My friend, the poet William Pitt Root reminded me I'd said: "The self is a very complex event"--during a recent appearance at Bookworks in Albuquerque to promote a new CD release (which I haven't officially announced yet) of a spoken word CD: She Had Some Horses, to accompany the re-release of the book. It's been in publication for 30 years, an imprint of Thunder's Mouth Press, no part of Avalon Publishing.
I don't always remember what I say. Speaking is or can be a creative act, as much as writing.
The self is a complex event and this particular self is under reconstruction.
Interesting the comments when I tell people that I am teaching at UNM only in the fall semester. "Oh, so you're on vacation?" I've heard this frequently during this season of getting together with family and friends, and non-professional associations. My musician, writer, poet, artist friends know that what I will be up to without asking. I have many writing and music projects in the works. Everyone else thinks I'm not working. I've battled with that all of my life--"oh, since you're not doing anything" (I'm writing away with monies from an NEA grant--{I could use grant or award money these days for my projects, if anyone has ideas...])"can you pick up my cleaners?". I've noticed that male artists don't have this problem, not to the extent of women. I always admired my male musical partners who appear to always be creating. Usually they have or had wives or girlfriends who made sure they had meals and washed their clothes, who take care of the domestic aspects of their lives. They didn't or don't have the primary responsibilites of children or (extended) family. Those tasks are ongoing, even when the children are grown.
Many questions, and knots of problems are gathered around me as I stand at the precipice of the new year (the new year according to the Christian calendar). Every day is literally the beginning of a new year, but this particular time which marks a changing of the seasons, towards winter and introspection. I'm concerned about the direction of the tribe and a lack of a cohesive and energetic vision, I'm concerned about the general state of compassion or lack thereof, about the fascist governement in power in this country, about the squeezing of my heart with the pressures of sadness that is all of the family (blood, in laws, ex laws, outlaws, etc etc) stories and recent deaths around alcohol, drugs, abuse, about the recent destructive trends in weather--all of this has been predicted. We have been duly warned that if we do not actively take part in and acknowledge the gifts of this earth, and the very spirits of the earth and skies then we will forget who we are and it will all fall apart.
We are in the falling apart. And we're in it together. We have to keep going.
Tonight I figure I'm either exhausted or depressed. Tomorrow I will get up and the sun will give me energy to keep going--I am going to have to find another way, though--this particular route has been exhausted.
What delighted today, however, was a monk seal who crawled up on the beach and enjoyed the sun with all the picnickers and surfers and (a few brave) paddlers (I wasn't one of them...did not wish to brave the break). They are rare. And the three whales frolicking just off shore.
And then there's what I don't write here, what I don't say, the ghost blog. Maybe next time.
12/1/05
Classic Vine
And then, sometimes I sing and nothing happens but inspired noise!
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Yesterday we held the memorial reading for Vine at the UNM Library's Willard Room. Mary Bowannie told us about the family's memorial in Golden, Colorado and her stories of Vine. We heard many stories, jokes and touching vignettes about the powerful influence of this man, his words and his actions, from students, staff, faculty and community members. I left with renewed vision and energy to keep going in this place.
Here's one of my favorite stories from his classic, Custer Died for Your Sins, first released in 1969, a primer of inspiration for Indian people everywhere. Enjoy.
“On the Standing Rock reservation in South Dakota my grandfather served as the Episcopal missionary for years after his conversion to Christianity. He spent a great deal of his time trying to convert old Chief Gall, one of the strategists of Custer’s demise, and a very famous and influential member of the tribe.
My grandfather gave Gall every argument in the book and some outside the book but the old man was adamant in keeping his old Indian ways. Neither the joys of heaven nor the perils of hell would sway the old man. But finally, because he was fond of my grandfather, he decided to become an Epsicopalian.
He was baptized and by Christmas of that year was ready to take his first communion. He fasted all day and attended the Christmas Eve services that evening.
The weather was bitterly cold and the little church was heated by an old wood stove placed in the center of the church. Gall, as the most respected member of the community, was given the seat of honor next to the stove where he could keep warm.
In deference to the old man, my grandfather offered him the communion first. Gall took the chalice and drained the entire supply of wine before returning to his seat. The wine had been intended for the entire congregation, and so the old man had a substantial amount of spiritual refreshment.
Upon returning to his warm seat by the stove, it was not long before the wine took its toll on the old man who by now had had nothing to eat for nearly a day.
