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.