Friday Night Paddling
It was a long paddle from the shore to Top Island
and then back out through the marina
under the bridge to the blinker buoy, without stopping
And then back to Marshall’s beach for some lessons in technique.
The sun was headed toward Aetearoa.
My spirit brought me here to this seat
In the canoe with five other spirits.
There are six paths of arrival and departure for this
Canoe, for this night. Though for a few hours we move
Together, through Maunalua Bay
Through the ending of another day.
Each practice is a test of will, of form, of finding
And keeping to the center, no matter the tides,
Winds, the shifting spirits or collective mood in the canoe.
The water is always different, as is the moon in relationship
To the water, and the cast of day as it heads toward night is
Another one of those transition points that mark change.
We reach and dig in with each stroke
Seeking perfection. And perfection must come even with
Exhaustion and the shiver of muscle in coherence with the flow
Of the ocean and the rhythm of the canoe as we paddle together.
And here’s the problem of thinking about it rather than being,
Writing about it rather than knowing without words
Or beyond words, beyond the canoe, beyond the water,
Beyond the smallness of my essential chaos.
This is the frustration of the matter.
The sun keeps traveling and does not stop in the journey
To doubt or to question.
And what a magnificent journey from the edge of eternity
To Hawai'i, to Aetearoa.
This is true about practicing saxophone, or practicing singing
Or the practice of being a human in these times
Or the practice of being while not-being.
And when we were done,
I headed back through Friday night traffic of good times
I saw the sliver of moon, which is a silver of memory.
It was the crack of bright in the middle of a nothing of cars, dark and traffic lights.
I admit I am breaking down, shivering to the other side.
Each thought blossoms and sends out shoots.
Each word echoes.
It’s overwhelming.
I’m nobody, who are you?
Said the poet who has been here but not, here.
So I break it down.
To waves, to the stroke of a paddle, to a breath, to a note
Held out for depth, quality and resonance
Which is actually a cry
A hunch toward knowing
Why.
c Joy Harjo April 29, 2006 Honolulu
4/29/06
Friday Night Canoe Practice, And Why Not a Mvskoke Embassy?
Friday Night Practice
(This is not a poem, yet, though it might eventually be)
It was a long paddle from the shore to Top Island
and then back out through the marina
under the bridge to the blinker buoy, without stopping
and then back to Marshall Island for some lessons in technique.
The sun was headed toward Aetearoa.
My spirit brought me here to this seat
In the canoe with five other spirits.
There are six paths of arrival and departure for this
Canoe, for this night. Though for a few hours we move
Together, through Maunalua Bay
Through the ending of another day.
Each practice is a test of will, of form, of finding
And keeping to the center, no matter the tide,
The winds, the shifting spirits and collective shift of mood in the canoe.
The water is always different, as is the moon in relationship
To the water, and the cast of day as it heads toward night is
Another one of those transition points that mark change.
I tend to fight them and in doing so fight myself from letting go,
From becoming.
I reach and dig in which each stroke
Seeking perfection. And perfection must come even with
Exhaustion and the shiver of muscle in coherence with the flow
Of the ocean and the rhythm of the canoe as we paddle together.
And here’s the problem of thinking about it rather than being,
Writing about it rather than knowing without words
Or beyond words, beyond the canoe beyond the water
Beyond the smallness of my essential chaos.
This is the frustration of the matter.
The sun keeps traveling and does not stop in the journey
To doubt or to question.
And what a magnificent journey from the edge of eternity
To Hawaii, to Aetearoa.
I could be writing about practicing my saxophone, or practicing singing
Or the practice of being a human in these times
Or the practice of being while not-being.
And when it was over last night,
And I headed back through Friday night traffic of good times
I saw the sliver of moon, which is a sliver of memory.
It was the crack of light in the middle of a nothing of cars, dark and traffic lights.
I had to admit I am breaking down, shivering to the other side of thinking.
Each thought blossoms and sends out shoots.
Each word echoes.
It’s overwhelming.
And I am nothing.
I’m nobody, who are you?
So I break it down.
To waves of moments, to the stroke of a paddle, to a breath, to a note
Held out for depth, quality and resonance
Which is actually a cry
A hunch toward knowing
Why.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
This is an excellent idea.
A Native Embassy in Washington DC
The Mdewakanton Sioux Tribe has suggested that the
National Congress of American Indians should establish
a headquarters in Washington DC and they have
suggested an available modern building on the street
where international embassies are located. An “Embassy
of Tribal Nations” here might improve the national
government’s recognition of tribal sovereignty; it
could also provide a center for tribal leaders who
come to Washington for negotiations. This idea has
been floating around for thirty years, but now money
seems to be available. For more details see
http://www.indiancountry.com/content.cfm?feature=yes&id=1096412863
(This is not a poem, yet, though it might eventually be)
It was a long paddle from the shore to Top Island
and then back out through the marina
under the bridge to the blinker buoy, without stopping
and then back to Marshall Island for some lessons in technique.
The sun was headed toward Aetearoa.
My spirit brought me here to this seat
In the canoe with five other spirits.
There are six paths of arrival and departure for this
Canoe, for this night. Though for a few hours we move
Together, through Maunalua Bay
Through the ending of another day.
Each practice is a test of will, of form, of finding
And keeping to the center, no matter the tide,
The winds, the shifting spirits and collective shift of mood in the canoe.
The water is always different, as is the moon in relationship
To the water, and the cast of day as it heads toward night is
Another one of those transition points that mark change.
