Injun Givers

Happy Native American Heritage Day — well at least, for this year! 

Congress set aside today, the Friday after Thanksgiving, as the first national day to recognize the contributions of Native American tribes to the country we stole from them as illegal aliens back in 1620 (Take that, Lou Dobbs). 

However, unless Congress takes further action, Native American Heritage Day will be a singular event — another broken metaphorical treaty between the US government and a people who, to their ongoing detriment, took Washington leaders at their word.

If Congress decides to make Native American Heritage Day an annual Federal holiday, the holiday most likely will be slotted on the fourth Friday in November (aka the “day after” Thanksgiving). And once again, our countries indigenous citizens will get screwed.

A “day after” holiday offers Native Americans another ancillary role to the “white man’s” interests, a footnote to history once again. And with most Federal workers taking the “day after” Thanksgiving off anyway, the government saves on an extra paid holiday. 

A Native American Heritage Day could replace Columbus Day, pretty much a wasted observance that essentially has little to do with our nation’s history. Actually, the Vikings — and perhaps the Chinese — came here first and thought better of the effort. Columbus, the Gilligan, of his time, missed his intended harbor in India by a mere 8,000 miles and foolishly stuck the indigenous populations with the misnomer “Indians.” However, taking Columbus Day from East Coast Italians is paramount to stripping our nation’s capital football team of its racist “Redskins” moniker, so such an obvious observance switch never will occur.

Supporters of the “day after” tribute cite the selfless hospitality of the local Patuxet Wompanoag tribe with saving the inept alien pilgrims from oblivion – nearly half the Anglos died in their first year here.  The tribe taught them how to grow domestic crops and hunt in the forests. In return for saving their hides, the pilgrims signed a “treaty of friendship” with the Patuxet, the first of centuries of swindles and frauds against tribes in the name of “good will.” The treaty turned out to be a land grab contract, which the tribes who lacked any concept of “land ownership” failed to grasp. Then the group sat down to the first Thanksgiving feast. If the Patuxet knew what came next, they’d have choked on their drumsticks. 

Thus began an aborigine Armageddon. America’s wielding of torture did not begin against “enemy combatants” in Gitmo, but against Geronimo. Worse, the genocide perpetrated against native americans came under the deceit of “friendship” and “peace”. Blankets laced with smallpox, germs in which Indians had no immunity, became our first bioterrorism weapon. The Trail of Tears footsteps predated train tracks to Auschwitz. Andrew Jackson was our Adolph Hitler. The value of trophies Nazis stole from Jews pales to the property stolen from Indians through outright slaughter or thievery. Wounded Knee was as American pogrom. 

I’m no “Cherokee princess,” but growing up as a Jewish princess, I knew the shame that came with celebrating a “subordinate” holiday. All through grade school, I suffered through yearly “winter pageants” sitting on stage with my Christian peers who sang Christ’s praises while my silence resounded. Jewish students finally received recognition when we performed our “traditional Chanukah” song, from which the music teacher always chose I Have A Little Dreidel. No, traditional Rock of Ages, not even the the Hebrew version Sivivon, Sov, Sov, Sov — nope, always I Have A Little Dreidel until I turned high school freshman. And the school marms even bastardized our innocuous dreidel song with verses about feasts of duck and yams. Never did my family nibble on duck or yams on any Chanukah night. I guess the goys couldn’t translate latkas.

A few years ago, I attended a week-long seminar on Cherokee history sponsored by Rice University. I never knew that the Cherokees (and all native americans) were such intelligent, prosperous, educated, sophisticated and cultural people. The first democracy in the America was established not by our Founding Fathers but by many Indian tribes, whose forms of government were the inspiration for our Constitution. I did not know that Cherokees had a written language, a first for Indian tribes, published their own newspapers, and operated their own schools and hospitals. Prior to the Trail of Tears forced expulsion, Cherokees owned land, including large plantations in the South, engaged in commerce, dressed in fashionable duds, fought with US military and worked in the US government.  

I never learned about continual history of Federal atrocities against all native american tribes in school. I listened aghast at this horror that we call “Indian Affairs,” how every treaty, even today, comes with pages of tiny print addendums. I grew up in the upper Midwest where our local minority group was Lakota, not black. Their biggest offense, drunkenness. We criminalized Indian’s ceremonial peyote, sage and other medicinal herbs, and substituted our liquor, as white man’s choice of a substance to abuse. 

Even today, the white men co-opt Indian traditions from greed. Self-proclaimed “shamans” with the obligatory quarter drop of “indian” red platelets hold workshops teaching secret Indian rituals to eager Anglo seekers for hundreds of wampum. These sham shamans fail to tell their patsies that true native shamans never advertise nor take any payment for services rendered to the tribe. True shamans refuse to “teach” outsiders any sacred magic for fear of misuse and fraud. 

