The Jingle Bell

When it was new it was a gleaming bright bell made of tin but polished in a gold tint with a red ribbon looped at the crown. Instead of a clapper, dangling from the bottom was a small glittering plastic ring that when pulled made a clicking noise drawing out a string until it reached the end of its slack. As soon as it was released the music began.

“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way,” my brothers and I sang along.

Concealed behind a slice of gold painted cardboard that fit snuggly into the rim was a tiny mechanical music box that would play several rounds of the holiday carol before the string was drawn completely inside leaving only the ring to be tugged again and again by gleeful children. For years the bell was the most anticipated ornament of the holiday season in our household. We adored it at first for the song inside, the excitement it generated and ultimately the memories it would hold.

My earliest memory of the bell was as it hung from a hook in the center of the archway molding between the living room and dining room of our Philadelphia home. I was too tiny to reach the ring even after moving a dining room chair underneath so I would beg my daddy to lift me up so I could hear it chime.

Half a century later the bell has seen better days. It is covered with scratches and dents. The red ribbon is tattered and stained. The glittering loop is long gone replaced with a metal “S” hook that serves to keep the string from being completely drawn inside where the tired old music box still hides.

These days when the string is pulled the notes tick out so slowly it sounds like a requiem for the dying bell struggling to be relevant till its last note.

Anyone else would easily toss this hideous bell in the trash without a second thought. For years I have tried to dispose of it in some responsible way that didn't offend our family legacy. Once I put it in a box of retired ornaments to go to Goodwill after the holiday. Not sure how it happened but the following December it mysteriously appeared among the holiday decorations as if it migrated out of the trash on its own. Another year I gifted it to a brother who chuckled over the fond memories but never took it home.

This year I packed the bell in a box, wrapped it with my best holiday flare and brought it to a neighborhood Yankee swap where we were encouraged to gift a “useful” household item we no longer needed or wanted.

Finally a perfect, guiltless way to be rid of the relic!

But no sooner was it chosen did my heart sink in my chest. My neighbor fished it out of the box and examined the banged up bell with the dangling S hook wondering what on earth it could be useful for while it’s meaning to me was suddenly clear.

As it struggled to chime out the melody for the amused but confused gathering of onlookers my father lifted me up to reach the bell in all its glory. Cradled in daddy's arms I could feel him hugging me, lifting me cheek to cheek I could smell Old Spice on his neck, and hear him whisper, “does daddy’s little girl need to reach that bell? There you go, you pull that string.”

It took only a few seconds for my daughter-in-law to emerge a true hero of the evening. 

“I’ll take it,” she said without hesitation swapping a perfectly good gift.

And so the bell is back where it belongs, in the heart of a family that knows the true meaning of the holiday is not about things shiny and new, but making memories to hold dear for a lifetime.

Merry holidays to all.

Oh Christmas Tree . . .

It was our first Christmas in the new Mashpee house on Route 28 and I was 12-years-old. Up till then each year my father would take us to buy a fresh cut tree at a vacant lot from a sketchy holiday hawker. Dad always made a big deal of shopping for the tree. A seeming authority asking the hawker about specific varieties like the Scotch pine, blue spruce, or balsam fir, examining the potential of each one, holding it out at arms length, turning it about like a model on a runway. Then he would ask us, “what do you think of this one?” We would check for bare spots then pick the one with the best shape and fullness and dad would strike a deal with the hawker.

Not so in 1972 when we moved to Mashpee where my dad was convinced we could forage for just about anything. In many cases he was right. Quahogs from Punkhorn Point, deer from Camp Edwards, herring from Mashpee River – but Christmas trees?!

Before we moved to the Cape we could always tell when we were getting close to Mashpee when we recognized the scrub pines on the roadside defined by delicate branches, long soft pine needles, and crooked and stunted growth. Not exactly tannenbaum material.

My older brother Steve and I were skeptical and my mom expressed herself with the same kind of “oh Russell,” she sighed when he bought a sports car that would only accommodate one of his four kids at a time. (My father’s logic often escaped my mother but the Triumph Spitfire turned out to be a true stroke of genius enabling him to get quality time with us individually. And for us kids, even a trip to the dump in the “navigator’s seat” became a much sought after privilege.)

“Humph!” my dad issued a taunt to the doubters as he handled his axe and he and young Russ, who we called Rusty back in the day, trudged off into the Mashpee River woodlands in search of the family’s holiday tree.

