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.

Somebody please close that door...

Being stranded due to a flight cancelation in a tropical paradise should be a good thing right? Not so much for Delta flight 560 out of Bermuda yesterday.

Not sure what the protocol is for handling stranded passengers but what happened to us was appalling. When we got the news that a rear door on our jet had been inadvertently damaged and the plane could not safely take off, flight attendants announced that more information on resuming our travel or the possibility of having to stay another night would be forthcoming in the terminal.

Well that never happened.

All of the 200 plus passengers returned to the terminal and assembled like lemming in a long line with an obscure purpose. No one could tell us what we were waiting for; if our jet would

eventually be repaired and deemed travel worthy; what was the likelihood we could rebook travel through other airlines; or if accommodations could be made if we needed to fly out the next day.

We stood around literally for hours with no clear direction about what to do, no general announcement, no helpful advice from anyone at any time.

Several Delta airline agents did an outstanding job of trying to manage the throng of frustrated and soon angry travelers rushing the desk while having to continually explain the different options to each individual passenger depending on what their final destination might be. All this while boarding other flights to other destinations, talk about a mess.

When asked about an announcement with useful information for all of us a Delta agent politely told me that they were waiting for a supervisor to instruct them.

Several of us who had no other option were finally booked on the flight for the next day then waited several more hours for the “supervisor” to confirm a hotel to accommodate us. We were told rooms were scarce due to spring break however passengers with phones confirmed lots of availability in several hotels.

So for more than four hours after debarking our doomed flight we were trapped in the BDA airport having cleared customs to return to the states. We were the proverbial men and women without a country. We were never offered food or drink until one of the Delta agents waved two $20 bills over the throng of people. A man grabbed them and went straight to the bar and bought as many drinks as he could for stranded passengers. Trust me, it didn’t go far and by that time I had already purchased a Corona for the price of a six-pack in the states.

By the time I finally arrived at the Fairmont in Hamilton at nearly 7 pm, having arrived at 10:30 for my 12:10 flight, I had been in the airline’s custody for more than eight hours and hadn’t gotten anywhere.

Then to add insult to injury the hotel had no reservation for us and doubted they could accommodate us. We sat for another half an hour wondering where we would be shipped off to when a Fairmont manager took pity on us and booked us into available rooms in the Gold level.  

Oh happy day. Over.

 Suggestion Delta: A little triage from the start would have gone a very long way to assuage the hostility in the end. 

• ·      Why weren’t the passengers gathered in one place and given an update?
• ·      Why weren’t passengers who were willing to rebook for the next day given that option from the start and sent on their way? That would have gone a long way to defuse the chaos.
• ·      Why weren’t travelers with different issues separated; for example those who had Boston as a final destination, those who had connecting flights to elsewhere, and the man who had a group of 40 people who held the attention of one agent for nearly two hours?!
• ·      Don’t wait till the last minute to book rooms for passengers you know can’t go anywhere else.
•  Lastly, the agents at the gate needed help!!! They were, under the circumstances, very composed and professional in the face of pure chaos and each deserve high praise. The supervisor who hid downstairs should have come up at some point to facilitate some order but we never saw that person.

Ultimately, those of us stranded here were given fine accommodations but it was little comfort after hours of pointless waiting that could have been avoided had anyone been paying attention from a corporate or even an administrative perspective.

I can’t believe Delta doesn’t have a better protocol for this kind of situation. I realize it was an unintended accident but honestly, this can’t be the first time this has happened in the airline’s long and prestigious history.  

Things my daddy gave me.

Obsessively I squirrel away a tiny neatly boxed bar of soap, the mini shampoo and conditioner, and even the shower cap I will never use and stuff it into a puckered side pocket of my luggage. In the morning a chambermaid will replenish the supply and I will repeat the hoarding ritual nostalgic of my father.

When I was a little girl he traveled frequently on business. Daddy was a big important marketing executive for Honeywell where the corporate giants of cutting edge computer technology proudly proclaimed him to be the first Native American to be promoted to such a lofty position in the burgeoning industry. Daddy smiled and posed for pictures like a rare bird just captured out of the rainforest.

Clunk – that would be the sound of Daddy’s head hitting the glass ceiling.

Thank God he ignored imposed limitations to pursue his dreams. What a legend he left.

He was among the founders of our modern day Mashpee Wampanoag Tribal Council in 1972 and lead the tribe for many years, blazing the trail to federal acknowledgement. During that time he also secured the piece of tribal land we call "55 acres" where our new tribal government center opened last week.

To me he was daddy first and when he was traveling around as part of corporate America he never forgot his little girl.

Honeywell was a household name in the 1960s that would rival Apple today. They toured my daddy around the country so he could sell information systems that filled entire rooms, spit out reams of cryptically encoded paper and operated on key punch cards. Today an eight year old can hold all that technology in the palm of his hand and operate it with his thumb.

Ask the kid what Honeywell is and perplexed, he will tap his tiny keyboard and within seconds “Google” the correct answer.

When daddy traveled I missed him terribly, perhaps more than my mother did. I was lonesome for his games and stories, his eagerness to curl up on the couch with me and my brothers on a Saturday morning to watch Bugs Bunny and the Road Runner.

“Beep, beep!”

Back then I was a shameless tattle tale, ratting out my brothers for calling me “gunky” or pinching me or stealing my Barbie and forcing her into G.I. Joe’s tent. Any of these offenses would work me into a tearful protest that was not nearly as effective when mommy was the enforcer.

Mommy was the consummate moderate when it came to the boy’s antics. She would retrieve my doll, admonish the culprit, acknowledge my hurt feelings and encourage us to play nicely. To the contrary my whimpering would inspire Daddy to bellow theatrically “who is bothering my little girl?!” Daddy would cuddle me close and wipe my crocodile tears as my brothers protested the obvious partiality.

So daddy’s homecoming was always a celebrated event for me. My biggest fan was home and he always had a souvenir from his trip, a surprise that was never really a surprise nonetheless cherished as if I had never seen one just like it.

Daddy would pop open his travel case on his bed and unpack his Right Guard, his shaving kit and wrinkled business clothes.

“Oh…” he would say in the same dramatic voice he used to acknowledge my temper tantrum, “is there something in here for you?”

Russell M. Peters III visiting his great-granddad's headstone. 

I was giddy watching him dig around in the pockets to produce the tiny bar of soap, neatly wrapped in paper with the words “Howard Johnson” written in orange on the package.

It filled me with delight that little soap did. Even many years later as I realized it wasn’t purchased, and in fact nothing more than a savvy marketing ploy to be stolen by design. To me it was uniquely the soap my daddy gave me.

Bathroom swag is standard hospitality industry marketing these days only now it comes in the form of a glycerin facial cleanser wrapped in a delicate organic rice paper. The bath bar freckled with exfoliating elements could be mistaken for soap that had been dropped in the sand (and quite honestly it probably was) and the shampoo and conditioner is keratin infused.  There are also bath salts, cotton balls and Q-Tips, a buffing cloth to shine your shoes, and a sewing kit. I take it all like a common thief and bring it home to my unimpressed children.

“Really mom? You went to Vegas and all I get is this bar of soap?”

Just a bar of soap…  I guess some traditions skip a generation.