The Federal government hates to apologize for past “oversights.”  We offer welfare checks today in lieu of centuries of slave wages. The US doesn’t torture, only enhances interrogation techniques when necessary. Hiroshima saved millions of (Allied) lives by preventing an invasion of Japan. That millions of Japanese civilians faced a nuclear holocaust becomes a footnote in our history books.

So celebrate Native American Heritage Day  — before we take it back as well.

Winking Wisdom #9: Reality #2

I have been through some terrible things in my life,

some of which actually happened.

— Mark Twain

Winking Wisdom #8: Reality

Reality is the leading cause of stress amongst those in touch with it.

Jane Wagner

Carrie Bradshaw Will Be Thrilled!

Now devotees wearing shoes

can enter Bodh Gaya temple complex

 

IANS, November 20, 2008

Patna, India — The decades-old ban on entering the Mahabodhi temple complex in Bihar’s Bodh Gaya while wearing shoes has been lifted, an official said Thursday.The move was welcomed and lauded by Buddhist devotees, mostly Tibetans and tourists visiting Bodh Gaya temple, Buddhism’s holiest shrine.

However, shoes will not be allowed within the temple’s sanctum sanctorum.

The Bodh Gaya Temple Management Committee (BGTMC) took the decision to lift the ban on entering the temples while wearing shoes.

“The BGTMC decided to lift the ban early this week in the wake of repeated demand made by devotees and tourists to allow them to enter the temple with shoes on,” said Nandji Dorjee, secretary, BGTMC.

Hundreds of Buddhist devotees and tourists, particularly foreigners, are now being allowed to enter the temple with shoes on, a big relief during winter and summer months.

Time and again, devotees and tourists complained to the officials about the discomfort they faced while walking bare feet within the temple complex.

“Bare foot entry to temple poses threat to health in chilly winter, particularly during early hours and hot summer season,” said another BGTMC official.

In winter, considered a tourist season, temperatures come down to as low as 2 – 4 degrees Celsius. During winter, bare feet entry to the temple to offer prayers was difficult.

The Tibetan Buddhists have been demanding the right to temple entry with boots on, as per their traditions. They do not see anything wrong in entering the temple with boots on.

In 2001 Ugyen Trinle Dorje, the teenaged chief of the Karmapa sect of Tibetan Buddhists defied the ban on temple entry with shoes on. Dorje entered the Mahabodhi temple sanctum with heavy boots, inviting loud protests from the neo-Buddhists.

The neo-Buddhists demanded the invoking of the penal clause in Mahabodhi temple management act, which says that a fine has to be imposed on anybody who entered the buddhist shrine with shoes on.

Then, Dorje made a bare feet entry to the temple to offer prayers.

The 1,500-year-old temple stands behind the sacred Bodhi tree under which Buddha attained enlightenment 2,550 years ago.

The Mahabodhi Temple, declared a World Heritage Site in 2002 by Unesco, is visited annually by thousands of tourists, especially from countries where there is a strong Buddhist community.

This article comes from The Buddhist Channel site

(http://www.buddhistchannel.tv)

Go to STORY

Winking Wisdom #7: Fashion

I base my fashion taste on what doesn’t itch.

Gilda Radner

Cyber-Family

My uncle died last week.  Thanks, but no condolences are necessary. I saw him last some two decades ago. My mother’s oldest brother, he lived in Canada and rarely came to the States and our family rarely headed north. Once we got together for assorted Bat Mitzvahs or weddings, but we all grew apart as time grew long. We never visited. We rarely talked on the phone or corresponded even via Internet convenience. We failed to attend celebrations or even funerals — not because we did not have time, but that we lacked motive.

Today, if I passed my first cousins on the street, I would never recognize them.

My family is not close in either my maternal or paternal clans. We cannot blame distance for the dysfunction. Growing up in my hometown, my family always seemed on the oust with one or the other set my dad’s brothers and their kin. Unfortunately, the three brothers all co-owned the same retail business and the familial animosity reached histrionic proportions when the store shuttered and each sued the other.

Today, my youngest sister and I do not speak. When I attempted to reestablish communications, all my past transgressions of the past 50 years were rehashed (I’m truly sorry I laughed when you fell off the bed and gashed your head open when you were 8, but I really didn’t push you off!!!). My middle sister talks to me when the mood suits her. My parents call weekly and we discuss their latest medical test results (going to the doctor and early-bird suppers at Denny’s seem the most highly anticipated social pastimes of the aged). But we never really discuss feelings, emotions, joys, fears or sorrows. Personal barriers protect us from those truths. We end conversations with “I love you” from obligation not affection.

I bought the Tolstoy’s novel Anna Karenina merely for its first sentence: “All happy families are alike. Each dysfunctional family is dysfunctional in its own way.” I thought he must have met mine.

