Today on "Mitakuye Oyasin" on KBOO in Portland, Oregon, Dean Looking Hawk and I interviewed Ward Churchill. I am going to try to get the interview podcast, but unfortunately that would be without the excellent music that went along with the interview, which were as follows:
all around there is beauty
and the screams of children
and just behind Ray's in Veneta
and women will always struggle
On Thursday, May 28, from 1:00pm to 2:30pm PST, "Mitakuye Oyasin" on KBOO 90.7fm in Portland, Oregon, will be doing a phone interview with Ward Churchill. Ward has a vast body of academic work that covers many of the U.S. crimes against indigenous peoples as well as connects the crimes to others worldwide. "A Little Matter of Genocide" and "Kill the Indian, Save the Man," are a couple of books from his important works. Listen in as we discuss his recent court battle in retrieving his tenure and where he goes from here, as well as this vast body of work.
I recently read the book, "Witness to Jasenovac's Hell," by Ilija Ivanovic. It is the first person account of surviving three years in the Croatian death camp during WWII that even the Nazi's found disgusting. Approximately 750,000 mostly orthodox Serbs were killed in this camp. Women were raped. Children starved to death. The Ustashe had a good time killing all of these people. You often see smiles on their faces in photographs as they are chopping or sawing heads of people off or cutting throats and catching their blood to drink later.
I got the book through interlibrary loan because many important reads such as this are only available at rather high prices since they don't get republished much. (I am currently awaiting "The Vatican's Holocaust," by Arvo Manahattan.) It amazes me that this horrific death camp is known less worldwide than Auschwitz, but I think the fact that it was Vatican supported and that many priests took part and that Bishop Stepinac worked well on covering it up has had something to do with the cover-up. The Vatican, it would seem, is an organization that is cover for some of the most horrific behavior that has ever existed.
A recent report came out in Ireland from a nine year study into child abuse at the hands of the Catholic Church. Things such as beatings, rapes, tortures, etc., of children are not uncommon from this organization. The report states that tens of thousands of children were abused by this organization. The reason that nothing has been done about this issue in the past is because it is well documented in many parts of the world the great lengths the organization goes to to keep such horrific behavior covered up.
Recently, Nazi Pope Ratzinger (a former Hitler Youth), apologized to the Indigenous folks of Canada for the abuses suffered at the hands of his organization in the residential schools in that nation. What this actually is is a cover-up. You see, the apology is PR to protect the wealth of his crime organization based in Vatican City. The Vatican has vast stolen from people worldwide using some rather horrific methods and that wealth must be protected. It is also an attempt at delaying litigation against the criminal organization in order that hopefully more of the litigants will die through suicide, old age, whatever. The Nazi Pope will not take responsibility for his actions. He will not make amends. He has a lot of money to protect.
Besides the current crimes, it seems to be little known that Eugenio Pacelli, who himself took up the head of the crime organization of the Vatican, through the Lateran treaty with Mussolini, brought vast wealth to his crime organization around 1933 when it was going bankrupt. This treaty also brought great power to the fascist movement of the time. Later, he helped in signing a treaty with the Nazi government of Germany, furthering their power as well. These treaties brought great wealth to the Vatican crime organization and thrust thug Pacelli to its head.
I don't know about you all, but don't you see a pattern here? Cover-ups, wealth stealing, wealth hoarding, wealth protecting, raping children, genocides, etc.?
It would seem that many organizations are used as cover for some peoples horrific behavior.
Don't forget, like I'm sure you already have, Jasenovac, The Birch Woods. I can almost hear the mallets cracking the skulls of orthodox Serbs, Jews, women, children, etc., as they are killed and pushed into the Sava River. The echoes of history. Another crime the Vatican will cover itself for to protect its ill gotten gain.
Site where Jaseonvac was located. The hills are former barrack locations, the indentations are former mass graves.
My dad's name was Louis Wilbur Johnson. He was Alsea and Klickitat from his mother, Violet Johnson (Smith) and Lower Umpqua from his father, Louis Johnson. My mothers name is Joan (pro. "Jo Ann") Bonnie Brooks. They did not have the sweetest of marriages.
When I was 12 until my dads death 5 years later, I was the last of four siblings left in the house. During that 5 years, my mother and father pretty much every time they were together would get into screaming arguments. During some of these arguments, my mother would occasionally grab a butcher knife and threaten to stab my dad with it. I felt rather helpless. Dad, was an alcoholic.
