Deanna Sebring was the main witness to the murder. She crossed Howell Street at 4:12 p.m. on August 30, 2010, just as Seattle Police Officer Ian Birk opened fire on Ditidaht carver John T. Williams, who had been carving a board while walking. She stood behind Birk as he shot five bullets in about a second. The dash cam of his patrol car shows her recoiling from the sound. Deanna kept walking, then turned and saw John lying on the sidewalk, looking up at her. She continued walking. The horror took a moment to sink in. His eyes are what bothered her the most. Birk had just gunned down an unarmed man. Finally, after a block and a half, Deanna stopped and returned to report the crime.
I never expected to find a story like this in the documentary, titled “Honor Totem,” produced for the government access Seattle Channel and recently released on YouTube. As an Alaska Native who has also been homeless and incarcerated, I found it easy to seethe at the cops after the murder. But my outrage masked something else, something I had been hiding—something Deanna’s story brought out into the open.
Video of Community Stories: Honor Totem
Through her eyes I experienced John’s last moments of consciousness. I could see him in my imagination, pleading, then fading. The finality of his death gave me vertigo and I felt as if I might fly apart in a million pieces. Her story destroyed my shield of political outrage and made me see the raw horror of John’s death. And for some reason it haunted me.
Through interviews with family members, in particular John’s brother Rick, “Honor Totem” relates the story of John’s life and the causes of his downward spiral. After losing his father, who taught him to carve in the family style, and three brothers in just a few short years, John began drinking more. He sank into depression. By the time of his murder he was deaf in one ear and virtually blind. He was a broken man, displaced from his tribal homeland.
But to Seattle Police he was just another drunken Indian to be swept off the streets like confetti after a parade. If it hadn’t been for witnesses like Deanna Sebring, Officer Birk would have probably received a medal. Due in part to her testimony, the Firearms Review Board determined the shooting was unjustified and Officer Birk resigned.
Ian Devier, who wrote the documentary, at the foot of the John T. Williams Memorial Honor Totem that stands near the Space Needle at the Seattle Center.
Deanna relates in an interview during “Honor Totem” that she suffered nightmares after the shooting. She says she heard about John’s brother Rick and his plan to carve a memorial totem pole for John to promote healing. She and her son visited the carving site on Pier 57 several times. Rick even taught her son how to carve. As she spent time with the carvers, she absorbed the welcoming atmosphere and slowly began to heal.
Rick says in the documentary that the totem pole has healing energy. So the day after viewing “Honor Totem,” I take the light rail downtown and transfer to the monorail. I am nauseous and my head is spinning. I see the totem as we pull into the Seattle Center, standing at the end of a cool, moist lawn just east of the Space Needle. I stumble toward it. Vertigo makes every step a struggle. I reach the pole and close my eyes. I see John, his eyes pleading, then fading.
Then I realize they are not John’s eyes at all. They belong to my Aunt Judy, my mother’s twin sister, a full-blooded Tlingit. She looks at me from a bed in a nursing home, pleading, then fading. She took me in after I got out of prison years ago and I abandoned her at the end of her life. I let her die alone in a nursing home. I had so much anger inside. I don’t even know what it was about. I just hated.
Detail of the John T. Williams Memorial Totem Pole. An eagle stands on top, beneath that is a master carver, and beneath that is a Raven. (Ian Devier)
I sit near the totem pole and my stomach starts to settle. My Aunt Judy passed away just two years before John’s murder. My political outrage about his assassination masked the guilt I felt about my aunt’s death. I feel just as guilty as Officer Birk, but until now I buried those feelings deep inside. John’s Honor Totem and the healing it represents help me face my guilt. I look at the master carver depicted in the middle of the pole. I shot you, John. It might as well have been me. I killed my Aunt Judy by abandoning her.
The wind makes the trees behind John’s Honor Totem rustle. The master carver listens. Kids play on the lawn and a breeze kisses my cheek. Part of healing is forgiveness. Part of healing is remembrance. My stomach settles and I suddenly feel hungry. Thank you, John. May we always remember what you taught us about acceptance, forgiveness and the healing power of our traditions.
The past 11 months have been long, hard months for a Rosebud Sioux mother named Audre’y Eby. Last August, she picked up her twin 16-year-old sons from her ex-husband’s Iowa residence to bring them to visit her home in western Nebraska, and she discovered that the special-needs boys — one is blind and autistic, and the other has cerebral palsy — had been abused.
Emergency room doctors told her she’d be reported for child endangerment if she returned the boys to Iowa. Then an Iowa court issued a warrant for her arrest if she did not return them.
Caught between the laws of two states, Eby appeared in Iowa’s Plymouth District Court before Judge Steven Andreason this past May, under threats of criminal prosecution for kidnapping in Iowa and being reported for child endangerment in Nebraska. Her ex-husband’s attorneys, she said, demanded that she immediately return the boys.
“They put me on the stand,” Eby said. “They had me go through what happened, and they made me cry in court. I said, ‘I will not bring my kids back. I can’t.’ I had to say that. I’d looked at the judge in the eye and swore to tell the truth, and my sons were watching me fight for them.”
Because she wouldn’t agree to return the children, Eby was sentenced to seven days in jail to clear up the kidnapping charge. To cushion the blow, she and her husband, Faron, made sure the boys had a vacation, complete with pool time, pizza, hanging out and, “from what I hear, lots of chocolate,” she said.
Eby served her time from June 2-9. Meanwhile, according to the Plymouth County District Attorney, no charges have been filed against the boys’ father or his live-in partner over the multiple founded and documented cases of abuse with Iowa Child Protective Services.
There has been some good news, however. The Rosebud Sioux Tribe is now involved with Eby’s case; it ordered its own investigation, and it’s paying for her Iowa attorney.
“My tribe didn’t get involved until the story broke about me and my kids, and then they ordered the investigation,” Eby said. “When I came home from jail, there was a message waiting for me. They’re completely backing me. We’re moving forward with the Indian Child Welfare Act.”
And, perhaps even more importantly, Eby’s twin sons are thriving – as they see a physical therapist at Sand Hills Physical Therapy in Mullen, Nebraska. In fact, the son with cerebral palsy recently walked 203 steps on his own.
“He’s ecstatic,” Eby reported, “and so is his brother. They’re so connected. His brother says, ‘We walked 203 steps.’ They’re so supportive of each other. They cheer each other on, and they cheer on the other clients. The therapy center is normally a quiet place, and with them, the energy level just zooms.”
Meanwhile, the brother who is blind has been a regular on the elliptical machine.
“He owns that,” Eby said proudly. “He’s usually at about 6.8, which is an all-out run. When we first brought them here, our first goal was to get them healthy, and now we’re working on calorie intake. They’re so active now.”
They’ve also been able to reduce their medications. Between them, the twins are now on just three medications.
“You can’t medicate abuse,” Eby reflected. “In this environment, we don’t have the behaviors that were showing up in Iowa, so they don’t need all those medicines anymore.”
Until now, Eby and her husband were paying out-of-pocket for all of the boys’ care, a tough prospect on an hourly feedlot wage, she noted.
“Fortunately, we have a payment plan with urgent care,” she said. “But when medicines are copy,000 apiece, there’s just no way to keep up. This month, though, we’ll finally start getting their Medicaid benefits here in Nebraska.”
Despite the stress of the ongoing legal battles, Eby said she takes great pleasure in spending time with her sons.
“They talk about all their plans for the future, even dating,” she said, chuckling. “Their father wanted to put them in separate homes against their wishes, but there’s an assisted living facility in Kearney that can take them both. We’re so glad to have them here, but they’re in their late teens, and eventually they want to have their own apartment.
“People love my boys, because they’re so funny, and so happy,” she continued. “They take a lot of energy, but it’s worth every minute. I also try to remember that all of this is bigger than me. For some reason, God chose me for this fight. So I’m blessed.”
Members of the Nisqually Tribe participate in a paddle dance during protocol, a time of cultural sharing, June 19 in the Port Gamble S’Klallam House of Knowledge longhouse. Image Credit: Richard Walker/ Staff Photo
On July 13, thousands will see the end of an epic journey.
While that sounds like the start of a blockbuster movie, it’s not (but could be…). It’s a decades-old event that celebrates a timeless tradition of Northwest Coast indigenous peoples.
The 2014 Canoe Journey/Paddle to Bella Bella will bring hundreds of canoes and thousands of people to the Heiltsuk Nation in British Columbia. The procession of canoes and pullers move from host tribe to host tribe, asking permission to come ashore at each stop. After a night of good food and hospitality, they carry on, arms pumping endlessly, gliding through the water to their next destination. All of the canoes are expected to arrive in British Columbia on July 13 and will stay as guests of the Heiltsuk Nation until July 19.
