A Short Correspondence About a Long Story

Dear Readers:

As a published scholar and poet, my email account is full of requests, comments, and conversations. When I can, I give the writers my best shot at a good response. Sometimes I receive lovely pieces of fan mail, or exciting questions about research. Sometimes I get asked to help come up with Esselen names for someone’s novel, or (honest), people who want to tell me that they’ve been Indian in all their reincarnations. Today, I’ve changed the name of this correspondent, but left the name of the high school – there are enough Junipero Serra High Schools that it’s not automatically an identifier.  I don’t have to change anyone’s name, of course, since emails that come to me are fair game for discussion.  However, in keeping with my previous practices, I’ll re-name this person “D. Thomas.”  Forgive me my small dig.

____________________________________________

Dear Dr. Miranda,

What is your source for this? "In the 65 years that the California Missions were run by the Catholic Church, the numbers of California Indians went from about one million to 350,000."

Mr. D. Thomas

Theology Department

Saint Junípero Serra, pray for us!

Junípero Serra High School

___________________________________________

Mr. Thomas,

I found this updated population information in the work of Dr. Russell Thornton (Professor of Sociology at UCLA) who has multiple articles and books on the topic of Indigenous populations in North America, their decline and rise.  In particular, his book American Indian Holocaust and Survival: A Population History since 1492‎ has been invaluable and meticulous in sorting out the mishmash of population estimates from various earlier scholars.

The long-used Cook and Mooney et al estimates are long-outdated; given what little they had to work with at the time of his estimates, this is not surprising, but it has caused wide-spread damage in terms of not allowing us to see the full extent of the consequences of contact.  What IS surprising is how little scholars and the general public question such an obviously erroneous number as “350,000” for such a densely populated and well-resourced area.  Thornton’s overall conclusion is that within North America (more specifically, Thornton says, “the area north of Mexico,”) (32), Indigenous peoples measured about 7 + million, pre-contact."  California’s rich resources (land, sea and weather) account for about one million inhabitants within what are now the state’s boundaries.  In fact, he notes, Indigenous populations could have been far higher but for the natural limitations (disease, war, famine) and the cultural curbs adopted by Indigenous communities for child-spacing (breast-feeding, restrictions on sexual activity, and customs relating to marriage). Indians were well aware of the suffering that over-population could bring upon them.

When I came upon Thornton’s work, I wrote to Dr. William Preston, another social scientist working in the specific field of disease in California missions, asking what he thought. Dr. Preston replied, 

“At this point I think that Thornton’s high number is totally reasonable. In fact, keeping in mind that populations no doubt fluctuated over time, I’m thinking that at times 1 million or more Native Californians were resident in the state.”

I hope this answers your question, and gives you a new direction for your own research.

Sincerely,

Deborah Miranda

Professor of English

_____________________________________________ 

Dr. Miranda,

Thanks for the response. So you are saying that because a couple of thousand Spaniards came to California that 650,000 California Natives died? And don't you think you it would be fair to present the consensus view to children until the "1 million to 350,000" argument is widely accepted?

Sincerely,

Mr. D. Thomas

Theology Department

Saint Junípero Serra, pray for us!

Junípero Serra High School

________________________________________________

Mr. Thomas,

Actually, Mr. Thomas, I avoid make huge sweeping claims without considerable investment of time and energy on research before coming to conclusions. I have been actively researching the effects of both the missions and the gold rush on California Indigenous populations for about ten years, as part of my own work on what these experiences were like for the communities involved.  I am part of a larger community of scholars and Indigenous communities dedicated to the separation of truth from mythology.  May I ask, how long have you been working on this?

Because of my research, I know three key ways the Spanish missions impacted the death rate of California Indigenous peoples:

A.    along with “a couple of thousand Spaniards” came diseases that reached epidemic level, and which not only killed many Natives, but weakened the survivors and undercut their ability to birth and raise healthy children.  Because of this, the death rate far, far outstretched the birth rate both within and without missions.  Measles, for example, was rampant at most of the missions one time or another, and recent research has revealed that measles actually erase a body’s immunity for many other diseases; the body has to “re-learn” these immunities, and that can take years. If, as happened in the missions, Indigenous bodies were already weakened from poor diet (something the priests themselves complained about), a bout with the measles often killed them. But even those who survived the measles epidemic were so immune-compromised that they succumbed in the next months or year to other, lesser illnesses.  European syphilis, another disease brought to North America by the Spaniards (a different, much less deadly form existed here pre-contact but did little harm), also became epidemic as Spanish soldiers (and, I’m sorry to tell you, some priests – again, according to the Church’s own records) raped Indigenous women, who then could not help but spread the disease to spouses and children. Other diseases also contributed to the death and/or weakening of Natives, so view this as an example only, not a conclusive list.  Syphilis became an epidemic early on in missionization, resulting in stillbirths, sterility of both men and women, deformities, and early death. Steven Hackel’s work notes that the average life expectancy for a child born within a mission was 7 years. 

