We arrived at the beach around noon, and everyone there was as naked as a the day they were born, except for the lifeguards – a pair of theatre geeks who were belting out show tunes, flailing their arms at the crescendo, all the while old hippies and young hipsters sat bare-assed behind them, dam
I wake up panting and sweating from every pore. My body is a twitching mass of pain, as usual, and today is a 7 out of 10 day. My normal level is a 4 or 5, just a dull whole body ache that I can work through.
No wonder so many famous authors become alcoholics; it can be a lonely, depressing life.
I never chose a writing career, it chose me. I still recall how excited I was to discover my first new word.
It was bat.
I love music to the point that I taught myself to play some guitar so I could understand how it's created. I guess being the child of a former singer and a former musician has created this hunger for music of any form.
I almost received a new Indian name. It was when Sara and I went to our third Denny's restaurant in three states on the same day. I had been craving Belgian waffles for a week.
I got a lot of feedback, directly and indirectly, negative and positive, as a result of my first submission to ICTMN, "Everyone Wants to Be an Indian, But No One Wants to
I remember the first time I had to act like a father.
My fiancé—and eventual first ex-wife—worked a couple of nights a week and needed a babysitter. I had lots of experience around kids (my sister has seven), so I figured how hard can it be, right?
FRIDAY, JUNE 6, 2014 –1:03 P.M. DENVER, COLORADO – I’ve been without sleep for 24 hours now. … My synapses aren’t firing. I’m hallucinating – not badly, though. It’s still just bees and flies – not yet bunnies with fangs or god-awful Humpty Dumpty looking guys. Thunderclaps smack outside my door. I’ve got weed in my pipe, cappuccino in my cup and Jack Lemon on the tube. But I feel like listening to some deep classical compositions in minor chords. Maybe Mozart? Bach? Hell, maybe not even classical at all. It might take my mood into the deep, the dark, those pits of agony, anger and despair. No. I don’t want to go there. … More coffee. The weed can wait. It’s legal here in Colorado so why not partake? Everything in moderation, balance. Still, you can never have too much of a good thing, they say, but Maureen Dowd of the New York Times did … to the point where she reported that she was convinced she had died and was on her way to sit beside the likes of Jerry Garcia and other ‘60s hippies in headbands, beards and blades of grass in their ass from free loving in public parks.
“As my paranoia deepened, I became convinced that I had died and no one was telling me,” she reported. Dowd had passed through these parts recently and wolfed down a fine caramel-chocolate flavored candy bar, but she ate the whole goddamn thing. Bad craziness there. Or maybe not. She’s new to the whole budding legal weed culture in these parts. The red-eyed granola who sold her the edible should’ve warned her that it never turns out well when a novice goes head long into unfamiliar substances. Moderation. Right. Break it up. Savor small bites. You wouldn’t quaff an entire bottle of Kentucky whiskey now would you? Of course not. Jesus. You’ve been warned. …
Yes. Life is different in Colorado these days. I can sit on my patio with a joint between my lips and wave at the fuzz as he drives by, barely eyeing me. Years ago had I’d try to pull such an audacious stunt the badger assuredly would’ve slammed his cruiser into park, charged out and barked, “Who the hell do you think you are? Smoking that in front of me, you little snarky sonofabitch!” But no. Times have changed, and it weirds out the older generation who remember the days when officious cops would haul off their family and friends feet first to prison to serve five year sentences for having a joint in their purse or pocket or sock.
“Yeah, man,” Grandpa said, “you’d go away for a long time if you were caught with some (weed) back then.”
Now, I can head over to the grocer, pick up some milk, eggs, and then, on my way back to the family home, pop into Northern Lights pot dispensary and get a single joint, which comes rolled fat at the tip and packaged in a vial stuffed into a plastic Ziploc-type bag. This is weed freedom folks, but what’s more is that its simply freedom.