I tend to fight them and in doing so fight myself from letting go,
From becoming.
I reach and dig in which each stroke
Seeking perfection. And perfection must come even with
Exhaustion and the shiver of muscle in coherence with the flow
Of the ocean and the rhythm of the canoe as we paddle together.
And here’s the problem of thinking about it rather than being,
Writing about it rather than knowing without words
Or beyond words, beyond the canoe beyond the water
Beyond the smallness of my essential chaos.
This is the frustration of the matter.
The sun keeps traveling and does not stop in the journey
To doubt or to question.
And what a magnificent journey from the edge of eternity
To Hawaii, to Aetearoa.
I could be writing about practicing my saxophone, or practicing singing
Or the practice of being a human in these times
Or the practice of being while not-being.
And when it was over last night,
And I headed back through Friday night traffic of good times
I saw the sliver of moon, which is a sliver of memory.
It was the crack of light in the middle of a nothing of cars, dark and traffic lights.
I had to admit I am breaking down, shivering to the other side of thinking.
Each thought blossoms and sends out shoots.
Each word echoes.
It’s overwhelming.
And I am nothing.
I’m nobody, who are you?
So I break it down.
To waves of moments, to the stroke of a paddle, to a breath, to a note
Held out for depth, quality and resonance
Which is actually a cry
A hunch toward knowing
Why.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
This is an excellent idea.
A Native Embassy in Washington DC
The Mdewakanton Sioux Tribe has suggested that the
National Congress of American Indians should establish
a headquarters in Washington DC and they have
suggested an available modern building on the street
where international embassies are located. An “Embassy
of Tribal Nations” here might improve the national
government’s recognition of tribal sovereignty; it
could also provide a center for tribal leaders who
come to Washington for negotiations. This idea has
been floating around for thirty years, but now money
seems to be available. For more details see
http://www.indiancountry.com/content.cfm?feature=yes&id=1096412863
4/25/06
A Baboon Story from Lesego Rampolokeng
In Jerusalem at an International Poetry Festival I became friends with a poet from South Africa: Lesego Rampolokeng. He told a story of how a man’s property had been overrun with baboons. He’d tried everything to force them to leave. They refused. They ate everything. Ridiculed the man and his family. So as the last resort he hired a Poet.
A poet?
Yes, a poet. As I said, he’d tried everything else known in the universe for convincing baboons to leave. It’s a rough science.
The poet arrived for his appointment to get rid of the baboons. They watched curiously to see what the landowner had to amuse them this time. They saw a human in slicked-down shoes, shaggy jacket.
The landowner watched as the poet went out to the baboons. The poet spoke. He was too far away for the landowner to hear his words. First the baboons laughed. Then they cried. And then they ran away.
The poet returned to the amazed and grateful landowner for his pay. The landowner counted out the cash to the poet, then asked:
What did you say to the baboons to get them to leave?
First, said the poet, I told them I was a poet. Then I told them how much money I made as a poet. And then I told them I was going to read them a poem.
A poet?
Yes, a poet. As I said, he’d tried everything else known in the universe for convincing baboons to leave. It’s a rough science.
The poet arrived for his appointment to get rid of the baboons. They watched curiously to see what the landowner had to amuse them this time. They saw a human in slicked-down shoes, shaggy jacket.
The landowner watched as the poet went out to the baboons. The poet spoke. He was too far away for the landowner to hear his words. First the baboons laughed. Then they cried. And then they ran away.
The poet returned to the amazed and grateful landowner for his pay. The landowner counted out the cash to the poet, then asked:
What did you say to the baboons to get them to leave?
First, said the poet, I told them I was a poet. Then I told them how much money I made as a poet. And then I told them I was going to read them a poem.
Adrienne Rich, Red Shoes, 3:30 AM to Georgia, Rambling
All of these journeys and what did happen? I often write the journey as I travel in my imagination. Pen and paper or words transpose the journey, change it. So I give up.
How do I describe what it was like to perform with Adrienne Rich to an audience at Smith College of over 1200? First there's Adrienne, a force who had brought us all to that place together. I don't remember our first meeting though I met her first in a poetry class taught by Hugh Witemeyer at the Univesity of New Mexico as an undergraduate. Her poem "Diving into the Wreck" is a classic, and it became the means toward a vision of vision possible in a transformative poetry. I admired her bravery in the poem, just as I continue to admire her bravery of vision. Vision requires bravery because you will see what everyone is afraid to see and acknowlege. You will see the wreck. And then you learn that to truly see and know the wreck you must become it. You must die in order to be born. There is a depth to her vision that is immeasurable. To be asked by her to read with her was and remains an honor. That night as I watched her there with the other two honored poets: Cheryl Clarke and Ed Pavlic who gave poignant tribute readings of hers and their poetry, I saw her as a girl, a young woman, at mid-life, and now as one of the best poets this world has offered us in these times. I was once again amazed by her poetry, her presence; we all were, that night. I feel humbled to be in the presence of those who shine. Sometimes they are great poets, sometimes they are leaders like Martin Luther King, or healers who do not name themselves to the public, like the native healer I met recently in rural Oklahoma, or children. One I met a child I met on the streets of Buenos Aires. He had cerebral palsy and collected donations from tourists in his wheelchair. I will not forget the shine, his blessing on everyone who passed there in the noisy night.
Ellen Watson of the Poetry Center at Smith organized the event. She enabled the gift. Mvto.