This year’s Canoe Journey is significant because it represents the first time it has returned to Bella Bella since 1993, when Canoe Journey became an annual celebration. The first journey — Paddle to Seattle — was in 1989 with only nine participating canoes, one of which was from the Port Gamble S’Klallam Tribe.
The Canoe Journey is an experience like few others. As PGST Canoe Skipper Laura Price was quoted in our history book, “The Strong People”:
“That thirteen-day canoe journey to Bella Bella (in 1993) changed my life. It opened the doorway for me being S’Klallam. The experience helped build the foundation, passion and commitment in me to preserve, perpetuate, and celebrate our rich cultural heritage for our present and future generations.
“I admire and deeply respect our ancestors who by their resiliency and strength we owe all this amazing rich culture to. Canoe journeys happen every year now. They bring strength to our people by giving us a way to connect to our culture. We gain confidence, pride, respect and identity. We know where we belong and are given an opportunity to learn and grow.”
Canoes are a prime connection between the old world and the new. In pre-treaty times, the type of multi-day and week trips that seem so ambitious for the Canoe Journey were just a way of life. Tribes in this area used canoes to travel all over for trading, to connect with family and friends, and to move with the seasons. They were experts of the water and the weather, understanding the tides and currents.
Occasionally, white settlers would hire S’Klallams for this expertise. For example, Edwin Eells, an Indian agent at Skokomish, hired a S’Klallam crew to take him through the Strait of Juan de Fuca. It was winter and on the way back, they hit a fierce storm and, as recounted in “The Strong People,” “Ells was sure he would perish. The S’Klallams, he reported, kept up a wild chant as they maneuvered the canoe skillfully through the storm, and guided him to safe water. He was very grateful, for he was sure he was going to die that day.”
While canoes are no longer a main source of transportation, they still play an important role in the celebration of our culture. Canoe Journey is a reflection of this.
I want to leave you with this — the “Ten Rules of the Canoe.” They show, I think, how canoeing can reflect the principles of life:
1.) Every stroke we take is one less we have to make. Keep going!
2.) There is to be no abuse of self or others. Respect and trust cannot exist in anger. It has to be thrown overboard, so the sea can cleanse it.
3.) Be flexible. The adaptable animal survives.
4.) The gift of each enriches us all. Every story is important. The bow, the stern, the skipper, the power puller in the middle — everyone is part of the movement.
5.) We all pull and support each other. Nothing occurs in isolation.
6.) A hungry person has no charity. Always nourish yourself. The bitter person, thinking that sacrifice means self-destruction, shares mostly anger.
7.) Experiences are not enhanced through criticism. Who we are, how we are, what we do, why we continue flourish with tolerance.
8.) The journey is what we enjoy. Being part of the journey requires great preparation; being done with a journey requires great awareness; being on the journey, we are much more than ourselves.
9.) A good teacher allows the students to learn. We can berate each other, try to force each other to understand, or we can allow each paddler to gain awareness through the ongoing journey.
10.) When given any choice at all, be a worker bee — make honey!
— Jeromy Sullivan is chairman of the Port Gamble S’Klallam Tribe. Contact him at jeromys@pgst.nsn.us.
Though higher now, reflecting a more accurate statistic, there seems to be no affect in limiting pollution
By Andrew Gobin, Tulalip News
Today, Governor Jay Inslee met with tribal leaders before holding a briefing on Washington’s Fish Consumption Rate (FCR) and water quality. The new FCR, now set at 175g per day, comes with the compromise that increases allowable pollution 1000 percent.
Originally set at 6.5g per day, Puget Sound tribes, with the support of the public minority, have been pushing to reexamine the FCR, seeking a number that more accurately reflects the amount of fish consumed by Washington residents per capita. The rate of 6.5g per day specifically included a section that mitigated the high consumption of seafood by tribal communities, allowing for a low number to be reached. The new rate of 175g per day is a more realistic representation of the seafood consumed by all Washington residents.
The FCR is a measurement used to gauge the impacts of water pollution on the public. Former standards stated that the acceptable level of toxins allowed could only lead to one in one million people to develop cancer. The FCR that was set at 6.5g was intended to allow for a tenfold increase in pollution and water toxin levels.
Although Washington’s FCR is now almost 30 times higher than what it was, the agreement to increase the FCR was achieved through a compromise, bargaining to increase the acceptable persons to get cancer from one in one million, to one in 100,000. That means that the acceptable level of pollution would be ten times higher.
In the NWIFC statement Lorraine Loomis, vice chair of the Northwest Indian Fisheries Commission and fisheries manager for the Swinomish Tribe, said, “This is a political decision, not one based on sound science. While a toxics control effort is needed, it is not an effective replacement for strong water quality rules and standards. We cannot continue with a pollution-based economy.”
“We’ve been working with the state on this issue for more than 20 years. We need action,” she added.
Tribes will be meeting with the EPA to review the proposed changes and evaluate their next move.
Andrew Gobin is a staff reporter with the Tulalip News See-Yaht-Sub, a publication of the Tulalip Tribes Communications Department. Email: agobin@tulalipnews.com Phone: (360) 716.4188
This is the final installment in a series exploring the largest demographic of American Indians and Alaska Natives–the Urban Indian. Through in-depth interviews, the series touches on some of the struggles, hopes, and aspirations of a largely invisible population.
The series introduction, Urban Relatives: Where do Our Relations Begin and End? provided a snapshot of urban Indian demographics and an overview of historical federal policies, which, according to the 2010 census, finds an astounding 78 percent of all American Indians/Alaska Natives residing off-reservation or outside of Native communities.
The second installment, The Tahoma Indian Center: Restoring and Sustaining the Dignity of Urban Indians, looked at a heroic urban Indian program that daily saves lives while operating on a shoestring. It recognized the Tahoma Indian Center and its director of more than 22 years, Joan Staples Baum. The story featured Tyrone Patkoski, an enrolled Tulalip member, known in the art world for his unique artistry.
Third in the series was “Tulalip Veteran Wesley J. Charles, Jr., True American: “Indian Born on the 4th of July.” It told the remarkable story of Tulalip elder and Viet Nam Veteran, Wesley J. Charles, Jr., and a life well lived.
The fourth story, Why Should Tulalip Tribal Members Care About the Affordable Care Act? focused upon the Affordable Care Act’s (ACA) benefits to tribal members, especially low-income urban Indians–the majority of whom have long barely survived without any health and dental care, whatsoever, and who stand to benefit most from the ACA.
More than 1 million American Indians and Alaska Natives, approximately two-thirds of the U.S. Indian population, now live away from their reservation or homelands. Their displacement is traceable to broken treaty promises, the Indian boarding school legacy, federal assimilation policies, forced relocation, termination, widespread non-Indian adoption policies, overall failed federal trust responsibilities of the past century, and inter-tribal competition for a piece of the pie.
In particular, federal “Relocation” policies of the 1950s and 1960s resulted in Indians leaving the reservation in droves. As part of its “Termination” and “Assimilation” policy, the Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) offered grants and job training to entice Indians to leave for employment in urban areas. The promise of food on the table and a roof over the heads of one’s family appealed to hungry, impoverished, and un-housed Indians. Survival can be very seductive.
The intent of these federal policies was to remove Indians from the reservation in order to end federal trust responsibility. Unquestionably, the Diaspora’s cruel result is generations of Indians split from their sacred lands, people, culture, language, and traditions.
A largely untold story is that urban Indians were then and continue to be subject to devastating economic and social strife. For the most part, this invisible population receives a blind eye and a deaf ear from the federal government charged with its trust responsibility. In their opposition to urban Indian program funding, even tribal governments aid the injustice. As example, despite the fact that 78 percent of all American Indians/Alaska Natives reside off-reservation, only 1 percent of the federal Indian Health Service (IHS) budget is allocated to urban Indian health care. This did not happen by accident.
Moreover, despite a highly technological age, data to document the urban Indian condition is woefully lacking. Still relevant today are findings from a 1976 American Indian Policy Review Commission study. It found, “Government policies meant to assimilate if not eliminate, a portion of an entire race of people have created a large class of dissatisfied and disenfranchised people who, while being subject to the ills of urban America, have also been consistently denied services and equal protection guaranteed under the Constitution as well as by their rights as members of Federal Indian tribes.”
Regrettably, tribal government systems have also contributed to the struggle of their disenfranchised urban relatives. For example, at Tulalip, the Social Services Emergency Aid program, in place for countless years, disenfranchised its off-reservation tribal members by denial of access to emergency aid. When explanation was sought, none was forthcoming. Interview calls for this story were not returned. In essence, half of the Tulalip citizens were discriminated against. Already denied anything beyond basic health care at the tribal clinic, the added denial of emergency services was a bitter pill for many.
Tribal enrollment policies have also aligned to deny members identity. For example, the Tribes’ enrollment policy, based on residency rather than descendancy, has deprived generations of Indians rightful identity and affiliation with their people simply due to the accidental location of their birth and despite their descendancy and ancestor’s reservation allotments.
