Tuesday, May 31, 2022

To End Mass Shootings, We Need to Change the Deeper Structure of Life in the US
Area residents and community members gather at the town square in Uvalde, Texas, for a vigil in the wake of a mass shooting at Robb Elementary School on May 24, 2022.
JORDAN VONDERHAAR / GETTY IMAGES

May 27, 2022

PART OF THE SERIES
The Public Intellectual

Violence is the oxygen of authoritarianism. It is the symbolic and visceral breeding ground of fear, ignorance, greed and cruelty. It flourishes in societies marked by despair, ignorance, lies, hate and cynicism.

Violence — and especially the killing of children such as the mass killing that occurred this week at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas, leaving at least 19 students dead — can’t be understood in the immediacy of shock and despair, however deplorable and understandable. The ideological and structural conditions that nourish and legitimate it have to be revealed both in their connections to power and in the systemic unmasking of those who benefit from such death-dealing conditions.

Among Democrats, the general response to mass violence in the U.S. is to call for more gun regulations and criticize the NRA, gun lobbies and the weapons industry. This is understandable given that the arms industry floods the United States with all manner of lethal weapons, pays out millions to mostly Republican politicians, and in the case of the NRA has sponsored an amendment banning “any federal dollars from being used to research gun injuries or deaths in the US.”

We should indeed criticize the gun lobby and arms industry, but this critique does not go far enough. The tragic murders of the 19 schoolchildren and two teachers in rural Texas at the hands of a young man who resorted to a horrific act of violence — and the killing of Black shoppers in a Tops grocery store in Buffalo by a hate-filled racist and self-proclaimed fascist — represent the end points of a culture awash in guns and violence, a society that nourishes and rewards the gun industries, and values the accumulation of profits over human needs. All of the latter is amplified by a modern Republican Party that accelerates a gun culture, revels in violence as a form of political opportunism, strips young people of crucial social provisions, and enables a culture of lies that make it difficult to discern the truth from falsehoods, good from evil. New York Times columnist Charles Blow rightly claims that “The Republican Party has turned America into a killing field.

In the current historical moment, the market-driven values of “freedom,” choice and rugged individualism have merged with the concentration of power in the hands of the super-rich and corporations, an unbridled individualism, and a culture of terror and fear. One consequence is that the corruption of politics as big money is used to pay off politicians while using a corporate-controlled media to flood the culture with the notion that individual liberty is synonymous with unfettered gun rights. How else to explain that “Gun rights groups set new records for lobbying in 2021, spending over $15 million, with GOP Sen. Ted Cruz the biggest recipient,” as Ruth Ben-Ghiat wrote this week. It is not surprising that Cruz responded to the mass shooting in a Texas elementary school by declaring that one way to solve the problem of school violence was to arm teachers. It is worth noting that, according to Al Jazeera, “Sales of weapons and military services by the world’s 100 biggest arms companies reached a record $531bn in 2020.”

While the power of the NRA, arms dealers such as Lockheed Martin — the largest war industry in the world — and the military-industrial complex to shape politics and a permanent war economy is indisputable, this is only one register of a form of gangster capitalism that believes that market values, which privatize, commodify, and commercialize all social relations, are more important than addressing vital human needs, crucial social problems and the public good. This is a logic that suppresses human rights, views the struggle for social justice as a scourge, and cancels out the future for young people. William Greider in his book Who Will Tell the People, published in 1992, stated that if the U.S. lost its civic faith in the promise of democracy, it “has the potential to deteriorate into a rather brutish place, ruled by naked power and random social aggression.” Greider’s words were not only prescient, they capture the loss of vision and cult of authoritarianism at work in the United States.

Under neoliberalism, democratic life has no vision and no meaningful ideological civic anchors. Neoliberalism strips society of both its collective conscience and democratic communal relations. Violence proliferates in a society when justice is corrupted and power works to produce mass forms of historical and social amnesia largely aimed at degrading society’s critical and moral capacities.

There are more guns in circulation in the U.S. than people in a country of 325 million. The U.S. constitutes 5 percent of the world’s population and owns 25 percent of all guns on the globe. Judd Legum in Popular Information reports that in 2020, “39,695,315 guns were sold to civilians.” He notes further that this is an alarming figure given that “firearm ownership rates appear to be a statistically significant predictor of the distribution of public mass shooters worldwide.” Equally significant but not surprising is the fact that “More Americans have died from gunshots in the last 50 years than in all of the wars in American history,” according to NBC News. The Pew Research Center reported, “More Americans died of gun-related injuries in 2020 than in any other year on record.” What emerges from these figures and the relentless mass shootings in which young people have become an increasing target is the question of what kind of society has the United States become, and what are the broader economic, political and social forces that produce massive violence and its increasing collapse into authoritarianism?

As horrific as these figures are, the backdrop to the politics and plague of violence in the United States is rarely a subject of debate in the mainstream media. Even as specific policies are debated, what is ignored is a neoliberal economic system that feeds on self-interest, inequality, cruelty, punishment, precarity and loneliness. Neoliberal society fuels a criminogenic system that celebrates violence both as a source of pleasure and as an organizing principle of governance.

