Introducing a Native American Author Part II
Part II
Sense of purpose
The writing process promotes a strong sense of purpose. All journalists are well equipped with this frame of mind to convey to the reader a certain understanding. It is my intention, my aim to get you to see what I am seeing, the end view. When I am journalizing, the words that are “coming out of my mouth” are not accidental. They are formed by design through determination.
Back in my junior high school days as a Trojan from South Milwaukee, I had signed up for cross-country, not really knowing what to expect, other than that I was going to be doing a whole lot of running. Practice became an everyday affair. In the beginning it seemed like all I was doing was running around in circles, like a dog chasing its own tail. What I needed was a sense of purpose, a reason for running around in circles.
At some point in time I determined that my purpose for being in cross-country was to break a five-minute mile. Three years of junior high and I never came close to reaching that goal. It wasn’t until I joined the Marines in 1981 that I finally broke the five-minute mile. The sense of purpose is a driving force that propels one into the future.
As a Native American journalist, my sense of purpose is to make the Native American presence known to the world. This sense of purpose is nothing grandeur. I seek not after greatness in terms of moral fiber or of intellectual nobility. Rather, I just want to get my feet in the door, which is not always an easy task to perform.
I am reminded of my early days as a writer for the school newspaper at South Minneapolis High School in Minnesota. I had done a lot of writing in my English composition courses. At one point we had a writing exercise wherein we were supposed to render our own version of how creation came into being. I got an A+ and the teacher was so freaking excited that she read my story in front of the whole class. After she finished reading it all eyes followed her to the back of the class room as she handed me my paper. You should’ve seen the looks of disgust and indifference on my fellow students as they realized that an Indian became king of the classroom.
I was so proud of myself. My student advisors encouraged me to become a writer for the school newspaper. So, I went to the school newspaper office, knocked on the door and waited. Nothing. So, I knocked on the door like I was the police. Momentarily, a face appeared; the door only opened a crack. The face asked me what I wanted. After saying I wanted to do some writing as a member of the newspaper staff, I was flatly declined. My next move was to submit my creative writing assignment for publication.
When the paper finally came out, the story had been reworded with all kinds of incomplete sentences and a plethora of misspelled words. I went to the principle’s office to complain. In the end, I was allowed to be the sports reporter, but I was still not allowed in the newsroom. Since that time, it has been my purpose to make the Native American journalist not only a presence in the newsroom but a formidable presence at that.
Sense of satisfaction, writer’s voice, and immediate gratification
Action with satisfaction. That’s how I would describe the writing process. Another word for satisfaction is gratification. As a Native American journalist, I get a deep sense of satisfaction when I am able to put my persona, i.e. my public personality, or how I perceive myself when I am “out of character” into my intellectual work. How I present myself in my journalism is not necessarily who I am when we are behind closed doors. Utilizing a writer’s voice (the narrator narrating) in my stories gives me great pleasure. I can be whoever I want to be when I am writing. It’s like I put my multi-faceted spirit into my intellectual work. Without spiritual identification, the words would be bland, empty of character. The narrative would read like stereo instructions. And I do have character. I don’t think I’ve met a Native American journalist who doesn’t have character. I’m not the starched collar journalist. My collar will more likely have frybread grease on it. Enough said.
In closing, let me get a word in edgewise
The blush of morning commands a clear blue sky. With the morning’s intense sunlight filtering through the treetops, broad leaves breath translucently green. Now, in this present moment, as Turtle stands before a small, open fire prepared for spiritual purposes, songbirds warble in full chorus. First facing East, then North, then West, and then finally South, with both arms extended fully into the sky, Turtle holds in one hand a bag containing a peace pipe, and in the other, a tobacco pouch. As an eagle flies over head, the pipe ceremony is about to begin.
Next to the fire is spread out on the ground an alter cloth about the size of an ordinary dish towel. Upon that alter cloth are a number of items designed to make the ceremony a ceremony. Simply assembling the peace pipe and stuffing it with tobacco won’t do. Preparations are necessary.
All of the items placed on the alter cloth are reminiscent of old traditional Native American teachings; in particular, that of the Medicine Wheel. Having aligned a grouping of small stones into a circle, the readership will notice that within the circle are more stones and these ones are lined up to divide the circle into four sections; one line stretches from East to West and another stretches North to South. These are the four cardinal directions. When tied together in this manner the holistic perspective symbolizes balance, harmony and respect for all of life, for all of the community, for all of every community.