Even so, the urban Indian story is not all bleak. Many urban Indians strive to create and contribute to community with their urban Indian sisters and brothers, and to know their reservation families and communities. Some hope to return home one day when housing and employment opportunities align. Social media has also helped open avenues of communication and connection. Online tribal news outlets and opportunities for online language learning create new avenues of cultural affiliation and contribution. Add that the Affordable Care Act (ACA) is providing critical healthcare and dental services for urban Indians who have long gone without any care.
According to Rosalie “Rosie” Topaum of the Tulalip Tribes enrollment office, since December 2012, Tulalip enrollment numbers increased by 140 for a total enrollment of 4,422 with nearly half (2037) of all Tulalip citizens reside off the reservation. All but three of the new enrollments reside off reservation.
“Urban Indian” Stories
Jaime D Singleton Family Photo/Dolce Vita Photo Boutique
Jaime Denise Singleton
Born in Everett, Jaime Denise Singleton, 28, Tulalip, spent her first year on the Tulalip reservation. Her father, Dennis Boon, and her grandmother, Helen Gobin-Henson are Tulalip. Her mother, Pam (Marquis) Phipps, is Aleut. The family relocated to Anchorage, Alaska following her parents divorce when she was three years old.
Eager to know her roots, Singleton returned to Tulalip at age twenty-one. “I hardly knew my Dad and didn’t know my family at all. Grandma Helen helped me find work as a temporary youth advocate in the Education Department.”
Despite its enormous economic success, lack of housing continues to be a challenge for the Tulalip Tribes. Many of those on the reservation reside with large extended family in one house. Although not unlike historic tribal communal living, today’s housing structures and work and school lifestyles are largely incompatible.
The lack of reservation housing is also a significant driver for the continuing large urban Indian population. Singleton said, “I lived at my grandma’s house for about six months. I didn’t sign onto the housing list because I knew people with children who had been on the list for years and still didn’t have a house. At the same time, my grandma also had my uncle, his girlfriend and children, my dad, and two other cousins living with her. It was very crowded.”
A common regret of many urban Indians is the isolation from tribal culture and community. “I didn’t know my family or my culture. That’s the worst disadvantage. One of my cousins showed me her regalia from dancing as a child and I felt I really missed out on things like that. Some of my cousins are weavers and they make the most beautiful things from cedar. I thought, I know how to crochet, so I could have learned how to do that.”
Unfortunately, many urban Indians also experience isolation from other Natives. “Because I am mixed and light-skinned, I feel like an outsider in the Native community. I am only one-eighth Tulalip. On my mom’s side, I am Aleut, but only one-sixteenth. My maternal great-grandma married a white man and they moved out of her home village and homesteaded on the Kenai Peninsula. Our family has slowly drifted apart. I know nothing about our culture on the Aleut side either.”
Asked about healthcare, Singleton said, “Up here in Anchorage, AK, they have an excellent Indian Hospital called Alaska Native Medical Center that I believe sets the standard for Indian healthcare.” Yet, she recalled growing up visiting the clinic in Kenai where “I always got the sense it was free when I was young, but as an adult I’ve witnessed a hard push to buy health insurance. I feel like the staff and nurses look down on you if you are not insured.”
The Singletons objected to the necessity to sign up for the ACA or “Oamacare” as it is commonly known. “We filed the exemption because my husband was upset about the Individual Mandate. He didn’t understand why, as Native Americans with Treaty Rights, we should be forced to purchase insurance for the healthcare that is supposed to be provided us. He is one-quarter Inupiaq, but is not an enrolled tribal member and not qualified for the lifelong exemption; neither is our daughter.”
Economically, Singleton’s husband, Steven, has had steady employment. “We’ve been married for almost five years and we have property in Georgia where Steven was born and raised.” Having moved to Alaska after the Recession, they’re excited to be relocating to Georgia to build a house.
Grateful for the tribal per capita program, Singleton added, “Because we decided I would stay at home to raise our daughter, Sequoia, the per capita together with babysitting has really helped.” She is grateful, too, for the annual bonus, which has allowed them to “bank” for critical needs, such as their move to Georgia this summer.
On what Tulalip does right, Singleton said, “Our tribe values culture and respects traditions for ceremonies, gatherings, and funerals. It is wonderful to witness. I believe the Lushootseed language program should have greater emphasis because, like many native languages, it is on the verge of extinction. Our income from the Casinos puts us in a unique position to really “save” our language, and I would like to see that happen.”
To more equally serve the needs of off reservation members, Singleton suggested, “The tribe needs more housing! More than half of the homes in Housing Projects are left boarded up and abandoned while some of our membership lives with other family members, or homeless. I would like to see a program that opens up and turns the homes around faster and more homes available so our members have a place to live.”
“My family and extended family have always made me feel like I belong and that means a lot to me. They ask me things like, “When are you coming Home?” It makes me feel included because we know I was not raised there, yet it could still be my home,” said Singleton. She credited Facebook and social media for helping her to stay connected with her Tulalip family and community.
Myron James Fryberg photo/Kyle Taylor Lucas
Myron Fryberg, Jr.
Myron Fryberg, Jr., 37, Tulalip, was adopted along with his sister, Joanne, by Myron Fryberg, Sr., and his wife, Mary. “I was adopted at the hospital. My mother is Tulalip and Puyallup, so I have ties with the Puyallup Tribe as well.” It was an open adoption allowing him to visit his birth mother, Deanne “Penny” Fryberg.
“My adopted mom, Mary, is full-blood and she knew all her relatives and family. I didn’t know myself. I was this kid who was given up by his dad. He was white,” said Fryberg who finally met his birth father’s family eight years ago. I learned that I’m Irish and Scottish, and a little French Canadian. The Irish are tribal too. The last name was O’Toole. I didn’t meet my dad, but I still talk to my brother.”
Residing off-reservation for the past five years, Fryberg said he was on the tribal housing waiting list, “but that’s a pretty slow process.” Caring for family at the time, he was forced to move “to town” [Marysville]. “I did a lot of praying and the idea came that maybe it was time to do something else. I was a janitor I asked, ‘do you want to turn 40 and realize that you didn’t do anything with your life?'”
Fryberg learned the Northwest Indian College (NWIC) offered a chemical dependency degree, so he returned to school. “I’ve now finished my third year and have a year to go,” said Fryberg, adding that he’s in the Tribal Governance and Business Management program.
Acknowledging that life has not been without challenges, Fryberg was candid about his struggles with alcohol. “I’ve been living in Bellingham for three years, going to school and staying busy. I had a rough patch at the beginning and I ended up getting a sponsor” who initiated him to service work. “We started working at the homeless shelter serving the homeless and I developed a sense of gratitude for what I had. Before that, I was hopeless about life,” said Fryberg who added, “I had lost my dad. I clung to him the most because I knew he was my relative. Me and my dad were really close. He always took me everywhere when I was a kid.”
Fryberg’s first tribal job was a blackjack dealer at age 19. “I did that for five years, but I didn’t like the structure there. I got clean and sober when I was 19, but I felt that I was treated less than by the tribe, so I went back to school and studied computers for three years.” Then, his friend committed suicide. “It put me back drinking for another four years. I finally quit drinking when I was 29.”
He again worked for Tulalip Tribes as a janitor at the health clinic and later at Tulalip Data Services. Yet, promises of raises were not forthcoming and Fryberg found the process for resolution of grievances unwieldy. He said that because he was supporting five children from family and a relationship, it was a turning point.
“When my dad passed I just didn’t want to be there. There was no chance for advancement or better pay and rather than go through the grievance process, I decided to return to school. I had seen the people that had an education made more money.”
Asked about disadvantages of living away from the reservation, Fryberg said, “There’s isolation. You get lonely. You don’t have your family, but Facebook has helped a lot.”
Unlike most urban Indians, healthcare has not been an issue for Fryberg. “We have non-profit health hospital in Bellingham. They don’t ask for paperwork.” He has also applied for Obamacare.
Fryberg said he is fortunate to live close to the reservation and a tribe with a similar culture. “The Lummi people at the college embraced me right away. I feel like they’ve kind of adopted me as one their own. It was good to see their culture is similar, but I always felt like Lummi was very close to their origins and held their culture close,” said Fryberg.
He noted having been immersed in his own culture at a young age. “We used to practice with the Jimicum family. We learned dance and songs and performed in Seattle. When my grandpa was ready to pass, my dad brought me to drum for him. My mom is Shaker, so we would go to shake on the weekends, and I helped in the kitchen,” said Fryberg. He has also studied Lushootseed.
Asked about his access to tribal social programs, Fryberg noted, “When I needed help, Tulalip said they couldn’t do because I was out of Snohomish County. There have been roadblocks there.”
