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Sunday, June 24, 2012

Writing Bad Indians: A Short History of a Long Project


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Bad Indians: A Tribal Memoir ... In some ways, it feels as if I have been writing this book all my life.  I was born in Los Angeles, the only child of Alfred Miranda, an Esselen-Chumash man, and Madgel Miranda, a woman of European ancestry.  
Mom, me, Dad circa 1962

When I was three, my parents divorced.  My mother remarried when I was five and we moved to Washington State after I finished kindergarten.  Those first five years in California remained a crucial part of my identity.  In Washington, I was the only Indian kid in any of my classes for the rest of my public school career.  I looked different, I felt different, and I knew from the silences and absences in and around me that I had lost something, something I could not describe but which, to myself, I called “home,” and the ache itself inside me, “homesick.”

Home (with Duffy, our bull mastiff, on guard), circa 1969.
For most of my remaining childhood, we lived in an old trailer in the woods on the outskirts of Kent, Washington.  We’d always been low-income, but after my step-father and mother divorced when I was ten, my mom and I went on welfare, struggling to get by.  My mother was a strong and intelligent woman who came into her strengths late in life, earning an Associate’s Degree in Librarian Sciences from Highline Community College and landing a full-time job at KOMO-TV in Seattle as a Videotape Librarian.   

By that time, at thirteen years of age, I expressed a longing to know my father and my California Indian relatives; thanks to my mother’s example, I was also beginning to imagine going to college myself someday.  Knowing she could never afford a four-year university tuition on her own, my mother contacted my father, asking for his help in putting together my genealogy.  She hoped that the BIA would issue a blood quantum decision that would allow me to apply for scholarships open to Native Americans.  

 I think my mother also sensed my hunger for the other half of my heritage – my father, older half-sisters, aunties and uncles and cousins who looked like me, and a homeland whose towns, streets, mountains, rivers and beaches I could name, but had only gone back to visit once or twice.


She had no idea that she was walking into the hornet’s nest that was and still is the BIA, but then my mother was always tougher than she looked.  Thanks to the BIA’s epic, bureaucratic, and historic dysfunction, my mother became what she called an “accidental genealogist.” Fortunately, it turned out to be her life’s passion, and Madgel Miranda turned out to be a tenacious researcher.  This hunt also reconnected me with my Indian father (in fact, he moved to Washington and my parents reunited for a time; even though that didn’t work out, my father lived nearby the rest of his life), my little (half) brother Al, and that side of my family, and introduced us all to the on-going reformation of the Esselen Nation and the work towards Federal Recognition.  

Although I eventually earned a B.S. in Special Needs Teaching from Wheelock College in Boston (1983), I still felt my primary work in the world was as a writer.  After teaching for five years, I returned to the Seattle area and began raising two children of my own as well as writing and publishing poetry; finally, in 1995, I applied to the University of Washington’s Graduate English Department.

My mother died in November 2001 from lung cancer, just five months after she and my father saw me graduate with my Ph.D. in English Literature at the age of 40. Long since separated but still bound together by love, history and blood, my parents had sat together at the UW’s Native student graduation feast and ceremony in the Daybreak Star lodge, along with my two children.  

 My mother’s death was an unexpected blow – she was only 66, just retired, and the cancer had snuck up on her without warning.  No, she never was able to get me that BIA stamp of approval, and I graduated with big student loans to pay back.  But my mother left behind my real inheritance: a relationship with my father (no matter how fraught with conflict, it was still a relationship that helped me form my identity as a Native woman), about ten banker’s boxes full of painstaking research, and an amazing family tree that goes back to some of the first Native converts at Mission Carmel in 1770.  

