the Attawapiskat First Nation in Canada.

Or we could start on the day Theresa Spence decided to begin her hunger strike, which I feel has in some ways both unified and divided people all over Indian Country.

Somewhere in all of this there is a message to be sure.

People have come together to some degree to support the Idle No More message. Unfortunately, I have to point out that taking part in the Idle No More round dance and protest did very little to point out the plight that has been experienced by Native people. Yes, everyone gathered and there were signs and songs, but I also did not hear anyone really speak about what the core issues were or about why we were gathered together. I also was left with the feeling that yes, we participated, but what did that really impact?

People were definitely swept away online especially on Facebook where all the Natives in my social circle either mentioned or posted something about Idle No More.

Many showed their support through collective likes and creating other banners and posts. All in all, it just made for great social media for many people. But what about the people that are fighting for their water rights? What did we actually do for them?

I know that a show of solidarity is always appreciated by political movements but I haven’t written any governmental officials or stormed an office somewhere.

However, I do want to be clear that I am in support of Native and Indigenous communities across the globe having a voice that is heard, especially when it comes to the lives that are directly impacted by business and government. Online, comments touch on the other issues of desecration of sacred sites, the infringement on women’s rights, the lack of Indian Education, and the list could and does go on. Within this big picture everyone is forced once again to remember what has happened, what is happening, and we have to then ask ourselves what we will do to change it.

Can we change it? I believe in the age old adage that changes does come from within. And a perfect example does start with taking a look at ourselves as tribes, and facing the truth about ourselves as sovereign nations. In this regard we have to be willing to face the reality of greed and the corruption of power that exists across the board when it comes to politics both tribal, and international.

Now I respect the fact that Theresa Spence felt the way that she did, and that she wanted to do something drastic to make a change in how the tribes were being treated. Ms. Spence going on a hunger strike that lasted a total of 44 days was not a tactic that I could honestly agree with. In all honesty, this managed to raise an awareness of Ms. Spence beyond the community in

In many ways she became a representative and face for the Idle No More movement by deciding to sustain herself on a diet of fish broth, lemon water and medicinal tea. And let’s be real for a second. Most people that are in a position as chief of their tribes are getting paid to be responsible in their role as chief, but she is also caught up in a bad looking financial audit. After her hunger strike began she also had an account that had been created to accept donations. This account is under the control of her boyfriend Clayton Kennedy.

Kennedy Himself has a reputation for the mismanagement of funds for the tribe prior to Ms. Spence stepping into the role of chief. Kennedy had declared bankruptcy five years prior to becoming the tribes director of finance. The attention that has come from this information being exposed and the timing of the choice that Ms. Spence decided to go on a hunger strike seem less and less coincidental. Is this what we were having the rally for in Lawrence?

The reality of the conditions that people live in on the reserve have not been addressed while all of this has taken place. Authorities are not following up on cases of hundreds of murdered or missing women from the reserve. People are still living in deplorable housing with water that has been contaminated already or no water at all. And the government in Canada chooses to wait on recognizing treaties that would work to improve these conditions.

The Tribes in Alberta are still taking the issue to the courts. The bills have yet to be stricken down. Shell Oil knows their investment is going to pay off in the long run. They are going to fight to completing their project.

They have more than enough money to find the legal strength. For them, everyone else is kind of coming in at the end of a process that has been in the making for

years. But how does solidarity in Lawrence change it for these guys?

It seems we are then left with the alternative of trying to raise money to lay claim to places that should otherwise be respected. Sovereign people are being forced to ask themselves, is it worth it to think about handing a bunch of money to a corporation so that they will leave the land alone? I have to believe that most tribes these days are not that wealthy.

They are certainly not Shell Oil wealthy, otherwise they could be putting their money where their mouths are and buying the lands back for themselves. They could improve their environment on their own and have a fighting chance at thriving. Society has resorted to forcing tribes to pony up the bread to protect a sacred site or to avoid removal. The obvious financial gain that cannot be ignored in turn justifies the act of forced removals and environmental devastation.

