AK note: I know I’ve been away for a long time. I have lots and lots of exciting things to share with you, and I have many updates as to where I’ve been and where we’re going. I promise we’ll get there. Today, I need to write about Boston. This post has nothing to do with Native communities, other than the fact that I happen to be a Native person navigating this. So bear with me–I need to process, and the way I process is through writing. I wanted to come back with a happy, excited update post, but all in due time. 

Yesterday, I woke up in my apartment in Watertown, a town on the border of Cambridge, across the river from the city of Boston.  I was excited, and a little nervous, to head out and watch one of my best friends from college run his first Boston marathon. I had volunteered to deliver pedialyte at mile 20–and was worried that I would fail in my job. How would I find him in the crowds of runners? What if he missed me? Would I mess up his whole race? He needs his electrolytes! I even rented a car to make sure I would get there on time.

I drove out to the affluent suburb of Newton and set up shop right under the mile 20 marker, on the right side of the road, exactly where I told him I’d be. I was constantly refreshing my phone to track his progress–10k, 20k, 25k–amazed as he flew through the course, averaging 6:40 miles. The hand-off went smoothly, I should have known that his 6’5″ frame and enormous grin would be easy to spot. He waved hello as he approached, grabbed the water bottle, shouted, “Thank you! You’re the best!” and was gone. I let out a sigh of relief, laughing with fellow race-watchers about my earlier anxiety. Since my duty was done, I settled in to cheer on the runners.

My friend J met up with me, and we proceeded to cheer and clap as the brightly colored runners surged by. Everyone was excited, there was almost a festival atmosphere–horns, cowbells, balloons, kids selling $7 hotdogs (like I said, affluent area), and it was just fun. We took to yelling for the runners by name, as many of the runners wear their names taped to their chest or written on their arms in sweat-smeared sharpie. “Go Dave!” “Go Angie!” “Go Michelle!” We continued to yell until the crowd thinned, and it was only the slower runners carefully plodding along the course. We clapped, cheered, and offered encouragement, with our name-dropping eliciting smiles and tired thumbs ups. I talked to my superstar runner friend on the phone. He had finished in 3 hours, was happy with his performance, and said he was headed back to a friend’s apartment to take a shower. We made plans to eat an early dinner in Back Bay.

The original plan was for me to wander down to the finish line and watch the end of the race, but J and I stayed to wait for his friend’s dad to pass the mile marker, knowing he would be one of the last runners. We waited, gave him and his support crew a triumphant cheer, with J even jogging backwards in front of them for several yards to snap some pictures–a fairly entertaining sight.

Afterward, we parted ways, heading back to our cars, agreeing that it was a fun and inspirational afternoon. “I want to start running again!” I exclaimed as we were leaving, “maybe a marathon is in my future!” The community at the race and the community of runners had made be long to part of something like it.

Then I got a phone call from my sister, and I could hear fear in her voice from the moment I answered. “Hey sees, are you ok? You’re not at the finish line, are you?” and then I heard. I heard about the two explosions at the finish line, the reports of mass casualties, the chaos and confusion. “Just get home safe,” she told me. My hands were shaking as I started the car, and my phone began ringing and buzzing off the hook as floods of concerned friends and family called to check in. My head was cloudy as I drove toward home, and in a panic, I ended up taking a wrong turn and was suddenly on the Mass Pike–headed towards the chaos, rather than away from it. My phone was dying, I didn’t know where I was going, and I was scared. Helicopters roared overhead, emergency vehicles flew past, lights flashing and sirens blaring. I ended up right where I didn’t want to be, and each wrong turn seemed to bring me closer to the exact place I wanted to get away from.

In a moment of clarity, looking at my dying phone, I found a CVS, and pulled into the parking lot. Several more police cars raced by, and cars blared their horns as stressed pedestrians tried to cross the street against the lights. I walked inside, and the contrast was so strange. While the world outside felt chaotic and wild, inside was cool, and eerily calm, with the same awkward muzak playing over the speakers, the same rows of the products found at any CVS in the country. The store brought such strange normalcy, I almost wanted to cry. I wanted to browse the shelves and stay in there until someone told me it was safe to venture back outside. Instead, I bought a car charger for my phone, and asked to use the restroom. After letting me in to the restroom, the pharmacist, a sweet older woman, gave me a hug, and told me to get home safe.