 I often wonder why my biological family act as they do? Is it our Russian Jewish ghetto heritage (albeit neither Tolstoy nor Karenina came from that milieu)? Is it some Mediterranean hot-blooded cultural tic in Jewish, Greek, Italian and Arab people that make us more vulnerable to family hostility (and Semitic wars)? Was either the nature or nurture of my ancestors’ pedigree so tainted that we repel each other throughout the generations? 

My husband’s relatives don’t act like this. His first cousins and family come to visit regularly. He knows the intimacies of his third cousin twice removed. My in-laws actually enjoy my company. So with marriage I cleave to my husband and his extended family as my true genealogy.

Another wise writer (whose name, unfortunately, escapes me now) said Our real family is not necessarily the one we were born into.”  The author spoke not just of my marital kinfolk. Friends can become our true family. So can anonymous voices we meet in cyberspace.

While I do not really mourn my uncle’s death, I do deeply grieve over the loss of members of a cyber-family I have come to know well. I mourn the death of my favorite blog.

For the last three years, we gathered together daily, our electrons converging from the far corners of the galaxy to discuss our shared interest in all things Keith Olbermann. (Not quite a strange interest if one is a liberal living in a major red state with unfairly unbalanced ultra-conservative news offerings). 

I made many friends on that site although I really do not know their true names, where they reside, what they do when not blogging, or about their own family situations. I just know that we have laughed, fretted, critiqued, scorned, cheered and ruminated together on the political-social-cultural Countdown stories we shared via Internet and TV set. Together we survived the Dubya Administration, both Republican and Democratic primaries, the 2008 presidential election, Britney Spears, Sarah Palin and the ongoing Iraqi/Afghan wars.

Here and there, glimpses of our true personalities emerged. I discovered a fellow Buddhist on the group. Several of our blogsters realized they lived in the same city, or enjoyed the same hobbies, or cheered for the same sports teams. A few of us became good friends, talked off-line and helped each other through difficult personal times — illness, job problems, pet loss and, yes, family squabbles. 

Because of the blog, I finally understood the appeal of a Sex in the City coterie — the true deep affection of friends who gather together to discuss life, love and Mr Big (our KO). 

Perhaps this says something disquieting about society today. If we seek our most passionate connections through cable or DSL, what does that envisage for the future of civilization? However, maybe in turn, this need to connect on-line speaks volumes about the ills of humanity today.

Unfortunately, blogs (like jobs and relationships, friends and family) often require too much time, energy and maintenance to continue forever. They go adrift and fade into the pixels of cyberspace. They come and go more frequently than the neighborhood fusion restaurant. Blogs, I have learned, become unrelenting and apathetic taskmasters.

Most blogs claim only a few regular readers. To create a blog that truly captures imagination, ongoing interest, feedback, repeat readers, many lurkers, frequent commenters and the attention of its revered subject is rare indeed.  

But, to create a blog that inspires a true community of friends — no a community of family — who mourn its passing as personal, shines as sheer genius and inimitability . 

So, good-bye dear Either Relevant or True. And thank you, Becky and company for becoming my true cyber-family, if only for a while.

Blog Blahs

I didn’t even look at the computer all weekend!  Yes, non-attachment can be a blessing! But makes for lousy blog statistics!  🙂

One of my Buddhist teachers comes into town tomorrow for a couple days, so no blogs planned until later in the week.

Until then — peace and love!

Clap for the Koan: The Answers

A week ago we ran a blog entry about the famous Zen Buddhist koan “What’s the sound of one hand clapping?”  We included a multiple choice poll in search for  the “right” answer.

Now that the election hoopla is over, as promised, here are the koan poll answer(s):

KOAN POLL:

WHAT IS THE SOUND OF ONE HAND CLAPPING?

(a) whoosh, whoosh
(b) left or right hand?
(c) bear farting in the woods
(d) tree falling when nobody’s around
(e) one toe a tapping
(f) knee slapping
(g) an Aussie dog wagging tail
(h) Mu
(i) am I being graded on this?
(j) do I get a prize if I win?
(k) silence
(l) none of the above
(m) all of the above
(n) other (please include in comment section)

 

ANSWER:  

l

(and)

m

(and possibly)

n

Of course, I could be completely wrong!!!

Yes We Can!

A myriad bubbles were floating on the surface of a stream. ‘What are you?’ I cried to them as they drifted by. ‘I am a bubble, of course’ nearly a myriad bubbles answered, and there was surprise and indignation in their voices as they passed.

But, here and there, a lonely bubble answered, ‘We are this stream’, and there was neither surprise nor indignation in their voices, but just a quiet certitude.

from Ask the Awakened by Wei Wu Wei

The Children’s Candidate

I wrote this diary entry for the Daily KOS back during the 2008 Texas primary election. In honor of today’s historic election, I thought I would republish it.  

And the little children will teach us….

The Children’s Candidate – more