Enchanted Blog III

In those early years, Ganienkeh was about many things. Depending on who you asked, you’d get different answers.
From those who were historically, politically, or culturally aware, you'd get stories about regaining stolen lands, freeing minds from white European religions or to shun aggressive Canadian and American political attitudes.
Others would answer in relation to exercising rights to nationhood, developing cooperative economic systems, avoiding Kahnawake’s internal disputes or reconnecting with earth spirits by cultivating her celestial blossoms.
Whatever knowledge you where seeking regarding Iroquoia or the red race, it was all there. The ultimate living, breathing and working think-tank. The red man’s kibbutz.
Political, economic and spiritual conversations where abound. Free from white anthropological influences, one-sided historians and Christian zealots. A free voice of and for the red race.
Wow, what a place and time for a conversation. But for others, it was as simple as finding a community free from drugs and alcohol.
For many American Indian Movement (AIM) members of the early 70s, Ganienkeh was about escaping prosecution from federal authorities and for a few, to avoid execution by FBI or vigilantly death squads.
Ganienkeh was established a year after the Wounded-Knee occupation and thus, became a sanctuary for several AIM members who were there. Many Lakota Sioux were targeted for lengthy prison terms or worse, a bullet.
I remember traveling across the United States in 1976 with a traveling collage know as the White Roots of Peace. From Buffalo NY to Oregon, I sat and learned from a special group of people speaking of environmental harmony, the Great Law of Peace and social issues in America’s universities and prisons.
On this one trip, I had the privilege of meeting one of Wounded Knee's women leaders by the name of Ellen Moves-Camp.
To get to the point, while in Montana's Dear Lodge penitentiary, she met several young men who were at the Knee, then later put away for offenses like spitting on a sidewalk, j-walking, parking violations or for walking out of a South Dakota watering hole having just finished a beer.
Tears poured down her eyes when she found people she thought where killed by FBI or were in hiding. These people were in prison just for being Sioux and standing-up for a just cause.
It was at this time I started to realize that something was wrong with society, as it relates to our race. Why were these people in prison for just hanging out?
Never-ending questions filled my mind with no answers. Unlike today, the late 60s and early 70s were dangerous times in Indian country. You could get shot dead and found in a ditch for being who you are thus, entering the Deer Lodge den was the first of several grand awakenings in my life.
Walking into the fortress, seeing photos of famous red men in chains and shackles instantly saddened my heart. I remember feeling much pain just passing through the reception area. My eyes glued to each photo. Studying every image in great detail. Handsome red men lined the hallway. Stripped of their feathers, their spirits no longer permitted to fly.
I could hardly stand because of sudden dizziness. The look of sadness on their photographed faces gave a story to my unanswered questions. “What was to happen to our people?” I imagined they felt. I could feel their gentle confusion behind bars. “All we are doing is fighting for our race and culture,” were a few of their answers.
After the dizziness passed, I immediately felt angry and worse, racially betrayed.
Vietnam vets where plenty in Ganienkeh as well. The “bush” is what the young warriors called it, because it was literally in the forest. Well, except for the dwellings of a former white elite girl’s camp.
I'd listen with focused attention as the veterans told stories of boot camp, fire fights in rice paddies, exploding bombs hurling body parts, crotch rot, the never ending rain, and of smoking weed while on R&R.
After their tours of duty and before coming to Ganienkeh, many of these vets shared their stories of returning home to their state side reservations. Filled with alcohol and cultural/political confusion, their communities asking them the big question.
Why did you fight for a country that has and is killing our people? In the words of Ali, those VC ain’t done nothing to us.
I would always sit quietly, asking no questions from their stories and wanted no answers. I listened to their laughter and their silent peaceful pain. They just liked telling their stories, older warriors to younger warriors.
And I liked listening. Hey, no TV, electricity or superficial distractions created the best environment for story telling. And in 30 below waist high snow, came the best stories ever.
To me, they were men who did what they thought they had to do. They’re in Ganienkeh now. Fighting a different fight for a different cause in a different time. Warriors in arms. No explanation needed. And if it has to be explained, you'll never get it.
I now feel that they were there because it was their role to be there. It was the times. The strategies of the day as they say. And I think having your own kind near by and in an alcohol/drug free community was something they never saw. For me, I know it was something I never saw.