I finally got home, but not without getting turned away by police at multiple junctures. All bridges in and out of the city were blocked, along with most of the race route. I ended up driving all the way back out to Newton and circling back. My route took me across the road where only an hour earlier I had stood with J, cheering on the racers. It now was deserted, with police walking along the street, litter and caution tape fluttering in the wind. There wasn’t a civilian in sight.

It wasn’t until I got home and turned on the news until the full weight of what had happened hit me. The images were so gruesome, so horrific–I was in total disbelief. My roommate spoke to her friend in Afghanistan, and she said the images looked like those from the war zone she inhabits everyday. I spent the next few hours checking on all my friends, making sure everyone was alright. Miraculously, they all were. Even friends who had been at the finish minutes before the blasts were fine. I processed slowly, seeing the images as if they were from somewhere else, not the joyful place I had been that morning. Then reading the New York Times, a line jumped out at me–”There are reports that additional unexploded devices were found along the route, including in Newton, a suburb 6 miles from the finish.” It was then that I began to panic. I felt my heart pound and tears well up in my eyes. The report has since been removed, but in that moment, it all went from something that happened to others, to something that could have happened to me.

I am so lucky, and so grateful. My story isn’t one of chaos, smoke, and injury–but one of simple uncertainty and fear. I feel strange even writing about it–It could have been so much worse. My friends are safe, I’m safe–but there are so many who are not.

We hear of bomb blasts everyday in the Middle East. We hear the numbers killed by drone strikes, of IED’s killing hundreds of soldiers and civilians. But we’ve become numb to it. We’ve forgotten that these bombings are about people, people with families, lives, stories, hopes, and fears. We debate about whether this heinous act is an “act of terrorism” and madly tweet when the president uses the phrase. We’ve forgotten that terrorism is the use of violence to reach political aims–there is nothing in the definition that includes the word “muslim.” I was so saddened by the rush of initial tweets implicating a “Saudi national,” or a “dark skinned man with a hooded sweatshirt and a backpack.” I was hurt by this quick racism and xenophobia that followed the event–an event that started as a day so full of communal joy. Now communities of color continue to hold their breath, praying those responsible are not one of their own. I am also disappointed in the way this has been covered in the media, a glorification of blood and mutilated bodies, the sharing of images that are not necessary to understand the weight of what happened. We are a nation obsessed with consumption of information in real time, and I, as someone who spends all day online, am a part of that culture. But it feels so hurtful and insensitive when the images are of my own backyard. A double standard, to be sure.

But in reading the accounts of the first responders, the folks tearing down barriers to reach the wounded, the googledoc of thousands of homes being opened to runners and families, I was proud of my city–a city that admittedly I’ve been harsh on for the last four years, one where I’ve never completely felt at home.

Earlier in the day, as J and I were getting situated at the race, a big hawk flew overhead, low enough that I could see its markings and the color variations on its feathers. I pointed it out to J, smiling, “It’s a good sign. It’s protection.” I watched it circle over us and the runners for a few minutes, amazed as it lingered. I see hawks often–I’m known for spotting them in the most unexpected and urban of settings–so I wasn’t surprised. But by the end of the night, I realized the importance, and was so grateful for the watchful eye of my ancestors. At the time, I had tried to snap a picture, but ended up with one of just the bright blue sky.

So I’m still processing. I don’t know what to think, I don’t know how to make sense of the tragedy, I don’t know how I feel that I was lucky enough to be 6.2 miles from the explosions. I was so humbled by the hundreds of texts, tweets, calls, facebook posts, and instagram comments from concerned friends I received yesterday, it was amazing to know how many friends, some whom I’ve never even met in real life, cared about my safety. Today in Boston is eerily normal, at least over here on the other side of the river. I was chided for late assignments for Ed Review, my dissertation proposal is still due in two days, and the sun still shined. But folks are a bit kinder–the harsh Bostonian stare I’ve come to recognize has been replaced by nods and eye contact, the bus driver this morning told those of us exiting the bus to “have a great day and stay safe.” The community has come together. The overwhelming feeling I have today is one of community–and a community trying to make sense of a senseless and horrific act.

My prayers and thoughts are with all of the families who were affected, and I don’t know where we’ll go from here. It all still feels foreign and strange. But I know the city will bounce back. Boston is made up of tough survivors, and I know we’ll get through.