In each of these sections created by such an alignment are placed the four sacred medicines: in the East is the tobacco, in the North is the cedar, in the West is the sage, and in the South is the sweetgrass.
Turtle burns some of the sweetgrass to smudge (purify) himself. Then he burns some sage. As the smoke from the sage is rising, Turtle assembles the peace pipe, making sure that when the red pipestone bowl connects to the pipe stem that the connection is made in the rising smoke of the sage. Then he stands to hold up the assembled pipe into each of the four cardinal directions.
Having then lifted the pipe and tobacco pouch solemnly into each of the four directions, I (the Turtle we speak of) place the tobacco pouch on the ground next to grandfather fire. The red pipestone bowl has the capacity to hold four pinches of tobacco. I take the first pinch of tobacco from the pouch, and before placing the tobacco into the bowl, I think long thoughts, thoughts that produce deep feelings; for every prayer must contain emotional content.
These first long thoughts include concerns of my passion for writing. My interest in writing began at a very early age, at a time when I had not yet even learned to read. We can thank my dearly departed mother for this condition. I must have been at the tender age of five years old when I had lain next to her, watching her read a paperback book. After having asked her what it was she was doing, she said she was reading the words. Apparently, and to my consternation back then, the words make pictures in the mind. The sudden, alarming amazement from the utter confusion of her mind-blowing revelation actually turned out to be the catalyst that formed my mind into that of a freelance writer. I, too, wanted to create pictures in the mind using words.
I don’t remember exactly what level of grade school I was in when I first learned how to read, however, I seem to remember I was about seven years old. That was the age when I landed my first newspaper job; believe it or not. In those days I would wander away from home alone, exploring my neighborhood in Milwaukee. During one of my wayward expeditions, I had run into a boy my age who had a bundle of newspapers he’d been selling for a local print shop. He was selling each copy for ten cents apiece and he got to keep the money. The publisher’s main goal was to get the paper out onto the streets. Naturally, I wanted in.
We went to go see the publisher/printer. This was a very long time ago now, so my memory is a little hazy. I do remember, however, an old gentlemanly black man operating what I now know to be a printing press; one of those old-fashioned kinds where you have to spin a wheel and a letterpress comes down on newspaper stock. I cannot remember our conversation; however, it definitely was a “job interview,” of sorts. He had then given me a bundle of papers and off to work I went. I remember that newspaper well because on the front page was an image of a witch riding a broom with a huge tree in the background, and behind that huge tree was a full moon. It was that time of year; Halloween. The paper was filled with coupons and advertisements.
A few years later mom passed away. I believe I was eight years old then. My sisters and I were placed into foster homes. My younger sister and I were placed in a home on a small game farm in Allenton, Wisconsin. So that’s how it happened to be that one summer afternoon I found myself sitting on the slope of a hill overlooking a pond. Such moments gave me much needed solitude. Often in those moments I would have a notebook and a pencil. I kept a journal. My foster parents encouraged me to keep a journal so that I could “get off my chest” the issues that were bothering me; in particular, the passing of my mother. It was (and still is) a form of therapy for me. Putting my thoughts and feelings down on paper is a chore for me that I have been performing ever since those early days of watering the horses and feeding the cows.
My interest in writing grew the further I advanced in school. When I was in elementary school, I always enjoyed those monthly circulars that would be handed out. I would always daydream that I would be the one writing those stories. The teaching tool was basically an unstapled pamphlet that had reading and writing exercises. I particularly enjoyed the sections that contained “reading plays.”
My interest in writing was also prompted by the monthly book clubs. I always looked forward to buying a couple of books each month. We used to get a catalog and would be able to do some book shopping. I had quite a collection of science fiction books in my library; space travel seemed to be the main subject material. I remember in my spare time I would write stories about traveling to and living on Mars.
During my junior year at South Minneapolis High School, I wrote a number of articles for the school newspaper. Those submissions landed me on the school newspaper staff as the sports reporter. While a student at UW-Fond Du Lac, composition courses I had been enrolled in offered and opportunity to get some of my writings published through the university system; creative writing – short stories.