OK. I’m still hallucinating – just a bit, but I haven’t had any weed at all; this is all due to my lack of sleep and those vicious dreams I dream whenever dreaming happens. Weed’s good for those in dire need of serious slumber, I’m told. But I’ve never used it for that. I’ll spark my fine grandfather pipe in front of books, rows of books, stacks of books, blank papers, too. Once in a while I’ll whip out my early 20th century typewriter with its moist ribbon and enjoy the sound of the beast’s bang – its click and clack as I feed my addiction for the written word. The pipe to my right. My quill on the block of papers wet with queer thoughts, late at night: “WHAT IF CHOCOLATE IS TOO SINFUL FOR THE LIKES OF HEAVEN? IS HEAVEN VOID OF CHOCOLATE? DO PEOPLE IN HELL BURN AT THE ANKLES YET STILL SUCK DOWN RIVERS OF CHOCOLATE SAUCE? WOULD YOU WANT TO GO TO HEAVEN IF CHOCOLATE IS ONLY FOUND IN HELL? WOULD GOD AT LEAST GIVE OUT A DAY PASS TO HEAVENERS WHO ARE ADDICTED TO CHOCOLATE? SWEET JESUS! IS THERE A CHOCOLATE BAR CALLED ‘SWEET JESUS’? IF NOT THERE SHOULD BE. …
Weed doesn’t facilitate these types of odd rants. In fact, to the contrary. I have to be stone cold sober, or at least stoned on caffeine, to get the real writing done, bub. “Write drunk. Edit sober.” Ernest Hemingway famously said that, and though a Jack & Coke on the rocks is, indeed, a part of my writing process, I much prefer the subtle periodic plumes of smoke or the meanness of bone-cracking caffeine. In any sense, know your limits, but, jumping Jesus, don’t judge your limits by the limits of those around you. OK. Enough of the wisdom, then. Music. We need music! …
The hallucinations have turned into the wandering stars you see on your eyelids after you’ve stared hard into a beaming light bulb on the ceiling. The bees and flies are all gone. No Humpty Dumpty to fall off storybook walls. There are rabbits, though – yet they have no fangs, just big feet, fluffy tails and teeth like Gary Busey. The storm clouds are now far to the east, and tornado bait sky watchers are hunkering down preparing for the next finger of God to stab and smear the earth and destroy everything they hold dear. … And these folks don’t always see it coming. Once in a while a fantastic funnel comes in the night through the ceiling like a meth head on bath salts and lands right on Dorothy, putting an end to the happiness that once resided there oh so comfortably and oh so ephemerally.
What were their names?
I can't remember their names.
“Who killed me?” I asked.
“Do you want the name of the actual person or the asshole who gave the order?” he said.
“I suppose the latter,” I uttered, gripping my neck.
“That hypocritical sot!”
Like many Native people I began my career working for my Tribe soon after graduating with my undergraduate social work degree. The Indian Child Welfare Act was enacted in 1978 because of the high removal rate of Indian children from their traditional homes and essentially from Indian culture as a whole. Before enactment, as many as 25 to 35 percent of all Indian children were being removed from their Indian homes and placed in non-Indian homes, with presumably the absence of Indian culture. In some cases, the Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) paid the states to remove Indian children and to place them with non-Indian families and religious groups.
Testimony in the House Committee for Interior and Insular Affairs showed that in some cases, the per capita rate of Indian children in foster care was nearly 16 times higher than the rate for non-Indians. If Indian children had continued to be removed from Indian homes at this rate, tribal survival would be threatened. Congress recognized this, and stated that the interests of tribal stability were as important as that of the best interests of the child. One of the factors in this judgment was that, because of the differences in culture, what was in the best interest of a non-Indian child were not necessarily what was in the best interest of an Indian child, especially due to extended families and tribal relationships.