It is so simple to think that for the people that stand to gain, it’s just another story of Natives that are standing in the way of progress. Or asking for a hand out. But rather we should be asking ourselves how this has gone on for so long and gotten so out of hand. And what are we going to do about it? I suppose somewhere there is also a silver lining. I don’t think that the people that participated in the movement are bad intentioned. I don’t want it to seem like the participants just don’t see the bigger picture. I think that many of them are still wondering themselves how much they had an impact in helping move the cause forward.

What has managed to come about from Natives and supporters all over the world is a re-education of what it means to be part of a culture that is still very much intact. People have organized teach ins and community events focused on learning about the importance of Native culture. People are taking the effort to learn their languages and the languages of others. But really it shouldn’t stop there.

For now there are still peaceful protests that continue to take place, bringing more attention to Idle No More long after the end of the hunger strike. But how long can that last? In the information age there are more people that have access to information almost everywhere. The potential to reintroduce and maintain culture for younger and older generations alike is endless.

What we do with all that information is what defines us but we have to look forward to where we are going. And if the chiefs and the tribes are given help on a grand scale, we cannot resort back to the nepotism, the cronyism and back biting that has divided nations as people.

SACRED TAIL FEATHER, CONTINUED from page 8…

The Sacred Tailfeather was similar to many of the Canyon Road art galleries in that they made a good deal of money in the art business. The gallery was in a minority with its loose ethics, side deals, ripping off artist and litigation from bad business practices constantly creating obstacles in their quest for “the score”. Having been converted from a residential adobe house into a multi-room gallery, the Tailfeather reflected much of what Canyon Road itself had become. Once, Canyon Road had been just that, the road leading up through and into the canyon. Before reaching national prominence it had been a neighborhood. Lined with small houses, grocery stores, shops and services, many of the upper acres were family owned plots belonging to long established Spanish gentry and their lines of succession. Many of the compounds that existed catered to the needs of the patrón fiefdoms that had recently sold out to real estate interest in the boom that transitioned the canyon neighborhood into an arts Mecca.

Art movements were nothing new to Santa Fe or for New Mexico for that matter. The Taos art colonies were legendary. The Ghost Ranch – O’Keefe movement was noted around the world. Santa Fe’s transformation from cultural attraction to tourist destination weighted heavy in the arts- colony-bohemian lifestyle, piquing the interest of east coast moneyed writers, artists and socialists who found the endeavor attractive all the way back to the turn of the century (20th).

The effort to capitalize on the developing art market was boosted and sanctified by downtown civic organizations catching the scent of money. The first artist colony to settle in the Santa Fe area set up camp on Camino del Monte Sol, then called Telephone Road which crossed Canyon Road and into the center of the city. The focal point of the colony was to offer regional flavor in their work, departures from cosmopolitan-mainstream ideas about what art should be, and they painted, wrote and created the mystique that equaled everything being presented in Taos. In the 1930’s members of the Santa Fe arts community built the Museum of Navajo Ceremonial Art (to become the Wheelwright Museum of the American Indian) and published works of poetry edited by renowned poet Alice Henderson. She featured such luminaries as Mary Austin, D.H. Lawrence, Willa Cather and Peggy Church.

Artists from this colony produced southwest flavored murals painted in federal and state government buildings

all over downtown. In the sixties the Canyon Road gallery market took shape. Outside money bought up the homey neighborhoods and the term “quaint” swelled and reached new proportions. Marketing strategies, with Disneyland trappings shot the real estate values through the ceiling.

When Canyon Road first found its footing in the art world there were less than sixty galleries in the whole town. Now you can find that number and many more in existence at the turn-off at the foot of the road. Back when Three Cities of Spain topped the list of highbrow dining in town, El Faro was a watering hole catering to the working class locals.

