Life on the Reservation

     As a little girl, I grew up listening to the stories of John White, a Native American storyteller of Cherokee descent who wove tales of turtles on the warpath and young warriors slaying bears, or old blind men saving the town all on their own. I would listen in rapture, over and over to the stories I knew all the endings to, each time more and more excited. My favorite story was of the crawfish who were terrorized by the raccoon who lived nearby, and the way that raccoon tricked those crawfish, and the brave warrior crawfish who saved them all.
     These stories pretty much sum up my general feeling about Native American life, or at least how I picture it. I've always seen it as this wonderful thing, so cultured and beautiful, every tool and food made by hand - I suppose the stereotypical idea of what Native American life was like. I have no idea. I can only imagine that before the White people came and screwed it all up, things probably weren't all bad. But thinking about what the Europeans did when they came, and every nasty thing they brought with them, it kinds of shatters that perfect picture with a blindingly harsh reality. Once the states became the United States, things began to change. Alcoholism was a big problem. The Native Americans were introduced to things they had never seen before in their lives. Eventually, that cultural beauty they had possessed began to disintegrate. As time went by, reservations became less and less common, and life on the reservations probably became more and more difficult. I can't pretend to really know anything about the subject, but I don't imagine there are many people who fully and completely embrace their Native American roots today. It makes me sad to think that a once so beautiful culture is being shoved aside by what is in my opinion a not nearly as beautiful culture.

Propaganda

Propaganda: information, especially of a biased or misleading nature, used to promote or publicize a particular political cause or point of view

My immediate reaction to the word "propaganda" is not a good one. Anyone who has ever read 1984 cringes at the sound of the word. The definition itself is not exactly a wonderful thing - "especially of a biased or misleading nature". The Oxford American Dictionary even starts the definition with the words "chiefly derogatory". I suppose some propaganda must be good, although it's also a matter of opinion. Obviously the people putting out the propaganda think it's a good idea.

The picture I chose as an example of propaganda might not really seem like the best representation of the thing. It is just the picture of some sort of army guy's jacket. It shows his pins and flags and stuff, and is seemingly harmless. But I feel like, if I was a young man, sixteen or seventeen years old, getting ready to go to college, and I saw this picture, along with subtle hinting about "Do what's right for your country" and "Support your troops" and all that stuff, I might feel obligated or moved to join the army. It's so subtle, sometimes not even recognizable. But even though you might think of propaganda as the old, comumunist, crazy thing that used to happen, it's still around today. It's very subtle.

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Black Boy

     This is one of the saddest books I've ever read. It's not even really what happens or what you physically read that make me sad, it's what everything means. I still can't get over how terrible it is that Richard's mom beats him all the time, especially when he asks questions. That has to be so damaging to that poor little boy. Any little boy or girl I've ever met has that beautiful, wondering curiosity, and no matter how annoying it is for them to ask question after question, I always want to answer them. I have this need, almost an urgency, to satisfy their curiosity. It's so wonderful to see a little kid asking questions, it's the mark of a smart human. So for Richard's mom to deny him that curiosity, to deny him the answers to the many questions he asks, is just so sad. I don't know, because I haven't finished the book yet, but I feel like that's going to hurt him as  a man later on in life. Already, from the burning curtains and the alcoholism and the swearing, you can tell he has this need for attention, and everything he does gets him into trouble. He can't get the answers he needs at home, so he has to seek elsewhere.
     Another thing that really makes my heart ache is growing awareness he has of racism, and the way he feeds into it. I totally, one hundred percent understand why he does. He hears terrible stories of things that white people are doing to black people, and it's no wonder he grows to hate them. But it makes me so sad that it had to be that way. Earlier in the book, he writes how he was for the most part unaware of the difference between white and black people, besides the color of their skins. As he grows older, he starts to notice other things, and with the help of his community and every person around him, he builds a barrier between him and other races. He writes of his treatment of the Jewish man who owns the store, and of the treatment of blacks by whites that he hears every day. It is such an unfortunate thing to read about, hearing him as a young, innocent little boy who becomes more socially aware and has almost no choice but to contribute to the racism of the country. It is a terrible, unfortunate, unavoidable thing.
     Even though this book is heartbreaking, I like it so far. It's a little weird at times, like when he kills the cat, or when he lives with his uncle. While it's hard to read, it's very interesting. I'm excited to continue.