Hi Everyone!

If you hadn’t noticed, something is a little different around here…I finally took the plunge and made the switch over to wordpress and my own domain (omg I know, right?). I’m super excited, and relieved that most of the transition seems to have gone relatively smoothly, though there are still a lot of little things that need fixing and  adjusting.

So please bear with me over the next few days (weeks?) as I try and tweak and refine all the things that have gone wrong (such as the thousands of comments stuck in disqus limbo, the fact that none of the images are centered in posts anymore, there are no more “jumps” in any of the posts, and any youtube video I ever embedded is lost)…but it’ll get done! I’ll definitely need some help to figure it all out, so if you come across any broken links, missing pictures, or anything else that seems wonky or off, please let me know. Email is still the same, nativeappropriations(at)gmail(dot)com.

I’m really looking forward to playing around with the functionality and customizability of wordpress, I already have some grand plans in the works, so please keep checking back as I add and change.

A very happy new year to all of you, I can’t wait to see what 2013 brings!

Much love,

Adrienne K.

PS-I would also like to send a HUGE wado (thanks) to reader C. who sent me a donation that covered all the costs of this move and paid for my theme. It was the best Christmas surprise I could have ever asked for. I am constantly humbled and blown away by all of your support–thank you to each and every one of you!

AK note: when I get frustrated in my courses at school, or I have a lot to get off my chest, I write narratives like the one below. They’re an outlet for me, I write them like I’m writing to post them here, but then I usually keep them to myself, in a folder on my computer. I know it’s outside of my normal content for the blog, a bit more personal and reflective rather than snarky and sarcastic, but I thought I’d start sharing some of them, interspersed with more normal content. If you find this totally boring and annoying, let me know (comments are anonymous!). But, more importantly, if you have an experience or narrative you’d like to share, send it over. nativeappropriations@gmail.com

I sat in class a few weeks ago, presenting to my small research seminar. I tried to speak in a strong, unwavering voice, relying on my earlier life as a college admissions officer, where talking to crowds was my day in and day out, to mask my state of utter panic and nerves. I was passionately describing the reasons why we, as researchers, needed to be aware and reflective when working with “actors” (this course’s term for “subjects”) who were from marginalized communities, who were at risk for further exploitation and otherization by our research. I drew on examples from early anthropology, I spoke about the painful legacy that research has left behind in Native communities.

I watched my classmates’ faces as I spoke, intrigued at the mixture of expressions around the seminar table. I saw encouraging smiles and nods of agreement, but also wrinkled foreheads of confusion, and a look I can only describe as awe and wonder. I realized that these issues that are at the forefront of my mind every time I even think about my future doctoral research, ethical and moral quandaries that imbue every aspect of my notes and plans, had never even crossed their minds. These simple questions I was raising in my presentation were strange and exotic to them–and I, the quiet girl prone to being cold called for lack of participation, had suddenly become slightly strange and exotic as well.

Later in the class period, my presentation group members and I put a photograph up on a powerpoint slide. It is a photograph I love, one I’ve featured on the blog before. It shows a father and daughter at Montana State’s powwow, dressed in their regalia, waiting in the threshold outside of the stadium itself. The father is on his cell phone, a look of concentration, and perhaps concern, crossing his brow, while his daughter, in her neon-colored jingle dress, looks up at him. I like the photo for the simple clashing of “traditional” and “modern,” calling into question those pesky preconceived notions we all hold when viewing a photo of a “Native American”. We put the photo up as a simple exercise in contextual framing. We asked our classmates to “set the scene”–describe the photo, position themselves as researcher, to write down details, questions, and initial reactions when viewing the photo.

Admittedly, we picked the photo specifically because it would feel “foreign” to most of our classmates, and I was attempting to drive home my earlier points. The other part of me was intensely curious about what their reactions would be, what details they would pick up, what questions they would have.

When we asked the class to debrief after a few minutes of writing, I was taken aback by the responses. “My initial reaction was absolute fear” one young woman stated. “I realized I know absolutely nothing about Native American culture, I didn’t even know where to start.” “I found myself confused and hung up on the details–what is that thing in her hand?[it's her dance fan] why are they there? what goes on at a powwow?” a male classmate asked. Others agreed, chiming in with their own similar reactions. The comments were not rude, they were not even unexpected, but what struck me was how acceptable this level of ignorance was. No one was embarrassed or ashamed by their lack of knowledge, no one found it out of the ordinary. They shared without any hesitation, without apology.

