Author: frankisemptiness

February 27th, 2018

One morning at the Sauk-Suiattle reservation, I had a conversation with Chief Harry Kindness. The Chief is Mohawk-Oneida. He lived in Wisconsin for a long time, but then he got tired of the long winters, and he moved with his wife to Las Vegas. His wife is still in Vegas. She is spending time with her son, who is gravely ill. The Chief’s presence on the Longest Walk is causing his family some financial hardship. While walking across the country, Chief Kindness is not earning an income, and this makes his wife’s life a daily struggle. The Chief and his wife agree that he is doing the right thing by walking for the people, but it is still difficult for them.

I asked the Chief if I could do anything to help. I didn’t feel like I could do very much to alleviate his situation, but I wanted to do something. The Chief allowed me give him a hand. He’s a proud man, and I respect him. He is a leader of men. He is trying to do his duty with regards to both his family and the Native American people as a whole. He’s making hard choices, and I admire him for that.

Everybody participating in this walk is making some kind of sacrifice. The fact that we are doing this work means that we are giving up something else. Ferdinand would disagree with what I just wrote. He told me,

“l am here because I want to be here. It is my choice. I am not a prisoner. I am not a victim. I am not a martyr.”

What Ferdinand says is true. All of us came together voluntarily. However, even though we are doing something that needs to be done, we are still temporarily abandoning our loved ones. We are still setting aside other tasks that are also important.  We have made a choice that has to be revisited each day.

We walked eight miles with the Squaxin Island tribe. One lady tagged along with us for part of the march. She was happy and enthusiastic about the walk. She left us after a while, but she was at the Community Kitchen to greet us when we ended our walk there.

The woman smiled and told us, “We have foot baths for all of you walkers. We have hot water and bath salts. You can keep the plastic basins and the towels when you are done soaking your poor, tired feet. You might need them later on your journey.”

I went into the community center and sat down at one the tables in the back of the room. I really didn’t want to soak my feet. I just wanted to sit quietly for a while. I wasn’t able to do that. The woman saw me and came to my table. She and her partner gave me a plastic basin, and then they filled it with hot water.

The woman said with concern, “That water is very hot. Do want us to add a little cold water?”

I told her that I was fine. I asked her for her name.

She replied sweetly, “I am Charlene, and this is June.”

The following morning, we all gathered together for a short walk. After the walk, we planned on moving on to the next reservation. Charlene showed up. She smiled and greeted all of the walkers. Charlene went from person to person saying,

“I just want to shake your hand.’

She came up to and said the same thing. We shook hands, and then she smiled again and turned to approach the next walker.

I felt something in my right hand. I looked at it, and I saw Andrew Jackson staring back up at me. Charlene had given me a twenty dollar bill. I am pretty sure that she gave every walker $20. I felt vaguely uncomfortable. The cash burned my hand.

I gave the money to Chief.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

February 27th, 2018

“Hey Frank! You want to know something? This walk ain’t just about me. It ain’t about Bobby Wallace and Chief. It ain’t about you. It’s about us.” – Wounded Knee

What makes a tribe? Is it blood? Is it a set of common experiences? Is it love of neighbor?

Tribes are essentially extended families. That is the way Native Americans view them. Blood is important, to a certain extent. Everybody in the tribe talks about their uncles and aunties and nieces and nephews. I kind of doubt that all these are biological relationships (“uncle” and “auntie” seem to be terms of respect for elders). Being part of a tribe is not just about sharing genetic material.

Is there a racial component to a tribe? Maybe. Once again, bloodlines play apart, but it is possible for a person to be only one quarter Indian and still qualify as a tribal member. I noticed with the Squaxin Island tribe that some members looked like Native Americans, some looked white, and some had Afro-American features. I found an unexpected level of racial diversity.

A tribe, like a family, tends to demand a lot from its members. People are required to be loyal and supportive. Members need to share and sacrifice for one another. On the other hand, a family or a tribe might let some things slide. The seems to be high tolerance for idiosyncrasies. It all comes down to people having each other’s backs.