In October of 1987 I was hired in the first Indian Child Welfare Position in our Tribe’s urban office in Duluth. I loved this time in my career and loved working with our Native families. I learned so much from them about resiliency and survival. I honed my skills and my ability to walk in two worlds. It was an exciting time in Indian Child Welfare in the 1980s. We were pioneers in implementing the Indian Child Welfare Act of 1978. I quickly learned that once Native children were removed they were placed in non Native foster homes which were often far away from their biological family and there were no services being offered to the family to aid in returning the children to their families. The advocacy I provided had a great impact on the high removal rates of Native children from their families. In addition, I was able to work closely with families to help them comply with court mandates for reunification or to identify relatives to care for their children so that the foster care system could be avoided altogether. One glaring gap in services in the foster care system was the lack of Native foster homes. When the opportunity to do something about this arose I accepted the challenge and left my position with the Tribe.
In July of 1993 I was hired by a private, non-profit foster care agency to recruit and license Native foster homes. This was a large agency with offices in all of Minnesota and eventually all of Wisconsin and North Dakota. As a Native person going to work for a dominant culture agency there are inherent risks involved. I was initially viewed as a representative icon rather than as an individual. There is always a fine line between being treated as a token minority and implementing cultural competence standards in an organization. A culturally competent program demonstrates empathy and understanding of cultural differences in treatment design, implementation, and evaluation (Center for Substance Abuse Prevention, 1994). Nowadays cultural competence is increasingly a requirement for funding and accreditation. For many years I was the only minority in the entire organization. I began licensing Native foster homes and before long I had several foster homes and for the first time our community had safe, same race homes for Native children in need of care. During the 18 years I was with this agency over a thousand Native children were cared for in the homes that I licensed. I worked my way up in the organization from case manager to lead social worker to area director to regional director in charge of the northern one third of Minnesota. I had great success in developing a long-term, ongoing cultural competence process within the geographic area that I served. I had a great staff of social workers that, although non Native, had an understanding of the cultural nuances of the Native people that we worked with. Over the 18 years that I worked for the agency I was recruited by competing agencies to work for them. Competing agencies also attempted to start their own Native foster care program in my community without success.
Through my volunteer work and as a member of the board of directors for various agencies a needs assessment showed a gap in services for chemical dependency and mental health services for Native people. The agency I worked for was not willing to diversify to provide services to meet the unmet needs in our community. In hindsight this left me vulnerable to offers from these competing agencies that lurked around the community like vultures. In April of 2011 I was approached by the CEO of a competing agency and I met with him in my office. He offered me a chance to work for his agency and to provide any services that I wanted in the Duluth community. In fact, this agency already had successful chemical dependency and mental health programs in addition to foster care services. I agreed to discuss his proposal with my staff but I asked that he also hire my entire staff as we were a team. He agreed to these terms and within 48 hours my staff and I resigned from our current agency and went to work for one of our competitors.
One by one the Native foster families that I had worked with for many years followed me and my staff to the new agency. Cultural competence starts with the program’s administration although competence requires that people of all levels in an agency learn to value diversity. It was obvious from the beginning that this agency had no desire to achieve cultural competence. In June 2012 it was announced that I was the new Cultural Director for the agency. I was not asked if I wanted to be the Cultural Director. I knew right then that this was the beginning of the end for me.
Being the only Native person in an agency that has 150 employees and then be asked to be in charge of cultural competency for a rigid hierarchical organization is a set up for failure. At the same time my responsibility for the budgeting, marketing and personnel was taken from me and I was reduced to a token status in the agency. For the next ten months I was the cultural director for an agency that was seemingly bent on cultural destructiveness. I was determined to give it everything I had. I did a cultural competency assessment of the agency and came to the conclusion that there was resistance throughout the entire agency. On May 7, 2013 I was notified that my position had been eliminated and I was escorted from the building. The staff and the foster parents were told my termination was because of budget and poor marketing of the office. They seemed to ignore the fact that I wasn’t in charge of the budget or the marketing of the agency.
It was midnight, and I decided to sacrifice some virgins.