He expressed gratitude for tribal per capita as having changed his life. “It has given me a chance to return to school and focus strictly on education.” He added, “The annual bonus has allowed me to put money aside to cover my rent when out of school over the summer.” It allows purchase of necessities he formerly had to forgo.
Fryberg conveyed some frustration with tribal government, “I think they are doing okay. Action seems to be a problem; presentation seems to be a problem. We try to cover up problems. We need to be more aware of where we came from. We need to change the whole philosophy. When we offer service to the people, we’re selling that service. Now, we’re offering a service that isn’t transparent. I tried to get the Board of Directors to hear my plea for non-profits, cooperatives, and getting people employed at Equal Square where there is no hierarchy. It’s a perfect example of assimilation. There’s a sense that oppression is all we know and that people don’t welcome change.”
Asked for specifics, he suggested pooling resources. “If $1,000 per capita is not enough [for people to survive], there’s a lot you can do if you pool your monies–franchising, manufacturing, businesses that have the ability to supply something. Voluntarily, as members, we could do this. If the tribe presented it to us as individual shareholders it would make it easier and if we had a business committee that knew how to invest. A $50 monthly cut in per capita could be invested by the tribe. It could create more revenue and jobs.”Regarding tribal policies, Fryberg expressed concern about structure. “I think there should be more emphasis on the other coat. In dealing with society, you have to wear two coats. One with your tribe and the other with the U.S. There isn’t enough emphasis on what they wear when they’re home. The policies have to change in terms of our leadership. Who are our leaders?” To illustrate his point, Fryberg pointed to the Onadaga in New York. “They “raise” leaders rather than choose based upon popularity. We’re left with the leadership that the federal government gave us–a Board of Directors.”
To better serve the needs of its off-reservation members, Fryberg wants the tribe to support cooperatives. “If more individuals were sharing, there’s the possibility of owning businesses and housing off the reservation. We could invest in, build, or occupy, as added income and owned property.” He emphasized the importance of water conservation and noted NWIC recycles their water. “We need to look at where we go from here, look at the environment, and go back to our customs. Solar would be good. We wouldn’t be supporting Keystone or pipelines. And it could create revenue for our tribe. It speaks to sustainability and supports our sense of identity, of who we are as a people.”
Jennifer Cordova-James Photo/Kyle Taylor Lucas
Jennifer Cordova-James
Born and raised on the Tulalip Indian Reservation, Jennifer Cordova-James, 22, is the daughter of Chris James and Abel Cordova. She is an enrolled Alaska Native of the Tlingit Indian Tribe. Her mother is Tlingit and her father is Quechua, of Peru. She has learned the traditional dishes, music, musical instruments, and regalia, but has not learned as much as she would like about her Peruvian people. Cordova-James said the same is true of her Tlingit people.
Cordova-James has resided off-reservation to attend Northwest Indian College (NWIC) the past nine months. She is pursuing a Bachelor’s Degree in Education and has moved back home to the reservation for the summer. She will graduate next winter and, afterwards, wants to return to Tulalip to work in administration or perhaps to do marketing for the casino.
Asked about paying for college, Cordova-James said, “Scholarships! My biggest funders are the American Indian College Fund, the Comcast Scholarship, and the Embry American Indian Women’s Leadership Project Scholarship.”
In terms of employment, Cordova-James spoke highly of the excellent work experience she gained in working at the tribal hotel.Her biggest challenges have been balancing her studies with extra-curricular activities. She has served on student executive board as vice-president of extended sites where she gathered concerns, suggestions, and ideas, at each of the NWIC sites to ensure that student voices were heard and resolved. She regards these as important learning experience while also being “fun years.”
Cordova-James said the greatest disadvantage of living away from the reservation has been “Trying to make a home away from home. I lived in the dorms and the biggest issue was missing home. I suppose a huge challenge for me were family issues or obligations. I would have to make hard choices about who to support. It was my second year moving out, but I come home for summer with family and community,” said Cordova-James.
She noted employment as a second disadvantage, “There were a lot of times that I filled out applications and finally decided to focus upon my studies. The work study positions filled up really fast.”
In terms of access to healthcare, Cordova-James said she had access to the Lummi clinic, but chose to visit the Tulalip health clinic on the weekends. The ACA helps in that she is on her parent’s health plan until age twenty-six.
Cordova-James enjoyed a great sense of community while attending NWIC. “Lummi welcomed me with open arms. The campuses are full of students from other Nations. Navajo, South Dakota, Lakota, Eskimo Inuit, Alaska, and from Canada.”
Enthusiastic and ambitious, Cordova-James has big ideas and plans. In March 2014, she was elected as Northwest Regional Representative to the American Indian Higher Education Consortium. They help tribal colleges and universities with foundation and grant funding, lobbying in Washington, D.C., and in Olympia.
“Also our big initiative is a culture exchange program within the tribal college. We want a program where tribal colleges and universities work together. Sometimes it feels like they’re working against each other. We want a program that includes common requirements. Right now, we’re brainstorming and tasking people to conduct research this year. It probably won’t be off the ground for a couple years, but it’s an initiative that we’re looking into–long term,” said Cordova-James.
Speaking to the crisis of drugs on the reservation, she said, “It’s heartbreaking, especially when you’re close with somebody and you went to school with that individual. It’s sad to see young tribal members dying. We need to support them, but not enable them. We need to educate the families.”
Cordova-James said it was interesting to get the question because she and her friend and classmate, Tisha Anderson-McLean, Tulalip, co-partnered on writing a grant proposal for their class final. She said, “We called it the “Quascud Traditional Housing,” which, in Lushootseed, means lightening the load or pulling forward in the canoe when someone’s having a hard time paddling. It was for traditional housing, directly for those members who are coming out of treatment to a journey of wellness.”
Quascud Traditional Housing would offer life skills classes, help with professional attire, interview and job hunting classes, and assistance applying to school and scholarships. “Sweat lodge, culture days, and bringing a traditional healing aspect to support the journey of wellness” would be emphasized, said Cordova-James. The facility is envisioned as an apartment to ensure privacy for those who want to be by themselves. Family visits are included, but it would be a closed facility with no overnight stays, and would include checkout passes in an earned program “We compared ours to Muckleshoot and one other,” said Cordova-James who acknowledged Myron James Fryberg for his support in brainstorming and advising on the proposal.
Cordova-James said, “We got a really good grade, we got an ‘A’ for that! We saw it had huge potential for carrying forward.” Although they have not yet done so, they plan to share it with the tribe. If she doesn’t have enough on her plate, Cordova-James is also a busy activist. “I like supporting the environment,” she said, adding that she worked on I-522–the Genetically Modified Organism (GMO) labeling initiative this past year. She also worked against the XL Pipeline and coal trains. “I was protesting. There’s one picture with ‘Idle No More’ on my face. Generally, I work against big corporations trying to kill small businesses and I’m interested in the international issues such as Australia versus Japan on the whaling issue.”
Anonymous Stories
In keeping with all of Indian Country, the effects of historical trauma are equally as devastating among urban Indian populations. It is reflected in the prevalence of social, mental, physical health, and substance abuse problems. Yet, the urban Indian population is treated as invisible with little funding devoted to services to improve the quality of their lives, indeed–their life chances.
Jan – Lakota Sioux
Some stories are so painful, so personal, that to protect their families the storytellers ask to remain anonymous. Using a pseudonym, Jan, 56, is Lakota Sioux from Standing Rock, South Dakota. Born and raised in Washington, she was in the first class of The Evergreen State College. An early activist, she recalled with some nostalgia the alliance of Native students who made and sold fry bread to help the American Indian Movement (AIM) at Wounded Knee. However, her activism began with the fish wars. “When I was in high school I became involved in environmental things, and then I became involved politically around AIM. It progressed from there. The way I’ve always looked at it, you don’t have to live on the reservation to know what is right or wrong. You don’t need to live there all your life,” said Jan.
At 19, Jan left college to live with her grandparents in South Dakota. “My grandma is Lakota and lived her whole life on the reservation. Though I visited them as a child, I wanted to connect with what I didn’t learn. I wanted to know my relatives and to experience first-hand what it was to live on the reservation,” said Jan. It was an exciting time during the early seventies and the beginnings of the American Indian Movement. “I went to the very first International Treaty Convention at Standing Rock,” said Jan.
She worked part-time for a cleaning business owned by tribal relatives on the reservation, then as a public school tutor’s aid, and doing odd jobs. In her free time, she went to Sundance.
Before long, she was married with a child, but her husband died in a mysterious swimming hole accident at Standing Rock. She moved back and forth between Washington and South Dakota and eventually worked on the film, “Thunderheart,” and her son was one of the village children in the film “Dances With Wolves”, playing with Dennis Banks’ children.” My son was healthy. He played soccer. He met Billy Mills. I have a picture with the two of them on the front page of a local paper. He even went on a 3-mile run with Billy Mills,” said Jan, proudly.