Is there a down side to the tribal structure? Apparently so. During a conversation about drug and alcohol abuse among Native Americans, one Indian commented that, on his reservation, everyone new who the drug dealers were, but nobody busted them. The problem was that they were all related. How hard is it to turn in your nephew for selling smack? How hard is it to throw your niece out of the house if she is drunk all the time? It is very hard.

We had a community meeting with folks from the Squaxin Island tribe last night. One of the elders, Paula, spoke at length. She told us about how she found a long lost sister. Paula is seventy-three. Her newly discovered sister is seventy. They are both extremely excited about meeting each other after many years of separation. Paula’s story was very moving, and said a lot about the power of family.

Paula also told us that she moved to the reservation in 1982. She has never left. The rez is where she feels at home. She told us that “she never feels alone”.

That feeling means she belongs. That feeling means she is part of the tribe.

 

 

 

 

February 26th, 2018

“CIRCLE UP!”

How many times have I heard that call during this last week?

Every day.

Usually, it’s been Bobby who has called all of us into the circle. We do that each time we start a walk. We do that when we pray before meals. We do that before and after ceremonies. We circle up before get into the vehicles to travel long distances. When in doubt, we get into a circle.

Bobby said today that we were gathering into a “sacred” circle. I think that is an accurate description. There is a feeling of equality while we stand together. Even though we have a couple people designated as leaders, there is no place of honor in a circle. A circle has no focal point, except for the center, and no one stands in the center. We are all on the periphery. We create the circle together. We are all necessary for it to exist. When we hold hands in prayer, we all become one.

I remember “forming up” when I was cadet at West Point. That was very different. The leader stood at the head of the formation, and everyone else faced him or her. A small formation was part of a larger one, and the members of the small group all looked in same direction toward the leader of the larger assembly. There was a rigid hierarchy. The emphasis was on order, and on everyone knowing their place.

Making a circle brings us together so that we can take care of business. Bobby tells us the plans for the day. We discuss the route for the walk. We find out where and when we will get our next meal. We hear about any problems that have occurred.

The circle isn’t just business. We get smudged. That happens when one of the group lights up a bundle of sage and then brings its smoke to bless every other person in the circle. Someone, usually Bobby, sings. He brings out his rattle and sings a traditional song of his tribe. These songs are holy. They cannot be recorded. We might drum while in the circle. We do things to draw our spirits closer together.

We become one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

February 26th, 2018

I don’t know if all tribes run a casino, but every reservation we’ve seen so far has had one. Yesterday we ate brunch at the Nisqually Red Wind Casino. The food was excellent. The buffet had standing rib roast, shrimp, crab legs, and eggs any way you wanted them. The tribe paid for all of our meals, so we made the most of it.

I don’t gamble. I have plenty of vices, but gambling isn’t one of them. Prior to this trip, I had never spent any time in a casino. During the last few days, I have had plenty of opportunity to observe the behavior of those who dwell there. It’s been quite interesting.

It was pointed out to me that the casinos have no natural light or windows. The are no clocks. There is no way to keep track of time unless you look at your cell phone. Actually, everything in the casino is designed to keep you distracted so that you lose track of time. There is innocuous background music (e.g. smooth jazz). The rooms are filled with the sounds of bells and whistles. Lights flash continually. Alcohol is easily available. It’s a Petri dish for developing ADHD.

The environment in the casino encourages people to enter, play, and forget that they should leave eventually. The staff members are unfailingly helpful, polite, and smiling. They are willing to satisfy nearly any desire of the customer in order to keep the person gambling. That is the goal.

It was late on Sunday morning when we ate brunch. I finished eating before most of the other walkers, so I spent a few minutes exploring the casino cavern. There aren’t many players hanging around the casino on a Sunday morning. Those who are there working the slot machines are part of a special breed. These are not the people who get filmed for gambling promotions. These folks are not high rollers. They are not glamorous. They do not often look happy.

I admit that there are many people who have a great time in the casino. I know some of them. They love the thrill. They are elated when they win and stoic when they lose. They totally enjoy the experience. I just didn’t see any of them on that Sunday morning.