Red brothers and sisters seeking escape form drugs, alcohol or political prosecution, Tennessee farm hippies, warrior society members, Wounded-Knee survivors, Ojibway warriors form the Kenora occupations, red brothers from the infamous Attica prison riots and a few who where at Alcatraz.
Representatives from the Passamaquoddy and Penobscot nations, Sioux, Cheyenne, Apache and Navajo, just to name a few. Men, women and children from every Mohawk and Iroquoian community. Yep, those where the days my friend, I thought would never end, we'd sing and dance, forever and a day....
Everyone who was anyone in the early Native movement went to Ganienkeh. Actors, singers, millionaires, politicians, lawyers, spiritual leaders and Indian chiefs. It was the golden globes of Native activism and Ganienkeh was the red carpet.
“I'm wearing AIM this season,” “there's a west coast warrior design.” “Here’s a different designer, who are you representing” was the walk of the day. “This is the newest William Kunsler, and there’s a Harry Belafonte.”
Even God came to the red carpet. Not the good Gods like Thor, Crom or Flint, but thee God. Yes, that God. The most violent God ever created by the human mind. The Judeo-Christian God.
But the good thing, he was not let in. Because he was not a red man or woman. I guess we finally learned our lesson and I was the one who did not let him in. Stopped him cold at the gate.
I was on guard duty when God arrived. Like any young warrior, I followed protocols and policy as to who could and could not come in. So, when this Charlie Mansion look-a-like wanted entrance under the pretense of being the All Mighty, I said, “sorry sir, you can’t come in. I have to let the head of security know. He'll decide.”
Using an old fashioned crank battery generated phone, I notified the authorities. So, who comes to the gate, the head of security, Louie Hall and the old man Eddy Delaronde. Not a big turn out for the king of kings I’d say.
Anyway, Eddy and Louie questioned God as to his intent. The head of security and I stood back with crossed arms and ear-to-ear smiles, knowing this was going to be a good one.
Where you from, who's your parents? Good old Mohawk questions came from Louie's lips. He, God that is, said that that did not matter, but what's important is for us, the Indians, to gather all our sacred items together. Like eagle feathers, false faces, tobacco, and with a special ceremony, he, God that is, would send all the white people back to where they came from.
Wow eh! “What an interesting suggestion,” I whispered. One that crossed the minds of the entire red race. How can we get these people out of here, I’m sure was contemplated at one time or another. Louie and old man Eddy kept talking to each other in Mohawk and chuckling at the same time.
After their inside joking was over and before any such ceremony took place, Louie said to God, “see that sign?” Pointing to the "You Are Entering Ganienkeh Territory" sign. “Yes,” God said. “Make it elevate above the ground. About that high (In a waist high movement)”.
Well, after the request, there was a long pause from God. I guess he did not like being tested because he abruptly turned around and left. Walking back up the road while mumbling to himself. He looked like a man cracked-out on holy host.
We all had a good laugh after that. At least God came in handy during the long cold winter nights. It added to the story telling around the wood stove or open flame.
For me, those first few years in Ganienkeh were about four things. In time that turned into other things, which in turn, turned into other things, and so on, and so on. You get the picture. Thus, two of those things were listening to good stories and the other, finding a ride!
Hey, when you’re 18, fresh out of high school, without a car, money or girlfriend, traveling back and forth to K-town or getting to the small communities around Ganienkeh became a major occupation.
Hitching rides with other young warriors in their muscle cars, commuting ironworkers in big sedans or family members NOT lending you their cars can get a bit frustrating. So, getting rides became an art all in itself.
Oh, the other two things, finding a girlfriend and fighting the white man. But we'll save those stories for later blog entries.
Back to rides. Many rides were great and profound learning experiences. Others where for practical matters like going to help Ma or getting a ride for a weeklong part-time job to make a quick buck. Whatever the case was, not all rides where fun or mind-building experiences.
Some rides were deeply sad and heartbreaking, even frightening. One ride even ended with faces punched. The cliché, it’s not the destination but the journey is what matters, will apply the next set of stories.
So look out for the next installment of the Enchanted Blog when we talk about..... "The Rides".