A short time later they returned dragging a stout scrub pine behind them. From the warmth of the dining room my mother, brothers Steve and little Robert and I observed through the sliding glass doors as dad and Rusty propped the tree up on the deck. Gripping the top dad tried to twirl it like the ones the holiday hawker sold. Spindly at the tip, wide at the bottom and bare in the midsection, the tree managed a half turn, bowed and stalled at my brother’s knees. Rusty was grinning with pride.

Steve looked sadly at the tree and shook his head, “How pathetic…”

But the pitiful tree would not be denied. As my father stoked a fire in the hearth, we decorated it gingerly draping lights and hanging ornaments the tree could barely sustain to try to achieve the holiday flair of Christmases past. My mother actually cut some branches from a tree in the yard and attached them with duct tape to fill an obvious gap. Even Steve got into the act artfully distributing the contents of a box of tinsel he claimed would hide a myriad of sins, not to mention duct tape. Finally, wrapped in tissue at the bottom of a cardboard box storing our decorations I found the star that had topped our holiday tree as long as I could remember.

“You put that on there and the whole thing is coming down,” Steve said.

He was right. We put the risky star on the mantle, plugged in the lights and stepped back to admire our work. It was no fraser fir, but the scrub pine with its delicate branches, its pungent evergreen scent, wispy needles, and duct tape experienced a metamorphosis not unlike Cinderella on her way to the ball. And so I guess, did we.

Adapting our expectations, employing vision and creativity and an appreciation for a gift from the creator, the pitiful scrub pine became a thing of beauty and a cherished family memory.

May all of you be delighted by the unexpected and experience a memorable holiday season filled with the love and joy of family and friends. Merry Christmas and happy New Year.

* Republished from December 2011

Powwow etiquette in question

I don’t look like her. I’m not peach skinned with narrow smiling eyes and round cheeks. I don’t have long, straight, black hair that I can tie in a neat bun at the back of my head. I always wished I did because I associate that hair with beauty – not because it makes her or anyone else who wears it more Native than me. There have been times in my life when I have gotten stares, even glares from people like her attending Native events like powwows, socials and meetings and conferences.

That, “who the hell are you?” look that is assumed by those who come from tribes that guard their heritage with the kind of blood quantum standard that is certain to some day wipe them out. They are those who question the validity of tribes where lineage descent, along with actual engagement in tribal political, social and cultural activities drive enrollment. Things that assure that our history and traditions do not die with the next generation. No, we don’t look the same, but we are every bit as Native as they are and have just as much right to our heritage.

I suppose it is possible this woman is just intrinsically rude and treats everyone like she treated me, but I felt the distinct bite of inter-tribal racism in our brief encounter at the Dartmouth College powwow last weekend.

I promised Niyo, who I have been watching develop as a dancer since he learned to walk, that I would take some video of him performing his grass dance competition. I sat on the grass in the circle just behind one of the judges where I knew I would not be in the dancer’s way.

There was commotion behind me that I ignored until I got a tap on the shoulder from the girl sitting on a bench directly behind me calling my attention to this woman who was demanding I move. At first I though, “how could I possibly be in her way I’m sitting on the ground and she is in a chair?”

But that wasn’t her problem. She insisted I move because I would impede the dancers despite the fact they would need to mow over a judge with a clipboard to get to me.

I explained I was getting video and wasn’t in the way. I let it roll.

After the dance was over I sat on the bench next to the girls from our Native Tribal Scholars program who witnessed this whole ordeal.

I turned to the woman and politely told her, “I honestly meant no disrespect, but I knew I was in a safe spot. I have been attending powwows my whole life.”

The woman held her feather fan in front of her eyes and refused to look at me or respond. A few moments later she got up and curtly said, “skuze me,” as she yanked a blanket that had been laid on the bench where the girls and I sat right from underneath of us. She returned to her seat and shielded her eyes again, not from the sun, but as a blatant snub that was instantly felt as well by the NTS girls.

I don’t know where she is from, but have a strong suspicion this might be the first time this woman has ever traveled to a Northeast powwow and perhaps like other Native people who openly practice inter-tribal racism, she thought she was better than me because she fit the stereotype and I don’t. Perhaps she thought I didn’t deserve the respect that any other human, let alone any other Native woman is entitled to.
I honestly feel sorry for her. That is a lot of baggage to carry around Indian Country.

Not letting her attitude spoil my day, I collected some great video including Niyo’s grass dance that nearly got foiled by a change in the program. Click the link below and enjoy the video!