I saw one old guy sitting across from a slot machine. He was in the smoking area. The man gazed at the display with a fixed stare. He was oblivious to the fact that the ashes from his cigarette were falling down on the counter top. He had a grim-looking face. It didn’t look like he was having any fun. Not at all.

That’s not for me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

February 26th, 2018

“It’s about the land. It’s always been about the land.” – Wounded Knee

It’s weird. When the Native Americans talk about their ancestral lands, it reminds me of how my Jewish friends at thru synagogue speak about Eretz Israel. Both peoples describe their land in an emotional, almost visceral way. Both peoples see the land as being theirs for uncounted generations. Both groups believe that they have an inalienable right to the land of their ancestors, a right that transcends any modern laws or conditions.

I am not saying that this attitude is right or wrong. It just is. Because this deeply ingrained belief exists, it affects many of the thoughts, words, and actions of the Native Americans. This profound connection to the land is an essential part of who they are.

The Native Americans struggle constantly to protect their land and to preserve their rights to it. They do not see the encroachment of outsiders as being  just words in a history book. They experience threats to their heritage as things that are happening now.

“Water is life. Water is sacred. Water is medicine.” – Wounded Knee

Along with the devotion to the land, there is an intense concern with water. The Native Americans rightly regard water as being essential to all life. The pollution of water, any water, is a serious moral issue. This helps to explain the massive protests by the indigenous people at Standing Rock. It was a fight to protect the water.

Concern for the water includes concern for the creatures that live in the water. In this part of the world that means being concerned about the salmon. The Indians care about the spawning grounds and how the salmon will get to those places. The water quality is necessarily important to the salmon, and to the Indians who catch them. There is often talk about the damaged, and leaking, nuclear reactor in Yukushima, Japan. People on the reservations are worried about the effects of the radiation on the salmon that migrate from the seas near Japan back to the Pacific Northwest.

All the people I have met are earth-centered. They care about the land and the water.

 

 

February 25th, 2018

“Do you dream of places you’ve never been to? You will.” – Tony

“Do you remember your dreams? You will.” – Tony

Yesterday I had my first experience in a sweat lodge. Most everyone else on the walk had been in one before. Some of them tried to explain to me what it was like. They told me that the inside of the sweat lodge was dark and claustrophobic. They told me that it was insanely hot. They told me that the sweat lodge was a place for doing deep, spiritual work. All those  descriptions were true, and all were inadequate.

Sancho drove some of us to the Nisqually sweat lodge yesterday evening. Sancho works for the Nisqually housing authority. During the ride, he told us that he had finally landed a full time position there, after years of working there seasonally. Sancho drove us to the sweat lodge because the lodge was well over a mile from where we were staying. We had passed the location earlier in the day, during one of our group walks.

The sweat lodge itself is a low, dome-shaped tent. It has a single entrance/exit in the front. That opening can be closed with the overhanging flap. There is a large fire pit in the center of the tent, surrounded by carpeting on the ground. There are no lights in the sweat lodge. Whatever light there is comes from the contents of the fire pit.

There is a lean to near the sweat lodge. It is only enclosed on three sides, and it contains a table and a variety of overstuffed chairs. In front of the sweat lodge is a large fire pit. There is also a nearby water faucet with a short hose and a makeshift shower.

We arrived at the sweat lodge just after dark. It was starting to get cold outside. The sky was clear and the moon was already riding high. Several men were tending a roaring fire. Hidden under the logs and the flames were numerous large stones.

We went into the lean to in order to undress. Some people go into the sweat lodge wearing only shorts or swim trunks. Some people go inside stark naked. Some guys wear a kind of loincloth. I just had on my underwear.

A person has to stoop low to enter the sweat lodge. After getting through the opening, the person then circles around the fire pit in a clockwise fashion until he or she finds a place to sit. The first person inside the lodge moves all the way around to the right edge of the tent opening. The following person sits to next to him, and so forth, until the lodge is full. One individual is designated to splash water on the hot rocks. That one sits near the center of the circle of participants.