Three years after my mother’s death, these boxes followed me from my first teaching job at Pacific Lutheran University in Tacoma to my new job at Washington and Lee University in Virginia, where I began having dreams about the ancestors whose were lives chronicled in reams of documentation.  Also in those boxes rattled a handful of old cassette tapes featuring my grandfather, Thomas Anthony Miranda, which my mother had started to transcribe but was unable to complete.
Thomas Anthony Miranda, circa 1955

            Originally, I began to finish the transcription of those stories as a way to feel close to my mother, whom I missed tremendously.  But I was quickly caught up in the rich material Tom’s stories opened up to me, a whole world of post-secularization experiences that both fascinated me and broke my heart with grief for what our ancestors had experienced.  I moved from the tapes to the other papers contained in my mother’s boxes, including a handful of notes from J.P. Harrington’s collection featuring Isabel Meadows.  As I’ve done all my life, I began to write out my responses in order to understand what I read.  Poems, stories, and essays began to form, as did artistic responses to documents like blood quantum charts, BIA enrollment forms, and material related to mission lands.   At last, I realized that this was a huge project, nearly overwhelming, and would require serious dedication of time, resources and energy.

            I took the first step by applying for, and receiving, a grant from the American Philosophical Society to have my grandfather’s tapes transferred to CDs.  A series of these stories were published in News from Native California under the title, “The Light from Carissa Plains.”  Next, I proposed a sabbatical project under the same name and received a year-long fellowship from UCLA to work on the book there.  I had been born at UCLA Hospital, so returning to that campus to work on a book about my family seemed like the Universe was giving me its blessing for the project.  With my older half-sister Louise J. Miranda Ramirez, Chair of the Esselen Nation, close by, archives all around, and the homelands of my ancestors stretching out in every direction, my time in California was intense –  painful, exhausting, and exhilarating, often simultaneously. 

            After ten months of non-stop research and writing, I had the bones of the book.  I continued writing and revising for another four years while teaching full-time, receiving several Lenfest Summer Grants from my institution, Washington and Lee University, to support travel to the Smithsonian in D.C., and back to California.  At one point, my colleague Chris Gavaler read over my manuscript and encouraged me to change the title from The Light from Carissa Plains to the much more descriptive Bad Indians: A Tribal Memoir, taking the title from one of the poems.

            Early on, I knew I wanted Heyday to publish this book.  In addition to Heyday’s dedication to California Indian publications, I’d long admired their book Only What We Could Carry, a collection of documents, poetry, prose and artwork about the Japanese Internment Camps.  I knew that Heyday would be able to handle the kind of multi-genre manuscript that I had in mind for Bad Indians.  But when I sent the early manuscript to publisher Malcolm Margolin, he felt it was still too unpolished, more successful as a handful of vignettes than as a cohesive book. 
         
             Disappointed but not crushed, I spent several more years writing and fine-tuning the book so that its form and content reflected the vision I had in my head.  During this time, my father also passed away from complications of diabetes; he had never fully understood my need to tell the harsher stories of our family and tribal history, and now he would never see the finished piece, never experience the healing I hoped the book would encourage.  I felt that the California Indian community needed this book now more than ever, and submitted the manuscript to a university publisher whose editor had expressed interest.  Unfortunately, the press's marketing director found the project to be unmarketable.  I sent the manuscript off to another publisher who expressed strong interest, but they kept the manuscript for an extended period of time without giving me a solid response.  This lengthy period of multiple submissions is the norm for trying to get a book published, but in frustration, I told that publisher I was sending the manuscript elsewhere, and sent my precious package off to Malcolm Margolin again. 


            That good man sat down and read it immediately, and wrote me a heartfelt note that led to a signed contract not too much later.  I’d known all along he would understand the depth and breadth of this book if I could just get it right, and I’m grateful that he was willing to re-read it after enduring that earlier, very rough draft.

            I wish my mother could be here to see the completion of this project.  She has been at my side all these ten years of writing, reading, researching, dreaming, and revising.  I wish my father could hold this book in his hands and see why healing requires us to expose and relive some of the most painful personal and ancestral experiences; perhaps he would have seen how those genealogies of violence in our blood are tied to survival and renewal.  Perhaps he would have forgiven those who hurt him, and whose hurt he passed on to his children.  Perhaps he would have begun to forgive himself. 

            I like to think that both of my parents would both be more than pleased to see how our collaborative work has become a memorial and testimony for the Ancestors, and a contribution to the renaissance of California Indian culture.  I like to imagine my parents would see how, despite my removal from Indian family and homelands at the age of three due to difficulties in their own lives, they each managed to help me find a kind of wholeness at last.