“Grandson,” he called to my grandfather, “now I see why you wanted me to become a Christian. I feel fine, so nice and warm and happy. Why didn’t you tell me that Christians did this every Sunday. If you had told me about this, I would have joined your church years ago.”
Vine Deloria, Jr., Custer Died for Your Sins, 1969
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Yesterday we held the memorial reading for Vine at the UNM Library's Willard Room. Mary Bowannie told us about the family's memorial in Golden, Colorado and her stories of Vine. We heard many stories, jokes and touching vignettes about the powerful influence of this man, his words and his actions, from students, staff, faculty and community members. I left with renewed vision and energy to keep going in this place.
Here's one of my favorite stories from his classic, Custer Died for Your Sins, first released in 1969, a primer of inspiration for Indian people everywhere. Enjoy.
“On the Standing Rock reservation in South Dakota my grandfather served as the Episcopal missionary for years after his conversion to Christianity. He spent a great deal of his time trying to convert old Chief Gall, one of the strategists of Custer’s demise, and a very famous and influential member of the tribe.
My grandfather gave Gall every argument in the book and some outside the book but the old man was adamant in keeping his old Indian ways. Neither the joys of heaven nor the perils of hell would sway the old man. But finally, because he was fond of my grandfather, he decided to become an Epsicopalian.
He was baptized and by Christmas of that year was ready to take his first communion. He fasted all day and attended the Christmas Eve services that evening.
The weather was bitterly cold and the little church was heated by an old wood stove placed in the center of the church. Gall, as the most respected member of the community, was given the seat of honor next to the stove where he could keep warm.
In deference to the old man, my grandfather offered him the communion first. Gall took the chalice and drained the entire supply of wine before returning to his seat. The wine had been intended for the entire congregation, and so the old man had a substantial amount of spiritual refreshment.
Upon returning to his warm seat by the stove, it was not long before the wine took its toll on the old man who by now had had nothing to eat for nearly a day.
“Grandson,” he called to my grandfather, “now I see why you wanted me to become a Christian. I feel fine, so nice and warm and happy. Why didn’t you tell me that Christians did this every Sunday. If you had told me about this, I would have joined your church years ago.”
Vine Deloria, Jr., Custer Died for Your Sins, 1969
11/29/05
Singing, Death and Dreaming
“The singing always teaches me something. The other day I had a sore throat, had started getting sick. This song came and after singing it my throat was healed.” From a message I wrote this morning to J.W.
Sometimes I forget these things.
Last night someone without the power to show themselves, or me without the power to see was to my left again. Kept feeling D.H, my recently passed cousin. I told her to come to me in my dreams and let me know if there was something she wanted. For instance, does she want the truck to go to S.? Or was she forced by fear and painkillers to sign a makeshift paper because this one promised to take her home from the hospital when the staff said no, she couldn't go? She told me more than once that it was to go to P., a young man who had helped her consistently through her difficulty. That makes more sense. In the end months of her life, she was duped by her daughter’s druggie friends. D.H. wanted to badly to go home and yet it was in that place that she fell ill due to lack of care. Home is home. I can easily understand that ache. What does she know now that she has left this world? Was the sense of it all illuminated? Did she remember the shine of the inner home, who she really is? Or did this freshly left place feel consequently like a dream, the way that some of our dreams feel now? We wake up with stories to tell, lives and deaths lived, visions, and question: dd it really happen? Then the day unfolds and we tell ourselves: it was just a dream and I have awakened. Then, in that world after this one, do we go on our way with our same cloud of disillusions, lack of knowledge and foresight?
Sometimes I forget these things.
Last night someone without the power to show themselves, or me without the power to see was to my left again. Kept feeling D.H, my recently passed cousin. I told her to come to me in my dreams and let me know if there was something she wanted. For instance, does she want the truck to go to S.? Or was she forced by fear and painkillers to sign a makeshift paper because this one promised to take her home from the hospital when the staff said no, she couldn't go? She told me more than once that it was to go to P., a young man who had helped her consistently through her difficulty. That makes more sense. In the end months of her life, she was duped by her daughter’s druggie friends. D.H. wanted to badly to go home and yet it was in that place that she fell ill due to lack of care. Home is home. I can easily understand that ache. What does she know now that she has left this world? Was the sense of it all illuminated? Did she remember the shine of the inner home, who she really is? Or did this freshly left place feel consequently like a dream, the way that some of our dreams feel now? We wake up with stories to tell, lives and deaths lived, visions, and question: dd it really happen? Then the day unfolds and we tell ourselves: it was just a dream and I have awakened. Then, in that world after this one, do we go on our way with our same cloud of disillusions, lack of knowledge and foresight?