B.    along with the Spaniards came thousands upon thousands of European domesticated animals such as cattle, ox, poultry, horses, donkeys, pigs, etc.  These animals roamed freely, eating and destroying the seeds, roots, fruits, and displacing game and other food resources upon which the Indigenous tribes depended (again, the priests documented that they were often so short on supplies from Spain that they were forced to release Natives into their homelands to scavenge for food – which, as time went on, was increasingly absent). Rivers and streams were polluted by the waste of cattle and horses, run-off from cleared land, thus much reducing Native fisheries, not to mention, clean water.  The Spanish priests had little in the way of medicines, and often relied on Indigenous knowledge of medicinal plants, but those plants too quickly became difficult to find, so treatments for fever, childbirth-related problems, etc., became unavailable.

C.    Finally, don’t forget the emotional and psychological components of huge, often violent change and loss coming to a community in a very short period of time. Depression and grief take their own toll.  Please research the topic “Historical Trauma,” which, although founded by Jewish Holocaust scholars, has gone on to help shape our understanding of what long-term oppression does to a community’s soul and mental health.

Again, Mr. Thomas, this is all based on research of many years, by many scholars.  Rather than argue with me, you should be doing your own research and coming up with your own thesis and supportive facts. 

Let me remind you that, as a descendant of California Indians taken into Carmel, Soledad and Santa Ynez missions, I am the one who has a right to be angry, who grieves for all the lives and culture that has been lost, and who is still, at this late date of 2018, struggling to make our truth known to the larger American culture.  And yet, it is you, Mr. Thomas – a person with much privilege, whose version of history has long been accepted despite its flaws, mistakes, and outright lies -  who presents yourself as wronged, oppressed, and in denial of the facts.  Please, ask yourself why that is. 

You ask, “And don't you think you it would be fair to present the consensus view to children until the "1 million to 350,000" argument is widely accepted?”

I don’t think you are in any position to discuss fairness with me, Mr. Thomas, but let me add this: Indigenous children learn about the massive deaths of their Ancestors from the time they can listen to song, story, and take part in their culture. As do Jewish children whose grandparents survived the Holocaust, Black children who descend from enslaved Ancestors, and many other children who are the survivors of injustice.  I don’t think it’s asking too much of white children, or Catholic children, to learn a little about the impact of Spanish missionization, particularly when they benefit from the schools, churches and homes located directly on Indigenous land.

I wish you well on your research journey.  As an educator, you have a tremendous responsibility to do your own research, and come to your own conclusions. Don’t take my word for any of this. But also, don’t blindly recite the party line without researching that, too.  To do otherwise would be to cheat your students of the information they need to become righteous human beings.

Sincerely,

Deborah Miranda

_______________________________________________ 

Dr. Miranda,

I am sorry that my question offended you. I am Catholic. Your assertion deals with my history.

Sincerely,

Mr. D. Thomas

Theology Department

Saint Junípero Serra, pray for us!

Junípero Serra High School

__________________________________________________________________

Mr. Thomas,

Actually, based on your questions, I thought we were discussing California Indigenous history.  Hmmm.  Somehow, this has become all about you.

I won’t send this last response to you; it was obvious from your first email that you, yourself, have absolutely no respect for the work that I do, and in fact, probably disdain any research that does not agree with your own belief system and what you need to support that system.  Although I offered you my expertise and my research, my free time and my energy, you refuse to engage with that information in a thoughtful or constructive way. Instead, you continue to look for ways in which to make yourself and your religion “victims” of my research when, in fact, the Indigenous peoples of California have clearly borne the weight of missionization and the gold rush. Having taught Writing 100 (Introductory Composition) for many years, I know a weak argument when I see one; an opinion is not a thesis.  I’m not talking about your faith, Mr. Thomas; I’m talking about statements like “So you are saying that because a couple of thousand Spaniards came to California that 650,000 California Natives died?”  In my WRIT 100 course, that would not pass inspection as a rough draft. How can we have a conversation if you won’t invest in the details, won’t do the slightest bit of research?