Friday, June 15, 2012

"Dear Sonora": Writing to a Fourth Grader About Her Project



Recently, my sister Louise J. Miranda Ramirez, Chair of the Ohlone Costanoan Esselen Nation, received a request from a sharp fourth-grader asking about the Native experience in California Missions.  My sister, who does about 35 tasks per minute on a slow day, asked if I would tackle the response.  I said, I've been needing to do this for awhile anyway.  Here it is. 

The letter reads:

Dear Ms. Ramirez,

I am a fourth grader and I am doing my report on Mission Nuestra Senora Dolorosisima de la Soledad. I discovered that Coastanoan and Essellen are some of the names of the tribes that went to the Soledad mission, and I was searching for some info on them when I stumbled across your email address on www.ohlonecostanoanesselennation.org. Me and my mom decided that maybe you could help us\me. Anyway, what I was searching for was the opinion of the Coastanoan and Esselen Native Americans. I want to know if the Native Americans liked the mission, which priests were their favorites....stuff like that, and I'm hoping you can help me. If you can help me, or even if you can't, thanks a ton!

Sincerely, Sonora


Dear Sonora (what a great name!),

My sister Louise passed your message on to me; she's very busy as Chair, and since I'm a writer, she often asks me for my 2 cents worth when fourth graders write to her.

You wanted to know the Ohlone-Esselen-Costanoan opinion of the missions.  That's a tough question.  Some Indian people will tell you that the missions were great, and brought us Catholicism and agriculture; others will tell you that anything that kills about 80% of your people can't be good.

California Indians were doing fine before the Spanish, Mexicans and Americans arrived.  We had everything we needed, including our own religions, leaders,  music, languages, jobs and education.  They were different from the way Europeans did those things, though, so lots of people thought we needed "civilizing."  We were curious about the Spanish, and about their religion, but we should have been allowed to decide for ourselves what we wanted.  Instead, the missionaries made that decision for us.  Sometimes they would "baptize" women and children who came to visit, and refuse to let them go.  The husbands and fathers would come to get them, and were told that they could not see their families unless they, too, allowed themselves to be baptized.  Of course, none of the Indians knew what baptism really meant, and when the padres then told them that they could not leave, it was a big surprise.  The missionaries and soldiers thought of themselves as "civilized" so they figured THEY must be right, and the Indians were wrong.

Civilized people don't hurt other people for being different, though.  Many Indians do not think the Spanish were very civilized.

The Missionaries did a lot of things that hurt Indian people and families.  For example, all little girls over the age of 7 had to go sleep in the monjerio, a small building with no bathroom and small windows way up taller than anyone could reach.  These rooms were dark, smelly and dirty, and the young women and girls kept in there got sick from germs and lack of fresh air.  They were also very homesick for their families.  They didn't see their parents much, since during the day the parents were forced to work for the missionaries, doing all the work to build, maintain, and farm for the mission.  Also, I'm sorry to say, at the Missions, Indians were whipped if they broke any of the priest's rules - and since Indians didn't know Spanish, and missionaries didn't know Indian languages, there were a lot of misunderstandings about what the rules were.  Plus, of course, sometimes the Indians (who had taken very good care of themselves for thousands of years) didn't agree with the Spanish rules in the first place, so they would do things that were against the rules like gather wild food, go hunting, leave the mission to visit their families elsewhere, marry whom they wanted to marry, or other things they considered part of their rights as human beings.

I think everyone, historians and Indians alike, agree that Missionization was a disaster for the Indians:  our estimated population numbers went from about one million to 15,000 in just under 200 years.  We lost almost all of our land, all of our natural resources (that provided food and shelter), many of us lost our language, religion, and communities.  Can you imagine if 8 out of every 10 people you know died from being taken over by another group of people who showed up in your town?  Diseases from Euro-Americans did so much damage that we almost didn't survive.

The hardest part was losing our homelands.  The Missions made us move into the Missions, and sixty-five years later when the missions closed down, all of our land was taken by other non-Indian people, so we had nowhere to go, no way to feed ourselves.  Mexicans used Indians as free labor - for a meal and a place to sleep, Indians worked almost like slaves for the Mexican Ranchos.