Hungry For Attention

     Is Richard alone in his craving? Absolutely not. Half of the reason people do things in this life is because they are hungry for attention. I'm pretty sure every naughty thing kids do when they're little is because of a need for attention. And not even only naughty things. I remember when I was little, my friend and I used to clean our bathrooms together. One of the reasons we did it was because we liked to pretend to be Cinderella, but the most exciting part was to finish cleaning and run, pulling our exasperated parents' hands behind us, to the newly clean (and probably not even very dirty in the first place) bathroom, only to hear them say, "Wow Alaina and Rory, this looks so great! You guys are naturals!"
     But even besides children, everyone is hungry for attention. If someone says, "Oh I don't care at all what people think of me, I don't need attention, I don't care what I look like" etc. etc. etc...... Maybe in some ways it's true, but the truth of the matter is, everyone needs a little attention. Everyone wants to know that they are loved or wanted or even noticed by someone. Especially someone special :)
     When Richard sets the house on fire, maybe this is going a little too far. But if you put yourself in his shoes, it doesn't actually sound like that extravagent of a plan. His parents weren't paying any attention to him (and let's face it, when you're little, all you really want is for your parents to love you and pay attention to you) and he wanted to pull the attention toward himself. He didn't know that setting the curtains on fire was going to burn the house down. He was four years old. He was just a little boy who thought it would look magnificent for those leaping orange flames to mix with the forbidden white curtains. He was curious, and smart enough to know that he probably shouldn't be doing what he was doing, and that it might give him some attention. It's hard to be a little kid when your parents aren't paying attention to you. All kids do stupid things to get attention. It's unavoidable.

I Hear America Singing

I loved this poem. It was so beautiful. I loved the imagery and the feeling it gave me. Personally, I really really really enjoy singing. So to read a poem that depicts the American people singing, proud of what they do, makes me happy. Even though I know that the poem's not literal, and that he doesn't really mean people are actually singing, I like to picture lots of huge, muscley, dirt-covered blacksmiths and beautiful young mothers singing as they do their daily work. It's lovely.

This is what America should be. People, proud of their work and thier lives, doing good work. Families that love eachother and what they do, and support each other. America singing. When I think of someone singing, I think of someone singing out of joy, so happy the song just bursts out. They can't help it. Or I think of someone singing so, so sadly, out of a grief that's so great they can't stop themselves from wailing in a beautiful ballad. Either of these images makes my heart swell. Singing is such a beautiful way to express your emotions. People singing while they do their work, so filed with emotion that they can't contain themselves. Full of happiness at being alive, being safe and free in America, being loved by someone. People grieving for a loved one, for something in their life that they can't control.

Whether you're singing out of joy or sadness, it's a wonderful thing to sing. Maybe you're proud of your family, maybe you're proud of the life you've created; maybe you're grieving the family you left behind, or the mother you lost. No matter what, you should sing. Sing because you can. Sing because you have a voice.

King Still King?

     Martin Luther King. What an incredible man. One of America's most well-known civil rights leaders. He was, and in my opinion still is, a symbol for those of us who feel they have no place in the world. For those of us who feel segragated against for immoral reasons, for those of us who have been poorly treated because of race or class. Had Martin Luther King not said all he said, and done all he did, perhaps America would not be wehere it is today.
     Yeah, sure, there were others. Yes, eventually someone else would have shone, and yes, evetually racism and segregation probably would have been beaten (for the most part anyway; it's not like it's completely gone everywhere). But would it have happened like it did with King? Would someone else have made such and enormous impact on African American culture? He was so important to America's history.
     And what if he had not been shot? Would people think of him differently, if he had not died for the cause? A martyr for his people, for his American people. Of course, he still made an impact with his words and with his actions, but sometimes (and this might be terrible to even say) a tragedy like a death is just what the world needs to put things into action. Whenever people think of Martin Luther King, they think of a noble man who fought for his cause and went as far as he possibly could.
     Today we have Martin Luther King Day. In my experience, at least with myself and the people I know, this day is not a reflection on him and on the world and what we can do to make it better, just like he did. This is how it should be. Of course, I don't know about other households. Maybe some families have big parties celebrating their hero, their reason for freedom and justice. Maybe some parties mourn for King. I honestly don't know. But I don't think we need a day to remember him by. I think he is still alive in the hearts of every person who cares for others and everyone's independence.

This Sacred Soil

     "This Sacred Soil" is a speech that chief Seattle of the Duwamish and Suquamish fishing tribes made to the Governor of Washington Territory in 1854. Reading this kind of shook me, actually. It just makes me sad. It makes me sad that he was so kind, so cordial, in addressing the Governor. That he seems to be losing hope in his faith and in his people/ But what makes me the most sad of all is the fact that I will never know or fully understand Seattle and his people's ways of life, their view on everything around them. 

     It is so beautiful to read about how "Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove, has been hallowed by some sad or happy event in days long vanished" (p230), how "The very dust upon which you know stand responds more lovingly to [his people's] footsteps than to [the settlers'], because it is rich with the blood of our ancestors and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch" (p230). I love to think of the earth and everything in it as a living thing, with feelings and a conscious mind, connected to every other living thing. 

     Seattle's view of the dead also mystifies me, in a wondrous way. He says there is no death, only a change of worlds. That everyone has their time. Upon first reading this speech, it seems that Seattle is grieving the decay of his people, but he goes on to say he does not mourn the fate of his people. He sees things in a much different way than people today do. He has a different way of looking at life.

     This speech just makes me wish I could be a fly on the wall. Not just in this situation, more than a hundred years ago, but everywhere in the world. I wish I could understand every culture, read every book there was to read about different people, discover new ways of looking at this wonderful life. But at the same time, I find something mysterious and exciting about the fact that each culture is its own, and that's what's special about it. The fact that other cultures don't fully understand it, don't know everything about it, makes it that much more unique. This speech from Chief Seattle really puts life in perspective.