Dartmouth College Powwow 2014

A fitting punishment for Sterling

I may be unpopular for saying so, but I disagree with NBA Commissioner Adam Silver’s testosterone-powered knee jerk kick to Donald Sterling’s groin. He may have missed the intended target.

While it may satisfy the need to punish Sterling’s ignorance, banning him for life from any NBA activity and forcing him to sell his team doesn’t serve that end.

While we haven’t heard much from Sterling yet, I’m willing to bet he has just been emboldened to fight back on a first amendment platform. Which by the way, he has every right to stand on even if he is a bigot. In America, you are allowed to be ignorant even if it isn’t popular.

And lets not forget he’s a billionaire, he’s a lawyer and he’s old and probably doesn’t give a rat’s ass what we all think of him.

So while the other Air Jordan hasn’t dropped yet and Sterling digs in the heels of his hand made Berlutis, the NBA actions have just made the Clippers the hottest commodity in the sporting franchise market. Those lining up to get a piece of the action include wealthy celebrities like Oprah Winfrey, Matt Damon, and Floyd Mayweather, hell, even Snoop Dog!

The longer Sterling holds out, the more he will get. That’s working out well isn’t it?

A far more appropriate response would have been to require Sterling to attend every Clippers home game for the rest of his life and sit court side with Reverend Al Sharpton. Lots of photos would be taken of course.

Sadly these cases of blatant public racism are piling up and Sterling is just the latest to be caught speaking his unfiltered mind.  Paula Deen fessed up but swears to be reformed unlike fearless racist folk heroes like Nevada rancher Cliven Bundy and Duck Dynasty’s Phil Robertson. They are the reality. Rather than sweep them under the carpet we should confront them directly.

People like Sterling have no shame and at his age it is hardly likely that he will ever become a reformed racist. But making a public spectacle of his bad behavior instead of paying him off to go away would serve a far greater good.

Lets face it we all have racist tendencies, some more than others. The only way to amend this kind of behavior is to shine the light of day on it.

Cow tipping and cotton picking: revolutionary concepts in social justice

It appears the United States has itself in quite a kerfuffle with racist Nevada rancher Cliven Bundy. Seems Bundy, who by the way believes Negroes should never have been emancipated, has ignored his responsibility to pay grazing fees on federal land where his cattle have roamed for more than 20 years.

We Mashpee Wampanoag can relate to this story having set precedent in 1833 and perhaps can provide some guidance to the government. You see the tribe was in possession of hundreds of acres of well-stocked woodlands that were pretty attractive to our neighbors in Cotuit. Those white neighbors cut a deal with a white minister to harvest Mashpee trees for fuel over the objections of the tribe which got nothing out of the deal.

The tribe made several polite requests to the Cotuit interlopers, namely Will and Joe Sampson, to get out of Mashpee and go cut their own trees but the brothers were persistent and ignored the ultimatum to cease and desist as of July 1, 1833. On that day a group of Wampanoag men confronted the Sampsons, tipped their carts of timber over and ran them out of town.

So here is what I recommend the government do, engage in a bit of sophomoric cow tipping. That will teach him right?

But no, hold your horses. True to form far to the rightteabaggers have jumped on Bundy’s flag waving bandwagon upholding his right to do what ever the hell he wants on federal land.

Oh, did I mention we had that problem here in Mashpee back in 1833?

Those fine upstanding citizens of Cotuit, the Sampson brothers, and Reverend Phineas Fish, paid by Harvard University to minister the gospel to the Indians all assumed they had the right to overrule the tribe’s wishes because the Plantation of Mashpee was essentially federal land.

Ironically Bundy also argues his constitutional right to federal land even while the flag waving bigoted moron also proclaims the US government does not exist.

Especially when it
really is hate speech.

And while defending his right to be lawless on land he claims as his personal manifest destiny, Bundy has reintroduced the concept of slavery as a modern day solution to the social ills that apparently only plague “negroes.”

Really?! When all else fails, apply the rule of racism and oppression to somehow elevate your integrity? What an interesting albeit revealing non sequitur that has many of Bundy’s conservative confederates now running for the hills.

(Cant you just see Senator Dean Heller’s press secretary now, pointing fingers and asking who didn’t check Bundy’s background for obvious Klan connections or possible kinship to Duck Dynasty’s Phil Robertson?)

But as they scramble to deflect any association with this imbecile, they hold tight to the ideal that somehow patriotism is linked to a God given right to take land by adverse possession. A concept characterized in Texas Attorney General Greg Abbot’s statement about Bundy’s stand.