Now El Faro is nationally recognized as the place to drink when wining and dining in Santa Fe whereas the Three Cities of Spain took a powder from reality.

Eaglebone witnessed the demise of many of the Road’s businesses in his tenure as art consultant slash mop engineer. Texas oil money bankrolled ventures left and right. Mistresses as managers were frequent job descriptions. Painters, stone carvers and other artisans were known to “hit it” and deliver returns on investments.

Often serious, though short lived, returns.

This knowledge was pertinent containing valuable information when plying drinks and attention from out of towners. It colored one knowledgeable, interesting, creating a sense of unique connection to time and place.

In all honesty, Eaglebone had seen his time and he wasn’t in any way, shape or form from this place. No, Eaglebone, which had no bearing on his real name or persona, was a trickster and akin to tricksters everywhere, he was a moocher. There were no eagles or bones in his cultural lineage as far as he knew. He’d adapted the name watching a documentary on plains tribes whose cultural history contained the practice of sun dancing and the implements used in the ceremonies. One item, the eagle bone whistle used during the course of the ceremony caught his attention.

“Wow, man…cool name. Eaglebone. I can dig it.” This from years before, viewing the program in a day room deep within the chambers of the state penitentiary of Wisconsin at Walpole. Pre-Eaglebone waiting for transport from state to federal incarceration, serving three to six for his part in a botched heist of slot coins from the casino back on the res.

Dollar slots, the big time. Fucking idiots. The caper, talked up as a walk in the park, contained the “how can we miss” element that entices the youthful stirrings of daring and bravado.

Eaglebone, or before he was Eaglebone, had been catching the drift of heated rhetoric from older relatives (cousins) back then. Fresh off the highway from their recent sojourn into AIM events these cousins expounded the injustices surrounding the Indian existence. Even then the passion fueling, burning issues were drifting south to lukewarmsville.

To seventeen going on eighteen year old numb nuts like Eaglebone the time to take back what had been stolen seemed a qualifying form of resistance. After all, stealing horses was a dignified, time honored display of great courage. Without considering the difference between times, cultures, and the transition of social mores, Eaglebone couldn’t make the distinction between acceptable warriorism and unacceptable criminal behavior.

Hell, he barely equated the difference between slot machine coins and horses so the fact that he was being played by older guys pretending to be hopped up on fading militancy, alcohol and questionable ideology was lost to him.

Back then, Eaglebone was by no means stupid, he was…ahem… impressionable. In his senior year of high school, prepping for his first year of college, he drove his own co-signed car, was athletic, employed, literate, and anxious to step into a world of waiting opportunity and promise. He was feeling on top of his game.

When the burned out AIMster relatives asked him to drive them to the casino and wait outside, he was complemented. These legends were letting him hang with them and he was digging it. He gave it no thought when they told him to wait in the car and keep the engine running. He felt sure he was in for an evening of beer swilling, pot smoking and hours of boastful tales. He loved hearing how these longhaired AIM warriors had occupied buildings, how they faced down the feds at Wounded Knee and involved themselves in shootouts with cops and highway patrolmen all over the western plains. And the chicks, these guys always had chicks hanging around.

Eaglebone could still hear the shots after all these years.

Glancing up from his reprieve he found himself shuffling through the Acequia Madre neighborhood, his favorite part of the walk. Puffy adobe walls and houses, leafy canopy, ancient air. Comforting no matter what time of year.

Thinking back to the circumstance Eaglebone remembered…three distinct shots. They sounded like firecrackers. Sitting in the idling car, he turned the radio down and began surveying the parking lot. Close by, a side door slammed open and a figure burst out. A female security guard staggered forth. Pre-Eaglebone exited the driver’s side and was starting toward the woman when she pitched forward and fell. She was making a sound that was part plea, part demand, “stop…stop…” and to this day he wasn’t sure which.