These are some of the things I think about as I hold the pinch of tobacco up to the first of the four cardinal directions. Now, I load that pinch of tobacco into my pipe and tamp it down with a stick. I then take another pinch of tobacco and hold it up to the second of the four cardinal directions. As I do, long thoughts come to mind.
In the second of the four cardinal directions, my thoughts turn to a time when I had been employed by an alternative mainstream media publication titled, “News From Indian Country.” It was while working for editor Paul DeMain that I had entered the newspaper industry, eager to learn as much as I possibly could about the industry. Desktop publishing became my reason for being. I started out working in the mail department. From there I began to sell advertising over the phone. At this task I became very skilled. My next evolution was to design my own advertisements and also my own section of the newspaper; I was put in charge of the section titled, “Powwows.” I had become adept at designing databases in order to track my advertising flights and I became adept at telephone deportment and I also became very interested in graphic arts/desktop publishing.
As I’m holding the pinch of tobacco up to the second of the four cardinal directions, I remind myself of those early days working at News From Indian Country. I use the term “work” loosely, for, I never considered the tasks I performed at the newspaper office was not actually work, but an exercise in creativity. Prior to being employed by Indian Country Communications, I had authored a number of articles that had subsequently been published by News From Indian Country. So, when the day came and a potential advertising client asked me if I would consider writing a newspaper story about his organization I immediately went along for the ride. And since then I’ve been writing newspaper articles and feature story articles with the intent to have them published. Some of them actually made it to print.
Native American journalist often perform more tasks than writing. While employed at News From Indian Country, I also did some desktop publishing work, mailroom clerk, and telephone sales advertising. Teaching myself how to set up a database to track my ad flights was a real boost to my self-esteem. I remember sitting in front of the computer monitor thinking to myself, “Wow, I’m programming a computer!” And doing graphic artwork was a real awesome experience. I learned how to use desktop publishing software, like Quark Xpress and Adobe Photoshop. Selling advertising over the phone put me in a position where I met hundreds upon hundreds of people in a very short time. Being a Native American journalist put me into contact with people from other tribes; especially, having become a member of the Native American Journalist Association. I always looked forward to attending the annual NAJA Conferences.
Being on the payroll of Indian Country Communications is not the only time I had been employed by a power greater than myself to perform duties as a writer. The Ho-Chunk Nation, headquartered in Black River Falls, Wisconsin also made use of my journalistic skills. While working as an administrative assistant for the Hocak Worak (tribal newsletter, bi-monthly) I also began writing news articles concerning community events that always take place within the realm of the Ho-Chunk Nation. It was a great pleasure to work for Paul Arentz, editor of the Hocak Worak. Wearing the hat of “newspaper reporter” allowed me the opportunity to meet and greet people of the tribal affiliation. The opportunity gave me practical hands on experience with working out in the field.
Having thought these many things, I now place my second pinch of tobacco into my pipe and I hold a third pinch up to the third cardinal direction. My thoughts drift to the present moment. I have an opportunity to do some writing for DriftlessNow.com. I am really looking forward to meeting new people and experiencing new friendships in the surrounding communities near and far. My little wandering spirit is eager to explore Wisconsin. It will truly be a blessing for me to meet and greet people from all walks of life. Friendships will abound. Wisconsin is rich in cultural diversity. What’s more, we all get a slice of that home-made pie. With these thoughts I place the third pinch of tobacco into my pipe and hold the fourth and final pinch up to the fourth cardinal direction.
Into this direction my mind embraces our natural environment, Mother Earth. There are so many things that could be said concerning this area of journalistic endeavors. Anything from ecology, to hunting, fishing, and gathering of natural resources, to outdoors activities like camping, hiking, biking…you name it. Perhaps words could be written concerning Native American tradition stories of long ago (such stories would of course be of nature-based culture, namely, woodland culture). Native American journalists have an inside window to the natural world and what a beautiful place it truly is.
So, with these final thoughts, I place the last pinch of tobacco into the pipe. From the small, open fire burning brightly before me, I retrieve a twig with a flame on it. I light the pipe, blow smoke into each of the four directions, then to the sky and then to the earth. I smoke once for myself and then I hand you the peace pipe in sincere friendship. It is nice to meet you. I am looking forward to long years of ever-lasting friends.
Aho.