Two five-gallon buckets of water were bright into the lodge and handed over to the man was going to pour it on to the rocks. Then two of the men tending the outside fire pit brought on hot rocks with pitchforks. The stones glowed bright orange in the darkness of the lodge. The color flickered deep inside of the rocks. Sparks twinkled in the holes and crevices of the rock’s surfaces. The light from the stones was not sufficient to illuminate the interior of the tent. We all sat in the shadows, and we were invisible to each other. Then the flap was closed and everything turned black.

We could hear each other breathe. Ikaeda sat next to me on my eight. I could hear him whispering “Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo” in the darkness. The leader of the group, the water-pourer, led us in prayer. Then the round began. It was kind of like a twelve step meeting, or rather, a twelve step meeting is a lot like a sweat lodge. The people in the circle each took terns speaking, and nobody interrupted them. If somebody said something moving, then the others might erupt in a spontaneous exclamation: “Aho!”. Once a person finished speaking, then the leader poured water on to the rocks. The hissing steam was the signal that the next person should talk.

Listening to a series of disembodied voices is eerie and a bit unnerving. I paid close attention to what each person said. My mind did not wander. Some people offered prayers of thanksgiving to the Creator. Some raised up petitions to the Creator and to their ancestors. Some sang and drummed. If a person had an important thing to day, they would sometimes ask the leader for four pours of water on to the stones, instead of the usual single pour.

The sweat lodge did not really get hot until the leader began splashing the stones. Then the steam filled the lodge like a superheated cloud. My body became slick with sweat. My breathing became ragged and labored. My heart pounded within my chest. The heat was less closer to the floor. At on point I laid down completely just so I could breathe.

My turn to speak came. Earlier in the day, I hid spoken with our son, Hans. He had been at the brink of despair when I talked to him. His depression and PTSD were coming on strong. I was still upset and hurt by our conversation.

I told the group, “I am angry with the Creator.”

There was a collective gasp. That might have been a bad move. I didn’t care. I was sick and tired of watching my kids suffer, and I said so.

Later, after the round was over, one of the men spoke to me about my words. Between rounds the flap was opened, and a blessed rush of cold air entered the tent. The man was sympathetic and he tried to give me a different perspective. He was completely respectful. That is a hallmark of the sweat lodge: mutual respect.

The second round proceeded much like the first. The heat was overwhelming in its intensity. Near the end of the round, Ben yelled, “Door!”, and somebody opened the flap. When the round ended, I stumbled outside into the winter air. I imagine that I must have glowed in the night like the stones in the lodge.

I was damn near naked, standing in the open, steaming. I didn’t feel cold at all. My heart raced. I told the leader, Eddie, that if I my heart slowed down, I would return for round three. If I was still at 200 beats per minute, then I was going to skip the next session. I felt lightheaded and woozy.

I did get better. I went back inside and took my place. The Indians decided to make the third round into the last round (usually they have a total of four rounds). They used up all the rest of the hot stones, all twenty of them. The session was quick. It was absolutely brutal inside the lodge. Very few people spoke. We made the round, and called it a sweat.

I took a cold shower at the water spigot. I was like a limp tag after the sweat lodge. Mickey drove me home in his Dodge Charger. He told me that the first two sessions had been much longer than usual, and much hotter. The third session was about normal in length, but using twenty stones at once was kind of excessive.

All in all, it was a good sweat.

February 23rd, 2018

We haven’t been on the road for even a week, and we are already settled into our fourth temporary home. We have a space in the Emergency Response Management building on the Nisqually reservation, near Olympia, WA. We drove for three hours from Sauk-Suiattle. The plan was for us to stop few miles away from the reservation, and then walk the rest of the way. That didn’t happen. A contingent from the Nisqually tribe met us at a gas station and escorted us to our lodgings on the rez. That was just as well. I am not sure we would have found the place on our own.

The people of the tribe greeted us when we arrived. They set us up with cots for the night. They fed us well. There was a delicious fish soup with garlic bread. After I had eaten two bowls of the soup, somebody brought in a huge order of Chinese food. We ate that too.

The tribal members gave each visitor a goodie bag. Everybody got a t-shirt, a sweatshirt, and a water bottle. Every item is emblazoned with the name of the tribe’s casino. Advertising is important, but it was more important to the people that they could honored us with gifts.