The American laws were even worse - American law prevented Indians from owning land, voting, or taking a white person to court.  As late as 1866, Indians could be bought and sold just like slaves in the south - and thousands were, including women and children.  Even my great-great-great-great-great grandfather, Fructuoso Cholom Real, who received land in a Mexican Land Grant after the missions were closed down, lost that land to Americans who simply told his family that Indians weren't allowed to own land.

So mostly, the missions were not that much fun for Indians.  The average baby born in a California mission only lived to be 7 or 8 years old; some disease or other would kill them.  Also, because of a Euro-American disease called syphilis, many Indian men and women could no longer have babies, so there were no new kids to replace the people who died.  Every time an old person died, it was like an entire library of knowledge, history and stories burned down.  That's tough to survive!

But some of us did survive, and some of our communities are slowly growing.  It's hard when many of us, like the Esselen, don't have any land (no reservation, no place to meet).  Whenever we have our annual gathering, for example, we have to pay someone to use their land.  So we don't have too many gatherings, but we're also petitioning the U.S. government for recognition - that means, we would be eligible to have a small piece of government "surplus" land in our homeland that we could use as a center, apply for educational scholarships that are only available to federally recognized tribes, and receive some basic health benefits.  It's funny, but even though I can prove my family history all the way back to 1770 was Indian, the government still considers me "non-Indian"!

You can check out my blog, called www.whenturtlesfly.blogspot.com , for more information about California Indians.  On the right side of my blog page are a bunch of links to California tribes, mission research, and so on.

I hope you learn a lot about the missions and the California Indians who had to live there.  It was a crazy time, a hard time, and a sad time.  It's a miracle anyone survived at all.  My sister and I know that we have a lot of work to do!  We want our Ancestors to be proud of us, because we are only here because a few of them managed to survive, and used up all of their strength so we could live.

(Oh, p.s.: I realize that I didn't actually answer your question about favorite priests.  The Spanish priests, and later the Mexican priests, were human beings with the same gifts and flaws as anyone else.  So, like most people, some priests were considered 'kind' and others were considered 'mean.'  Father Serra, for instance, wrote in his letters about how much he loved the Indians, and how badly he felt when the Spanish soldiers hurt or killed Indians.  But as kind as he was, Father Serra never questioned whether the missions should be built or maintained.  He believed that Spaniard's way of living was the ONLY way of living.  So Indians, who lived differently, must be made to change - even if it meant killing, or spreading disease, or denying human rights.  This way of thinking is called "colonization."  Colonization, or in California what we call "Missionization," is a cruel and unkind way to treat other people.  It means, basically, that a Colonizer doesn't think Indians or Native people are really human beings yet.)

Good luck,

Deborah A. Miranda


NOTE:  When I posted this response to Sonora on my FaceBook page, these are the comments I received:

L Frank Manriquez, Kimberly Robertson, Ire'ne Lara Silva and 50 others like this.
  32 shares

Anita Endrezze great response! as to Indians owning property, when my father tried to buy a house in the 1950s, he couldn't because he was Indian. And so my mother tried to buy it, and she couldn't because she was a woman (she was white). So her father had to co-sign.  May 29 at 11:45am

AnaLouise Keating.  Wow. What a great response...gentle and yet forthright...you've given this student quite a gift!  May 29 at 11:47am · Like · 5

Beverly Slapin Wow, Deborah! What you've given to Sonora will become an important part of her life. Imagine the lessons she is learning, not only about the missionization of the Indian peoples, but about how a people's truth is not taught in school.  May 29 at 12:01pm · Like · 2

Elizabeth Archuleta What a beautifully written response about a tragic piece of history!  May 29 at 12:24pm · Like

Asali Solomon Thank you for including me in this amazing note. I think a lot of "educated" people like myself know a little bit--but not much more-- than this student.  May 29 at 12:29pm Like

Anita Endrezze I wrote a poem about the missions of CA. The conditions were monstrous and the system was evil. Those who didn't fall in line were severely punished. One man was put inside a calf skin and roasted. Girls were raped after being sent to live on haciendas to work as servants. Women were beaten to conceive more slaves. I wrote the poem in response to a movement to elevate Junipero Serra to sainthood.May 29 at 12:40pm · Unlike · 2

