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.

Enlighten Up, Already! River Oaks Update

Yesterday, I discussed the serious problems Houstonians face in the aftermath of Hurricane Ike, specifically the endless wait for up to 500,000 customers to get any semblance of power restored.

After reading today’s Houston Chronicle, I realize that not only do the poor folks in Galveston and surrounding small towns suffer, but that Houston’s swankier residents also endured hardships due to this hurricane.

So, let me summarize two harrowing stories that appeared in today’s Houston Chronicle:

Ike’s Aftermath: Let Them eat…osso buco?

and Being Powerless Doesn’t Stop The Party

The rich are different from you and me. Their affluent abodes never take on affluence during storms. Many of Houston’s poshest pads accessorize their curbside appeal with invisible buried power lines invulnerable to tempests and the resulting inconvenience of blackouts.

However, some of the humbler River Oaks denizens found that Hurricane Ike failed to distinguish zip codes. Those whose electricity grows on tree poles evacuated to more welcoming climes, jetting to Paris, Aspen or New York (in summer, how gauche!). Those who lacked private aircraft sought out refuge in Four Seasons or Five Diamond lodgings around the Lone Star state. One socialite, already safely in Austin on “philanthropic business” found her suitcase(s) contained only “a cocktail dress, diamond earrings and running shorts and a t-shirt.” Hopefully, she also included some Jimmy Choos to complete that ensemble.

Houston’s movers and shakers weren’t spared moving and shaking from Hurricane Ike. The Houston Chronicle reports that “the prized Bentley of one major player was smashed by a tumbling tree.”

Thus, no one escapes hurricane or karmic forces. All are twisted in the enduring loop of samsara (suffering). Some of us just spend it shoveling sewage from our living rooms and others sweat over gala party rescheduling snafus at the toniest Tony’s restaurant.

Remembrances of Storms Past

Since we stalwart residents of the Texas Gulf Coast suffer from post traumatic hurricane exhaustion, I’m much too tired to retell the adventures of the last week as my family evacuated from Hurricane Ike.  Thanks to good karma or just that recently upgraded roof, the storm limited damage to the elderly trees throughout our neighborhood. I hope soon to write up a report of the events of the week of Ike, but until then, I thought I would reminisce about other hurricanes past. And as this blog professes to relate somehow to Buddhism, I’ll recall the story of how Hurricane Rita blew away my chance to meet the Dalai Lama.

In September 2005, I had free tickets to the most talked about performance in town — His Holiness the Dalai Lama was to speak at Rice University. The previous night he served as keynote speaker at a $1,000 a person gala spotlighting all spiritualism in society, including Buddhism and “other” escoteric “New Age” philosophies. 

Unfortunately, that August and September 2005 brought two samsaric (and perhaps karmic) events to the Gulf region, Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. Because Rita wobbled to the right and the civic leaders fearing another 24/7 media (not just natural) disaster, they issued a mandatory evacuation order for the city. An estimated 2-million-plus vehicles clogged all routes leading from the Houston area. Journeys that normally took about two hours evolved into 15 hours of nonstop stopped congestion. Gas, food, water ran out as road rage flared in the 200 mile traffic jam. One hundred elderly people burned to death on a bus as traffic inched by.  

Thus, His Holiness’ talk about benevolence, compassion, peace, and kindness was cancelled and the leader of the Tibetan people had to be whisked out of town despite the gridlock that ensued. As the Dalai Lama is a Buddha in the flesh. And karma being what it is, all the evacuees headed north on clogged, congested and conflicted freeways while the His Holiness was escorted south in the direction of Hobby airport,  serendipitously in the opposite direction of the disconbobulation. And whether because traffic was fleeing the city, or because he was the Dalai Lama and actualized such things, no cars blocked escape route from the city. He caught his winged transport with plenty of time to spare.

I wrote a blog about the rather perplexing juxtaposition of $1000 tickets to see a poor monk and us poor supplicants whose free tickets to his public lectures blew away in hurricane winds. So, I decided to create a new blog page called Reincarnations to post past blogs or writings that may have renewed relevancy for today. 

So please check the new-and-old Reincarnations page to read the oldie but goodie blog, Houston Serves The Dalai Lama a Rita

Cyber Zen

I became a Apple computer disciple decades ago when I saw a demonstration of Apple’s new computer code named “Lisa.” Although too expensive for my corporation to consider, its ease of use and incredible graphic capabilities totally overwhelmed me. I beheld cyber-Nirvana and performed prostrastrations to the Enlightened One, Steve Jobs. From that day forward, I discounted the dogma of DOS and became an Apple arahant.

Whenever employers attempted to convert me to any form of Microsoft or Windoze, I lashed myself to my MacIntosh. Even when my trusty Mac lacked enough memory to run my e-mail function, I stole time from a fellow Apple outcast to download Internet kilobytes. But even with its limited capabilities and capacities, my little ol’ Mac kept running when the rest of the office blanched with regular Windoze viruses, worms, bugs, hiccups and related attacks of nausea.

That’s why I find it so karmic, zen-like or just serendipitous that whenever Microsoft really needs excellence in computing or special graphic capability, their marketing department, graphics folks, or advertising agencies always reach for the best — Apple Mac computers and software. The news report linked below tells how Microsoft used Apple hardware and software to create its new ads about how much better Windoze is than the Job’s toy. Seems to me that the poor schlep who is lost in the whales colon isn’t named Jobs. Maybe Bill Gates and Jerry Seinfeld stopped off at that mall’s Apple Store when they finished buying shoes and really liked what they saw.

So for an ironic, zen-like, karmic moment, check out this story “Microsoft’s ‘I’m a PC’ campaign created with Macs”

Kick the Bucket List

The co-author of the best-selling travelogue 100 Things To Do Before You Die, David Freeman, passed away on Aug. 17, after falling and hitting his head at home.  He was 47 years old.

The compiler of perhaps the first commercially successful “bucket list” had visited only about half of his described “must see” places before he died, his relatives said.

For more about Freeman, click this link