I wondered if I had put a picture of a Black father and child up on the powerpoint, or Latino, or Asian, if the group would have found it acceptable to say something like “I just don’t know anything about Black culture! I can’t even begin to write!” or even if I had chosen a photo from an AIDS-ravaged African country, or an “exotic” National Geographic photo–would hay have jumped right in in their descriptions? I also realize my presence in the room shaped the reactions, obviously my classmates do not want to offend the only Native student in their class. But I still found it odd.

The theme was repeated this week in a sociology course. One of our assigned readings for the week was an excerpt from Teacher by Silvia Ashton-Warner. Ashton-Warner writes about her experiences teaching in a Maori school in New Zealand, and the text is rife with colonial language and imperialist nostalgia, yet it is all framed out of Ashton-Warner’s “love” for her “brown” children, and peppered with her observations about her Maori students and co-workers as intelligent, thinking human beings–ideas that fall far outside the accepted norms of the time.

I read the piece eagerly and carefully, marking my book, taking notes in the margins, writing out reactions and questions. I looked forward to discussion section, ready to bring my expertise on Indigenous education and to engage in a debate about legacies of colonialism in our own education system. I was excited, because after a year and six weeks at my school, this was the first time I had encountered anything remotely close to Native Education in a course. The very first time.

Imagine my disappointment when I arrived to class to find our student “discussion leaders” for the week had chosen to completely ignore the Ashton-Warner reading, focusing instead on our two other readings for the week. Their reasoning was that it was “too much” to cover in an hour and a half, but that we should “feel free” to bring in the reading if we felt like it. Nothing more was mentioned about the piece.

I overheard a classmate discussing the piece with our TA after the announcement. “I was really confused by it!” she said, “It took me almost the whole reading to figure out where she even was. Is this like part of a bigger book or something?” another student nodded “It was hard to figure out.”

This is complete and total conjecture at this point, but I couldn’t help but feel like the students had kept the Ashton-Warner reading out because it felt “too foreign”. It was easier to focus on our one strictly sociological theory reading and the other reading that focused on the Black middle class. I also almost felt that my fellow students were relieved that they wouldn’t be asked to interpret the text. Again, I was amazed at how accepted their ignorance was.

It is experiences like these that jolt me back into reality. I try to surround myself with friends and colleagues who have some sort of awareness about Native issues, or at least a willingness to listen and engage when I share my thoughts. I sometimes forget that outside of the little bubble I’ve created for myself, people go through every moment of their lives, or even an entire schooling experience at my elite graduate school, without thinking about Native peoples or American colonialism for one second. And, frustratingly, our society and education system has deemed that perfectly fine.

Clearly I don’t accept that paradigm, and am constantly inserting myself into conversations, bringing Native issues to the forefront, making every paper for every class somehow relate to Indian Country. But this is much bigger than me, alone, as the only Native doctoral student at my school. I don’t have the solution, and I don’t know how to change an entire nation’s education system and national narrative.

Next semester I’m leading a Native Education reading group, and once I get further along in my studies, I’ll petition to teach a module (a half-course) on some of these issues as well. As long as I’m here, I’m going to make sure at least some of these students realize their ignorance, and realize that it’s absolutely unacceptable.

Back in January, when I started Native Appropriations, it started with a Facebook-note blitz to all of my friends, asking for suggestions and contributions, for a “project” on cultural appropriation and images of Natives. The response I received was overwhelmingly positive, and I never realized how many of my friends kept files on their computer (like me) where they stuck the offensive images they encountered in everyday life. From that, le blog was born.

Not an appropriation, but a sad day for Indian Country. Wilma Mankiller, the former Principal Chief of the Cherokee Nation, and the first woman to be elected to the position, passed away this morning. The press release from the Cherokee Nation is below:

Wilma Mankiller, former Principal Chief of the Cherokee Nation, passed away this morning.  Mankiller served 12 years in elective office at the Cherokee Nation, the first two as Deputy Principal Chief followed by 10 years as Principal Chief.  She retired from public office in 1995.  Among her many honors, Mankiller was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom by President Clinton. 