Sometimes in my classes, I use thought experiments to jog loose the log jams in students’ heads. 

Let me ask you this, Mr. Thomas:  how many Catholics do you know?  Have you met Catholics in your neighborhood?  Have you ever had a Catholic doctor, librarian, mechanic, teacher?  Have you read a book by a Catholic author?  Have you been to a prestigious museum to see artwork created by contemporary Catholic artists?  Do you listen to music by people who practice Catholicism?

I’m pretty sure the answer to those questions is YES. 

Now ask yourself the same questions, but this time, replace “Catholic” with “Indigenous Californian.”  How small did your ‘yes’ become?

Now, ask yourself: why, in a land that was 100% Indigenous only 200+ years ago, do you know so few California Indians?  Why do so few California Indians have degrees from higher ed?  Why don’t you see more California Indians in your daily life?  In the media?  In entertainment?  What happened to that 100%?  What happened to their descendants?  What economic, social, cultural and psychological damage did losing most of their land, 90% of their population, and the freedom to choose their own religion, languages, and lifeways, do to them?

And what have you done, what will you do, to try and understand that disaster, work for justice on their behalf?

Those are the questions you should be asking, and which you owe it to your own moral code to try to answer honestly.  Particularly as someone who identifies with a religion founded on the actions of a man whose work on behalf of the poor, sick and marginalized, you might find that an interesting course of exploration.

Do I hate Catholics? Of course not! Many of my own family members are Catholic, and I could not love them more dearly.  I certainly don’t like what the Catholic Church did as missionaries in the post-Inquisition era; I don’t like what the Catholic Church is doing now, in regards to burying and denying its own crimes regarding pedophiles and responsibilities to Indigenous peoples around the world. Do I hate Jesus Christ? No, on the contrary, I have great respect and gratitude for someone who devoted a lifetime, short as it was, to caring for the poor, the sick, the undefended, the homeless, and who tried to pass on that creed to the world. 

What makes me angry, Mr. Thomas, are people who ask questions without ever listening for answers, who write bullying emails with absolutely no context, without bringing anything valuable to the conversation, and who in fact, don’t really want to have a conversation at all. What makes me angry are people who ask for my time, then walk away without one ounce of respect for what I’ve shared.

This is a long story in the lives of Native people. We are the ones living with the specter of historical genocide; we are the ones coming to terms with both historical and contemporary trauma; yet, we are the ones who, according to Euro-American history, know absolutely nothing about what happened to us.

Mr. Thomas, I feel that our “correspondence” (such as it is) will be instructive for others seeking knowledge, particularly about California missions and contemporary scholarship about that era, and its consequences.  So I’ll make this last reply to you here, on my blog, and leave it to be discovered by others more willing to grapple with difficult, but important, realities.

I’ll leave you with this thought: If you truly believe that Junipero Serra was doing the Lord’s work, and all the other missionaries too, then why does my work bother you at all?  How can one middle-aged, mixed-blood Chumash/Esselen Indian woman’s words possibly have any effect on the well-being of a saint?  Could it be that the truth of my words rings in your ears despite your protests?

Just wondering.

Sincerely,

Deborah A. Miranda

-->

"Walking the Chupacabra": Spontaneous Writing Prompts from the Edge

I've always been a fan of writing prompts, but my all-time favorite ones come about spontaneously, when everyday language or a phrase overheard in a passing conversation, or a misread headline, goes just a bit astray.  Language-play disrupts my predictable patterns of thought, my internal editorial demon; it encourages wild and unique connections precisely because I am no longer in charge; instead, language is the boss.  

My wife and I are especially fond of word-play, puns, or even just a delicious combination of words that fall out of our mouths and stun us with synchronicity.  "That would make a great poem title," we often blurt out in the middle of such a conversation, "or a great name for a garage band," or "a porno flick title!"  

If a phrase would work for one or two of those things, we're tickled, but if it happens to score for all three, it's a verbal hat trick. 

This is the kind of word-weirdness that reminds us why we're together; nobody else is strange enough to tolerate, let alone enjoy and perpetuate, this reckless enjoyment of the English language.

For example, we recently, acquired a new member of the family, a rescue dog named, inexplicably, StevieNicks! (Margo insists that it's all one name, and the emphasis is on the second half, with a move to the upper register. Don't ask.)