I went back to my hotel room after signing CD's and books, and saying by good-byes, though I prefer to say: I am honored that we've had a little time together to eat, speak and be with each other in this place. I will carry you with me through the dark, through the dawn.
(A small note born of a different level of thinking than the above....I have a pair of red shoes that convince me that even shoes have their own lives. These shoes cause excitement wherever they appear. The last time was at a performance at the Getty Museum in Los Angeles. Women surrounded me with: Where did you get those shoes? I must have a pair.They wanted to touch them, try them on. I tried to wear them for the Vagina Monologues performance at Hawaii Theater in Honolulu a few years ago but they rubbed and were uncomfortable. I considered giving them away and couldn't part with them. I kept them, then decided to try them again. After the performance at Smith once again the first comments were about, yes, my red shoes.)
Then I am picked up at 3:30 AM, with no sleep. I couldn't sleep after all that--watched Jay Leno again. I only watch on the road. Most tv I watch is on the road. Then read and made notes on a keynote I hadn't written yet, based on a document that was the basic text for the conference I was headed to in Athens, Georgia: American Indian Literary Nationalism by Jace Walker, Craig Womack and Robert Warrior, with a forward by Simon Ortiz and an afterword by Lisa Brooks. Now you would think that would have sent me to sleep! (No respect meant here.) Instead I was writing notes. On no sleep I got up, washed up and as quietly as possible opened my hotel room door and dragged out two bags and a saxophone. I decided that I was in a dream, and this was confirmed by the moment when, after I had checked out and stacked my bags neatly, a man in a suit and driver's cap walked precisely up to me and said: Are you Joy Harjo?
I slept to Bradley Airport. And the airport was open at 4A.M. The Delta counter didn't open until 5 AM. My flight was at 6AM.
A note here: This was a rare instance of agreeing to a 6AM flight. And I didn't calculate what time that was Hawaiian time...
I was picked up at the Atlanta Airport by a driver for a car service who pretended I wasn't there as he walked back through a maze of crosswalks, stairs and the parking garage. If I'd been a white man with a suit he would have been attentive. I don't take it personally anymore. I recognize the action.
I am driven to my hotel. I sleep the distance. And as I lay down to sleep in the hotel I get a call telling me they are there to pick me up for the conference.
No, I say. I need two hours sleep then I can do it.
And I did. And I did.
Now this is where it gets tricky. How do I speak of all the wonderful stories and intersections there? And how emotional it always is to be in the homelands of my people? And how inspired I was to hear the young up-and-coming scholars, like Lisa Brooks, Daniel Justice (and there are more, check out the conference site at www.uga.edu/inas) and the more established like Alan Velie from the University of Oklahoma. And to hear and see Simon Ortiz (whose keynote I missed because it was during those two hours of sleep), LeAnne Howe, Lee Maracle, Robert Warrior, Jace Weaver (who organized the conference), Craig Womack singing about the stomp dance 'Round Midnight. I stressed the whole trip because I was informed that my keynote was to be "formal". I wasn't the only one. So did Lee Maracle. The night before as we sat in the dark in front of the hotel, visiting, we decided we would hit a Ross or Goodwill in search of formals, to make a "formal' presentation. Lee always amazes me with her brillant vision. All with their shining gifts. For me, the most poignant moment was finding on campus a few of the plants used to make the traditional "black drink". Every note of the conference fit.
And now I'm rambling and probably have been for awhile.
I was and still am in the dream. Once in a while I am reminded of it, like 4 AM this morning when the thought of dawn became possible in the Honolulu sky. I was awakened by memory walking through the room. Then I came in here to write about it.
Another podcast in a few days.
Is anyone listening?
How do I describe what it was like to perform with Adrienne Rich to an audience at Smith College of over 1200? First there's Adrienne, a force who had brought us all to that place together. I don't remember our first meeting though I met her first in a poetry class taught by Hugh Witemeyer at the Univesity of New Mexico as an undergraduate. Her poem "Diving into the Wreck" is a classic, and it became the means toward a vision of vision possible in a transformative poetry. I admired her bravery in the poem, just as I continue to admire her bravery of vision. Vision requires bravery because you will see what everyone is afraid to see and acknowlege. You will see the wreck. And then you learn that to truly see and know the wreck you must become it. You must die in order to be born. There is a depth to her vision that is immeasurable. To be asked by her to read with her was and remains an honor. That night as I watched her there with the other two honored poets: Cheryl Clarke and Ed Pavlic who gave poignant tribute readings of hers and their poetry, I saw her as a girl, a young woman, at mid-life, and now as one of the best poets this world has offered us in these times. I was once again amazed by her poetry, her presence; we all were, that night. I feel humbled to be in the presence of those who shine. Sometimes they are great poets, sometimes they are leaders like Martin Luther King, or healers who do not name themselves to the public, like the native healer I met recently in rural Oklahoma, or children. One I met a child I met on the streets of Buenos Aires. He had cerebral palsy and collected donations from tourists in his wheelchair. I will not forget the shine, his blessing on everyone who passed there in the noisy night.
Ellen Watson of the Poetry Center at Smith organized the event. She enabled the gift. Mvto.
I went back to my hotel room after signing CD's and books, and saying by good-byes, though I prefer to say: I am honored that we've had a little time together to eat, speak and be with each other in this place. I will carry you with me through the dark, through the dawn.