His idols, his relatives, came spilling through the same door shortly thereafter and began screaming at him to get back in the car. It was dark and in the darkness they all looked alike. Long hair, Levi jackets, boots and jeans. One of them spun to the security guard and pointed what looked like a warning gesture to quiet down but the yellow flash and pop from the small handgun accomplished the same thing.

He didn’t remember getting in the car and peeling out, but he did. He didn’t remember them stopping for beer and cigarettes, but he did.

He didn’t remember going into the basement of the house with them where they spilled a mound of slot machine coins on a worn coffee table jamming their hands into the coins, letting them run through their fingers exclaiming “we’re rich…fucking A…we’re rich!”. He didn’t do that. He found a chair and sat, stunned and silent. While they cracked open beers and rolled joints they discussed how the next step of the plan involved sending him into the casino with these coins, play the slots until he hit a jack pot and then all of them dividing up the winnings. No one saw him, right? All these coins, he had to hit something. When county and tribal police busted through the door, he didn’t remember being tossed, cuffed and shuffled off to the lock up, but he was. He didn’t see daylight for the next four years.

After the initial shock it was clear that his life had taken a dramatic, tragic twist. During trial he learned his cousins were not the political freedom fighters they pretended to be. They were a cabal of two bit stick up yahoos who, at the time of the heist were wanted for a number of gas station holdups. They had never been anywhere near a demonstration, political or otherwise. To say they were outside the political loop of advancement would commend them for a non-existing effort. They lacked the capacity to note the advantages of gainful employment. They knew there was a lot of gravy floating around the res but they

weren’t in on it because the “man” was keeping them down. In their limited analytical thinking the “man” was anyone who refused to share the wealth with “the people”, the people being them. Therefore the people had the right and obligation to rise up and acquire any inheritance that rightfully belonged to the commonwealth. They had acquired their rap while serving time with inmates who were in jail in various facilities around the country who had followed that very thinking. They too, wound up in jail. The cabal merely adopted the dress, manner and fervent militant persona.

It was the security guard, this unsuspecting casino employee, who in the course of doing her job, happened to find herself an obstacle between these low rent rocket scientists and their ambitions. She was serious about her ambitions and achieving personal accomplishments which placed her in a work ethic that was similar to preEaglebone. She was working and earning her way in life.

She was employed at the casino during down time waiting for the fall semester to begin her law program at UW in Madison. She had acquired scholastic funding achieving a near perfect grade point average. The tribe had high hopes for her success and heralded her as an example of anything being possible, much the same way they had praised preEaglebone. He and the security guard were roughly the same age. He knew her.

She was popular, sober, loved by relatives and a notorious fancy shawl dancer on the Wisconsin pow-wow circuit. He felt genuine remorse and heartbreak when the whole affair was brought to light and ruled a homicide. When the psuedo-AIMsters stuck the little rusty twenty-two in her face and demanded the bags of coins, she thought they were kidding and said so. She knew these yokels; everyone on the res knew them. She had grown up knowing of their destitute beginnings, their delinquent truancy and petty crimes. Their glue sniffing and latter day violence; their successive encounters with law enforcement and growing seriousness of their crimes. She was not a party to their unpredictability. She was in the dark and didn’t see it coming. Her hesitation being misinterpreted as resistance cost her. Of course, in cases such as this, she didn’t deserve it and the ensuing passion of retribution surpassed burning justice. She was also the daughter of the current tribal chairman therefore she was admired by powerful, progressive relatives installed throughout the hierarchy of the tribal justice system. She also had bad ass male

relatives with short fuses and very little room for forgiveness.

If ever there was a time to be thankful for the Major Crimes Act on Indian reservations it was during the course of these events in the life of pre-Eaglebone. He was handed off to federal authorities and being underage at the time of the crime (a month short of his eighteenth birthday) was handled as a juvenile during pre-trial proceedings, and of course, his co-defendants being down with warriorism and tribal blood brotherhood quickly blamed him as mastermind and triggerman in an attempt to plea bargain down. They knew he wouldn’t eat a murder one charge.