11/27/05
Vine Deloria, Jr Memorial at UNM This Wednesday November 30th
Vine Deloria, Jr. was one of Indian Country’s best. He was a beloved and respected (and sometimes controversial) scholar, visionary, humorist, revolutionary, and human being. He was a primary spokesman of native cultural and political identity.
Vine Deloria, Jr. passed on from this world the morning of, November 13th, 2005 from Denver, Colorado. There was no one else like him. The magnitude of our loss is stunning.
Deloria was born March 26, 1933 in Martin, S.D. near the Pine Ridge Reservation. He was Standing Rock Sioux and trained as a theologian and an attorney.
Custer Died For Your Sins blasted Indians into the cultural atmosphere of American thought in 1969. His sardonic humor was the real power in this book, a book some have called a manifesto.
Yet some of his most important work was from 1964 to 1967, when he worked for the National Conference of American Indians. He became a leading spokesman for Indians in Washington as the group's leader.
'I think he opened Americans' eyes to the real history of Native Americans and the injustice of past federal policies,'' said John Echohawk, executive director of the Native American Rights Fund in Boulder. '''Through Vine's leadership, tribes started to stand on their treaties and their right to self-determination,'' he said.
"If you mark down the great figures of the American West in recent times, he belongs there because of his role in reshaping Indian country," said Charles F. Wilkinson, a professor of law at the University of Colorado and a longtime friend. "I think in the last 100 years, he's been the most important person in Indian affairs, period."
"We have brought the white man a long way in 500 years," he wrote in an Op-Ed article in The New York Times in 1976. "From a childish search for mythical cities of gold and fountains of youth to the simple recognition that lands are essential for human existence."
He held a number of teaching positions during his career, and retired from the University of Colorado in 2000.
His many books include: Behind the Trail of Broken Treaties, The Metaphysics of Modern Existence, We Talk,You Listen: New Tribes, New Turf, and God is Red.
His lasting concern was for a compassionate vision for this place, one that included justice and a comprehensive understanding of the humanity of all life on this earth. The immensity of his gift--remains. We still need his vision in this world shifting drastically about us.
Vine Deloria, Jr. is survived by his wife, Barbara, of Golden; three children, Philip, Daniel and Jeanne; a brother; a sister; and seven grandchildren
A memorial reading to honor the gift of the life of Vine Deloria, Jr
November 30th, 2006
Willard Reading Room, Zimmerman Library
University of New Mexico Main Campus
1-4 P.M.
Free and Open to the Public
Hosted by The Indigenous Nations Library Program (INLP), Native American Studies (NAS), Indian Law Program -UNM School of Law, Native American Studies Indigenous Research Group (NASIRG), KIVA Club, Native American Health Sciences Society, and Joy Harjo.
If you are interested in reading, please email Joy Harjo at jharjo@unm.edu
For other information email Mary Bowannie at mkbow@unm.edu or call NAS at 277-3917
If you have photographs to share for the Powerpoint presentation, email them directly to Patrick Willink at nlwp@unm.edu
Vine Deloria, Jr. passed on from this world the morning of, November 13th, 2005 from Denver, Colorado. There was no one else like him. The magnitude of our loss is stunning.
Deloria was born March 26, 1933 in Martin, S.D. near the Pine Ridge Reservation. He was Standing Rock Sioux and trained as a theologian and an attorney.
Custer Died For Your Sins blasted Indians into the cultural atmosphere of American thought in 1969. His sardonic humor was the real power in this book, a book some have called a manifesto.
Yet some of his most important work was from 1964 to 1967, when he worked for the National Conference of American Indians. He became a leading spokesman for Indians in Washington as the group's leader.
'I think he opened Americans' eyes to the real history of Native Americans and the injustice of past federal policies,'' said John Echohawk, executive director of the Native American Rights Fund in Boulder. '''Through Vine's leadership, tribes started to stand on their treaties and their right to self-determination,'' he said.
"If you mark down the great figures of the American West in recent times, he belongs there because of his role in reshaping Indian country," said Charles F. Wilkinson, a professor of law at the University of Colorado and a longtime friend. "I think in the last 100 years, he's been the most important person in Indian affairs, period."