“Why not?” I shouted. “What’s the point of being found guilty of a crime if you don’t even get to enjoy committing the thing?”
“What’d you say?” he said.
“Never mind,” I blistered. “Keep looking.”
I just ordered another, and I don't want to look at the goddamn note—the bill—the one in my pocket. Not again. I'm doomed. Oh well. Que sera sera.
The bar is almost empty. Sinatra croons out of speakers unseen about the “wee small hours of the morning.” And that's what these are, the maudlin hours. Midnight – when lonely souls hug inanimate pillows and beasts with venomous crotches prowl and thieve the light from once-wondrous eyes. But I'm not brooding on that now. I have the note in my hand, my hand in my pocket, and I'm about to read it again. ...
Close to $100,000 in the hole, it reads. Signed, -Your Masters and Bachelors Degrees. ... Shit. To hell with apple pie and baseball, Jack. American as debt. Right. ...
The bartender wipes down a glass with a rag, and then, with his fingers, gently massages a lipstick stain off one of them. Did he know her, the patron with the lips? The poor bastard. He's lovesick. I can spot these sad sacks by their red, rheumy eyes, their slouched backs and how they consistently eye their phones in a desperate hope that the love lost, the heartbreaker, will call any minute and say, "I love you. I made a mistake. Come home."
But no. That's not reality, folks. So he continues to wipe down the martini glasses, the shot glasses and now the bar, sniffling here and again. He's probably waited all night long, his shift, to let out a good wail, and it would appear that now I'm the only wiggy skull left between him and it. Time to go.... Yes. The poor bastard. Let it out, man. I've been there. We all have, and damn the liar who says he hasn't. The prat.
I hailed a cab, crawled in claws first and found a crumpled New York Times on the seat. Like a good friend with bad news the paper seemed to have been waiting for me, so I thumbed through it, ignoring the bill still in my pocket. "Where to, sir?" the cabbie said. "Her house!" I blurted. "She's expecting me." The driver examined me through his rear view mirror ... me, this excited passenger speaking in code and wrestling with a day-old paper in the back of his sullied cab. "Where?" he asked with a tinge of concern. "Her house, man! Her house. In Wash Heights. She does yoga. All hippies do."
"OK," he responded. "Take the West Side Highway then?"
"Good idea. Yes. The West Side Highway. Go now. We’re out of time! The hour is late and I have a date!"
And for 30 or so minutes the driver in red slammed on the gas of the yellow bee and zipped in and out of late-night New York City traffic, leaning on the horn and damning drivers and drunk jaywalkers in skirts and loosed ties until we got to the elevated freeway on the bank of the whipping Hudson.
We arrived to her apartment building with a loud shrill of the tires. The mad cabbie kicked me out of the car and, as quickly as he could, sped off into the bright lights of the city. He slowed the sedan as he approached an intersection—the red lights, but kept on his way, not stopping, only checking for traffic on either side, and then he was gone, a blur in the distance and a memory of mine to forget with all the rest of the trivial shit that happens in life.
I rang the buzzer to her shoebox apartment. No answer. Try again, I thought. No answer. Damn. No date then, and the bill continued to weigh heavily in my slacks. So I sat there on the corner outside of her flat for a bit and brooded intensely. Lie back on the concrete, maybe, stare at the stars, possibly, I thought – at least until the fuzz comes and barks at me to “move on” or a mutt comes to piss on me. And this is when the ugly ruminations chewed at my skull and dragged my mood into the gutter:
It’s a bastard of a situation when you’re $100,000 in debt to Uncle Sam yet insufferable citizens of the Know It All Nation continue to hit you over the head with, “Oh, you’re Native American? Well, shit then, you guys don’t have to worry about tuition. …”
I don't know if Woody Allen did it. I'd like to think the four-eyed filmmaker didn't sexually assault the girl, Dylan, but only he knows the truth, and she does, too – and maybe also the fly that was on the wall that fateful day in 1992.