They could live with being accomplices.

On the res, things take their time, the truth emerging is one regard. Word got around. Tribal and law enforcement members who watched the security video tapes of that night quickly discerned who really pulled the trigger. By then, Eaglebone had been transferred around the federal system and was acclimating. His older cousins were not so fortunate. Two of them were killed (by other Indian inmates) while in transit at Walpole where all them were being held, and the third was rendered incapacitated from a severe beating he received after trial. Eaglebone, having pled guilty to complicity in exchange for testimony pulled a three to six sentence of federal time and was shuffled off to Leavenworth shortly after his conviction and his nineteenth birthday. Considering the circumstances surrounding the fate of his cousins he was relieved to get out of the state even if it was to the notorious federal prison. By that time Eaglebone had moved beyond the initial shock and numbing after effects of incarceration. He had adapted to being abandoned by family and friends.

The adjustment that the long hand of personal, reservation vengeance could befall him at anytime kept him wired and wary. He was stripped of any sense of dignity or self worth but was aware that he deserved it so internally he accepted responsibility for his role and quietly went about the business of never forgiving himself.

Two things happened during the course of him doing his time. One, coming across the Ken Kesey novel, One Flew Over the Cuckcoo’s Nest, two, being approached by the FBI and being offered a deal one could hardly refuse.

In the Kesey novel, the character-Chief Broom (Bromden), an Indian inmate in the mental institute setting, pretends to be a deaf mute, self-rendering his existence invisible to other inmates and staff. An example of self isolation and

questionable conduct Eaglebone followed discovering that in prison the benefit of being weird and unapproachable makes you just that. Most of all, people leave you alone.

He discovered the value in pretentious characterizing. With few Indian inmates in the facility he was comfortable and obscure enough to attend said Indian’s spiritual functions without anyone questioning his attendance. It was here he learned that the Good Red Road, Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, what have you, paves a spiritual path down the middle of the prison yard. If a belief system lives in your religious make-up it gains enormous significance in the course of doing time. It was during the course of learning about the sweat lodge, the circle of life, prayers with the pipe, vision quests, and individual connections to the creator and the works of creation; here that Eaglebone coalesced and became Eaglebone. So strong was his emotional and spiritual yearning that he found comfort and relief in the teachings. He entertained the idea that he had been born in the wrong century and that there was a (karmic evidence) strong case for him being a reincarnation of Tecumseh, the early nineteenth century Shawnee warrior who nearly constructed a national Indian confederacy to stop the encroachment of illegal settlement and stealing of Indian lands west of the Appalachian range.

He found it ironic sitting down and learning traditional values in a lock-up with killer-rapists, bank robbers, and heavy weight embezzlers but adaptation of admirable figures such as Tecumseh created a sense of worth sorely needed in his state. Leonard Peltier was in this facility, the high ranked, notorious AIM dog solider convicted of murdering two FBI agents in South Dakota. Peltier was rarely seen but his encouragement to learn the old ways filtered down to all the Indian inmates in a mysterious and ghostly manner, as it was rumored he had already been transferred to a lock-up in California and that the authorities were looking to kill him.

When Eaglebone was approached by the FBI, they swore they were not the FBI, but they made him swear if he was ever questioned about this approach, he would deny they were FBI, and they would deny this encounter had ever taken place. So he was not at liberty to discuss in any way, shape or form, any and all information that was forthcoming in this meeting that was not taking place.

Looking over his file, they had determined that though involved in a crime violent in nature, he himself was not a violent criminal, something many relatives around him tried to plea in the beginning of the mess when leniency

was being considered. The feds had a non-deal they wanted to put forth, theoretically, for his consideration but only in the capacity of theory. He initially thought this might entail his recruitment in a plot to hit Peltier, but he had already been transferred out.