"We have brought the white man a long way in 500 years," he wrote in an Op-Ed article in The New York Times in 1976. "From a childish search for mythical cities of gold and fountains of youth to the simple recognition that lands are essential for human existence."
He held a number of teaching positions during his career, and retired from the University of Colorado in 2000.
His many books include: Behind the Trail of Broken Treaties, The Metaphysics of Modern Existence, We Talk,You Listen: New Tribes, New Turf, and God is Red.
His lasting concern was for a compassionate vision for this place, one that included justice and a comprehensive understanding of the humanity of all life on this earth. The immensity of his gift--remains. We still need his vision in this world shifting drastically about us.
Vine Deloria, Jr. is survived by his wife, Barbara, of Golden; three children, Philip, Daniel and Jeanne; a brother; a sister; and seven grandchildren
A memorial reading to honor the gift of the life of Vine Deloria, Jr
November 30th, 2006
Willard Reading Room, Zimmerman Library
University of New Mexico Main Campus
1-4 P.M.
Free and Open to the Public
Hosted by The Indigenous Nations Library Program (INLP), Native American Studies (NAS), Indian Law Program -UNM School of Law, Native American Studies Indigenous Research Group (NASIRG), KIVA Club, Native American Health Sciences Society, and Joy Harjo.
If you are interested in reading, please email Joy Harjo at jharjo@unm.edu
For other information email Mary Bowannie at mkbow@unm.edu or call NAS at 277-3917
If you have photographs to share for the Powerpoint presentation, email them directly to Patrick Willink at nlwp@unm.edu
11/18/05
For a Girl Becoming (by request) for personal use only, no reprinting
FOR A GIRL BECOMING
for Krista Rae Chico
That day your spirit came to us rains came in from the Pacific to bless
They peered over the mountains in response to the singing of medicine plants
Who danced back and forth in shawls of mist
Your mother labored there, so young in earthly years
And your father, and all of us who loved you gathered, where
Pollen blew throughout that desert house to bless
With the fragrant knowledge of your pending arrival here.
And horses were running the land, hundreds of them
To accompany you here, to bless.
Girl, I wonder what you thought as you paused there in your spirit house
Before you entered into the breathing world to be with us?
Were you lonely for us, too?
Our relatives in that beloved place dressed you in black hair,
Brown eyes, skin the color of earth, and turned you in this direction.
We want you to know that we urgently gathered to welcome you here; we came
Bearing gifts to celebrate:
From your mother’s house we brought: poetry, music, medicine makers, stubbornness, beauty, tribal leaders, a yard filled with junked cars and the gift of knowing how to make them run.
We carried tobacco and cedar, new clothes and joy for you.
And from your father’s house came educators, thinkers, dreamers, weavers and mathematical genius.
They carried a cradleboard, hope, white shell and turquoise for you.
We brought blankets to wrap you in, soft beaded moccasins of deerskin.
Did you hear us as you traveled from your rainbow house?
We called you with thunder, with singing.
Did you see us as we gathered in the town beneath the mountains?
We were dressed in concern and happiness.
We were overwhelmed, as you moved through the weft of your mother
Even before you took your first breath, your eyes blinked wide open.
Now, breathe.
And when you breathe remember the source of the gift of all breathing.
When you walk, remember the source of the gift of all walking.
And when you run, remember the source of the gift of all running.
And when you laugh, remember the source of the gift of all laughter.
And when you cry, remember the source of the gift of all crying.
And when you think, remember the source of the gift of all thinking.
And when your heart is broken, remember the source of the gift of all breaking.
And when your heart is put back together, remember the source of all putting back together.
Don’t forget how you started your journey from that rainbow house,
How you traveled and will travel through the mountains and valleys
of human tests.
There are treacherous places along the way, but you can come to us.
There are lakes of tears shimmering sadly there, but you can come to us.
And valleys without horses or kindnesses, but you can come to us.
And angry, jealous gods and wayward humans who will hurt you,
but you can come to us.
You will fall, but you will get back up again, because you are one of us.
And as you travel with us remember this:
Give a drink of water to all who ask, whether they be plant, creature,
human or spirit;
May you always have clean, fresh water.
Feed your neighbors. Give kind words and assistance
to all you meet along the way--
We are all related in this place--
May you be surrounded with the helpfulness of family and good friends.
Grieve with the grieving, share joy with the joyful.
May you build a strong path with beautiful and truthful language.
Clean your room.
