Frank is Emptiness

March 7th, 2018

Bobby gives all the presentations at the reservations. He’s good at it. He’s a gifted speaker. It’s probably because he always speaks from the heart. His words burn with a passion and a fierceness. He is completely authentic, and that forces people to listen to him.

Bobby has often told people that drugs, alcohol, and domestic violence affect everyone. This includes Bobby. This includes people that are not Native Americans. More than once he told the folks on the rez that he knows of only one person in his family who died of natural causes. After that he told everyone,

“My father was murdered.”

That’s an attention getter.

He went on to say that some of his family died of overdoses. Many of them died from the long term effects of chemical abuse. None of this stuff is theoretical to him. It is all up close and personal. He’s lived it.

Bobby usually sings a tribal song. He insists that nobody record the event. He sings and shakes his rattle. It is intense. He pours everything he has into that chant. I don’t understand the words he sings, but I can hear the power and the pain in his voice.

When I listen to Bobby, I think about my own life, and the lives of those I love. His words resonate with me. His experiences are more extreme than my own, but I think I get it. My brother drank himself to death. One of my sons has been shot, and this same young man killed people in Iraq. A young woman that is important to me is in jail for her 4th DUI. I know a young man who was abused as a child. Yeah, I get it.

I am not on the Longest Walk now. I am going to go with my wife to visit our struggling son in Texas. I am trying to help the girl we both love. The whole point of the walk is to care for the “people”. I am trying to care for my people.

God willing, I will rejoin the walkers in a few weeks. They want me back. I want to be with them. Karin is encouraging me to return to the group.

I think it is something I need to do.

March 6th, 2018

I had originally told Bobby that I would walk as long as I could. I really thought my time with the group would exceed two weeks. It didn’t. I was only on the walk for twelve days.

Hans, our redneck Texan son, texted me on the eighth day of the journey. He wrote that he was going through a really hard time, and that he wanted me to call him. I found this disturbing. First, Hans never sends me a text. He always calls. If I am not available, he never leaves a message. He just calls again later. Second, Hans never admits that he is struggling. He has that macho, military, I-can-do-it-all-on-my-own thing going. I have that too. It doesn’t usually work out well.

So, I called him back.

Hans sounded beat. He was frustrated and angry. Apparently, the company that sold the house to Hans and his friend had a clause in the contract that allowed them to sell it to somebody else if the the mortgage was not completely paid off. Hans told me that the company intentionally left a page out of the contract. I would have thought that Hans, or his friend, or a lawyer, or somebody, would have noticed that sort of thing. Basically, Hans didn’t read the fine print. He sometimes gets burned because of that sort of thing, and this time he really got burned.  Hans and his fiancee have to move out of the house by the end of March.

I asked Hans if he needed some help from Karin and me. Hans kind of hemmed and hawwed.

“Well, maybe before the end of the month…you could help me out a little.”

“How much?”, I asked him.

“I don’t know. Maybe $800. We’ll have to see how much work I get. It’s been raining all the time, so I haven’t had many concrete jobs. It’s only because I run the pump truck with the long boom that I worked at all this week.”

“What if Mom and I send you a thousand?”

Hans voice cracked. He sounded utterly despondent. “Dad, I really hate to ask you. You know I don’t like to bother you and Mom like this…”

That hurt. I told him, “Hans, don’t ever feel bad about asking us for help. We want to help you out when you need us. It’s okay.”

“Yeah, I know. I just don’t like doing that. You always taught us to do things on our own and not ask for help.”

I was felt like crying. “Yeah, I know. I wish to God I had never taught you that.”

Hans replied, “Well, you did. It’s okay.”

“Hans, I’ll talk to Mom. We will send you some money, maybe a grand. That should help a bit.”

“Dad, I’m really sorry about asking you…”

“IT’S OKAY!”

“All right, all right. Well, I’ll talk to you later.”

We ended the call.

I got hold of Karin. We talked. I told her that we really ought to go down to Texas and be with Hans for a while. She agreed. The conversation with Hans scared me. Hans has gone into deep depressions in the past, and he has done things that were dangerous. He’s a combat vet, and vets sometimes do stuff that is not healthy.

I called Hans again.

“Hey, you want Mom and me to come and visit you?”

There was a pause. “Well, I don’t want to put you folks on the spot…”

“Hans, this a yes or no question. Do you want us to come?”

Hans sighed and said, “Yeah. I just don’t want you to go to a lot of trouble.”

“I’ll go back home, and then Mom and I will drive to Bryan.”

Hans seemed to relax. “Okay, I just don’t want you all to…”

“We will come on down. I need to spend some time with you.”

“Okay…thanks, Dad.”

“We’ll see you soon.”

“Okay.”

We hung up. I put my head in my hands.

