Story from Cali: "Running Comanche"

Running Comanche
From CYA to the Oklahoma Rez and Back
by Patrick Wahnee Gay


I was born in Oakland and raised all over the San Francisco Bay Area. But I never lived in Oakland until now -- since I've been out of California Youth Authority. The first time I went to the CYA, my crime was assault and escaping from foster homes.

I was sent to the Karl Holton California Youth Authority in Stockton for two and a half years. My stay there made me see that I want to live life different and make major changes. There, the days were hot and I had to wake up early every morning for school. On the weekends, we would kick back and have recreation time, we could play dominoes, basketball, handball, or lift weights. If anyone disobeyed any orders, they had to stay in their room all day.

My family would put money on my books so I could eat. I ate noodles, meat and "spreads" (which is Top Ramen crushed up with meat, eggs, Doritos, cheese and mayonnaise). All the food tastes like rubber, like it was sitting up in the refrigerator for five years. Sometimes we would get frozen burgers that were halfway cooked. The carpets smelled like feet and ass. Some people smelled like funk because there was no support system for hygiene.



Every day there was a fight or a group disturbance caused by the Native gangs, Norte, Southern, or the Fresno Bulldog's. It was always all over stupid stuff. The worst part about being in CYA was always having to try to avoid fighting, 'cause when there is a fight they would use "fog guns" (which burn you and makes you not able to breathe), mace on people's eyes, and sometimes they used physical force.

The first time I was out of the CYA, it was for one year and two months. I had a lot of goals. I wanted to go to college, get a job and a house, and spend time with my family. Fights happen all the time in CYA and usually become a "group disturbance." But even when I was out, it was still happening to me. I got jumped by my own cousin and his friends on High Street in Oakland, over money. The fight lasted awhile and there were bats and bottles flying.

We shouldn't have been fighting at all 'cause we're family. But my cousin was beat badly and the police came. Later, my parole agent asked what happened. My other cousin lied and she said I was going to get a knife and flatten her tires, and that I was violent. The police took what she was saying as truth and they said I violated my parole and put out a warrant for my arrest. When I found out, I drove to Oklahoma to get away.

It took me two days to get down to the Oklahoma Indian Reservation, where my family is from. I'm related to Ten Bears, chief leader of the five bands of recognized Comanche Tribes. When I got to the reservation, the tribal police couldn't do anything. The FBI has jurisdiction over the tribal police so the only way they could arrest me was through the FBI. The FBI wanted the tribal police to do a Federal Indian Reservation Arrest on me. It had taken months for them to find me.

The FBI finally caught me at my cousin's house, and put me in a U.S. marshal paddy wagon. There were 48 agents, including the federal tribal police. They put me in the Oklahoma County Jail. I was there for two days, and then the county jail bus transferred me to the Oklahoma City Airport. They put me in Santa Rita County Jail. I was then transferred to Oakland for two months. I went before the parole board and they said I had 15 months to do in CYA, so I went back.

I was at the CYA when those two young guys were beat down on video, which they showed on TV. They were 18 and 19. They were beat because they attacked a youth correctional counselor, and it took 10 officers to restrain them. They put them on their stomach in handcuffs, and were still beating them even though they were in restraints. They sprayed them with the fog guns. I think it was messed up because they shouldn't have been fighting in the first place, and the staff should have stopped when they put them in handcuffs. They were doing too much, they were already on the ground and couldn't do anything, and they still beat them.

While I was serving my time, I got tired of eating nasty food; I got tired of looking at stupid things that go on in there. I was sick of being told what to do. I got tired of seeing Indian gang leaders or others starting up stuff, 'cause I knew they would be stuck in there or max out on parole. I was tired of making poor decisions that made me end up in there.

Now, I am finally free. Being an Indian Reservation parole violator means I have to check in with a regular parole officer, and a federal parole officer. But my beliefs have changed and my mentality is different; I want to stay out of trouble. I want to be successful, do positive activities, and have goals to accomplish every day. I want to attend sweat lodges, because I know they will keep me strong and keep me following the red road. I want to meet new friends who can help me stay positive.