May you always have a home: a refuge from storm, a gathering place for comfort.
Bury what needs to be buried. Uncover the dreams of truthful warriors.
Do not harbor hurt. Laugh easily at yourself; grow kindness with others.
May you always travel lightly and well.
Praise and give thanks for each small and large thing.
Review each act and thought.
May you grow in knowledge, in compassion, in beauty.
Always within you is that day your spirit came to us
When rains came in from the Pacific to bless
They peered over the mountains in response to the singing of medicine plants
Who danced back and forth in shawls of mist
Your mother labored there, so young in earthly years.
And we who love you gather here,
Pollen blows throughout this desert house to bless
With the fragrant knowledge of your appearance here.
And horses run the land, hundreds of them for you,
And you are here to bless.
c Joy Harjo 2005
for Krista Rae Chico
That day your spirit came to us rains came in from the Pacific to bless
They peered over the mountains in response to the singing of medicine plants
Who danced back and forth in shawls of mist
Your mother labored there, so young in earthly years
And your father, and all of us who loved you gathered, where
Pollen blew throughout that desert house to bless
With the fragrant knowledge of your pending arrival here.
And horses were running the land, hundreds of them
To accompany you here, to bless.
Girl, I wonder what you thought as you paused there in your spirit house
Before you entered into the breathing world to be with us?
Were you lonely for us, too?
Our relatives in that beloved place dressed you in black hair,
Brown eyes, skin the color of earth, and turned you in this direction.
We want you to know that we urgently gathered to welcome you here; we came
Bearing gifts to celebrate:
From your mother’s house we brought: poetry, music, medicine makers, stubbornness, beauty, tribal leaders, a yard filled with junked cars and the gift of knowing how to make them run.
We carried tobacco and cedar, new clothes and joy for you.
And from your father’s house came educators, thinkers, dreamers, weavers and mathematical genius.
They carried a cradleboard, hope, white shell and turquoise for you.
We brought blankets to wrap you in, soft beaded moccasins of deerskin.
Did you hear us as you traveled from your rainbow house?
We called you with thunder, with singing.
Did you see us as we gathered in the town beneath the mountains?
We were dressed in concern and happiness.
We were overwhelmed, as you moved through the weft of your mother
Even before you took your first breath, your eyes blinked wide open.
Now, breathe.
And when you breathe remember the source of the gift of all breathing.
When you walk, remember the source of the gift of all walking.
And when you run, remember the source of the gift of all running.
And when you laugh, remember the source of the gift of all laughter.
And when you cry, remember the source of the gift of all crying.
And when you think, remember the source of the gift of all thinking.
And when your heart is broken, remember the source of the gift of all breaking.
And when your heart is put back together, remember the source of all putting back together.
Don’t forget how you started your journey from that rainbow house,
How you traveled and will travel through the mountains and valleys
of human tests.
There are treacherous places along the way, but you can come to us.
There are lakes of tears shimmering sadly there, but you can come to us.
And valleys without horses or kindnesses, but you can come to us.
And angry, jealous gods and wayward humans who will hurt you,
but you can come to us.
You will fall, but you will get back up again, because you are one of us.
And as you travel with us remember this:
Give a drink of water to all who ask, whether they be plant, creature,
human or spirit;
May you always have clean, fresh water.
Feed your neighbors. Give kind words and assistance
to all you meet along the way--
We are all related in this place--
May you be surrounded with the helpfulness of family and good friends.
Grieve with the grieving, share joy with the joyful.
May you build a strong path with beautiful and truthful language.
Clean your room.
May you always have a home: a refuge from storm, a gathering place for comfort.
Bury what needs to be buried. Uncover the dreams of truthful warriors.
Do not harbor hurt. Laugh easily at yourself; grow kindness with others.
May you always travel lightly and well.
Praise and give thanks for each small and large thing.
Review each act and thought.
May you grow in knowledge, in compassion, in beauty.
Always within you is that day your spirit came to us
When rains came in from the Pacific to bless
They peered over the mountains in response to the singing of medicine plants
Who danced back and forth in shawls of mist
Your mother labored there, so young in earthly years.
And we who love you gather here,
Pollen blows throughout this desert house to bless
With the fragrant knowledge of your appearance here.
And horses run the land, hundreds of them for you,
And you are here to bless.
c Joy Harjo 2005
Looking for A Name in Santa Fe/Final Draft
LOOKING FOR A NAME IN SANTA FE
That night I headed to the bar--
My jones was for the music, humping out the door.