"I am deeply concerned about the notion that the Bureau of Land Management believes the federal government has the authority to swoop in and take land that has been owned and cultivated by Texas landowners for generations," 

Hmmm, did he really suggest that the government has no right to take land owned and cultivated by indigenous landowners? What a novel interpretation of the law. 

Oh, by the way, the Indians involved in the 1833 revolt were thrown in jail. Cow tipping might not be a good idea.

Dr. Ella Thomas-Sekatau: May 10, 1928 ~ April 7, 2014

Ella Wilcox Sekatau Brown

Today the Narragansett Nation lost a remarkable elder. I lost a mentor and a friend.

I was 15-years-old when I met Ella during a job interview.

My mother insisted I dress accordingly. I wore a white blouse with the collars starched so stiffly I could have impaled myself if I bent over too quickly. My green blazer matched a thread of color in my Scottish plaid slacks and even my sox and shoes matched the whole get up. I felt ridiculous.

But not quite as ridiculous as I felt when I arrived at the Wampanoag Indigenous Program headquarters at Plimoth Plantation where I got my first glimpse of Ella, a Narragansett Medicine Woman. 

Ella creating the turkey feather
mantleduring the summer of 1973.

Her office was a 13 by 13 foot shed with scarce amenities including a dirty sink with a perpetual drip, a tall closet full of dead animal skins and two huge wooden tables shoved together and covered with and odd mix of books, files, reeds, various carved wooden tools and bowls, iron kettles, and knives, lots of knives. The barn like door was swung wide open and as inviting as that was, from her perch inside on a rickety three legged stool Ella looked at me—no, to be honest, stared over a pair of half frame glasses tied about her neck with a piece of raw hide. She wore an oversized men’s plaid shirt that in no way made me feel uniform in plaid pants. A wide strip of red trade cloth was tied around her head covering most of her forehead and holding down whatever wisps of her wavy black hair not twisted into the two fine braids draped over each shoulder. One cheek was painted with the silhouette of a black turtle and the other some red markings in the shape of a cross I dared not ask to be interpreted.

Pushing the glasses down her nose and leaning her tall lanky frame over to rest her long brown arms on the table she said, “Ha! You must be Russell’s girl.”

Only then did she dawn a wide disarming smile and I dared to step through the door. That was 40 years ago, nearly to the day. I have never looked back. My life, my outlook, my understanding of my history, culture and traditions have never been the same.

Needless to say I was hired for the first of eight seasons I would work in the museum’s interpretive program. I never again showed up wearing a blazer. In fact, with a few well-proportioned snips and slashes and ties Ella fashioned for me a deerskin dress that I nearly lived in during the entire first summer I spent in that Eel River campsite.

My first summer interpreting at WIP in 1974.

It was the summer of elevated awareness of myself as a young Native woman and as one of the People responsible for carrying on our traditions, honoring the earth and sea, the wildlife, the four directions (by the way that was the explanation for the red cross on her cheek), and our Creator. At times as Ella was teaching me about our story, much of which she learned from ancestors entering her own dreams, it seemed as if there was no one else there yet we were often surrounded by tourists.

One afternoon at the end of the shift she and Eric Thomas jumped into their Peugeot station wagon and told us all to hold down the camp the next day and be ready for a nice surprise.

The two of them blasted up Route 1 and fetched a 250-pound black bear that had been struck on the highway and put on ice by the nice folks working for the state of Maine highway department.

Eric and Ella raced back with the bear stretched out in the back of the station wagon still frozen in the position it landed in after being struck. One big black furry arm raised above its head with its neck craned up just enough to expose a toothy grin, the bear appeared to be waving at every horrified driver they passed. Amused beyond their wildest imagination the two of them sang and laughed all the way back to Plymouth.

As soon as they arrived at the campsite the bear was quickly strung up to a tree behind the wetu. Ella handed me a  knife and we began cutting to make quick work to skin it before the bear thawed completely and began to reek.

It was my first lesson how not to waste what Creator provides us, even if it comes via the highway department, not to mention how to suppress my gag reflex.

Having no idea how long the poor thing laid on the side of the road we couldn’t eat the meat but the skin, including that which covered the head and limbs, as well as the bones, teeth and claws were all salvaged for making warm clothing, tools and adornment.

Showing a young Lyle Hopkins
the art of quill embroidery.

That summer I also learned to plant and cook traditionally, how to make mats from bulrush, baskets from cedar bark, and how to use porcupine quills to embroider on deerskin. But perhaps the most important thing I learned was to take pride in my Native heritage and myself.