They soon laid it out, theoretically speaking of course. Up in the northeast woods, questionable Indians were flexing the political muscle of sovereignty, or the definition thereof, where it applies to taxation and who garnered the right to do so in terms of state and sovereign entities.

Indians, citing historical treaties, were working legal loopholes selling tax free cigarettes and gas. Many of these modern day entrepreneurs were former AIMster foot soldiers who had acquired the value of legal research and political application. Gone were the days of standing up for the people. The new age ex-AIM businessmen had come to realize that personal avarice was beneficial to being down with the bucks and that operating tax free enterprises went beyond lucrative when employed as individual endeavors.

Many of these newly discovered “warrior society” bingo proponents traveled from Brooklyn, Queens, and other major cities to get in on the gravy.

The non-existing feds weren’t concerned with the activity per say, what they didn’t want was another charismatic messiah type emerging from the morass to consolidate large numbers of Indians to rally around the issue of sovereignty and taxes. They were burned out from the previous AIM fiasco with that roll call of leaders, and didn’t want to chase Indians around the northeastern woodlands circumventing another grassroots, political movement.

Would Eaglebone be interested in shaving off the remainder of his sentence in exchange for his services as mole and informant? What they were asking was not standard operating procedure for the agency so if the matter ever came to public attention he would be disassociated from any acknowledgement on the part of the agency and quickly have his sorry ass slung and handed back to him. All they wanted was for him to identify the sources behind the initial investing of this gas-bingocigarette movement. He just had to hang around pretending to be a Mohawk iron worker wanting in on the cigarette running. Once he learned who was colluding (they suspected Italian, Russian and Chinese crime families) with the border Indians, he just had to finger them.

By this time Eaglebone’s sense of self-worth and integrity fell far beyond dissipated. The weight of guilt, depression

and heartache had chased him from any shadow of redemption he could conjure leaving him with only a shell of existence. Realizing that in a second, fate turning could be determined by the flick of a candle. He exemplified the adage about the quick and the dead. There were no more comfort zones of predestined fortunes. Life held no normality in its future for him. This was it. Jail cells, jump suits and shackles. Even if he obtained a release in the near future it was doubtful if he’d ever release his own sorrow and allow self-imposed respite from his spiritual selfpunishment. Regardless of the intense conflict ravaging his soul, Eaglebone knew a good deal when he saw one. An advantageous way to view things in the present in this jail house tutorial program. Consciousness, sensitivity, sentimentality, all aspects left to the youthful straight John he once was in a time never to be re-visited. He imparted great interest in the cloak and dagger operation and was enlisted, released with specific instruction about who to target and what to employ. Deployed to St. Regis near Hogansburg, New York he adopted the persona of an urbanized, modern day blue collar Indian hanging around the res looking for a quick buck while filing names in his memory to hand over to the feds for further scrutinizing.

He didn’t care. Being out in the air was enough.

Serendipity reaches us all in some manner at some time.

With Eaglebone, the push by the Mohawk Warrior Society (though historically there never existed warrior societies amongst the Iroquois) at a little Mohawk township called Oka, blessed him with an escape hatch simply to fortuitous to ignore. The incident began over a municipality attempting to develop a parcel of land originally belonging to Mohawks. A sacred golf course was at stake. The idea met with resistance when the question of legal ownership arose. A demonstration ensued, construction was obstructed and when police attempted to scatter demonstrators, gunfire erupted and a policeman was killed. Forensic later proved the policeman was killed by friendly fire but initially the specter of bloodthirsty armed savages jumped from the pages of the historical past to terrify the securities of the present and the authorities called out the Canadian national guard to encircle and starve out the tiny hamlet of Mohawks.

A contingent of city-bred Mohawks barged onto the scene and moved to hijack and cash in on the political exposure of the siege, Eaglebone informed his “handlers” that he was expected (by the bada-boom, bada-bing Mohawk warriors) to accompany them into the northern hinterlands

of Indian restlessness. If he declined it might blow his cover. They reluctantly agreed knowing once he crossed the border he was free to sky and getting him back could prove to be tricky. In a way they were relieved the whole ball of Indian militant politics had rolled into Canada’s doorway. Let them deal with the headache for a while.