No stars yet in the ache of the sky.
A rat hung in the mouth of the fat cat.
Everyone was there in each burrow of booth,
Spook and the knot of Indian school brats—
The best artists aren’t always the best dancers.
I’ll drink to that, or anything to make me laugh.
Everyone had a name; I was still looking.
Each name carried a myth, personally.
A heart could harbor the origin story; we’d know how fire happened.
There was no doubt as to the root of the matter.
Spook got his name on the street, Nez from an ancestor,
Tall with heavy rain. Other names
Could never be spoken so far from home
In a town built at the crossroads of trade. Now we traded
Despair for vision, made art, while boxcars filled with uranium
Slid up and down the highway beside the Rio Grande.
All about a Saturday night in the Senate Lounge
Which wasn’t the senate and there was no
Lounging, only drinking, dancing, and a jumpy
Edge. Maybe it was election night. We’d voted
Or skipped the nerve.
I promised Spook I’d never forget him, moved
To the next table of adventurous fools to catch up and dance,
Then she came in, blown from Oklahoma
By an evil wind churned up by burning treaties.
We’d heard the story of her killed lover,
Silkwood: the name; the monster: Kerr-McGhee. By then nearly
Every dance was done and we were all a state
Or two away from madness, from sad.
Everyone was making their moves.
I took her in as everyone took a breather
From the race. Between our bent heads we made a temple.
She told me the story as she checked the door
Sporadically. When the night was done
I offered her refuge; she fled for another town.
We only take what we can carry,
I don’t remember her name, or who won or lost
Or what version of the music compelled me to forget
So drenched that night from tough knowledge
in the vulnerable, pulsing mother field.
c Joy Harjo November 17, 2005
That night I headed to the bar--
My jones was for the music, humping out the door.
No stars yet in the ache of the sky.
A rat hung in the mouth of the fat cat.
Everyone was there in each burrow of booth,
Spook and the knot of Indian school brats—
The best artists aren’t always the best dancers.
I’ll drink to that, or anything to make me laugh.
Everyone had a name; I was still looking.
Each name carried a myth, personally.
A heart could harbor the origin story; we’d know how fire happened.
There was no doubt as to the root of the matter.
Spook got his name on the street, Nez from an ancestor,
Tall with heavy rain. Other names
Could never be spoken so far from home
In a town built at the crossroads of trade. Now we traded
Despair for vision, made art, while boxcars filled with uranium
Slid up and down the highway beside the Rio Grande.
All about a Saturday night in the Senate Lounge
Which wasn’t the senate and there was no
Lounging, only drinking, dancing, and a jumpy
Edge. Maybe it was election night. We’d voted
Or skipped the nerve.
I promised Spook I’d never forget him, moved
To the next table of adventurous fools to catch up and dance,
Then she came in, blown from Oklahoma
By an evil wind churned up by burning treaties.
We’d heard the story of her killed lover,
Silkwood: the name; the monster: Kerr-McGhee. By then nearly
Every dance was done and we were all a state
Or two away from madness, from sad.
Everyone was making their moves.
I took her in as everyone took a breather
From the race. Between our bent heads we made a temple.
She told me the story as she checked the door
Sporadically. When the night was done
I offered her refuge; she fled for another town.
We only take what we can carry,
I don’t remember her name, or who won or lost
Or what version of the music compelled me to forget
So drenched that night from tough knowledge
in the vulnerable, pulsing mother field.
c Joy Harjo November 17, 2005
11/14/05
Post re: Vine Deloria from Dr. Tink Tinker, Osage Nation
Dear colleagues:
At six am this morning I lost a mentor and a friend who was also a friend of Iliff School of Theology. The American Indian world lost a great champion. Professor Vine Deloria, Jr., had been struggling, as many of you know, with colon surgery from more than a month ago. About two weeks ago that was complicated with an abdominal aneurysm and underwent surgery for that. He died of complication from the latter after a couple of follow-up surgeries this past week. He was a giant among American Indian intellectuals, teachers, and writers. He will be terribly missed by much more than myself.
Since this has just transpired and I have just this evening returned from Palestine, I do not know what the arrangements are. Indeed, Barbara will not be able to contact a funeral home until tomorrow, since Vine passed on a Sunday. She has asked that we give her another day or two in personal retreat before we begin to contact her with condolences, etc. Their children have already gathered around her. For those who are interested, I will pass on the information as it becomes available.