(A small note born of a different level of thinking than the above....I have a pair of red shoes that convince me that even shoes have their own lives. These shoes cause excitement wherever they appear. The last time was at a performance at the Getty Museum in Los Angeles. Women surrounded me with: Where did you get those shoes? I must have a pair.They wanted to touch them, try them on. I tried to wear them for the Vagina Monologues performance at Hawaii Theater in Honolulu a few years ago but they rubbed and were uncomfortable. I considered giving them away and couldn't part with them. I kept them, then decided to try them again. After the performance at Smith once again the first comments were about, yes, my red shoes.)
Then I am picked up at 3:30 AM, with no sleep. I couldn't sleep after all that--watched Jay Leno again. I only watch on the road. Most tv I watch is on the road. Then read and made notes on a keynote I hadn't written yet, based on a document that was the basic text for the conference I was headed to in Athens, Georgia: American Indian Literary Nationalism by Jace Walker, Craig Womack and Robert Warrior, with a forward by Simon Ortiz and an afterword by Lisa Brooks. Now you would think that would have sent me to sleep! (No respect meant here.) Instead I was writing notes. On no sleep I got up, washed up and as quietly as possible opened my hotel room door and dragged out two bags and a saxophone. I decided that I was in a dream, and this was confirmed by the moment when, after I had checked out and stacked my bags neatly, a man in a suit and driver's cap walked precisely up to me and said: Are you Joy Harjo?
I slept to Bradley Airport. And the airport was open at 4A.M. The Delta counter didn't open until 5 AM. My flight was at 6AM.
A note here: This was a rare instance of agreeing to a 6AM flight. And I didn't calculate what time that was Hawaiian time...
I was picked up at the Atlanta Airport by a driver for a car service who pretended I wasn't there as he walked back through a maze of crosswalks, stairs and the parking garage. If I'd been a white man with a suit he would have been attentive. I don't take it personally anymore. I recognize the action.
I am driven to my hotel. I sleep the distance. And as I lay down to sleep in the hotel I get a call telling me they are there to pick me up for the conference.
No, I say. I need two hours sleep then I can do it.
And I did. And I did.
Now this is where it gets tricky. How do I speak of all the wonderful stories and intersections there? And how emotional it always is to be in the homelands of my people? And how inspired I was to hear the young up-and-coming scholars, like Lisa Brooks, Daniel Justice (and there are more, check out the conference site at www.uga.edu/inas) and the more established like Alan Velie from the University of Oklahoma. And to hear and see Simon Ortiz (whose keynote I missed because it was during those two hours of sleep), LeAnne Howe, Lee Maracle, Robert Warrior, Jace Weaver (who organized the conference), Craig Womack singing about the stomp dance 'Round Midnight. I stressed the whole trip because I was informed that my keynote was to be "formal". I wasn't the only one. So did Lee Maracle. The night before as we sat in the dark in front of the hotel, visiting, we decided we would hit a Ross or Goodwill in search of formals, to make a "formal' presentation. Lee always amazes me with her brillant vision. All with their shining gifts. For me, the most poignant moment was finding on campus a few of the plants used to make the traditional "black drink". Every note of the conference fit.
And now I'm rambling and probably have been for awhile.
I was and still am in the dream. Once in a while I am reminded of it, like 4 AM this morning when the thought of dawn became possible in the Honolulu sky. I was awakened by memory walking through the room. Then I came in here to write about it.
Another podcast in a few days.
Is anyone listening?
4/18/06
Reporting from Northampton Massachusetts on a Tuesday Night
I flew through the night from Honolulu to Atlanta, then Atlanta to Hartford/Springfield. Coming into sunrise over Georgia, my tribe's homeland always moves me. The sun always looks like blood and hope as it rises there. My driver was prompt at Bradley, friendly and took me directly to the inn. During the ride through the Connecticut/Massachusett countryside talked with J.K., another native performer and we compared recent gigs and travel stories. More travel adventures, and how to get monies due from university systems. I slept. Slept some more on a bright and beautiful spring day. Then up, continued reading and thinking about the pages of a soon-to-be-published: American Indian Literary Nationalism text, by Jace Weaver, Craig Womack and Robert Warrior with an intro from Simon Ortiz and an afterward by a Lisa Brooks and wrote more notes and wonder how I'm going to connect everything and come up with something fresh, provocative and useful. And the saxophone will have to be part of it. I'm getting the feeling that there's a disconnect with my literary audience when I speak saxophone, as if the saxophone is dirtying the equation. Literature is then no longer "pure". Adolf Sax went through hell for creating such an outrageous series of horns. They are racous, are contradictory, and speak passionately whether it's about romance, lust, or patriotism. One day the sax will be considered a Mvskoke traditional instrument. Try practicing in a hotel....Tonight, laid off the horn, worked out in the inn-gym, walked around the square, then brought dinner up to my room to read, think some more. Enough with thinking. Go for the realm beyond the small, human mind. Everything is there.
Good night.
Good night.
dee daaaaah de dah de dah weyyy oh aye
Good night.
Good night.
dee daaaaah de dah de dah weyyy oh aye
4/14/06
Some more storytelling: U.S. chemical testing in Hawaii
Listen to the interview: http://www.hawaiipublicradio.org/blair/033106.mp3
Hawai’i Public Radio
March 31, 2006
Senate Reso on Chem, Bio Testing
Chad Blair reporting
Jack Alderson: My name Jack Alderson. I am the chairman of the Vietnam Veterans of America task force on 112/SHAD.
Chad Blair: What’s 112/SHAD?