StevieNicks! is a smallish (55 pounds - small to a woman whose past dogs have tipped the scales at 125 lbs), black German Shepherd/Mallinois mix with severe food allergies and the personality of a perpetually delighted puppy. At four years old, she still races around with a ping-pong ball trajectory, does not have a linear bone in her body; she’s on the skinny side, and a bit moth-eaten from hair loss (although two months worth of an allergy-free diet, antibiotics and great veterinary care are having a wonderful effect). She's got gigantic satellite dish ears, a loooong face, and Big Bad Wolf teeth.  She also has hip dysplasia, a Shepherd trait, so her gait is usually a graceful lope, but sometimes crow-hoppy in the back end when going uphill.  For her diminutive size, StevieNicks! has a tremendously scary, full-throated bark, and she's not afraid to use it.

Because of her ferocity, her scruffy appearance, her rangy legs, her sharp white teeth, her loooong snout, and her big bat ears, I started calling StevieNicks! "the chupacabra."  [If you need an explanation, follow that link.]  One morning last week, I asked Margo, "Are you walking the chupacabra?"

There was that beat of silence that happens when word-magic has been made.  We looked at each other.  Walking the Chupacabra.  "Ohhhh," I said, "that is a beautiful poem title. But I don't think it's mine. Hmmmm... I want someone to write it, though ..."

I ended up posting it on Facebook, to any poet/writer friends.  An offering, I said, to someone who felt the same strange electric thrill at the sound of those three words spoken together, but had more poetry mojo at the moment than me.

That's how this kind of poetry prompt works: it's not official, not given to you in a classroom or as an assignment.  It doesn't appear in a how-to book. It comes from the slippage of regular conversation, or a sign seen out of the corner of your eye; it comes from the blurry edges of standard language.  

The blur, the edges: that's where the magic happens.

Here are the three poems I received back from three people who felt it, and responded.  They let language take the reins, and then – like all good poets – stepped in with expertise and craft to support the initial spark.

My thanks to Minal, Ire’ne, and Margo!

(And yes, I think Walking the Chupacabra also works as garage band name and porno flick title - which just goes to show you that when something is awesome, it's truly unstoppable.)

El Chupacabra

by Minal Hajratwala

We are walking the chupacabra

in the morning. Every morning

we check his Twitter to see what bile

he’s spewed, we check the orange rug

to see what we need to clean up,

put down, burn off, weep around.

We count the goats

to see if they are safe.

We clean the blood & tears

off our sustainable

bamboo floor. El chupacabra

hisses, rubs the thorns 

along his spine all over

the house, shredding 

the leather couch. Afternoons

he likes to lie in the sun,

tongue lolling as he licks up smog

from the breasts of the skies. 

This is when we sleep,

huddled up against the wall

through the rough comfort

of his snores. When the sun sets

el chupacabra runs

to the red horizon. 

We hear his howls

all night long, clamoring

for flesh.  We answer—

fire in our bowels, fire in our lungs,

fire in our hearts—for we are 

exploding with love for our people

through the long war

knowing one day we will prevail

& make the beast ours.

WALKING THE CHUPACABRA

--ire'ne lara silva

every morning we put the leash around his rough furred neck let him take the lead out the door and onto the sidewalk while the neighbors look askance at us we walk the chupacabra every morning or shall we say he consents to let us walk him and we walk on the balls of our feet here we are walking the chupacabra or shall we say walking the threat of violence walking the shadow of imminent death we walk on the balls of our feet and breathe rapidly ready to run should he decide to turn and maul us should he become unable to hold his hunger in check not hunger for flesh but hunger to see life spilled life burst life ended

we walk the chupacabra praying under our breaths hesitating when he stops to inspect a bush or a butterfly or a dog walking down the opposite side of the street though we never hesitate when he decides to change direction we speed our steps so quickly we almost trip over ourselves we walk the chupacabra until it is time to return home until he turns his eyes homewards and he waits while we open the lock on the door while we remove the leash while we set his water and food down on bowls on the floor and we sleep in this house this house where the chupacabra sleeps sleep with our eyes open in case he wakes sleep in this house guarded by the chupacabra

Walking the Chupacabra

by Margo Solod

We always walk at night (as though

darkness could hide her trembling anticipation).

She waits for me by the gate, breath hoary,

starlight glinting off daggered teeth.