As a young interpreter I was often frustrated by how much people did not know about the Wampanoag, and how insensitive tourists could be unwittingly and in some cases purposefully making insulting comments reflecting what they had learned about Native people from comic books and bad westerns. But a bit of sage advice from Ella helped me endure those times and has carried me through many an uncomfortable encounter throughout my life.

She taught me that ignorance is like a wall of stone, and that if I clench my fists and try to break it down, I will only walk away with bloody knuckles. The stones, she said, need to come down gently, one at a time by patiently educating people about our true story.

It is easily one of the most important lessons of my life.

A few months ago I was blessed to take a few hours out of my hectic days and travel to Rhode Island and visit with Ella. Not knowing it would be our last visit I enjoyed my time with her immensely and was able to read to her a chapter of the book I have been working on, part of that lifetime mission to educate people about our story. I knew if I had messed anything up she would tell me. When I was done she sat back and smiled that same disarming grin that welcomed me through the door. I knew it was going to be just fine.

I am so grateful to have known her, to have her as a mentor and to know her children, grand children and great grand children like my own family. Peace to all of you.

Wait! Don't condemn the house just yet...

The Fourth Estate only needs a renovation. 

Any dedicated journalist, or former journalist like myself, who read the Pew Research Center’s 2013 State of the News Media report was probably as discouraged I was.

It identified devastating cuts in staffing and resources in newsrooms across the country, down 30 percent since 2000. A depressing statistic the report said “adds up to a news industry that is more undermanned and unprepared to uncover stories, dig deep into emerging ones or question information put into its hands.”

The foundation of the Fourth Estate, the house we built to hold our Judicial, Legislative and Executive power houses in check, was crumbling while politicians and government agencies as well as corporations with agendas based in billions in profits made out like the fox in the hen house. The deflated power of the media enabled anyone with a special interest and lots of money to leverage their message unfiltered through social media and quasi-media/entertainment masquerading as genuine news.

But had our collective conscience become so inured to the lack of integrity in news coverage that we were willing to have news packaged by slave labor and sold to us wholesale like bulk bonbons at BJ’s?

Apparently not, skip ahead to Pew’s State of the News Media 2014. While the erosion of old school media continues, it appears the wake up call was received. Initiatives to reinvent the delivery of world-class journalism are taking root and growing.

So even in the wake of the Gatehouse Media announcement that this year will bring yet another round of cuts to the Cape Cod Times newsroom, there is hope on the horizon that the tide will soon turn. If Gatehouse could read the tea leaves instead of their own poorly staffed newspapers they might see that the corporate slash and burn technique to grow their bottom line will ultimately prove the penny wise pound foolish prophesy.

Detoxing from our dependency on newsprint has been difficult. Those of us who came up in the industry in newsrooms with morning budget meetings, booming scanners and 6 o’clock deadlines still twitch just a little. But we have to admit we saw this coming even as the lights went out on the page layout tables in the 1990s.

The Internet grew like a monster host to social media and digital news outlets. They emerged like a new colt busting out of the stall with all the technical power of a thoroughbred but none of the intellect that was being systematically carved out of newsrooms by short sighted corporate giants like Gatehouse.

The trend Pew is seeing now is the merging of tech and intellect developing a hybrid news product that is once again what we expect just in a form we couldn't imagine ten years ago.

According to the report overview, "BuzzFeed, once scoffed at for content viewed as 'click bait,' now has a news staff of 170, including top names like Pulitzer Prize-winner Mark Schoofs, and is the kind of place that ProPublica's Paul Steiger says he would want to work at if he were young again. Mashable now has a news staff of 70 and enticed former New York Times assistant managing editor Jim Roberts to become its chief content officer."

These new houses of journalism have come of age to filter out online and broadcast tabloid noise and give us what we deserve; honest, unbiased, investigated stories.

And according to Pew consumers recognize the difference and so do investors, venture capitalists and philanthropists. While the pockets are not yet defined as deep, the lock is off of the wallet.

So, I say to my fellow Cape Cod Times alum and those who are still holding down the fort at 319 Main Street, fear not.

One of the unique qualities of the collective Dow Jones and Gatehouse Media fallout at the Cape Cod Times over the last decade is the abandon of some of the most talented and dedicated journalists, photographers, editors, and advertising reps in one place. In the wake of their short sightedness is a band of professionals who have remained local, connected and loyal to the journalistic objective and ready to be reengaged. Never have grass roots been so fertile. 

For any investors out there, just add money and shake.