Eaglebone did not go north. He turned a one eighty and headed south, southwest to be precise, and never looked back.

The feds likely thought he melted into the frozen tundra and didn’t seem that concerned about him taking a powder. Even so, they had their bulletins and wanted posters pasted all over the huge northern land base where they aged and deteriorated over the decades. Nobody cared about a single Indian wanted for questioning, no crime listed, who may or may not be wandering the vast, desolate, northern provinces.

Meanwhile, Eaglebone’s trek southwest became a learning journey, honing his duplicite skills to remarkable dimensions of believability. He was a couch camper, a floor bag able to garner a corner of any number of apartments, houses, community buildings, shelters, for well extended periods of time. His hair grew long and he found that playing wise and noble did not necessitate having to be so.

He found the best grounds for gathering favor were functions hosting Indian themes. Bingo nights, benefits, pow-wows, concerts, political rallies, and…oh yes, gallery openings. The bigger the function the better. If there were not some Indians willing to look out for a brother there were the white women. On this trek he learned the philosophy of working the angles.

To seize and exploit opportunities. To always tell people tales about what he thought they wanted to hear. To be whoever they wanted him to be. To work them until they gave him what he was taking from them. To not get personally involved with anyone and to always stay attuned to knowing when to split. There was a way out of everything and the way of the trickster was being able to get away with most anything. Eaglebone had become the indigenous, cultural grifter. Utilizing historical information, documented prose of wisdom, and scripted remedies of spiritual answers to get what he wanted. Not unlike the needs suiting Coyote; those wants were simple-sex, food and self-importance.

Money tended to quell the hunger of all three so Eaglebone was motivated constantly in the pursuit of the

quick buck. He didn’t have to like what he’d become but it kept him under the radar, moving, and never at a loss or left wanting. And through it all, like most con men, there was always the elusive mother lode, the jackpot, the elusive pay day that would eventually solve all his problems and deliver him to the day of having it knocked.

After all these years of performance and delusion, he felt that he was on the cusp of that day materializing. He’d heard rumblings before. Big cocaine deals he was welcomed to get in on but his ante was unrealistic. Rare art pieces or artifacts he could invest in, selling later for decadent mark ups but guaranteed sales nonetheless. Real estate and development projects with “payday” written all over it, but alas, his personal stake being nothing more than wishful thinking. But as of late, he’d managed to scrape together and salvage a nice little chunk of change that would allow him access to the land of milk and honey.

He felt now was the time.

He’d always felt that way during his tenure at the Sacred Tailfeather. One day, either an artist, an art deal, art dealers doing other deals, some advantageous happenstance would fall in his lap and he would be in the periphery of the right place at the right time. He’d be able to get in on it and acquire the bread to settle into some alpine, mountain surrounded ranch-bungalow where he could sit under a breeze-catching portal, eat Mexican food, drink beer, snort coke and listen to old pow-wow songs until he went mad or expired. Such the extent of aspirations where a mid-forty something burn out like Eaglebone rested. A man of simple needs.

With final footfalls Eaglebone found himself where he’d been finding himself for the past fifteen years. At the front gate of the Sacred Tailfeather Fine Arts Gallery. His respite from the constant pretention. He was weary. At least the gallery offered a sense of private down time allowing him to go about his daily chores unscripted.

The prospects of swinging a mop or pushing a broom never grew tiresome. In his own way, he had found a manner of meditation, a transcendental kata that provided movement and astral projection. He could shuffle through his routine, shelve the tensions of an unexpected past catching up, and dream of an encroaching, reachable day when he’d have it knocked. Eaglebone had never contemplated striving for Nirvana but if getting in on a sweet paying deal was a close second, it was the answer to a lot of praying.