I know I do not need to rehearse the multitude of his accomplishments for most of you. I was told in 1985 when I was first hired at Iliff that it was his letter of recommendation that pushed my name to the top of the stack. He was not on my list of referees. At that point in my career, I would not have dreamed of even asking him. But Iliff had its own relationship with Vine and approached him unbeknownst to me. In a curious turn-about, the University of Colorado asked me for a letter of reference on his behalf in the process leading to their offering a position to him a few years later.
He had retired as an emeritus professor from CU only about three or four years ago. I believe he was 73 years old. I was not prepared to lose such an important discourse partner.
The American Indian world is hurt by this loss. He was not yet done writing.
Tink
Dr. Tink Tinker (Osage Nation)
Professor of American Indian Cultures and Religious Traditions
Iliff School of Theology
At six am this morning I lost a mentor and a friend who was also a friend of Iliff School of Theology. The American Indian world lost a great champion. Professor Vine Deloria, Jr., had been struggling, as many of you know, with colon surgery from more than a month ago. About two weeks ago that was complicated with an abdominal aneurysm and underwent surgery for that. He died of complication from the latter after a couple of follow-up surgeries this past week. He was a giant among American Indian intellectuals, teachers, and writers. He will be terribly missed by much more than myself.
Since this has just transpired and I have just this evening returned from Palestine, I do not know what the arrangements are. Indeed, Barbara will not be able to contact a funeral home until tomorrow, since Vine passed on a Sunday. She has asked that we give her another day or two in personal retreat before we begin to contact her with condolences, etc. Their children have already gathered around her. For those who are interested, I will pass on the information as it becomes available.
I know I do not need to rehearse the multitude of his accomplishments for most of you. I was told in 1985 when I was first hired at Iliff that it was his letter of recommendation that pushed my name to the top of the stack. He was not on my list of referees. At that point in my career, I would not have dreamed of even asking him. But Iliff had its own relationship with Vine and approached him unbeknownst to me. In a curious turn-about, the University of Colorado asked me for a letter of reference on his behalf in the process leading to their offering a position to him a few years later.
He had retired as an emeritus professor from CU only about three or four years ago. I believe he was 73 years old. I was not prepared to lose such an important discourse partner.
The American Indian world is hurt by this loss. He was not yet done writing.
Tink
Dr. Tink Tinker (Osage Nation)
Professor of American Indian Cultures and Religious Traditions
Iliff School of Theology
Memorium: Vine Deloria, Jr.
Beloved scholar, visionary, humorist, revolutionary, human being Vine Deloria, Jr. passed on from this world yesterday morning, November 13th, 2005.
There was no one else like him. This morning, the magnitude of the loss of this soul from here feels overwhelming. The immensity of his gift--remains. We still need his vision in this world crumpling about us.
Our prayers for a good journey follow you, beloved one.
November 14, 2005 Albuquerque
There was no one else like him. This morning, the magnitude of the loss of this soul from here feels overwhelming. The immensity of his gift--remains. We still need his vision in this world crumpling about us.
Our prayers for a good journey follow you, beloved one.
November 14, 2005 Albuquerque
11/13/05
Mesas and Towers, Submissions Needed for new anthology
Seeking submissions for an anthology with the working title:
“Mesas and Towers: Contemporary Stories Taking Place in the Southwest”
Salina Bookshelf, Inc. is seeking original written work by American Indian writers with stories, thoughts, and/or poetry about the Southwest. Writers from the Southwest (Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, Oklahoma, Southern California, Nevada) region of the United States are strongly encouraged to submit.
Being an Indian from the Southwest is still considered exotic, and for some – cliché. It is a place often revered to as sacred by Natives and non-Natives, and is often called home for many. This anthology is searching for experiences and expressions about the Southwest from Native people. What can this anthology teach people about the Southwest? Themes can cover: romance, memoir (old and new stories), politics (war-tribal/federal/state governments), humor, family, education (teaching, learning, school experiences), landscape (environmental-nature), open to new ideas. Let’s reaffirm and shock Southwest and non-Southwestern residents! Get published!
Manuscripts considered for publication:
• Genres: Fiction, (creative) Non-Fiction, Autobiography, Biography, Poetry, Nature writing.
• Submissions cannot exceed 25 pages (6500) words.
• Unpublished, original work is preferred; should a previously published or excerpts from a previously published work require a reprint fee, the fee payment is the responsibility of the author.