While living in South Dakota, she took her son to the tribal clinic. Yet, over the years, lack of access to IHS healthcare for him grew more difficult. She finally settled back in Washington and attended vocational school in 1992.
Jan’s life took a turn as her son grew into his mid-teens. He became unmanageable and she sent him to boarding school, where they determined he was an alcoholic. He went to treatment. Said Jan, “He was in jail for a whole year, and I wondered why he was acting like this. Something’s wrong here. And after he got out and had his daughter, then he got his diagnosis. Until then, I thought he didn’t have a dad, and his hormones are acting up, and he’s acting out. It started when he was around 15.”
He became violent and was eventually diagnosed with schizophrenia, in his late teens. That was complicated by his alcoholism, his involvement in gangs, and recurring arrests.
For most people, we have children, raise them, and then they go off to live their own lives. In Jan’s case, that has not, nor will it ever be the case. Since his late teens, her son has been jailed for Drunk in Public (DIP) more times than she can recall. On two occasions, he was jailed for a year at a time and other times too numerous to count–for months on end.
His dual diagnosis of alcoholism and mental illness makes treatment, which is often unsuccessful for any alcoholic, impossible for her son. Jan reports that upon his release from jail for DIP or domestic violence, he drinks within minutes. When he leaves treatment, he immediately drinks. “I tried to get my son into treatment through the Northwest Region in Portland, but they didn’t think he was a candidate. It was an alcohol and drug treatment program, but they didn’t have a mental health component. How can you have somebody in recovery that doesn’t have rational thought process?” Jan emphasized that alcohol treatment programs must have a mental health component. “They need to have a communal living situation, but they can’t come and go as they please. It almost has to be a lock down place. There has to be something there for them to do, nutrition, exercise, garden,” said Jan.
Jan said treatment and work release require getting to class and work, but her son doesn’t have the rational thought process to do that. She suspects his long-term alcohol abuse and maybe meth use as potential factors. “And it’s worse now because he now has black-outs. Dual diagnosis. Mentally Ill and Chemically Affected (MICA). They changed the name to co-occurring disorder. Then, they shut that program down due to lack of funding.”
Pointing to the ACLU, Jan said, “Oh mentally ill people do have rights. They have rights to be able to have a place to live. Yes, they have rights. How do we solve all of that if they can’t manage themselves? How is harm measured? You have to hurt somebody and kill somebody. My son has DIP charges all the time. He has a felony record, which is why he can’t get a place to live. Even when he does, all the others running around who are just like him make him lose it. He’s the Robinhood of the streets. I bought him a brand-new jacket and it’s gone.”
She can’t have him live with her. He loses, gives away to street people, or spends all his money on drinking; he often has no place to stay. Other times, he has been evicted yet again. He is on Social Security Disability. In the winter months, she gets him a hotel room. The rest of the time, “I had to take a hard breath and say “no” when he wanted to stay at my house. There were times I let him stay with me, but he goes through my stuff and has stolen from everyone in my family. He brings street people here. I just had to feel rotten and just do it. I had no other choice, “said Jan.
She found a support group that gave her hope, “Mothers of Adult Mentally Ill Sons.” Yet, as the meetings progressed, and the leader advised them “there is no hope,” and their numbers decreased with only four people in attendance at the end. “There was one lady that had two sons like my son and they were worse than him,” said Jan. “My son can go to treatment all he wants and that’s not going to help him. He can go to jail all the time, and it’s not going to help him. The only saving grace of him going to jail was his detoxing. But the day he gets out, he drinks. I’ve resigned myself that there is no hope under the current conditions, under anything they now have.”
“My hope is not of him recovering from his mental illness, but I hope for a secure place like a compound or communal place where he could be safe. There are places around the U.S., but they cost $20k to $30k a month. Basically, at the heart and core of his being is a pretty good person, but his illness gets in the way just like any alcoholic.”
Asked how she coped and took care of herself, Jan said at first it was by attending National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) and co-occuring disorders meetings. “I started educating myself. That helps to a point, but like the other day when I took him to the dentist, when he got into the car, he had a psychotic episode. It just kills me inside and it hurts and I just want to die. Just get this pain away. Take this pain away. Because he’s in pain. I feel sad for my son because of the way he has to live. Any mother who has a son or daughter who has to live that way–it’s just painful and hurtful. I cope with it by talking to my friends, and talking to my brother, and talking to my partner who now understands. Boundaries is a big word. I’m tougher on my son than some mothers are. And I cry. You know it’s part of coping–if you can call it that. Crying is relief. Sometimes, you just cry. Also, just being involved in other things. I’ve been involved with my granddaughter, helping her as much as I can. Just being there for her. I’ve screamed and I’ve hollered when I’m driving down the road. I go to the YMCA,” said Jan.
Anonymous
Among other anonymous stories, there are the Indian women in their late fifties and early sixties living urban and alone, struggling month to month with few resources.
There is also the thirty-year-old Puyallup woman who spends her days at the Tahoma Indian Center and looks for a safe place to sleep at night. She has been unable to find work. Sometimes, she stays at the mission, but she worries about the bugs, so she often sleeps on the streets. She seems detached as she speaks about drinking. She “grew up with it.” It is surprising to learn that her mother who is only 53 is in a nursing home. Asked if illness caused her young mother’s placement in the home, the flat reply was, “No, she has wet-brain.” An inquiry about it was met with an incredulous reply, “You’ve never heard of wet-brain! My mother drank so much for her whole life, so it pickled her brain and she cannot take care of herself.”
Wet-brain is a real condition known as Wernicke-Korsakoff syndrome caused by long-term alcoholism. Its symptoms include mental disturbance; confusion; drowsiness; paralysis of eye movements; and staggering gait. It is primarily caused by a lack of thiamine (Vitamin B1) due to severe malnutrition and poor intestinal absorption of food and vitamins caused by alcohol. The wet-brain person acts much like the Alzheimer’s victim with loss of recent memory, disorientation to time and place, confusion, and confabulation (telling imagined and untrue experiences as truth). In its early stages, it can be prevented, but it cannot be undone.
Fifty-two year-old Jack is bright and well spoken. He is Canadian First Nation, but was born in Seattle in 1960. He hasn’t visited his home reserve in more than 30 years. Jack served four years in the Army, stateside. “I really enjoyed my military service. I learned a lot and regret not staying in. It had a lot of security,” said Jack.
Jack started visiting and found a home in the Tahoma Indian Center in the early 90s. As for now, he said, “I’m doing alright, staying alive.” After the service, he got labor work, mostly moving. Today, he does recycling.
Due to his parents’ drinking, he and his siblings were put into foster care early, two or three homes while he was very young. He was five when he was permanently placed into the system, “but I have blocked a lot of it out,” said Jack.
He admits to being an alcoholic, which sometimes prevents his access to the mission. Asked when he began drinking, Jack replied matter-of-factly, “Probably in the womb.” He said he never knew his mother not drunk.
In the next moment, Jack offered, “I learned a lot about natural foods and nutrition and quit drinking in the mid-80s to early 90s. I took up running and ran 26.2 miles in the Goodwill Games. We started at Gasworks Park. My time was 4 hours and 3 minutes. If I could come up with the equipment, I would probably resume running.” He confessed that he is “always dreaming. One of my goals, too, is to climb Mount Rainier.”
“For fun, I like to read–Dean Koontz, Stephen King, history, philosophy, political science, Indian–contemporary and history,” said Jack. He brightens even more in recalling a local doctor who for about seven years took the center rafting on the Deschutes in Oregon. He misses that.
Another Jack, Lakota, Sioux, spoke of how difficult it was to secure health care in Washington State. One local tribe turned him down, so he had to travel long distance to the Seattle Indian Health Center. He is now happily enrolled in an ACA plan.
Summary
Despite a sense of exclusion for some and of being “less than” experienced by others, most urban Indians continue to identify with their people, reservation communities, villages, and land. They share a common history and memories. Displaced from their reservations they seek community ties with other urban Indians. Yet they yearn for connection to their land, people, culture, and traditions. They seek common ground and to ensure they are not forgotten.
As noted by the Urban Indian Health Commission, “Today’s urban Indians are mostly the products of failed federal government policies that facilitated the urbanization of Indians, and the lack of sufficient aid to assure success with this transition has placed them at greater health risk. Competition for scarce resources further limits financial help to address the health problems faced by urban Indians.”
The mass migration of Indians from their reservations to urban centers has been devastating in myriad ways, but most glaring are the economic, social, and health struggles endured by newly urbanized Indians and their families.
Then, beginning in the nineties, federal devolution to the states and local government in the form of block grants accompanied by more severe state restrictions to services has resulted in even more devastating service cuts to already impoverished urban Indians. They’ve experienced adverse impacts from entitlement reform and cuts to funding levels, major cuts to social service safety net programs, public housing, and jobs.