The last three years of my dads life, he slept on the couch. One day, I must have been 14 or 15, as I watched TV and dad slept, he suddenly sat up and puked up more blood than I have ever seen anyone ever bleed. He ran to the bathroom where his puking continued. I managed to get to my feet and just stood a few feet from the chair where I had been sitting, before me, a large spray of blood and blood clots all over the carpet. After my dad was done puking, he went and laid down on the bed for the first time in years, and the last time in the years to come. He was waiting to die. I stood there during the whole time my mother came upon the scene (I don't remember from where). I stood there the whole time after my mother called my sisters who came upon the scene as I stood there in the same place. I stood there as my oldest sister screamed and beat my dad until he finally agreed to go to the hospital where we were later told by his doctor that he would not tell him to stop drinking because he was just another alcoholic Indian (thus starting my lifelong hatred of medical doctors). As they were leaving, I told my mother I would stay behind and clean the mess. Some of the clots were as big as large bouncy balls. It took me four hours to clean it up.
But my father was a good man, too. He Loved his kids so much. He would constantly do things for us. The last years of his life I would come home from school to watch "Perry Mason" with him. We would cheer him on like it was a football game, even though we had seen every episode numerous times. He would take the family kids and other kids to horse shows. Sometimes he would go to the beach by himself and whale watch during his last several years of sobriety. I often wonder what he thought as he sat at the edge of the ocean watching the whales go by.
My father only hit my mother once. I must have been 4. They were in a big argument and my dad pulled back to hit mom but held his arm back. "GO AHEAD! HIT ME! I DARE YOU! HIT ME! HIT ME! HIT ME!" my mother screamed at him, sticking her face out to give him a good target. I don't recall where my dad hit my mom. I do recall, however, the look of absolute shock as my mother laid across the arms of the chair he knocked her into. I do recall the look on my fathers face and the feeling in the air. It was as if a piece of my fathers soul had been torn away, burned to ash, and the dust blown out the door of the house and into nothingness. It was a look of having become something he had never wanted to be, something that went against his ideals. I will never forget that. As I grew older, I learned why he looked and felt that way. He never hit my mother again.
I Loved my grandpa, Louis Johnson. He passed away when I was 5. He was fun to play with. I was amazed at how he could fall asleep on a kitchen chair and not fall off. I was amazed that I could never wrap my arms around him, his belly was so big. He always wore a gray sweatshirt and often smelled of something like stale grease. His coffee cup was so big as I was so small. Everything about him amazed me. I learned later in life he was very generous and a good hunter. He was also a moonshiner at one time and barely escaped capture once. He was also an abusive asshole as I found out later in life he used to beat grandma rather frequently back in the day.
After my dad got out of the army, musta been mid to late '50's, he told my grandfather that he was never going to beat grandma ever again. "Do you think you're man enough to stop me," was my grandfather's reply. They broke into fisticuffs and my grandfather knocked my dad out. Dad got back up again and the fight continued and again, grandpa knocked my dad out. My dad got up a third time and again, grandpa knocked my dad out. My dad got up a fourth time at which point my grandfather told him that he would never beat grandma ever again. And he never did, but I was witness to one of their arguments once. Wo! Grandpa, it seemed, knew that he would wind up killing my dad before he would stop coming at him. He didn't want to kill his son, so he chose not to beat grandma anymore. My dad was a warrior.
During this whole discussion of Bernard/Robert, it has brought up those memories. I know why my father looked so much more hurt than he made my mother feel when he hit her. My dad was a warrior and stopped my grandfather from beating grandma anymore. He was, that one time, what he hated most in his own father.
What are we going to do about abuse in Indian Country? It happens all over, but I sure would like to see Indians stand up as an example. As times get harder, abuse increases. What are we going to do about it?
Speedy Getting Dusty Making Salmon Stakes
Salmon Baking is the Pits
Shusli Looking Hot
Rick and Shusli
Smokin'!
Preppin'
Singin'
Judy, Bev, and Shusli
Yummmm!
Quick Draw Cameras with Willy Towner.Almost every time I go to Eugene for my job, I take my lunch at the rest area heading out of town. As I head North on I-5, it is around mile post 206.
There is a man there who waits with a sign. "Homeless Combat Veteran" is what I believe it says, but I haven't read the thing in so long, I couldn't tell you for sure anymore. His dark skin and glasses are usually framed by the hood of his jacket. He holds a cane in front of him as he stands there, and is always smiling and talking with folks.
I know for sure that he is a vet because all the vets that come across him start talking the military lingo. I don't really speak that language, nor do I try, but I appreciate seeing how they treat each other with respect, unlike the government that hired them.