JA: 112 is a program that was developed by President Kennedy with Robert McNamara to catch the United States up with Russia. We were equal to Russia or better in nuclear weapons, but they were way ahead of us in chemical, biological and a whole bunch of other stuff. Project SHAD was one line item in the 112 program. Agent Orange was a line item in the 112 program.
And my position of being here today is I had command of five Army light tugs that had Navy crews on them and we operated out of Pearl Harbor and we tested chemical and biological weapons.
CB: Now this was in the 1960s?
JA: I was with project SHAD from 1964 to 1967. They continued testing in the Hawaiian area probably through 1971.
CB: Where exactly did the testing take place and about how many people might have been exposed?
JA: Chad, that’s kind of a different question.
One, the five LTs were the targets.
CB: LTs?
JA: Light Tugs. They were sampling stations. Marine jets would fly over and spray a vapor that would go downwind and the tugs would be stationed further downwind and as the cloud would go they would measure the strength in the cloud.
CB: how far offshore would this have been.
JA: Most of the cases they were way offshore, but in the Hawaiian islands, here, I was involved with tests that used simulants – Bacillus Globicii, Serratia Marcescens and E. Coli simulating a "hot weapon".
And an example is "Big Tom" we believe went across ‘Aiea and up the canyon to Schofield Barracks.
CB: Now you’re saying a biological cloud drifted from the ocean, up ‘Aiea and up to Schofield?
JA: Yes.
CB: It was planned for the clouds to drift in that area?
JA: Yes, it was, because one of the things is, the shore party from project SHAD, that was stationed in Pearl, set up laboratories up that canyon because they were trying to test what a jungle would do to this type of a weapon.
Now Serratia Marcescens has been known to create very strong health hazards and killed a couple of people on the mainland where these tests were done.
Bacillus Globicii is a live pathogen. It’s a cousin to Anthrax but not an Anthrax.
And then E. Coli, I think that everybody’s heard of E. Coli.
CB: When did this particular incident happen?
JA: Well that would have occurred in late 1965.
CB: How many people might have been exposed on O’ahu at that time?
JA: I think everybody that was living in that area, ‘Ewa.
CB: Is there any evidence that some people have suffered any kind of negative effects?
JA: One of the things we’re here today is to ask the legislature to ask the Congressional delegation from Hawai’i to support the Veteran’s Right to Know Act which also calls for civilian look at because Department of Defense has refused to release all of the information concerning these tests.
CB: Was that test an isolated one or were there perhaps others like that?
JA: There were several tests in this area during that time. On the Big Island, at the old artillery range -I was not there but some of my shipmates were - and VX was tested there along with certain biological thing.
CB: As someone who served in Vietnam, how does it make you feel what your government did to innocent civilians in this country?
JA: Well, I originally thought the reason my tug crews were getting sick was that the decontamination agents they used in cleaning up after the tests. Now we’re finding out that the trace elements and some of the simulants might be the bad guys and those are things that did come on the islands here. We didn’
t consider that hazardous at the time.
CB: Did many of them die premature deaths?
JA: I haven’t been able to find all of them. What we did was top secret. We were told if you ever say anything about it you’ll get free room and board at Leavenworth.
CB: Jack Alderson, I thank you for speaking with Hawai’i Public Radio.
JA: It’s my pleasure and thank you for getting the word out.
Hawai’i Public Radio
March 31, 2006
Senate Reso on Chem, Bio Testing
Chad Blair reporting
Jack Alderson: My name Jack Alderson. I am the chairman of the Vietnam Veterans of America task force on 112/SHAD.
Chad Blair: What’s 112/SHAD?
JA: 112 is a program that was developed by President Kennedy with Robert McNamara to catch the United States up with Russia. We were equal to Russia or better in nuclear weapons, but they were way ahead of us in chemical, biological and a whole bunch of other stuff. Project SHAD was one line item in the 112 program. Agent Orange was a line item in the 112 program.
And my position of being here today is I had command of five Army light tugs that had Navy crews on them and we operated out of Pearl Harbor and we tested chemical and biological weapons.
CB: Now this was in the 1960s?
JA: I was with project SHAD from 1964 to 1967. They continued testing in the Hawaiian area probably through 1971.
CB: Where exactly did the testing take place and about how many people might have been exposed?
JA: Chad, that’s kind of a different question.
One, the five LTs were the targets.
CB: LTs?
JA: Light Tugs. They were sampling stations. Marine jets would fly over and spray a vapor that would go downwind and the tugs would be stationed further downwind and as the cloud would go they would measure the strength in the cloud.
CB: how far offshore would this have been.
JA: Most of the cases they were way offshore, but in the Hawaiian islands, here, I was involved with tests that used simulants – Bacillus Globicii, Serratia Marcescens and E. Coli simulating a "hot weapon".
And an example is "Big Tom" we believe went across ‘Aiea and up the canyon to Schofield Barracks.
CB: Now you’re saying a biological cloud drifted from the ocean, up ‘Aiea and up to Schofield?
JA: Yes.
CB: It was planned for the clouds to drift in that area?
JA: Yes, it was, because one of the things is, the shore party from project SHAD, that was stationed in Pearl, set up laboratories up that canyon because they were trying to test what a jungle would do to this type of a weapon.
Now Serratia Marcescens has been known to create very strong health hazards and killed a couple of people on the mainland where these tests were done.
Bacillus Globicii is a live pathogen. It’s a cousin to Anthrax but not an Anthrax.