The stories of untreated illness and dental emergencies, racial police profiling and an unjust criminal justice system, discrimination in access to services, disproportionality in Indian Child Welfare, and preventable death, homicide, and suicide are legion among urban Indian communities.
Yet, the hard data is still missing; legends don’t qualify on grant applications for increased federal funding. Though they do not wish to be named, urban Indian organizations speak to horrific funding challenges often due to tribal government opposition to their federal funding requests. Tragically, as across Indian Country, the effects of historical trauma are prevalent in social and substance abuse among the urban Indian population. Yet, they are treated as invisible.
There is urgent need to address prevention and intervention, especially for urban youth. Some positive trends include the Washington State Legislature’s convening of a taskforce to address racial disproportionality in the child welfare system. While this year’s report to the legislature showed improvements overall, in its “Detailed Findings,” the report indicates, “Racial disproportionality in all intakes has decreased slightly in 2012 for all groups except Native American children, and disproportionality in screened in intakes has decreased slightly for all groups except Native American and multiracial children which had a slight increase.”
Yet, despite all the strife, there is incredible resilience among urban Indians, many of them generational, and those who have recently migrated away from their reservation communities. Many Indians residing in metropolitan areas are attending college or university, are pursuing career paths, serving in local government, and are active in their communities. They’re active in social and environmental justice efforts.
It is evident that urban Indians, most often invisible to policy makers, must become their own best advocates with their on-reservation relations, with tribal leadership, and with allies and policymakers in their urban centers.
Kyle Taylor Lucas is a freelance journalist and speaker. She is a member of The Tulalip Tribes and can be reached at KyleTaylorLucas@msn.com / Linkedin: http://www.linkedin.com/in/kyletaylorlucas / 360.259.0535 cell
The King County Medical Examiner’s Office is asking for the public’s help to find who donated three human skulls to a Bellevue thrift store.
There is no information about who donated the skulls to the Bellevue Goodwill or how they came to be in the donor’s possession.
The KCME said two of the skulls of from adults and were clearly used in a medical clinic or teaching setting.
The third skull is very old and appears to be the fragile remains of a Native American child.
According to state law, the Native American skull must be returned to its tribe of origin, but the ME needs more information to identify the correct tribe.
The office is asking that the person who donated the skulls come forward, without penalty, to provide more details about where the skull came from.
The skulls were donated in June to the Goodwill at 14515 NE 20th Street in Bellevue. Employees there realized the skulls were human remains and contacted the Medical Examiner’s Office and police.
TULALIP – The conservation and preservation of Native American poles, posts, and canoes will be the focus of the first symposium hosted by the Hibulb Cultural Center and Natural History Preserve on July 21- 22, held at the Tulalip Resort Casino.
Poles, Posts, and Canoes will bring together Native American and non-Native museum professionals, and contemporary carvers to discuss the challenges in preserving and exhibiting wood carvings, while also examining the Native and non-Native viewpoint on preserving these historic wood items.
“When I first came to work here four years ago, one of the things that struck me most was the fact that we have a number of poles and canoes in the collections,” said Hibulb Conservator, Claire Dean. “These large wooden objects are a real challenge for museums everywhere, regardless of their cultural background. It is because these tend to be very big and heavy to move around. Actually they are quite difficult to display safely. If they are old, and deteriorated they become fragile. Here we have a disproportionate number of them, and that has to do with the fact that the community here, the poles and canoes, are a central part of the material culture here, and when you have a culture with that in its background, then you are going to run into them as more of a challenge than other cultures where they don’t exist. I am also very aware that we have carvers here in the community, and I like the idea of trying to involve them somehow.”
Dean explains the idea for the Poles, Posts, and Canoes Symposium developed from a conservator conference Dean attended, which highlighted the preservation of the Maori Waka Taua Project, or war canoe project, at the National Museum of Scotland. During the conference the issue of preserving cultural items such as wood canoes, a responsibility of Dean’s as a conservator at Hibulb, was examined. Dean learned how the war canoe, in derelict condition, was discovered during an examination to be a product of three canoes merged together, instead of one carving, making the preservation of the canoe difficult. With the help of highly-regarded Maori artist George Nuku, the canoe was restored using acrylic material to fashion a new sternpost, blending traditional materials with contemporary elements to safely preserve the canoe for display.
“We were already thinking about our conference and immediately I thought, ‘this is it! This is exactly what I have been thinking about. This idea of incorporating traditional carvers into the care of the collections.’ Not that I am suggesting that we are going to make lots of plexiglas poles, but it is this idea of working with artists who are very much a part of the community,” said Dean.
The two-day conference will feature a non-traditional conference format featuring informal presentations regarding the care of past, present, and future cultural
Photo courtesy/ Hibulb Cultural Center and Natural History Preserve
items.
“I thought it was a great opportunity to have a conference where we could actually sit down and really talk about this, and while this isn’t the first time that a meeting has been held about this topic, it is the first time, that I am aware of, that it has been hosted by a tribal community and held on tribal lands,” said Dean.
“We will have little sessions where presenters will be giving 15 minute talks, so they are very short and to the point,” continued Dean. “I have asked the presenters to prepare their presentations to spark thought and discussion. We will have four or five of these 15-minute talks, then we take a coffee break and for at least an hour and half there is no program. It will be open discussion. It is a chance for the folks attending to ask questions of the presenters and the carvers. This is a bit of a risk, because it is not a conventional way of doing a conference, but I think it is more in keeping with how things are done in communities such as this one.”
Presenters will include George Nuku, Maori artist, Graeme Scott from the Glasgow Museums in Scotland, Richard Feldman from the Eiteligorg Museum of American Indians and Western Art, Costantino Nicolizas from the Ecole Des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales in France, Kelly McHugh from the National Museum of the American Indian, Tessa Campbell from the Hibulb Cultural Center, and Sven Haakanson from the Burke Museum of Natural History and Culture, and many others.
Following the two-day conference Hibulb Cultural Center will host a three-day workshop featuring Michael Harrington, Felix Solomon, and Andrew Todd on caring for totem poles held on July 23 – 25, at the Hibulb Cultural Center and Natural History Preserve.
Registration is open until the day of conference, and limited space available for the workshop. Registration fee for the conference is $350 with a discount fee of $250 for students, and the workshop fee is $350. Both events include breakfast and lunch. A special event featuring keynote speakers, Charles Stable and George Nuku, will be held on the evening of July 21, at the Hibulb Cultural Center free of cost and open to the public.
“This isn’t just about the conservation and preservation of old poles, posts, and canoes, which we have here in collections, it is also about the preservation of the tradition of carving these things, and how those two areas of interest intersect. How the collections here can be of help to contemporary carvers, and how the methods and materials in the knowledge of contemporary carvers can actually be of use to conservators.”
For more information on registration for the symposium or the workshop, please visit the Hibulb Cultural Center’s website at www.hibulbculturalcenter.org.
Brandi N. Montreuil: 360-913-5402; bmontreuil@tulalipnews.com
In an emotional ceremony Monday at the Burke Museum in Seattle, the Lower Elwha Klallam Tribe prepared to transport 14 ancient artifacts to the tribe’s heritage center in Port Angeles.
Arlene Wheeler, left, escorts artifacts pushed by Maurice Pitchford, 4, and the Burke’s Laura Phillips on Monday. STEVE RINGMAN / THE SEATTLE TIMES
On Monday, members of the Lower Elwha Klallam Tribe realized a long-held dream, bringing some of the most spectacular belongings of their ancestors back to their home territory, for display in their own heritage center in Port Angeles.
Fourteen artifacts — just a fraction of more than 80,000 recovered from the site — were handed over to the tribe after a brief, but emotional private ceremony at the Burke Museum of Natural History and Culture in Seattle, where the rest of the collection is still held for safekeeping.
“This is a long time coming,” said tribal Chairwoman Frances Charles, who made the trip to the Burke with her 4-year-old grandson, along with leaders of the Elwha Drum Group and prayer warrior Jonathan Arakawa to commemorate the transfer.
In a basement room with no windows, tribal members first lined up facing east, with two simple cardboard bankers’ boxes on a table before them, holding their ancestors’ possessions, dug up from their waterfront village.
Arakawa called down a blessing on the gathering, and offered thanks and prayers for a historic day, finally come.
Then Mark Charles, dressed in red and black ceremonial regalia, took deep breaths and focused his concentration for long moments, preparing to sing. He at last raised his elk-skin, hand-painted drum and began beating the stately cadence of an ancient song.
Charles’ deep, powerful voice boomed in the small room, which filled with sound as other tribal members joined in, and raised their hands to receive the song.
The objects selected by the tribe are among the most spectacular in the collection: A bone comb, carved on two sides, and found at the site virtually intact. Two blanket pins, carved in the shape of a fawn’s head, and a halibut. Seven etched stones — from more than 900 collected at the site, more than from any other village in the Northwest. The stones depict stories and teachings, and no two are alike.