I try to always give this man money if I have some. It doesn't matter to me what he does with it. I have no right to be his little dictator because I gave him a gift. I just see a fellow human being who needs help. Who am I to deny him that dignity?
Today is payday, so I walk up to him, give him the last of my change and the last two dollars in my wallet.
"It's payday," I say happily. "You get the last of what I got."
"Thank you!" he says with a big smile, and I'm glad I was able to share with him.
It feels good to give sometimes, and I know he will get good use out of that last few bucks, and what would I do with it? Buy a cup of coffee?
After using the restroom, I walk past my fellow human being with the cardboard sign. "See you later," I tell him.
"Yeah! See ya!" he says back with a huge smile.
I get to my truck and pull out a tiny notebook I keep in the same pocket as my wallet and a dime falls out. Usually, I would see this as a failure. I failed to give all I could when I had more to give. But there is a message in my soul, "No matter how much I give, I'll always have more to give."
I think of taking the dime to my comrade, but I'm tired, and lazy, and tired, and tired, and I hop into the truck and eat goat cheese on crackers then take a nap, knowing I still have more to give.
...but you could be.
I pull into my first stop of the day, the same stop every Tuesday on my route to Eugene.
For the first time in the 4 or 5 months I've been driving this route, there is a milk truck parked in the spot where I usually park. For some reason this has a dizzying effect upon my mind. "What the hell is this guy doing in my spot at my time," I'm thinking, but realize that is a pretty ridiculous thought as all patterns are at times disrupted, especially in delivery work.
There is a spot right beside him, but for some reason, it doesn't occur to me to park there until after I'm settled in the spot behind the building next door, with the nose of the truck pushing into the parking lot on the other side of the building. I don't know why it didn't occur to me to park beside the milk truck, it just didn't, until I was parked and settled behind the other building. The confusion of my pattern being disrupted had thrown off my thinking in ways that it shouldn't have, but there you go.
I get my load checked off and am about to handtruck down the ramp the first of 8 loads into the building. A man appears.
"You shouldn't park there," he tells me. "The nose of your truck is in the parking lot there, and trucks use that as a pathway to get to the dock of this store."
"Do you need me to move?" I ask.
"No, I'm already pulled up over there," he points to his truck with the trailer open and the liftgate down with a pallet jack on it. "But in the future, you shouldn't park there with your nose in that parking lot."
At this point, I'm kinda pissed. I had never parked this way before, and here this fella whose truck is already parked and I'm not blocking. It is not like this work doesn't come with disruptions we work around or come to cooperation with. It is not like I have parked here so many times before that it has become annoying.
I know this fella means no harm, but I can kind of tell he is somewhat agitated.
"OK. Thanks," I tell him, and move to get the produce into the catering service to get out of there in a timely fashion. "There was a milk truck parked in my usual spot next to the building," I pointed out. The milk truck had left seconds earlier. "In all the months I've been delivering here, there has never been another truck here. It just threw me off."
After the delivery and paperwork, I walk back to the truck, to find another older fella with the same slightly disturbed expression on his face to tell me the same thing.
"You shouldn't park your truck there," he says, and I imagine that he would be using expletives should it still be politically correct to do so. I imagine that after the expletive sentence I would feel the desire to punch the fella, but all this is done through gritted teeth, figuratively speaking, of course. And I know that if it had come to the actual desire to punch this fella, I wouldn't for desire to keep my job, and he would know this. Pinning me against the truck, as it were. "Your nose is sticking into the parking lot and trucks need to use that lot to get in and out of the dock area," he tells me.
"You see," I explain, "there was a truck parked in my usual spot. There never had been before and it threw me off. So I parked here."
"Next time park in that space beside that truck," he tells me. At this point, I'm ready to speak through gritted teeth, but I keep my calm easily, knowing this will be over in a few seconds.
A woman employee throwing things in the garbage for the catering company that I just delivered to added her two cents in, and I'm wondering what the hell she has to do with this which makes every word she said somehow incomprehensible to me. Like it was a language I couldn't understand.
I hop into my truck. I had been there 20 minutes. During that 20 minute duration of horrifically blocking the pathway of so many invisible trucks, causing thousands of dollars worth of invisible delays, I just happen to notice there isn't the long line of 48' and 53' trucks lined up out onto 99 because of my 20 minutes of blockage. There is not a single truck waiting for me to move. Yet, my horrific offense managed to get me three people pointing out how wrong I was for parking the way I did.