And then E. Coli, I think that everybody’s heard of E. Coli.
CB: When did this particular incident happen?
JA: Well that would have occurred in late 1965.
CB: How many people might have been exposed on O’ahu at that time?
JA: I think everybody that was living in that area, ‘Ewa.
CB: Is there any evidence that some people have suffered any kind of negative effects?
JA: One of the things we’re here today is to ask the legislature to ask the Congressional delegation from Hawai’i to support the Veteran’s Right to Know Act which also calls for civilian look at because Department of Defense has refused to release all of the information concerning these tests.
CB: Was that test an isolated one or were there perhaps others like that?
JA: There were several tests in this area during that time. On the Big Island, at the old artillery range -I was not there but some of my shipmates were - and VX was tested there along with certain biological thing.
CB: As someone who served in Vietnam, how does it make you feel what your government did to innocent civilians in this country?
JA: Well, I originally thought the reason my tug crews were getting sick was that the decontamination agents they used in cleaning up after the tests. Now we’re finding out that the trace elements and some of the simulants might be the bad guys and those are things that did come on the islands here. We didn’
t consider that hazardous at the time.
CB: Did many of them die premature deaths?
JA: I haven’t been able to find all of them. What we did was top secret. We were told if you ever say anything about it you’ll get free room and board at Leavenworth.
CB: Jack Alderson, I thank you for speaking with Hawai’i Public Radio.
JA: It’s my pleasure and thank you for getting the word out.
A Contemporary Navajo Story
When NASA was preparing for the Apollo Project, it took the astronauts to a Navajo reservation in Arizona for training.
One day, a Navajo elder and his son came across the space crew walking among the rocks. The elder, who spoke only Navajo, asked a question.His son translated for the NASA people: "What are these guys in the big suits doing?" One of the astronauts said that they were practicing for a trip to the moon. When his son relayed this comment the Navajo elder got all excited and asked if it would be possible to give to the astronauts a message to deliver to the moon.
Recognizing a promotional opportunity when he saw one, a NASA official accompanying the astronauts said,"Why certainly!" and told an underling to get a tape recorder.
The Navajo elder's comments into the microphone were brief. The NASA official asked the son if he would translate what his father had said. The son listened to the recording and laughed uproariously. But he refused to translate.
So the NASA people took the tape to a nearby Navajo village and played it for other members of the tribe. They too laughed long and loudly, but also refused to translate the elder's message to the moon.
An official government translator was summoned. After he finally stopped laughing, the translator relayed the message:
"WATCH OUT FOR THESE ASSHOLES. THEY HAVE COME TO STEAL YOUR LAND."
One day, a Navajo elder and his son came across the space crew walking among the rocks. The elder, who spoke only Navajo, asked a question.His son translated for the NASA people: "What are these guys in the big suits doing?" One of the astronauts said that they were practicing for a trip to the moon. When his son relayed this comment the Navajo elder got all excited and asked if it would be possible to give to the astronauts a message to deliver to the moon.
Recognizing a promotional opportunity when he saw one, a NASA official accompanying the astronauts said,"Why certainly!" and told an underling to get a tape recorder.
The Navajo elder's comments into the microphone were brief. The NASA official asked the son if he would translate what his father had said. The son listened to the recording and laughed uproariously. But he refused to translate.
So the NASA people took the tape to a nearby Navajo village and played it for other members of the tribe. They too laughed long and loudly, but also refused to translate the elder's message to the moon.
An official government translator was summoned. After he finally stopped laughing, the translator relayed the message:
"WATCH OUT FOR THESE ASSHOLES. THEY HAVE COME TO STEAL YOUR LAND."
Taos Summer Writers' Conference Scholarship Opportunity
Taos Summer Writers' Conference
The University of New Mexico,
Department of English Language and Literature – MSC 03 2170
1 University of New Mexico, Albuquerque, NM 87131-0001
505-277-6248 505-277-5573 (fax) taosconf@unm.edu
Contact: Sharon Oard Warner, 277-6248
Kate Fitzgerald, 277-5572
April 8, 2006
WRITERS’ CONFERENCE OFFERS AWARDS FOR NATIVE AMERICAN AND HISPANIC WRITERS
Applications postmarked by May 1
The Native Writer Award and the Hispanic Writer Award will be offered again this year at the University of New Mexico’s eighth annual Taos Summer Writers’ Conference. These awards offer New Mexico residents the cost of Conference tuition and lodging. The Conference, set for July 8-14 at the Sagebrush Inn and Conference Center, is sponsored by the Creative Writing Program and the Department of English at UNM.
Writing workshops make up the core of the Conference. Topics for 2006 include the novel, short fiction, poetry, memoir, writing for social change, screenwriting, and publishing. The program also includes readings, special events, morning yoga classes, and evening faculty readings free and open to the public.
Faculty for 2006 include Anya Achtenberg, Amy Beeder, Lisa D. Chávez, Jeff Davis, John Dufresne, Emily Forland, Greg Glazner, Pam Houston, Susan Lang, Matthew McDuffie, Julie Mars, Demetria Martinez, Barbara Robinette Moss, Daniel Mueller, Loida Maritza Pérez, Hilda Raz, Diane Thiel, Lisa Tucker, Judith Van Gieson, and Wendy Weil.