I looked for Bobby. I had to tell him that I needed an early out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

March 5th, 2018

Senji insisted on sending me home with a lunch…and a dinner…and a breakfast for the next morning. I had a ticket on Amtrak’s “Empire Builder” train that rolls on the rails from Seattle to Milwaukee. It takes about forty-two hours to make the journey. Amtrak offers food and beverages, but at a premium price. I can’t complain about the quality of the meals. They are good. It’s just that they are expensive.

Senji is a veteran of the Empire Builder. He wanted to make sure that I brought enough provisions along with me. I didn’t feel like he needed to do that, but he was adamant. He started by putting together a to-go box with rice and some leftovers in it. Then he packed up some mixed fruit from breakfast. He added a package of mini-muffins. Then he decided to boil four eggs. All these things went into a red cloth shopping bag.

I wasn’t particularly keen on carrying along a massive meal bag. I already had two other carry on bags and a sleeping bag to drag with me to the train station. Also, at Senji’s temple, and during the Longest Walk, all I seemed to do was eat. Just before Senji took me to the ferry, he fixed me a huge plate of spaghetti. That was on top of a rather hefty breakfast he had served to Makyo and myself earlier in the day. I had already purchased some fruit to take with me, so Senji’s efforts seemed a bit too much.

On the way to the ferry that would take me from Bainbridge Island to Seattle, Senji and I stopped to visit Ben and his father, Denny. Ben inisited on giving me a cherry-filled chocolate bar from a local confectionary. That went into the red bag with the other food. We only stayed with Ben and Denny for a few minutes. Then Senji dropped me off at the ferry terminal, and I rode it across Puget Sound.

Seattle has a large homeless population. The city has a mild climate, and the inhabitants tend be tolerant of the street people. I had to walk past a number of them as I trudged from the ferry terminal on Pier 52 to the train station on King Street.

I had gone a couple blocks down Marion Street when I saw a young man lying on the pavement. He was wrapped in his sleeping bag, with his back propped up against the wall of a brick building. He had that lost look, bleary-eyed and unkempt. I paused and stood in front of him.

I asked him, “Are you hungry?”

“Well, yeah man…”

I set the bag of food next to him on the sidewalk.

“This is yours.”

I walked on.

March 5th, 2018

Don liked to talk. He loved to tell stories. Even though he was loquacious, I always felt like he knew more than he said. He had this sly smile that hinted of secrets. He was the kind of man who is endlessly interesting because there is always more to him.

Some of us were sitting in a common room in the emergency response center of the Nisqually tribe. We had just eaten two large evening meals. The Nisqually ladies had cooked us a delicious fish stew and loaves of garlic bread. As if on cue, once we were done eating the stew, somebody delivered us a table full of Chinese take out. After sampling a variety of dishes from the Great Wall of the Mandarin Pandas (or whatever the restaurant was called), we sat around a very large, oval table. We listened to Don tell us tales of the Bigfoot.

Don did not speak of Bigfoot sightings. No, he talked about his experiences with Bigfoot. It is one thing to hear somebody ramble on about how they caught a glimpse of Bigfoot walking through the trees while camping. It is quite another to hear Don describe how he played hide-and-seek with the Bigfoot children when he was a youth. Don went into detail about his adventures with the Sasquatch. He went on to say that he was convinced that the Bigfoot were the protectors of the land.

I listened to all of this with interest. I didn’t roll my eyes or laugh. I figured that Don was either a very good liar, or that he believed what he was saying to us. If he actually believed his own stories, then maybe some of them really happened. His words pushed me way out of my comfort zone. The world became decidedly strange.

It would be easy to dismiss Don if he was just part of some kind of Native American fringe group; a sort of Alex Jones of the rez. He’s not. He represents in some ways the mainstream Indian perspective on Nature. From what little I have seen, the Native Americans see the natural world as being both alive and aware. The living world is a sentient world, intimately connected with humans. We are not alone.

Wounded Knee would talk about this sort of thing. He spoke about us praying to the tree people, and asking them for strength and help. He talked about the spirits of the rivers. I saw him hug a cedar tree like it was a long lost brother. Everything is alive in both a material and a spiritual sense. Everything is connected in a seamless, living fabric.

The Native Americans are not alone in this way of perceiving the world. Francis of Assisi spoke of “Brother Sun, Sister Moon”. Other traditions have seen or felt the hidden reality of the physical world. It is just our modern society that is blind to it all.

Walking with the Indians has opened my eyes in unexpected ways. I perceive things that were previously invisible to me. I don’t see actual spirits, but I know that they are there.

 

March 5th, 2018

“So, what exactly is an elder?”

That was my question to Big Pete. Pete came on the Longest Walk from his home on the Pit River tribal reservation in northern California, near Mount Shasta. Pete is an imposing man. Everything about him is big, including his heart.