Also included in the collection is a net weight, and a spindle whorl carved from a single whale vertebrae that Mark Charles found during the work at the site. At the time, he said he was guided by intuition to the location.
The village site was discovered inadvertently during construction of a state Department of Transportation project, which was ultimately shut down and relocated, after the discovery of hundreds of human remains, including many intact burials.
With the end of the project, the money that was paying for the archaeological analysis of the site was shut off, too.
So while the site was one of the biggest and oldest ever uncovered in the Northwest, with portions dating back 2,700 years, most of the collection has never been analyzed, and still awaits interpretation.
The tribe has long wanted to bring the collection home, for curation at the site, which has since been covered over and secured behind a fence. Human remains disturbed during the construction project were reburied as close to their original sites as possible.
The tribe has since built a heritage center in downtown Port Angeles, and will display the artifacts there. The exhibit, which will be on permanent exhibition at the heritage center, opens Saturday with a public ceremony.
“This is something we have talked about time and time again, it’s hard to imagine it is finally happening,” Frances Charles said. “These are priceless to us, in many ways. It’s closure for us, and all the people who were involved with this. It closes the circle.”
The hydropower dams, built without fish passage beginning in 1910, greatly diminished the river’s salmon runs, and starved the beaches at the river’s mouth for the sediment that used to be home to rich clam beds.
The recovery of the artifacts and the dam-removal project — the largest anywhere in the world — are part of the cultural renewal under way for the tribe.
In the past several years the tribe has built a language program to revive the Klallam language and teach it in the public schools. The tribe has published a tribal language and cultural curriculum, and its first dictionary.
And as the floodwaters behind the Elwha dam receded, the tribe recovered its sacred creation site, hidden underwater for a century.
A celebration of the completion of dam removal is scheduled for mid-September.
Meanwhile, Charles said she hopes the trickle of artifacts coming back to the tribe will eventually become a flood, as the tribe builds a curation facility at its village site to house the entire collection.
“This is just the beginning,” she said.
To make it happen, the tribe needs not only money, but to recover ownership of its artifacts through negotiations with the state. Charles said those conversations are beginning with Gov. Jay Inslee.
As the tribe’s song filled the building, Julie Stein, director of the Burke, came to the door. She watched, clearly pleased, as the boxes were carted to the loading dock, and carried by tribal members into a waiting van for the drive back to Lower Elwha.
“It always feels wonderful,” Stein said, “when artifacts go to the communities that love and use them, to teach people, and bring the ceremonies back to life.”
Lynda V. Mapes: 206-464-2736 or lmapes@seattletimes.com
Washington’s clean-water regulations to ensure the safety of eating fish from local waters are indefensibly lax, everyone agrees. That’s about to change, but without broader cleanup, water will still be polluted.
New proposed water-quality standards expected to be issued soon by the state are intended to more accurately reflect how much fish people eat. These fishermen were trying their luck for salmon running in the Duwamish River last September. MARCUS YAM / The Seattle Times, 2013
Eat only as much fish as the state assumes you do every day, and you’d starve, for sure: It’s a chunk not much bigger than a Starburst candy.
But that could be about to change, under new regulations in the works at the state Department of Ecology. Washington seems likely to follow Oregon’s lead and set a water-quality standard for daily fish consumption at 175 grams, or about 6 ounces, per day.
The level is set not to regulate how much fish people eat, but how clean water needs to be. The standard sets pollution cleanup and control limits for industry, municipal sewage plants and other dischargers to local waters.
While it sounds like a modest step forward, implementing more realistic fish-consumption standards — Washington’s current standards are based on an outdated national average — has been a battle, chewing up years of effort and the political capital of two governors.
That’s because municipal sewage plants, pulp mills and other dischargers fear the cost of tighter pollution standards. Boeing famously entered the fray last year in widely reported warnings about the potential effect of unreasonable standards on its continued business operations.
“We support a water quality standard that protects human health and the environment, while at the same time, allows for the growth of our business and the state’s economy,” Boeing spokeswoman Megan Hilfer wrote in a statement to The Seattle Times in an email July 1.
No one contests that the new levels will in some cases result in setting pollution-discharge limits too tiny even to measure with existing technology.
Gov. Jay Inslee and the state Department of Ecology are expected to announce the new proposed standard Wednesday and to work toward issuing a draft rule after that. The regulations will go through a lengthy public-comment period and be finalized only with the approval of the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency, probably sometime next year.
The importance of water-quality standards to human health is well known, especially to people who eat a lot of fish. Because pollutants find their way from the uplands to the water, ultimately everything, for better or worse, winds up in the tissues of fish. Pollutants such as mercury and PCBs can cause a variety of serious illnesses and impairments, from cancer, to permanent IQ reduction in children. Pregnant women, the young and the frail are most at risk.
As the state develops commercially, the abundance of healthy fish from the state’s home waters has been slipping away. Toxics are just part of the problem. Habitat, every scientific report on salmon recovery shows, is the most important thing to securing abundant runs of fish for people and wildlife.
Yet the state is losing ground, literally, in runoff caused by development of uplands and cutting of forests.
And even as Seattle and King County water and sewer ratepayers spend hundreds of millions of dollars to clean up Puget Sound, the city of Victoria, B.C., continues to spew untreated sewage directly into the Salish Sea — prompting a dust-up with Inslee, but still no resolution of the problem.
Inslee inherited the fish-consumption wrangle from former Gov. Chris Gregoire, who failed to implement new regulations amid scorching opposition from businesses. As the struggle to get the standards updated roils behind the scenes in Washington, regulators in Oregon, and business leaders, are carrying on with that work behind them.
The Oregon Department of Environmental Quality has issued dozens of discharge permits since updating its standards in 2011, including permits for more than a half-dozen municipalities, a meatpacking plant and other industrial users. The path forward in Oregon required implementation of flexibility in setting timelines for compliance and variances, said Jennifer Wigal, water-quality program manager at the department.
A similar approach is in the works in Washington. Kelly Susewind, director of Washington Department of Ecology’s water-quality program, charged with drafting the regulations, said he wants to take the five-year time limits off compliance schedules and variances, to give regulators and dischargers a way to work out realistic solutions under new, more exacting standards.
Dennis McLerran, regional administrator for the Region 10 office of the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency, whose approval is required for Ecology’s regulations, said he backs flexible implementation.
“We are interested in working with the state on a package of implementation tools that includes compliance schedules, variances, intake water credits, even how you look at some chemicals. But we want to make progress. Otherwise, why do it?”
One place he is not inclined to budge, though, McLerran said, is cancer risk, because implementing a higher risk would allow bigger inputs of some pollutants to local waters. That could put people who eat a lot of fish at higher risk — and compromise treaty-protected fishing rights.
“Some of our high fish consumers when they signed on to transfer (their) lands, signed on to continue to harvest and eat fish, and when and if they can’t, then the treaty right is a bit vacuous,” McLerran said.
“From my perspective we want a standard that is protective, and protective of all people.”
A daily consumption standard of a little over 6 ounces of fish as set forth by Oregon — the highest standard in the country — is less than a typical half-pound filet an adult would have for dinner. And it’s a snack, compared with the estimated 2.2 pounds a day that the ancestors of Washington tribes were counting on when they signed the treaties with the U.S. government ceding tribal lands for non-Indian settlement.
People shouldn’t be afraid to eat fish now, Susewind said. The increased risk of cancer from eating fish today is almost zero — compared with a background risk of cancer from all causes of about 1 in 2 for men, or 1 in 3 for women.
And many common foods, from butter to chicken to tuna, have more PCBs in them than Puget Sound coho, according to an Ecology analysis.
The ubiquity of pollution is one reason Christie True, director of King County Natural Resources and Parks, said she hopes new state regulations don’t just crank down on pollutants at tiny levels in sewage discharges and other so-called point sources, but instead go after bigger sources of trouble in Puget Sound, including stormwater.
Just making compliance schedules workable doesn’t address the problem if the regulations misdirect spending and effort, she said.
“We want to make sure whatever investments we are making make a substantial improvement in water quality,” True said. “If we just focus on the point-source discharge, we are missing huge opportunities. All of these things, arsenic, PCBs, dioxins, those are coming through our watershed through street runoff and rain runoff, these are getting washed into our water without any kind of control.”
Dianne Barton, water-quality coordinator for the Columbia River Inter-Tribal Fish Commission, which pushed Oregon to get started on updating its standards, and is deeply involved with other Washington tribes in setting new standards in Washington, said tribes want progress, but not at any price.
In many rural and suburban areas of the Northwest, tribes are among the largest employers, running all kinds of industries themselves, and they want cost-effective solutions that make a true difference too, Barton said.
“The tribes have always believed that this is not something we are going to achieve overnight,” Barton said. “We can get creative.