The Native Writer Award, sponsored by Joy Harjo, was established in 2003 in the memory of Louis Owens and is available to one Native American resident of New Mexico. The Hispanic Writer Award, sponsored by Robert Anderson, is open to any New Mexico resident of Hispanic, Latino or Spanish heritage. Both awards provide the cost of tuition for one weekend or one week-long workshop and paid lodging. Both are based on writing samples, which need to be postmarked by May 1. Writers may apply for the Hispanic Writer Award or Native Writer Award prior to registering for the Conference. Winners of these three awards will be announced by May 15.
Writers from across the U. S., Canada, and even Australia and Africa attend the Taos Summer Writers' Conference. Sharon Oard Warner, novelist and director of the UNM Creative Writing Program, founded and directs the Conference. “The Conference is designed to be inclusive rather than exclusive, and so we welcome beginning as well as advanced writers,” says Warner. “Writers are part of a community that stretches back though time. The Taos conference offers an opportunity to come together and learn from one another, to honor our past and to re-imagine our future.”
For information, call Director Sharon Oard Warner, 505-277-6248, or Assistant Director Kate Fitzgerald, 505-277-5572.
# # #
Conference Contact
Sharon Oard Warner
277-6248 (W), 890-1421 (H)
swarner@unm.edu
--Author of Deep in the Heart (novel)
--Associate Professor of English, University of New Mexico
--Director, Creative Writing Program, UNM
--Director, Taos Summer Writers' Conference
Kate Fitzgerald
277-5572 (W)
katefitz@unm.edu
-- Program Coordinator, UNM English Department
-- Assistant Director, Taos Summer Writer’s Conference
The University of New Mexico,
Department of English Language and Literature – MSC 03 2170
1 University of New Mexico, Albuquerque, NM 87131-0001
505-277-6248 505-277-5573 (fax) taosconf@unm.edu
Contact: Sharon Oard Warner, 277-6248
Kate Fitzgerald, 277-5572
April 8, 2006
WRITERS’ CONFERENCE OFFERS AWARDS FOR NATIVE AMERICAN AND HISPANIC WRITERS
Applications postmarked by May 1
The Native Writer Award and the Hispanic Writer Award will be offered again this year at the University of New Mexico’s eighth annual Taos Summer Writers’ Conference. These awards offer New Mexico residents the cost of Conference tuition and lodging. The Conference, set for July 8-14 at the Sagebrush Inn and Conference Center, is sponsored by the Creative Writing Program and the Department of English at UNM.
Writing workshops make up the core of the Conference. Topics for 2006 include the novel, short fiction, poetry, memoir, writing for social change, screenwriting, and publishing. The program also includes readings, special events, morning yoga classes, and evening faculty readings free and open to the public.
Faculty for 2006 include Anya Achtenberg, Amy Beeder, Lisa D. Chávez, Jeff Davis, John Dufresne, Emily Forland, Greg Glazner, Pam Houston, Susan Lang, Matthew McDuffie, Julie Mars, Demetria Martinez, Barbara Robinette Moss, Daniel Mueller, Loida Maritza Pérez, Hilda Raz, Diane Thiel, Lisa Tucker, Judith Van Gieson, and Wendy Weil.
The Native Writer Award, sponsored by Joy Harjo, was established in 2003 in the memory of Louis Owens and is available to one Native American resident of New Mexico. The Hispanic Writer Award, sponsored by Robert Anderson, is open to any New Mexico resident of Hispanic, Latino or Spanish heritage. Both awards provide the cost of tuition for one weekend or one week-long workshop and paid lodging. Both are based on writing samples, which need to be postmarked by May 1. Writers may apply for the Hispanic Writer Award or Native Writer Award prior to registering for the Conference. Winners of these three awards will be announced by May 15.
Writers from across the U. S., Canada, and even Australia and Africa attend the Taos Summer Writers' Conference. Sharon Oard Warner, novelist and director of the UNM Creative Writing Program, founded and directs the Conference. “The Conference is designed to be inclusive rather than exclusive, and so we welcome beginning as well as advanced writers,” says Warner. “Writers are part of a community that stretches back though time. The Taos conference offers an opportunity to come together and learn from one another, to honor our past and to re-imagine our future.”
For information, call Director Sharon Oard Warner, 505-277-6248, or Assistant Director Kate Fitzgerald, 505-277-5572.
# # #
Conference Contact
Sharon Oard Warner
277-6248 (W), 890-1421 (H)
swarner@unm.edu
--Author of Deep in the Heart (novel)
--Associate Professor of English, University of New Mexico
--Director, Creative Writing Program, UNM
--Director, Taos Summer Writers' Conference
Kate Fitzgerald
277-5572 (W)
katefitz@unm.edu
-- Program Coordinator, UNM English Department
-- Assistant Director, Taos Summer Writer’s Conference
4/13/06
An Experiment with an mp3 file, and Upcoming Schedule
Will see how this comes out on the post...this is the mp3 file for the podcast. Maybe it will come up as an MP3 file, for those go blank with the sound of any word that sounds like yet one more technological item to figure out, yet one more manual.
This is a note for a song, similar to poem and storytelling notes I post on the site. We'll see if it appears.
Upcoming appearances:
Wednesday April 19th: Amherst College, Amherst, Massachusetts, Pryune Lecture Hall at Amherst College, at 8pm. The performance is free of charge.
Thursday April 20th: Adrienne Rich, A Retrospective Reading, with tributes by special guests Joy Harjo, Cheryl Clarke and Edward Pavlic. The Poetry Center at Smith.7:30 PM, John M. Greene Hall. All events free and open to the public. For more information 413 585-4891.