Today, I set an example as a good role model. I try to be a productive person, and not smoke weed or drink. My goals are to be a family man. I want to have kids when I get older to keep my bloodline going. I've been looking into casinos, and I am proud to see Native's owning their own land and doing something with it. Now, I got support and money in my pocket from my tribe. We have oil on our land and casinos, but on the rez back home, most people who get money don't do anything with it.

As of now, my life is good. I travel back and forth from Oakland to Oklahoma, and I have relatives everywhere in the Midwest. I am a strong Native American man who wants to learn more about my culture and attend Native American sweat lodges. I am not a perfect man -- nobody is. All that matters is that we respect one another and all our cultures.

Gay, was 21 when he wrote this story for SNAG. He lives in Oakland. Art by Taraka Goodman-Robinson, 22

Story from Oklahoma: "Racism Shut Me Out"

Racism Shut Me Out
By Quese Frejo Littleagle




Racial tension was always high at my small-town, suburban Oklahoma high school. It was mostly white. There were a few blacks and 40 Mexicans, who I chilled with. I'm Pawnee, Seminole and Aztec. I was one of four Native Americans. Though we confronted racism all the time, there's one experience I'll always remember.

It all began with the school play "Annie Get Your Gun" we had to attend. Me and my two Indian friends – Joe, a Choctaw, and Derrek (R.I.P), Ponca and Otoe – heard white students were playing Indians, disgracing our culture. We decided to walk out. We were hyped, a feeling of empowerment stemming from anger over our treatment. At school, Native Americans were always called drunks and losers. The moment arrived in the play when white guys whooped "Hey! Yaw! Hey! Yaw!" in cartoonish headdresses, with fluorescent paint on their faces. An old "Indian" character said, "How! My name is Running Bear. Do you know where my squaw is?"

My blood boiled. A "squaw" in Iroquois means a woman's genital area. Its slang use came about in the 1800s when U.S. soldiers would attack a village, rape the women, and brutally murder children and elders. They would chop off women's breasts and cut out their wombs, which they threw back and forth in games – something you won't read in textbooks. That's why the word "squaw" is so hurtful. And that's why we headed for the door. But the principal, a redneck from a small, racist town hours north of Oklahoma City, tried to stop us. We said we were offended. He replied, "That's bull crap!"

We told our parents. They contacted a Native American activist, who set up a meeting with the principal. We told him the play was demeaning. That it hurt to see our people disgraced. That we survived through genocide and oppression to see this kind of shit. That we walked out because it was a small step towards freedom, towards being a strong people. Victory came when the play was banned from the district. But then my basketball coach, who heard about the incident, started acting shady.

He said I had to cut my hair to play ball. I don't rock long hair to be different, I replied. It's part of my culture. So instead, I tucked my braid into my jersey. But slowly, my minutes on the court diminished. I was moved from starting on varsity to practicing with sophomores. It was a confusing time. I was only 17, and the one Indian on the team. I didn't know what to do. Then one day at practice, my coach announced the nominees for homecoming king. He called out my name. I was in total shock! I didn't care if I won. The opportunity to honor my family was enough. Another victory for American Indians nationwide!

On the day of homecoming, my heart was racing. I felt like I was dreaming. But as I walked towards the gym on cloud nine, the woman in charge pulled me aside. She said because I missed a mandatory homecoming meeting, I'd been disqualified. I said I'd never heard about it. She told me my homeroom teacher – who was my coach – was supposed to tell me. I ran to my coach and told him. He replied, "I'm sorry, I don't know what to tell you. Go get dressed for the game." He didn't look me in the eyes.