Big Pete sat down across from me at the kitchen counter. He pondered my question for a moment, and then he said,

“A person isn’t an elder in the tribe just because he or she is old. It’s not just because of age.”

I asked, “So, what are the qualifications?”

Pete looked straight at me and replied, “An elder is somebody who you respect instantly just because of who they are and how they act. Wounded Knee is an elder. Your Buddhist friend over there is an elder.”

My Buddhist friend, Senji, is a Japanese monk, and, yes, he definitely is an elder. Senji has a quiet dignity and presence that is very attractive. He doesn’t say much (until you get to know him, and he gets to know you). Senji is a good listener and he is quietly observant. He knows how to pay attention.

Wounded Knee, on the other hand, loves to talk. He is brash and funny…and wise. The man is seventy-six years old. He doesn’t need to impress anyone, and he makes no effort to do so. He uses his experience and knowledge to help others. Most men of his age would be satisfied to sit at home, but not Wounded Knee. He wants to walk with the younger folk, even if he can only shuffle along for a short time before he gets tired. Wounded Knee knows things. He has an integrity that few people ever achieve.

Native Americans honor their elders. Elders always eat first. They are always treated with deference and respect. Likewise, true elders treat the young with respect and give them encouragement. Respect is a two-way street. The young folks can see that the elders are wise, and the elders are smart enough to know that the young are the future, the only future there is.

In some ways, this situation is alien to me. I live in the white American culture that embraces a malignant form of individualism, where mutual respect is seen as a quaint relic of the past. I have often heard old people (and not so old people) in our society bitch about the young: “I wasn’t like these kids back in my day!” The young return the favor by mocking or ignoring the old, some secretly hoping for more laws allowing for euthanasia. I can’t really blame young people; some of the folks senior to them have grown old, but not at all wise.

I think that for the Native Americans one factor involved in becoming an elder is simply survival. The Indians have endured genocide. They have dealt with epidemics, like scarlet fever. They currently struggle with alcoholism, drug abuse, and domestic violence. The fact that somebody in a tribe even lives long enough to become old means that they have done something right. However, being an elder means that they also have the capacity to pass down their wisdom to the next generations. They have to care about the young. They have to bless those who follow them.

I am trying to think of the men and women who have served as elders to me.

Nobody comes to mind, except for my grandmother.

 

 

March 2nd, 2018

Bobby almost always refers to Dennis Banks as “Mr. Dennis Banks”. Bobby reveres the memory of the man. So do Chief Kindness, Wounded Knee, Yamada, Kid, and anybody else who ever knew him. The spirit of the Native American leader hovers over the Longest Walk. He might not be there in the flesh, but he is definitely present.

Up until now, I knew next to nothing about Mr. Banks. I found out that the man had quite an eventful life. He helped to found the American Indian Movement. He participated in the occupation of Alcatraz in 1969-71, the confrontation with federal law enforcement at Wounded Knee in 1973, and the first Longest Walk in 1978. He kept himself busy. He cared intensely about his people.

Dennis Banks passed over to the other side in October of 2017. People like Bobby grieve for him. Bobby, and the others, had a deep personal relationship with Dennis Banks. He was their mentor and their friend. They follow his guidance, even after his death. The Longest Walk is a continuation of Banks’ work. It is also a tribute to him.

Dennis Banks had to be a remarkable person. He must have been extraordinarily charismatic. People speak about him in the same way that they might talk about Martin Luther King or Gandhi. Their words always convey a sense of awe, and a feeling of love.

I wish that I had met Mr. Dennis Banks.

 

February 28th, 2018

We got lost.

I was riding in the back seat of Tony’s F250. Tony was driving and Susie was riding shotgun. They are both Native Americans. We were on our way to Chehalis reservation to meet with the tribal elders. We got separated from the other vehicles from our group while driving south on I-5. Tony and Susie thought that they could find the way to the casino by using their smart phones.

Not.

The problem was that they had chosen “Chehalis” as the destination instead of “Chehalis Village“. This was a small, but crucial, error. So, the phone took us several miles beyond our intended turn off. Tony had to turn the truck and trailer around. He was clearly irritated.

“Shut up, Siri!”

As we backtracked, Susie was playing around with her phone. Tony told her, “Show Frank some of those videos.”

Susie introduced me to the world of Native American comedy videos. Funny shit. We watched “The Slapping Medicine Man”, “Indian Man Anonymous”, and “Coyote Stories”. Two weeks ago I would not have understood any of the humor. Now I could.

We arrived at the Lucky Eagle Casino after everyone else got there. Tony was sure that Chief Bobby would give him a hard time about getting lost.

Susie laughed and said, “No worries. We’ll say it was Frank’s fault. We’ll just blame the white guy.”

Tony turned around and looked at me in mock astonishment.

“You’re white?! Really?!”

I laughed. So did they.

These guys are fun.

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.