Institute of Native American Studies Conference, Athens, Georgia
April 21st: Readings by Joy Harjo, Simon Ortiz, Craig Womack, Lee Maracle, Daniel Justice and LeAnne Howe 6:30PM, Athens-Clarek County LIbrary Auditorium.
April 22: Keynote address (with saxophone) 1:30 PM Student Learning Center, Room 101
Notes.mp3
This is a note for a song, similar to poem and storytelling notes I post on the site. We'll see if it appears.
Upcoming appearances:
Wednesday April 19th: Amherst College, Amherst, Massachusetts, Pryune Lecture Hall at Amherst College, at 8pm. The performance is free of charge.
Thursday April 20th: Adrienne Rich, A Retrospective Reading, with tributes by special guests Joy Harjo, Cheryl Clarke and Edward Pavlic. The Poetry Center at Smith.7:30 PM, John M. Greene Hall. All events free and open to the public. For more information 413 585-4891.
Institute of Native American Studies Conference, Athens, Georgia
April 21st: Readings by Joy Harjo, Simon Ortiz, Craig Womack, Lee Maracle, Daniel Justice and LeAnne Howe 6:30PM, Athens-Clarek County LIbrary Auditorium.
April 22: Keynote address (with saxophone) 1:30 PM Student Learning Center, Room 101
Notes.mp3
What are We all Doing in this Place of Forgetfulness
It's Thursday afternoon in Honolulu. The house behind us has been razed and now two houses are being raised up in its place. Can the land support it? Do we have enough fresh water? And next door the neighbors who have poor construction tastes are adding something else that involves digging, pouring and making racket.
I've been trying to figure out the path through these times. And how to walk, sing, drive, saxophone, write, act or be it. There's no mistake we're in the middle of the end of this particular world. Flying in over Diamond Head crater and Waikiki a few days ago broke my heart. The waters are sad, dingy. The land aching with the pressure of thoughtlessness. Can we turn it around now? The Arctic Climate Impact Assessment contracted to Bob Corel (sp?) states that 98% of all the worlds glaciers are melting, the seas are consequently rising, and the warming of the environment is causing the ferocious and multiple storms that have flooded and torn up the lands. Even if we stop now, he said, the damage has been done. And the U.S. is the highest polluter.
Another resource, a healer in Cherokee country in Oklahoma says someone in his circle has given the date as 2010 as the date this particular era ends.
Started working on this song, out of all this. It will be up on the podcast. Please forgive the roughness. It's a song draft, not a complete song. But something. A feel. We don't live or make most of our stories from words.
I've been trying to figure out the path through these times. And how to walk, sing, drive, saxophone, write, act or be it. There's no mistake we're in the middle of the end of this particular world. Flying in over Diamond Head crater and Waikiki a few days ago broke my heart. The waters are sad, dingy. The land aching with the pressure of thoughtlessness. Can we turn it around now? The Arctic Climate Impact Assessment contracted to Bob Corel (sp?) states that 98% of all the worlds glaciers are melting, the seas are consequently rising, and the warming of the environment is causing the ferocious and multiple storms that have flooded and torn up the lands. Even if we stop now, he said, the damage has been done. And the U.S. is the highest polluter.
Another resource, a healer in Cherokee country in Oklahoma says someone in his circle has given the date as 2010 as the date this particular era ends.
Started working on this song, out of all this. It will be up on the podcast. Please forgive the roughness. It's a song draft, not a complete song. But something. A feel. We don't live or make most of our stories from words.
4/6/06
Symposium in Tahlequah and a talented Darcy Medicine Horse
Early evening in Tahlequah, Oklahoma. We are watching a story unfold on the television--symbols representing a tornado are heading in the direction of my sister and mother's houses. The appearance of the storm is abstract, metaphorical. Yet, real.
I am attending the 34th Annual Symposium on the American Indian in Tahlequah, Oklahoma. I've been an invited participant at other symposiums through the years. The first one I attended was as an undergrad at UNM. Yesterday I was introduced by a Northeastern State University student, Darcy Medicine Horse. His introduction was a poem. I was impressed and have included a recording in my podcast of Darcy reading his poem. Enjoy. He's of the Crow Nation.
The storm is dissipating as it moves. Strange, the sun is out and the atmosphere is dry, not moist through the storm is not far away.
The first time I ever came to Tahlequah I was a pregnant teenager on a bus with everything I owned in my Indian school footlocker. I was an Indian statistic.
This is what my horn talks about, along with other sorrows and joys of being Indian and female in these strange times.
(And mvto, Darcy and to the students, faculty and staff of the symposium.)
Harjo with green jacket and horn
I am attending the 34th Annual Symposium on the American Indian in Tahlequah, Oklahoma. I've been an invited participant at other symposiums through the years. The first one I attended was as an undergrad at UNM. Yesterday I was introduced by a Northeastern State University student, Darcy Medicine Horse. His introduction was a poem. I was impressed and have included a recording in my podcast of Darcy reading his poem. Enjoy. He's of the Crow Nation.
The storm is dissipating as it moves. Strange, the sun is out and the atmosphere is dry, not moist through the storm is not far away.
The first time I ever came to Tahlequah I was a pregnant teenager on a bus with everything I owned in my Indian school footlocker. I was an Indian statistic.
This is what my horn talks about, along with other sorrows and joys of being Indian and female in these strange times.
(And mvto, Darcy and to the students, faculty and staff of the symposium.)
Harjo with green jacket and horn
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