Ernestine Saankalaxt’ Hayes  Excellent, insightful, honest glimpse into indigenous experience. Thank you for sharing! Gunalcheesh!  May 29 at 1:35pm · Like

Patricia Killelea This should be required reading for all the children here in CA studying missions! Thanks for sharing it with all of us.  May 29 at 1:38pm · Like · 2

Linda Rodriguez Beautiful reply to the young student's request, Deborah! I'm so impressed with your clarity and calm lucidity when telling of things that bring rage and tears to the surface so easily.  May 29 at 1:46pm · Like

Deborah Miranda Y'know, Linda, in a strange way I think I can thank my father for that. People often tell me I have a great poker face. It comes from having learned not to show reaction, and to negotiate my way out of a scary situation. My dad suffered from post-colonial distress syndrome!  May 29 at 1:48pm · Like · 3

Tiffany Midge That was a great letter from the student -- I was forced to make a satire out of the nitwits who have written to me and wish I had the opportunity to reply with your kind of sincerity. :-)  May 29 at 1:55pm · Like

Deborah Miranda Well, fourth graders ... there's still hope, you know?  May 29 at 2:28pm · Like

Lorenzo HerrerayLozano Thank you for sharing, Deborah! This is beautiful. May 29 at 2:39pm · Like

Rain Gomez Wonderful response! I wish I could cultivate that perfect blend of motherly ethos with education smack down creating nuanced timbre just perfect for a fourth grader yet with undertones in such a way that you know her mother will catch certain bits... As always Deborah, the skills and knowledge give me awe. When I taught HS English in CA I start with non-alphanumeric lit, so Native lit, wampum, baskets, etc... And as I talk about Indigenous Americas... and what they know, inevitably their responses where Disney Pocahontas, and "we gave them Catholicism..." Thank-you California educational system... May 29 at 4:00pm · Like

Rachel Jennings Dang! Very direct, straightforward, respectful...explicatory....this fourth-grade girl is very fortunate to have found a source like you!  May 29 at 8:38pm · Like

Louise J. Miranda Ramirez Nimasianexelpasaleki for such a great response, I knew it was a job for you ichi! I will just forward them all to you from now on. Back from Monterey had an interview about land at Fort Ord. I will let you know when it is published. I was asked what do you see when you look at the land? My response HOME! Mislayaya Kolo  May 29 at 10:00pm · Unlike · 3

Elizabeth A Woody Thanks four letting me read that response. Yowzah.  May 29 at 10:58pm Like

Magdalena Nieves Wings, Sonora has a new lens to look through. She was tenderly told the other, non-sanitized story and I've no doubt it will change her journey. Years ago L. was angered when I told my grandson about the horrible treatment of the Tainos. She thought it too harsh for a boy to handle; better that he should be taught the toxic lies about our people and celebrate a vitriolic leader with a story about discovery accompanied by a day off. There's a weighted freedom and a insight that comes with powerful, uncovered truths. This is why Creator gave you the wings!  May 30 at 8:43am · Like

Rebecca Solnit I grew up on Coast Miwok land knowing something was missing (and that there was more to CA history than making missions out of sugar cubes in fourth grade). I'm glad that the first nations of the Bay Area are more visible and more respected now, and I think Sonora is very lucky to get this powerful letter from Deborah Miranda.  May 30 at 12:30pm · Like · 1

Kimberly Robertson great work Deborah! this will be super helpful for me when Estella hits fourth grade in two years.... May 30 at 2:33pm · Like

Kathleen Alcala Thanks for this thoughtful response, Deborah. I hope you don't mind that I am keeping this for future reference.  May 31 at 3:09pm · Like

Ellen Fernandez-Sacco A wonderful letter for Sonora to have from you Deborah!  May 31 at 9:48pm · Like

L Frank Manriquez we learned that cruel histories can still produce kind peoples...  June 2 at 9:48am · Like

Violeta Martin My mom and I were having breakfast this morning and was asking about Native Americans in the PNW. The conversation then shifted to Mexicans and America's Southwest and I was reminded of this letter. I had her read it. After a long while, I asked her what she thought and realized she was reading all the comments too. I told her she didn't have to and she said, "I just couldn't stop reading. This is beautiful."  June 2 at 2:16pm · Unlike · 1