Hospitality is paramount. At each reservation so far, the Indians have gone out of their way to make us feel welcome. This has been done with food, lodging, and gifts. They have also welcomed us with songs, speeches, ritual, and prayer. I find it a bit overwhelming. I am a stranger to all of these people. I am not a member of their tribe or of their culture. They follow the biblical injunction to welcome the alien in their midst.

I wonder why they do all of this for us. I imagine that partly it is simply part of their heritage. Many traditional cultures place great emphasis on hospitality. Modern society has somehow lost that.

I think their enthusiasm is also a result of our mission as walkers. Our journey across America to send a message to the U.S. government regarding the suffering of the indigenous peoples resonates with the folks living on the reservations. We speak to their  concerns: the drugs, the booze, the violence. They find hope in what we are do. Somehow we inspire them, and they respond to that by caring for us.

The people here believe that the walkers are making a sacrifice by making this long trek. There might be some truth to that. We are nomadic. We are traveling light. Even so, our vehicles resembled a gypsy caravan going down I-5. We are away from our families and friends, and we miss them. None of us is currently earning a paycheck, so there are economic costs involved in this enterprise.  Our families also endure some pain while we are gone. They have to make up for us, and for some families that is a real struggle. We are on an adventure, and adventures come at a price.

I am meeting many new people. I like that. Most of them I will never see again, and that makes me sad. The nature of our journey makes it impossible to develop relationships with more than a few people. There just isn’t enough time to really get to know anybody. Conversations tend to be brief, although I have had some discussions that moved my spirit  In just these few days, I have already forgotten some people, and no doubt they have forgotten me. That is still okay. We have affected each other’s lives in small ways. That is all we can do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

February 23rd, 2018

“Every step you take should be a prayer”- Wounded Knee

“We are on a spiritual journey.” I have heard that over and over during the last five days. It’s true. We are surrounded by an invisible world filled with beings who move us and guide us. They might be ancestors. They might be angels. They might be God.

It seems like we pray all the tome. We pray before we eat. We pray before walk and after we walk. We pray at the start of the day and at the end. The type of prayer is meant to be inclusive. More than once I have heard someone say, “Pray the way you know how.” We have Christians among us. We have Buddhists. We have people who follow the traditional Native American beliefs. It doesn’t matter. We all pray together. We pray as one.

We participate in ritual. We sing. We drum. We chant. We sprinkle tobacco into the clear waters of a mountain river. We burn sage. We share a pipe. We share a meal. We walk.

Prayer is not just words. Prayer is a way of being. It is being connected with everything  else in the universe. It is beyond words.

February 22nd, 2018

I was up early this morning. I was already sitting in the Sauk-Suiattle Tribe Community Center when Dave walked into the room. Dave works for the tribe. He came in at 6:00 AM to light the wood stove. I sat with him as he tried to get it fired up. It was a long and frustrating process. We had time to talk.

I asked Dave about drug abuse at the reservation. He had stories. He asked Clarence, who was sitting nearby with his cup of coffee, about suicides. Clarence said the tribe had five suicides in recent years.

Dave talked a little about his own family. He lost a younger brother to opoids. I lost a younger brother to alcohol. Dave has a young relative who got in trouble with drugs. I have a loved one who will probably go to prison for driving drunk. Dave has a son-in-law who fought in Iraq. My son, Hans, fought there too. Our families have both been affected by violence and drugs.

Bobby spoke today to the tribal community. Bobby said that he knows of no family that hasn’t lost somebody to drugs or alcohol. No family is untouched by violence, especially domestic violence. It’s an epidemic. It’s everywhere. It’s all of us.

Why?

Why are drugs so attractive? Does reality suck that much?

I talked a little bit longer in the morning with Dave. Then I walked back to the long house. It was still dark in the valley. I found Ikaeda. He was getting ready to go outside to drum and chant with Bob and Peter. I went out with them.

We stood in the snow near the long house. We faced to the north. The sun was touching the very tips of the snow-covered mountains. The sunlight turned the peaks into glittering white jewels. I stared at these mountains as we chanted. I couldn’t look away.