I stood there, my heart crushed, as he walked away. I looked through the gym doors at my family and friends. They were all laughing and joking around, as Indians do when they get around each other. I backed quietly to the door leading to the long hallway. It led to the exit. Tears left tracks of pain on my face. All I could see was the look on my family members' faces when they called the nominees, and my name wasn't called. As I walked those last steps, I looked over my shoulder. I saw a crowd gather. "Why can't I be a part of that? Why?" I asked myself, as the tears fell like rain. I walked all the five miles home, alone.

Drawing: Mathew Barkhausen. Littleagle, 22, is Pawnee, Seminole and Aztec. He lives in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.

Story from Alaska: "Stranger in My Own Land"

Stranger in My Own Land
By Jennine Janet Stebing



I visit the small village my people are from to find what makes my mother have such tough skin. All I know is that she left there when she was very young, and did not go back. I return to Unalakleet, Alaska, uncertain of what lies ahead.

My sisters, mother and I pile into my grandma's old jeep, with seats covered in dog hair. We ride bouncing over the dirt road. The smell of dried fish hangs in the air and the whines of the husky mutts fill my ears.

My grandma's house looks the same. Chipped red paint, the fish house out front, and her four-wheeler next to the gas tank. Her little garden is in the back yard. It can only produce small radishes because the land is too brittle and hard for vegetation to grow. She prides herself with having one of the nicer houses in the village.

With a population of about 1,000, whites are the minority in Unalakleet. The majority are the Inupiaq Native Alaskans. Rolling hills surround the village. Very few leave their homes during the cold winter. Those who do hunt and fish for food. The only food available in the village is herring fish, salmon strips, trout, reindeer, whale, seal oil, and pre-packaged goods from the two grocery stores.

There is always a lot of meat. "Eat," everyone says, "Eat more." The vegetables and fruit in the store are drooped and brown. They are at least two weeks old.

The summer is when all the outdoor activities awaken. Berry picking, fishing, boating, four-wheeling, hunting for reindeer, and playing until the twilight of the sun. There are no trees, but the daylight is strong in those short three months.

Pain suffocates the air, but the people manage to breath. Children are tormented as children and adults are tormented from their childhood. It does not help that the village is by itself, away from the rest of the world surrounded by a peninsula in the sea. The lands around it remain barren. All that survives is tundra and berries.

My people have lived on the same unchanging, permafrost, tundra for thousands of years. Their bodies are buried within the land. The tundra recycles itself from one generation to the next. My grandmother was born and raised in the village. She was married before she turned 19, and had 11 children. She matured as the presence of the white man grew. Children were bred to work and if they did not, they were punished by the belt.

When booze entered the village, there was no way stop it. It spread like cancer. It has almost ruined my family and myself. My aunt lives alone in California, unable to return to the village. Every night she goes to the liquor store and drinks by herself.

The bottles at my aunt's house in Unalakleet are all gone. The two-bedroom house has not been repainted for years. We use the stove to take knife hits while my cousin's baby sister runs through the house screaming and crying. I do not know why. Words fill the minds of children. They are told not to succeed, to stay in the village. So many secrets are kept that I cannot decipher them. I just listen to what I am told.

Next to my grandma's home stands the bluish gray house my mother grew up in. People tell me the old house is full of demons and that strange things occurred there. Passing by it makes my heart beat fast. I dare not to look into the windows. Perhaps it will never fall for it holds many secrets of the past.

Cigarette butts litter the dirt roads throughout the village. The tiny Covenant Church at the edge of the village, near the river, is filled with beautiful sounds chanted in high voices by the old Inupiaq women who mourn for the loss of the dead.

They chant for my uncle who was killed in a fire in a drunken stupor, my grandpa, the village magistrate, and my past relatives who haunt the village. Their spirits are always felt. My grandma knows my grandpa visits her, only a few months after his death she felt his presence near her bed.

Everyone's past relatives are connected; we are all one, bound by the same blood of eight and nine generations between the prominent four families. The women chant for the loss of innocence of children like my cousins and I, who drank with my aunt and mother.

