I am purified and free
And I will not allow you to ignore me
I have brought you a gift
It is all I have, but it is yours
You may reach out and enfold it.
It is only the strength in the caress of a gentle breeze
But it will carry you to meet the eagle in the sky
My name is "I am living" I am here
My name is "I am living" I am here
by Anna Lee Walters from I have Bowed before the Sun
I have spent my entire life captive on government land. I have made great effort to live in harmony with the white man's ways, and remain true to the traditions of my people. Now it is the winter of my time here on earth, and I am led by the spirit to allow my image taken as testament to the dying Indian culture. My heritage has been passed to me by the voices of my elders. This is the true history of the Indians.
The moon has shown upon my face a hundred of each season, and more. Each time I greet the moon spirit, I turn my face to accept another line of wisdom which is etched onto my image. I thank the great spirit. Much wisdom I have received over the many passing moons, yet I have no wisdom for preserving the ways of my people. I am old for this world, and my spirit longs to soar with that of the eagle, for which I have been named. To my descendants, I will continue to give the rich history I have lived. I will speak of a time we lived in harmony with all, of a time when respect was not a word, not a boundary to fight for, but a feeling afforded to all, at every level. I will speak of the ancient ones who now guide us in spirit and demand of us to remember who we are, who we were before the pale faced men came to this land.
We were once a proud people. With my eyes closed, I see a world much different from the one we live in today, I see one where my father and his father before him lived, breathed, and hunted. I see my father as a young man, his long dark hair braided and feathered for ceremony. It is time to hunt the mighty buffalo, which will feed our people through the season of cold. The hunt is very somber, for to sustain our life, we take the life of the buffalo. To disrespect the kill would sabotage the hunt and threaten the success of other hunters. Great care is taken to ensure the buffalo's spirit is released into the afterlife, while preserving the dignity of this animal.
Long ago, man owned neither the land, nor its bountiful resources. All men were entitled to fish, to collect plant foods and to hunt anywhere they wished. Peoples of other tribes were welcomed. As one we shared the peace pipe and the success of our labors. We traded amongst one another, exchanged news, gossip and ideas together. Our women shared the joy of new births, and sorrow for the ones who had cross over into the spirit realm. Though this philosophy was not universal among tribesmen, kinship was served between the many. Our people placed survival upon cooperation as we measured success not as by the one, but as by the many. N. Scott Momaday, a Kiowa, spoke "My forbearer's have been in North America for many thousands of years. In my blood, I have a real sense of that occupation. It is worth something to me; as indeed that long, broken tenure is worth something to every native American Indian." When my eyes are closed, I am one with this feeling.
When I open my eyes, I am brutally reminded of a place remote in time; when the white man claimed mother earth as his own, causing my people to flee in a trail of blood. The white man brought with him a great fever, killing the weak and the strong alike throughout all tribes. He brought with him his God, denouncing our ways of spirit as evil. Once, we roamed the earth in companionship with our mother, always moving with the seasons. The white man has destined us to spend our days on a small section of inhospitable land pale faced men did not wish to make use of. He calls it a reservation. It is here he builds schools to teach our young the ways of the white man. The Catholic nuns come to us and call us sinners because of the ways we have believed for thousands of moons. Our land is now called "America" and my children are taught "American history" as the white man saw it unfold.
And so I will close my eyes and I will remember. I will feel the spirits of my slain forefathers and see truth in the spirit. And I will close my eyes when I speak of that truth to my descendants.
A hundred thousand years have passed
Yet, I hear the distant beat of my father's drums
I hear his drums throughout the land
His beat I feel within my heart
The drums shall beat, so shall my heart beat
And I shall live a hundred thousand years
by Shirley Daniels (Ojibwa 1969)
And I will not allow you to ignore me
I have brought you a gift
It is all I have, but it is yours
You may reach out and enfold it.
It is only the strength in the caress of a gentle breeze
But it will carry you to meet the eagle in the sky
My name is "I am living" I am here
My name is "I am living" I am here
by Anna Lee Walters from I have Bowed before the Sun
I have spent my entire life captive on government land. I have made great effort to live in harmony with the white man's ways, and remain true to the traditions of my people. Now it is the winter of my time here on earth, and I am led by the spirit to allow my image taken as testament to the dying Indian culture. My heritage has been passed to me by the voices of my elders. This is the true history of the Indians.
The moon has shown upon my face a hundred of each season, and more. Each time I greet the moon spirit, I turn my face to accept another line of wisdom which is etched onto my image. I thank the great spirit. Much wisdom I have received over the many passing moons, yet I have no wisdom for preserving the ways of my people. I am old for this world, and my spirit longs to soar with that of the eagle, for which I have been named. To my descendants, I will continue to give the rich history I have lived. I will speak of a time we lived in harmony with all, of a time when respect was not a word, not a boundary to fight for, but a feeling afforded to all, at every level. I will speak of the ancient ones who now guide us in spirit and demand of us to remember who we are, who we were before the pale faced men came to this land.
We were once a proud people. With my eyes closed, I see a world much different from the one we live in today, I see one where my father and his father before him lived, breathed, and hunted. I see my father as a young man, his long dark hair braided and feathered for ceremony. It is time to hunt the mighty buffalo, which will feed our people through the season of cold. The hunt is very somber, for to sustain our life, we take the life of the buffalo. To disrespect the kill would sabotage the hunt and threaten the success of other hunters. Great care is taken to ensure the buffalo's spirit is released into the afterlife, while preserving the dignity of this animal.
Long ago, man owned neither the land, nor its bountiful resources. All men were entitled to fish, to collect plant foods and to hunt anywhere they wished. Peoples of other tribes were welcomed. As one we shared the peace pipe and the success of our labors. We traded amongst one another, exchanged news, gossip and ideas together. Our women shared the joy of new births, and sorrow for the ones who had cross over into the spirit realm. Though this philosophy was not universal among tribesmen, kinship was served between the many. Our people placed survival upon cooperation as we measured success not as by the one, but as by the many. N. Scott Momaday, a Kiowa, spoke "My forbearer's have been in North America for many thousands of years. In my blood, I have a real sense of that occupation. It is worth something to me; as indeed that long, broken tenure is worth something to every native American Indian." When my eyes are closed, I am one with this feeling.
When I open my eyes, I am brutally reminded of a place remote in time; when the white man claimed mother earth as his own, causing my people to flee in a trail of blood. The white man brought with him a great fever, killing the weak and the strong alike throughout all tribes. He brought with him his God, denouncing our ways of spirit as evil. Once, we roamed the earth in companionship with our mother, always moving with the seasons. The white man has destined us to spend our days on a small section of inhospitable land pale faced men did not wish to make use of. He calls it a reservation. It is here he builds schools to teach our young the ways of the white man. The Catholic nuns come to us and call us sinners because of the ways we have believed for thousands of moons. Our land is now called "America" and my children are taught "American history" as the white man saw it unfold.
And so I will close my eyes and I will remember. I will feel the spirits of my slain forefathers and see truth in the spirit. And I will close my eyes when I speak of that truth to my descendants.
A hundred thousand years have passed
Yet, I hear the distant beat of my father's drums
I hear his drums throughout the land
His beat I feel within my heart
The drums shall beat, so shall my heart beat
And I shall live a hundred thousand years
by Shirley Daniels (Ojibwa 1969)
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