Darkness hides her trembling anticipation.

Shadows shapeshift into monsters,

starlight glinting off daggered teeth

(what holds the ends of their leashes?)

Shadows shift shapes into monsters.

Every woman has a chupacabra locked away

or at the end of a leash she clings to -

perhaps we should arrange play dates.

Every woman has a chupacabra, locked away

in a midnight corner of her mind.

Perhaps I could arrange a playdate

with a woman willing to release hers.

In the indigo corners of a mind,

or on a hand-knotted living room rug,

a woman willing to release hers

is a treasure not to be discarded.

A hand-knotted living room rug

woven from rags by my grandmother

is a treasure not to be discarded,

a saddle blanket for her own chupacabra.

Woven from rags by my grandmother,

my chupacabra is never cold -

no saddle blanket for her,

black fur glistening in moonlight.

My chupacabra is never cold

waiting for me by the gate, breath hoary,

black fur glistening in the moonlight.  

We always walk at night.

-->

Dear World: Yes I Wrote a Poem About Dicks Let Me Explain

Dear World:

You've been waiting for this book: a celebration of renowned scholar, poet, novelist and all-around-phenomenal woman, Paula Gunn Allen.  These pieces started out as a special insert in a literary journal, then (through a series of unfortunate events that turned out to be fortuitous) morphed into an even better, richer collection with beautiful editing and a perfect press (West End Press in Albuquerque) of its own.  And now, here it is, in your hands, with a classic Paula photo on the front.

So you open it and start flipping through the poems, essays, stories, and lovely artwork.  Such an elegant design! Such wonderful insights!  Such -

                           wait a minute.

  

Ha! You thought you saw . . .  wait.  You did see . . .  a series of words . . .

Naughty words. Bad words. Silly words.

It's a penis . . .

a prick,

a cock, ,

a dangler,

a clamdigger ...

Well, who the heck would put a poem like that in a collection honoring one of the most revered Native American scholar/writers in the 20th century?  What a jerk. How inappropriate.  How disrespectful.

But wait!  I wrote that poem! I swear, my intentions were good!  Yes, I admit, it's a bit odd that a lesbian poet would write a poem for another lesbian poet about male genitalia.  

The problem here is context.  This poem was actually sent off to the editors (many years ago) with an epigraph that Made It All Perfectly Clear.  It included a quote from Paula Gunn Allen herself.  It was the intersection of Paula's quote and a news story that inspired this poem.  

Unfortunately, the epigraph was inadvertently left off the published version - my fault? editorial mistake? printing error? -- I have no idea.  And, for the record, I have never worked with two more determined, honorable editors than Stephanie Sellers and Menouka Case. So let's chalk it up to the trickster energy generated by the poem and which, as Menouka reminds me, Paula would have deeply appreciated.

Future printings of the book will be corrected. For now, I provide the epigraph here for you (below).  I'm curious to know how, or if, access to the epigraph changes how the poem reads within this collection.

By the way, here is the statue in question, created by Joe Pachak.  In the end, the statue was not actually removed from the park, but instead, moved to a less conspicuous area.

Yup. There it is.

For the White Lady Who Had Kokopelli's Statue Removed From a State Park

In her introduction to Off the Reservation, Paula Gunn Allen mourns, "…poor Kokopelli! … he capers sadly about on wall hangings, tea towels, pot holders, tote bags, t-shirts and pricey bronze cutouts sans his joyful manhood . . . Perhaps this sorry loss is symptomatic of all that is wrong with colonization, and indicative of all that fills Native hearts with rage."

It's a penis.

Your father has one.

Your brother has one.

Your son has one.

Your grandson has one.

It's a penis,

not the Mark of Cain.

It's a penis,

a prick,

a cock,

a dangler,

a clamdigger,

a babymaker,

a lovemaker,

a dick,

a dong,

a one-eyed snake

a pee pee

a wiener

a wanker

but it's not

the Mark of Cain.

Your father has one.

Your son has one.

Hell, if you believe

in the Bible

God has one

(we are made

in His Image,

right?)  I've got

news for you:

Indians

have 'em

too

or we wouldn't

still be

here

and maybe that's

your problem

with Mr. Kokopelli

and his joyful

manhood:

Indians having sex

means more Indians,

happy Indians,

straight

and gay,

mono or poly,

mixed or full.

Still here,

still happy:

is that too much

for you

to take?

Deborah A. Miranda