We finished drumming. The sound faded, and there was only silence left. I still gazed at the Cascades. Low clouds hovered over the evergreen trees on the mountainsides. The sun was shining on a few more of the distant peaks. They literally glowed.

That moment was better than drugs.

February 22nd, 2018

Susie is Navajo. She is the mother of four young children. She plans on doing the entire walk across the United States. When I first spoke to her, she told me,

“I am the girl who got shot in the eye at Standing Rock in November of 2016.”

That is how she identified herself. It was the very first thing she said.

Later she told me about her home in Arizona. She told me about her family. She told me a story about her great-great-grandmother.

“My great-great-grandmother was with the tribe as the soldiers forced us to move. She was pregnant with my great-grandfather. At that time, the soldiers would let the mothers give birth and then they would shoot both the newborn child and the mother. Somehow, my great-great-grandmother gave birth and then fled across the river with the baby. That’s why I am here.”

Bobby Wallace is the leader of our group. He’s from a reservation in southern California, near San Diego. He gives us pep talks. He likes to say that we come from all nations. I believe that he is referring mostly to the fact that there are members of several different Indian nations among the walkers. (The word “nation” is meant in a literal sense. The Lummi tribe actually has a national anthem.). There are also several people from Japan with us. I am that stray white guy from Wisconsin who keeps hanging around. IMost of our party are Native Americans. This is their gig. This is their mission.

It’s an eclectic group. There is a wide range of backgrounds and personalities. We are still in the earliest phases of getting to know each other. Being an introvert, I find it hard to mingle. That is why I got up at 3:00 AM to start writing this post.

Kid is from Kentucky. “Kid” is his real name. He is a singer/songwriter and a long distance runner. He is suffering from gout in his ankle, so this walk is a struggle for him. He brought his guitar along with him. He sings to us. He wrote  song about his nephew, who died of a heroin overdose.

One thing we all have in common is that each one of us has been scarred by drugs, alcohol, or violence. For every one of us, this walk has a deep, personal aspect. We are all wounded in some way, and we all want healing.

Tony is from La Jolla reservation in the mountains near San Diego. He’s a young man who loves food and a good joke. He dives a huge pick up truck that drags a trailer full of our gear. Jeremiah is another well-built young man. He is a Shoshone from northern Nevada. He sings and drums with a passion. He can be very funny.

As I have mentioned before, Yamada is from Japan. He plays guitar, and he also drums and chants. Makyo is a young woman who is with him. She is a beautiful singer. Ikaeda is a Buddhist monk from Senji’s order. He is thirty-nine years old, bit he looks much younger. He drums and chants as we walk.

Chief Harry Kindness is Mohawk-Oneida. He lived in Wisconsin for many years. Now he lives in Vegas. He is also an elder of the group. He has been doing these walks for decades. He told us, “There is good crazy, and there is bad crazy!” He believes we are “good crazy”.

Pete is a big man. He has a massive head and a toothy grin. He is from the Pit River reservation in California, near Mount Shasta. He told me that all of us are on the walk to put our lives together. We gather little pieces of our lives along the way.

Bob is from an Indian council in Oakland, California. He has long, grey hair. He drums and chants. He keeps track of Yoshi, the eleven-year-old boy who is walking with us. Bob’s friend, Peter, is here too. Peter is a New Yorker who wound up with the Catholic Workers in Tacoma.

Wounded Knee is from Pit River. He’s seventy-six and he’s quite lively. He went on the very first Longest Walk in 1978. He walked with Dennis Banks. Wounded Knee really qualifies as a wise elder. He is funny as hell, and his very compassionate. He gave me knit cap to keep my bald head warm.

Wounded rides in a truck with his friend, Bruce. They argue and complain every time they have to load the gear back into the truck.. I steer clear of those guys when they are loading. I want no part of that action.

Ferdinand is from San Francisco. He’s here for the whole walk. He meditates in an Indian (Asian) fashion. Nothing seems to bother him. He exudes calm.

The membership of the walk is constantly shifting and changing. People come and go. At some point I will have to go. I don’t know when yet. In the meantime, I will watch and learn.