Minal Hajratwala · We were at Mission Dolores a few years ago when another visitor asked a docent why so many Native Americans died (there is a graveyard behind the Mission). The docent replied that they had "poor hygiene"!! We protested vigorously (mentioning syphilis, forced labour, and outright killing) and, when the docent argued back, complained to the director of the Mission (who apologized and gave a decent response). The level of ignorance is incredible, and your writing is such a gift.55 minutes ago · Unlike · 2

L Frank Manriquez thank you m. hajratwala

Monday, June 4, 2012

Ularia's Curse



Pero la maldicion de la Ularia
cayó en la familia de los
Sarchens.(Isabel Meadows to J.P. Harrington, 
76:428B)

Isabel says, it was Ularia’s curse that killed Sargent.  The American ran Estéfana and her children off the land at Rancho El Potrero - that same land awarded to Estéfana’s parents, Cholom and his wife Yunisyunis, by the Mexican Governor Alvarado, after the mission was shut down; the very land where Echilat, the village of their parents, had existed long before the mission was a gleam in Padre Serra’s eye.  The American told Estéfana, those signatures are no good anymore; Indians can’t own land.

Estéfana and the other displaced Indians she had taken into her home carried their few belongings to the banks of the Carmelo River.  They camped there a few days, paralyzed by grief and anger, wept themselves hollow with frustration.  “And then,” Isabel says, “they dispersed.”

Ten years later, Sargent fell into the Carmelo River while herding his cattle across during a storm.  He became ill, and a few days later, he died.

Isabel says what happened was, Ularia had cursed Sargent that day ten years before: sitting there on the banks of the river, her worn skirts heavy and wet with rain and mud, her hair burnt short in mourning.  She didn’t have much left to work with – no bundles of mugwort, no roots, no cocoon rattle, not even a clapperstick.  She was just an old Indian woman, beaten by soldiers, chastised by priests, her last grown child hung from the big oak as a horse thief by the Americans. She was cast off, discarded. She wanted to abandon her old woman’s body, even if the Spaniards had killed all the two-spirited joya and left not one to carry her past the dangerous male and female gods that guarded the path to the Ancestors.



But out of habit, Ularia leaned down, her spine crackling with age, and scooped a handful of Carmel’s clear water in her palm, brought it to her lips, drank it down.  She tasted the cold roots of mountains off to the north.  She felt the sharp grit of river sand in her worn molars, sparkle of a stray flake of gold, scales of a little fish on her tongue. And Ularia remembered: the river would be here long after she was gone. 

Will you miss us, River? she wondered, will you miss our feet on your riverbed, our twined fishing nets combing your waters, our sacrifice of the first salmon every year?

Isabel says, the river must have said yes, because where else would Ularia have gotten the idea?  She reached down, plucked a smooth round stone from beneath the water, spoke to it in the old language.  She gathered salt from the estuary to the west, a gritty sand mixed with ocean and fresh water spirits.  She added charcoal from that last fire built on the river’s banks by the refugees, great oaks reduced to ashes.  She smudged the curse in the scent of toasted chia seeds made for the journey away, the scorched redbud of the basket that held them.  Ularia made that curse of mud, the decomposing body of our mother black and thick enough to trip even a strong stock horse; she made that curse from slick water weeds that can tangle a man’s legs, pull him down beneath the surface; she made that curse out of a rainstorm’s rage, conjured waves ten years hence into heavy walls that would fall like the stones of a church in an earthquake.

The Americans say, Ularia cursed the river.  But Isabel says no; Ularia wouldn’t do that.  Isabel says, Ularia gave the river the idea to curse Sargent.  But rivers tell time differently than people, and so it took ten years before the river finished what Ularia had begun.  Ularia was long since dust the day the river took Sargent, took his life from him like that, drank him down, and cleansed itself of his greed. 

Isabel says, wherever they are, she’s sure Ularia’s bones are laughing.

-       Deborah A. Miranda

Vortex
6/2/2012
Whidbey Island
From the sensory prompt “body of water” in Ruth Ozeki’s workshop.