I couldn't help but think I never received any comments from folks for the way I parked my truck in almost the same exact spot every time I delivered to this catering company. No mention of how I figured out exactly where to place my truck each time to get my ramp around the empty milk cartons and pallets that were placed against the wall of the catering company I deliver to. Never a mention of the fact that in all the months I've been delivering to this catering company that I have always parked out of the way. But I could have potentially caused problems that never happened. Never was it mentioned that if a truck pulled in during my offense, all he would have had to do was ask me to move...and I would have happily done so.
I hop into my truck, and drive away, maneuvering around all the invisible trucks I held up for those 20 terrifying minutes I blocked a very important artery of truck traffic causing imaginary thousands of dollars worth of imaginary delays.
After books like Dr. Halima Bashir's, "Tears of the Desert;" Emanuelle Jok's, "War Child;" and as I start books like "Blackwater," by Jeremy Scahill and "Witness to Jasenovac's Hell" by Ilija Ivanovic, I found a copy of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," by Hunter S. Thompson.
Fear and Loathing is not exactly light reading, but it is indeed funny as hell. It is a crazed adventure of two drugged up fellas, Hunter and his lawyer, as they go wild in Vegas as Hunter covers a motorcycle race (the Mint 400), and a District Attorney's Convention on the dangers of drug abuse. All the while doing more drugs and drinking more alcohol that would kill your average human.
The late Hunter has a great writing style. A style of prose like a form of poetry all its own. Although the adventure takes place in 1971, you can still laugh your ass off today reading this book. The descriptions of his paranoia are the most fun. The depths of a mind of a person in drug induced paranoia is about the most fun reading roller coaster ride one can take.
The irony of how two drugged out crazy and paranoid fellas are covering a DA's dangers of drugs convention is just CRAZY! The irony is not wasted on me, however, as it is a great illustration of yet another declared war by the U.S. that is truly deemed to fail and be lost.
An amazing classic that one and all should hunker down and laugh out loud to.
I recently listened to Teri Garr reading her book, "Speedbumps: Flooring it Through Hollywood." I usually don't pay much attention to Hollywood types, nor do I usually care to hear them talk about themselves, but you see...
When I was young, I used to have a crush on Teri Garr. She just seemed so sweet. When I got older, of course, I grew out of those types of things and I don't get crushes on Hollywood types because I know they are just as human as someone standing right next to me.
Also, I had a dream about Teri. In the dream she was an old woman of about 80 and had been with the same man since she was young. Then I saw her as a child when she first met the guy, something like 5 years old in the same pose as on the cover of her book with lots of freckles. When I awoke from the dream, I thought it was BS that she had been with the same man since childhood, but what do I know, and my curiosity wasn't peaked.
Off to the library I go to check out some books on CD, and I find hers, in the same pose as the one in my dream. I was reluctant at first, figuring I'd be disappointed.
It was funny! Teri Garr is a funny funny woman. I really loved the book. It was interesting hearing about her childhood and how she managed her career and having come from a family that entertains. She also has MS, and was struggling with it for 20 years before it was properly diagnosed. Having had a friend that passed away because of this disease, that really touched me as well. Teri Garr is an amazing woman and a great human being.
She also has a daughter who must be 15 by now, that she loves very much. Her name is Molly. Like my daughter, Felicia, she is adopted and very Loved.
Ida Tarbell was the first investigative journalist. She was an awesome woman who, in the early 20th century, wrote pieces that became very famous about Napoleon and Lincoln. She is most know, however, for bringing to light the behavior of trusts, specifically JD Rockefeller's Standard Oil Trust.
I recently listened to the unabridged, "Taking on the Trust," by Steve Weinberg. It was an amazing story, one all should read or get on CD (as I did) and listen to.
Ida grew up in the oil biz. Her father was a barrel manufacturer. It was interesting how she exposed the way Rockefeller did business. She was one who would dig up documents. She often could find things that no one else could nor for that matter even considered finding. She was an amazing human being and the world is a better place for her.
Since I currently live with an investigative journalist (and her two kids and clown husband), it just added sweetness to the story and the amazingness of both women.
I Love women. Not in the common male sexist stereotype. Women have to overcome adversity because of their gender in this twisted patriarchal society. When men achieve things, it isn't that big of a deal to me. Men have a leg up in society that women don't. This pretty much goes all over the world. So any woman achievements to me are more important than mens. They amaze me. I am happy to add Teri Garr and Ida Tarbell to my list of women I Love.