 “Our personal and national hearts are heavy with sorrow and sadness with the passing this morning of Wilma Mankiller,” said Chad Smith, Principal Chief of the Cherokee Nation.  “We feel overwhelmed and lost when we realize she has left us but we should reflect on what legacy she leaves us. We are better people and a stronger tribal nation because her example of Cherokee leadership, statesmanship, humility, grace, determination and decisiveness.  When we become disheartened, we will be inspired by remembering how Wilma proceeded undaunted through so many trials and tribulations. Years ago, she and her husband Charlie Soap showed the world what Cherokee people can do when given the chance, when they organized the self-help water line in the Bell community.  She said Cherokees in that community learned that it was their choice, their lives, their community and their future. Her gift to us is the lesson that our lives and future are for us to decide. We can carry on that Cherokee legacy by teaching our children that lesson. Please keep Wilma’s family, especially her husband Charlie and her daughters, Gina and Felicia, in your prayers.”

 Mankiller requested that any gifts in her honor be made as donations to One Fire Development Corporation, a non-profit dedicated to advancing Native American communities though economic development, and to valuing the wisdom that exists within each of the diverse tribal communities around the world.  Tax deductible donations can be made at www.wilmamankiller.com as well as www.onefiredevelopment.org.   The mailing address for One Fire Development Corporation is 1220 Southmore  Houston, TX 77004.  Her memorial service will be Saturday at 11a.m. at the Cherokee Nation Cultural Grounds in Tahlequah.

I always found so much inspiration in her journey to leadership and her life path, she will be missed. Indian Country lost an incredible leader today.

I’m writing a paper, and was looking for a clear way to define “Indian Country” for my non-Native professor who is not well versed in Indian issues, so I googled.

Dictionary.com told me:

 Indian country:

–noun (esp. during the U.S. westward migration) any region where one was likely to encounter Indians, esp. hostile Indians.

“especially hostile Indians”? Seriously? in 2010, the accepted definition of “Indian Country” is a place where one is likely to encounter hostile Indians? The use of past tense is nice too, since we all know Indian Country is a mythical place that only existed during westward expansion. Really?

wow. 

Dictionary.com definition of Indian Country: http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/Indian+country

Friday night, 7 pm, my friend Monica and I decided to buy plane tickets to fly to Orlando for the weekend. She had scored some free all park passes, so we figured there was really no reason not to abandon all our school responsibilities and go. She was a trooper all weekend and put up with my random outbursts of “ohmygod, are you kidding me?!” and helped me spot all the images of Indigenous People throughout the parks–and believe me, there were a lot.

I’m going to post most of these without any extensive analysis, I think they speak for themselves. I apologize for the sometimes fuzzy/awkward photos, a lot of them were taken from moving boats/cars/elephants/pirate ships.

Lilo and Stitch (Lilo is Native Hawaiian), note the leis

Cowboy and Indian on “It’s a Small World”

I think this is an Australian Aboriginal? Judging by the Birds?
Update: He’s supposed to be Maori! That totally makes more sense. (Thanks Alia)

Hawaiian dancer (I thought it was interesting they had the auana style along with the more stereotypical grass skirts below)

They wiggled their hips too.

on the carousel, interesting combination of the Indian head with the eagle/US shield…

Now we get to the Jungle Cruise (exotic!) where I really wish my pictures were better.

This scene was accompanied by our “guide” saying something like “up here on the beach you’ll see one of our many Native…uh oh! They’re gone! hear those drums? That means they’re preparing for the hunt..and I think we’re invited to lunch.” Jokes about cannibalism are awesome!

Those are the angry Natives “war dancing”

That’s “Trader Bob” (?) who sells shrunken heads at the end of the ride.

Native style blankets at the shooting range in Frontier Land

I found a friend in front of the trading post in Frontier Land

The full Pocahontas outfit for sale in (of course) Frontier Land

“What makes the red man red?” Indians on the Peter Pan ride

Not stereotypical at all, right? geez. (This is also Peter Pan)

Frontier Pluto’s got some moccasins

The same Indian from Frontier Land also resides on Main Street USA.

Believe it or not, there are actually way more. I’ll save Epcot, Animal Kingdom, and the Disney Wilderness Lodge for additional posts. Hope you enjoyed your magical ride through the happiest place on earth!