They call me "city girl" meaning I am not native enough for them because I have grown up in the city and I am of mixed race. My accent changes when I enter the village and I try to fit in. As I linger though the aisles in the Native store, the old man at the register stares at me as if I am some exotic foreigner from across the world. Inside I recoil and hide.

Every time I go there I tell myself that I will never go back to the unchanging place that scars the memories of my mother and I. I follow my mother but I will never understand her or what she has been through. All I can do is try.

Photo: Esther Manilla, 18. Stebing, 19, is Inupiaq Eskimo from the Bering Straits region. She lives in Tucson, Az.

Chinook story: "From a Girl to a Woman"

From a Chinook Girl to a Woman
By Rachel Cushman



The words spilled from my mother's lips, "You have become of age. You must now have your ceremony." I was nervous and unprepared. When a Chinook woman comes of age, she must go through the sacred ceremony of her people. The ceremony is what every young women waits for because you are honored when you enter womanhood.

But all I knew about the ceremony was that girls are pushed to the edge. It is to take place within four full moons of your first menstrual cycle. I was only 10, one of the youngest girls to have the ceremony in years.

Preparing for the celebration was a long process. My mother called all of the elder women of the tribe and set the date for the third week in December. My family and I made new regalia and hairpieces for my first dance. My dress and leggings were made of white deer hide and trade beads. Each bead was sown individually in a beautiful pattern. Bright colors were used to make me look brilliant and show my love for the Earth.

The hairpieces were made out of a hawk feather my grandfather had given me and two minks my mother gave me. Every piece of my regalia was given as a gift. It is known as bad totem to buy any of the body wear. I had to look radiant when I was presented to the whole tribe. I had to be as lovely as a rose and as sweet as one too.

When the time came, we traveled to the mouth of the Columbia River. Returning to the place of my people brought me joy. I love to be near the ocean because I am a person of the sea and from the sea is from which my people came.

The day before the ceremony began, the men brought out all the salmon they had caught during the good runs of the year and presented them to the women. The women put half of the fish in smokers and set the rest aside for the celebration. The salmon looked so good I could almost taste its flavor. But I could not eat anything because I was performing the ceremony.

I was fasting during the four days to see my totem, or spirit guide. I would have to find my totem to lead me through womanhood and the childbearing years ahead of me.

Once the ceremony began no men could see me until four days had past. I began a number of tasks that cannot be told, because they are sacred and only for the women members of the tribe to know. Men of the tribe have their ceremony, and the women have theirs. After the first set of sacred ceremonies was over on the second day, it was time for us women to prepare the food for the celebration.

We crushed the roots of several healing plants and created a smoldering soup. We baked breads from wild grains we hand-crushed into small, appetizing flour particles. We made rolls out of the grains and wrapped them in the eatable parts of the skunk cabbage we gathered. We simmered clams and bull kelp soup. All food was prepared in the perfect order.

The night before the celebration began, I was taken away once more to be blessed by a medicine woman. I found my spirit guide. It was beautiful and surreal. I had honored my family and myself by taking on the totem of the tribe – the Chinook salmon. I saw great struggles ahead of me, but that could be conquered with the strength of the Chinook.

The following day was beautiful. It seemed as if I was in a dream. There were colorful people and decorations all around me. Dancing and music filled the place. Most of all, I was adored by everyone. I was wearing my regalia and headpieces. My elders gave me a totem necklace and earrings. I was to wear them always. The only time I was to take them off was when giving them to a fellow sister in need my protection.

I wore my totem jewelry for years afterward. I had never once taken them off until now. I gave them to my eldest sister. I learned through all my years that you must move on from the past. I know that my sister and I will have to spend time apart. By giving her those pieces of my totem I will be with her at all times and she will be with me. I now must be one with the nature of the salmon, and travel my course.

Painting: Jorge Zavala, 18, Mexica. Cushman, 16, is a member of the Chinook Nation.