“Whether as we move forward that includes variances or resources we haven’t developed yet, we are committed to being actively engaged so we can move the (Columbia) Basin forward.”
The Rez Runners’ Hunter Osceola dribbles against Cheyenne Arapaho’s Kiahree Kerns in an early round of the Native American Basketball Invitational.Mark Henle for Al Jazeera America
PHOENIX — Coach Andrew Bowers was exhorting his players on the court at the US Airways Stadium, his voice cutting through the din of cheering spectators, the squeaks of basketball shoes, the shrill blasts of the referee’s whistle.
“Defense!’’ he roared. “Lock it up! Lock it up! Lock it up!’’
The 18,422-seat stadium is the home of the Phoenix Mercury, a Women’s National Basketball Association franchise. But that wasn’t the team on the court. Bowers is the coach for the Rez Runners, a team of young men from the Seminole, Miccosukee and Winnebago tribes from Hollywood, Florida, where their home court has an audience capacity of just about 200.
By halftime on Saturday, they were tied 31-31 against the Cheyenne Arapaho team in the final game for the gold championship at the Native American Basketball Invitational (NABI).
The Cheyenne Arapaho, representing the tribe of the same name from Oklahoma, have been NABI champions five times. The Rez Runners had made it to the quarterfinals before but never this close to the big prize.
The two teams knew each other. Well.
“It’s a rivalry. It’s not friendly at all,” said Trewston Pierce, an 18-year-old Seminole tribal member and a Rez Runner. “We’re looking to smash ’em.”
At halftime, a victory for Pierce and the Rez Runners was fragile but within grasp.
For five days every July, 128 high school teams from the United States, Canada and New Zealand compete in the nation’s largest Native basketball tournament. The prizes: a trophy, T-shirts, hats and — most important — bragging rights.
For many in Indian Country, basketball is the game of the gods, just as hockey is to many Canadians or soccer to many Brazilians. It’s not clear how it gained such a foothold or why — it just is — but it does have a style and name among those who have been initiated: Rez Ball.
“We’ve been playing this way for decades,” said Tahnee Robinson. “It’s in our blood.”
Robinson was the first Native American drafted into the WNBA, after a fruitful career playing college ball in Nevada, and has been playing professionally overseas the last few years — Israel, Bulgaria, Ukraine, China and now Poland.
“Depending on where you go overseas, they play a fast pace, and some other places they like to really play with more finesse and set the ball up and things like that,” she said. “Rez Ball is a fast-paced game where anybody on the court can bring up the ball at any time.”
Guards, shooting guards, posts, forwards — it doesn’t matter what your position is; in Rez Ball, anyone can take the ball up, and everyone is on the hook to pass, break and rebound.
“It’s just good court sense,” said Robinson. “Just knowing that that person is going to be there without you even having to look.”
In other words, Rez Ball is more democratic — or more chaotic, depending on how you want to look at it.
Coach “Big John” Andreas, center, celebrates with his team, Apache Nation, after it defeated Brotherhood, representing the Winnebago tribe, 43-42, in the first round of play.Mark Henle for Al Jazeera America
The air conditioning roared in the modest Phoenix College gymnasium. Outside, the temperature hovered in the triple digits, but inside, brown faces and black hair filled the stands as Northern Thunder squared off against NN Lady Magic for the title of Girls Silver Champion.
“A lot of people in Indian Country love basketball,” said John Andreas, a coach from White Mountain Apache, Arizona. “It’s a part of life. Navajos, they herd sheep. Cowboys they get the cows together. Natives, they love to play basketball. That’s just the way it is.”
“It’s very important to remember that this is all about the youth,” said Andreas. “This is our way of life.”
There are myriad Native basketball tournaments across the country during the year. The NABI is the largest and is focused entirely on high school students, with the purpose of attracting scouts. By allowing only 128 teams per year to compete — 64 each for boys and girls — organizers hope to keep the quality of games high and to match NCAA brackets.
Roughly 1,600 student athletes attend annually, and teams must apply to play and follow guidelines. All players must be tribally enrolled and in high school and must attend educational seminars while participating.
“You can teach so much through the game of basketball,” said Yvonne DeCory, manager of the South Dakota Many Feathers team. “You can build character. You can build self-esteem. You can teach math.”
Because of NCAA rules, the big division schools don’t recruit at the NABI — only community and tribal colleges. However, the very prospect of a college career is enough for many coaches to push their kids.
“A lot of these kids are onsika. That means kind of poor, a little bit,” said Many Feathers coach William Good Eagle Jr. “Most of these kids don’t get a chance, or they’re too scared. We just want them to get out and try it.”
Overwhelmingly, coaches said basketball was also a way to keep kids off the street and out of trouble. With so many depressing statistics available to describe day-to-day Native life, a basketball game can be a huge breath of fresh air as well as an unassuming nod to a brighter future for the next generation.
“We may be seeing future councilmen or tribal chairmen on these courts,” said Martha Tommie, a Seminole tribal member and spectator. “Why wouldn’t we want our kids to blend together and our tribes become friends as youth? Then when they’re older and wiser — ‘Hey, remember us? Let’s help each other out.’”
Rez Runners Matthew Winsett, left, and Ryland Moore get ready for their championship game at the US Airways Center.Mark Henle for Al Jazeera America
It was quiet in the locker room, save for the sound of a few basketballs bouncing. The boys stretched as the sounds of music and the muffled voice of an announcer filtered down the halls and through the concrete walls of the stadium.
Ryland Moore had A$AP Ferg on his headphones, Mathew Wingett listened to J. Cole, and Trewston Pierce listened to a mix of 50 Cent and traditional Seminole hymns.
Coach Bowers had something to say to the Rez Runners.
“Intensity — let’s start it out from the beginning,” he intoned. “Punch ’em in the mouth, like we always say. Make ’em not want to play anymore. Intensity. That means on offense and on defense.”
The boys nodded. They knew what they had to do.
“We said ‘one game at a time’ the whole way here,” said Bowers. “We’re at that last game. Go get what’s yours. Go get what’s yours. Let’s go! ‘Win’ on three.”
The boys huddled up and in unison yelled, “One, two, three, WIN!”
Hori Poto, center, girls’ coach for New Zealand’s Nga Hau E Wha, with his team during pool play against Fort Yuma, an intertribal squad.Mark Henle for Al Jazeera America
Basketball is important not just to Native communities in North America; it has made its way to tribes in other parts of the world.
“Our major sport in New Zealand is rugby,” said Ramari Leonard, the delegation head and a coach for Nga Hau E Wha. “Our Maori youth grow up dreaming of becoming an All Black, so usually, basketball becomes secondary.”
Nga Hau E Wha, or “four corners,” is named that because team members represent Maori tribes from across the island nation. Essentially, it’s a Maori all-star team.
“For Maoris, when we come to do our tournaments, we have a cultural night, and it’s an expectation that each tribe will perform,” said Leonard. “That is a highlight of the tournament, and that’s what we expected, so we’re a little bit intrigued that it doesn’t happen [at the NABI].”
At the NABI, Native culture isn’t front and center like at other events, at least not what one might easily identify as Native culture. Instead, basketball is the culture, and despite the difference in basketball customs, tribes from both sides of the Pacific are finding more similarities than differences.
“I’d like to think our interactions with the Native Americans would be positive so they think well of Maori people,” said Leonard. “It’s more about the social context. The game is just a reason why we come together.”
Rez Runners basketball coach Andrew Bowers.Mark Henle for Al Jazeera America
Three minutes left on the clock, and the Rez Runners were ahead, 60 to 47.
Timeout.
“Try and run the clock if you can,” said Bowers as the boys gathered around him. “If they give it to you and it’s there, take it. If not, pull a Steve Nash. Go in, dribble it back out. All right?”
The 30-second timeout buzzer blared, and players from Cheyenne Arapaho began trickling back out onto the court. The crowd screamed.
“Three minutes,” yelled Bowers. “Three minutes until you get what you deserve. Challenge all shots. Let’s go, guys.”
Fans called out to the team, “Goooooooo, Rez Runners!’’ Top 40 hits blared over the stadium’s sound system, and the Rez Runners did exactly what they were supposed to: They ran down the clock and took shots when they could.
With about 10 second left on the clock, Cheyenne Arapaho suddenly lost energy, like runners who had crossed the finish line and had no reason left to run. The buzzer rang, and then a cheer rose from the crowd.
The final score: 66 to 51. The Rez Runners had their first NABI title.
The boys claimed their shirts, hats and trophy, then moved on for photos. The next day, some of the Rez Runners would fly back home, while the rest would drive — a two-day journey back to the tip of Florida, the homeland of the Seminole tribe.
“Our young people are just like the whites, the blacks, the Mexicans, whatever,” said Yvonne DeCory. “They put their sneakers on just like them, one at a time, and lace ’em up. But Natives? We got game.”