• Each manuscript must have a cover sheet with the author’s name, mailing address, email address, and phone number, along with a biographical statement.
• Manuscripts need be typed, double-spaced; if sent via email, send using Microsoft Word document.
• Send disk or CD-ROM formatted for Microsoft document with a hardcopy. Do not send the only copy of your manuscript; make sure you have an original copy of your work. Salina Bookshelf, Inc. is not responsible for any lost manuscripts.
• Please include a self-addressed, stamped envelope with sufficient postage if you wish to have your work returned.
• Submission deadline: December 31, 2005
Send submissions to: DeLyssa Begay
P.O. Box 3080
Chinle, Arizona 86503
Email: delyssabegay@salinabookshelf.com
or
blacksheepwoman@yahoo.com
“Mesas and Towers: Contemporary Stories Taking Place in the Southwest”
Salina Bookshelf, Inc. is seeking original written work by American Indian writers with stories, thoughts, and/or poetry about the Southwest. Writers from the Southwest (Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, Oklahoma, Southern California, Nevada) region of the United States are strongly encouraged to submit.
Being an Indian from the Southwest is still considered exotic, and for some – cliché. It is a place often revered to as sacred by Natives and non-Natives, and is often called home for many. This anthology is searching for experiences and expressions about the Southwest from Native people. What can this anthology teach people about the Southwest? Themes can cover: romance, memoir (old and new stories), politics (war-tribal/federal/state governments), humor, family, education (teaching, learning, school experiences), landscape (environmental-nature), open to new ideas. Let’s reaffirm and shock Southwest and non-Southwestern residents! Get published!
Manuscripts considered for publication:
• Genres: Fiction, (creative) Non-Fiction, Autobiography, Biography, Poetry, Nature writing.
• Submissions cannot exceed 25 pages (6500) words.
• Unpublished, original work is preferred; should a previously published or excerpts from a previously published work require a reprint fee, the fee payment is the responsibility of the author.
• Each manuscript must have a cover sheet with the author’s name, mailing address, email address, and phone number, along with a biographical statement.
• Manuscripts need be typed, double-spaced; if sent via email, send using Microsoft Word document.
• Send disk or CD-ROM formatted for Microsoft document with a hardcopy. Do not send the only copy of your manuscript; make sure you have an original copy of your work. Salina Bookshelf, Inc. is not responsible for any lost manuscripts.
• Please include a self-addressed, stamped envelope with sufficient postage if you wish to have your work returned.
• Submission deadline: December 31, 2005
Send submissions to: DeLyssa Begay
P.O. Box 3080
Chinle, Arizona 86503
Email: delyssabegay@salinabookshelf.com
or
blacksheepwoman@yahoo.com
11/11/05
San Pedro and an urgent request
Friday morning in San Pedro. I awake not knowing where I am. Yesterday I was in Albuquerque, the morning before in downtown Minneapolis, the morning before that Albuquerque, before that, Indianapolis--and so on.
I pull on my human skin, and start all over again.
So much to report, I'm not.
Headed to rehearsal and soundcheck for an event tonight at Mother Bear's Gallery
619 S. Mesa Street
San Pedro, California 90731
(310) 221-0057 phone
(310) 221-0714 (fax)
motherbears@sbcglobal.net
www.motherbearsbooks.com
Opening prayer/blessing by Cindi Alvitre 8:00-8:15
Mankillers 8:15- 8:45
Shaunna McCovey 9:00-9:25
Joy Harjo 9:30-10:15
Arigon Starr & band 10:20-11:00
PLEASE PASS ON AN URGENT REQUEST: Will R. from Lebanon please email me, again. Didn't get a chance to talk in Mpls..
I pull on my human skin, and start all over again.
So much to report, I'm not.
Headed to rehearsal and soundcheck for an event tonight at Mother Bear's Gallery
619 S. Mesa Street
San Pedro, California 90731
(310) 221-0057 phone
(310) 221-0714 (fax)
motherbears@sbcglobal.net
www.motherbearsbooks.com
Opening prayer/blessing by Cindi Alvitre 8:00-8:15
Mankillers 8:15- 8:45
Shaunna McCovey 9:00-9:25
Joy Harjo 9:30-10:15
Arigon Starr & band 10:20-11:00
PLEASE PASS ON AN URGENT REQUEST: Will R. from Lebanon please email me, again. Didn't get a chance to talk in Mpls..
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