Neoliberal capitalism has given rise to a carceral state that criminalizes the behavior of young people, while filling the prisons with poor people of color, destroying their families and their futures. This is a system so cold-hearted that it refuses to renew the Child Tax Credit, pushing 3 million children below the poverty line.Young people are being killed in spaces that are supposed to protect them. In an age of fascist politics, mass violence has become normalized and is nourished by a culture of conspiracy theories.

The U.S. is the only country in the world where children as young as 13 are sentenced to prison without any chance of parole. Such policies are just one register of the slow and silent state violence waged against young people that works in tandem with the mass violence that is produced by a society in which injustice, poverty, fear and racial cleansing are central modes of governance. The irony here is that the current white supremacist Republican Party now claims it is the party dedicated to protecting children. This claim is ludicrous when tested against a party that bans books, models schools after prisons, demonizes transgender youth, assaults reproductive rights, and consistently puts policies in place that undermine efforts to lift children and their families above the poverty line.

Domestic terrorists now parade as politicians, and white supremacists dominate the Republican Party and revel in a civically depleted culture that has abandoned justice, ethics and hope for the corrupt currencies of wealth, power and self-aggrandizement. Increasingly young people are the targets of a form of gangster capitalism that has written them out of the script of democracy, placed them at the mercy of politicians who are self-proclaimed white Christian nationalists, and abandoned them through institutions that have broken from the social contract. Increasingly, they are stripped of their dignity, hopes, and in too many cases, their lives. This is the death machine of social abandonment and terminal exclusion that creates the conditions for blood to flow in the streets, schools, malls, supermarkets, churches, mosques and synagogues.

Young people are being killed in spaces that are supposed to protect them. In an age of fascist politics, mass violence has become normalized and is nourished by a culture of conspiracy theories, moral indifference, corrupt politicians, a social media that trades in hate, the normalization of mass shootings, and a grotesque public silence in the face of massive inequalities in wealth and power.

In such a context, it is not surprising that an increasing number of Republicans support violence as a tool for resolving political issues. It gets worse. The Washington Post has reported that, “1 in 3 Americans say they believe violence against government can at times be justified.” Violence has become so widespread that it both neutralizes the public’s sense of moral outrage and shatters their bonds of solidarity. As society is increasingly militarized under neoliberalism, violence becomes the solution for everything. This is especially dangerous for those individuals who feel isolated and lonely in a society that atomizes everything. Some of these individuals turn to the internet and social media in search of community, often to be radicalized by white supremacist conspiracy theories, as was the case with the Buffalo shooter.

The culture of violence has intensified since the 1980s and has found a privileged place in the cult of authoritarianism in the United States. It is embraced, legitimated and endorsed by a Republican Party that uses gun violence and mass school shootings as part of a poisonous script designed, as Ruth Ben-Ghiat argues to transform “public schools into death traps as part of a deliberate strategy to create an atmosphere of fear and suspicion conducive to survivalist mentalities and support for illiberal politics.”

Gun violence cannot be abstracted from a broader culture of violence and authoritarianism that calls for more gun ownership, more police and more national security. Moreover, both the gun industry and right-wing politicians who benefit from its profits are well aware fear and extremism sell more guns and generate lucrative markets for the merchants of death. The right-wing response to school shootings is as disingenuous as it is morally corrupt. In order to feed the coffers of the surveillance industry and other merchants of death, it calls for turning schools into armed camps, awash with high-tech security systems, more police, and more firearms for teachers while increasingly defining the purpose and meaning of schools through the language of a military culture. Such actions both cultivate a mass consciousness that worships violence even as it bemoans the terrible price it enacts on human life, especially when children become collateral damage in such a culture. The cult of violence in the U.S. is inseparable from cult of authoritarianism and the rise of neoliberal fascism.

In moments like these, we all must remember that justice is partly dependent upon the merging of civic courage, historical understanding, a critical education and robust mass action. There is a long history of resistance in the U.S. that is under siege and is being erased from schools, books and libraries by right-wing Republican politicians and their followers. This is not only an assault on historical consciousness; it’s also an assault on thinking itself, and the very ability to recognize injustice and the tools needed to oppose it. One consequence is that neoliberal authoritarianism now thrives in an ecosystem of historical amnesia and has become an accelerating agent of violence.

Authoritarianism as a death machine thrives by hiding in the language of common sense and the discourses of fear, terror and moral panic. As it becomes more widespread, it is normalized, becoming all the more destructive. Normalization is a form of mystification, and it can be seen in the way in which the larger forces behind mass shootings such as those at Tops supermarket and in the Texas school are often reduced to personal stories of individual grief and narratives limited to the assailants’ lives. As structural conditions are obscured, connecting the dots to a broader culture of violence becomes more difficult.

Hiding behind a rhetoric in which the political collapses into the personal and private troubles are removed from broader systemic considerations, power now functions in the service of a cabal of religious fundamentalists, charlatans of mass ignorance, the financial elite, and the corporate-controlled cultural apparatuses that trade in dishonesty, the spectacle of violence, and the demonization and dehumanization of anyone who is not a white Christian. Even worse, the modern Republican Party not only endorses calls for violence by members of its own party, including those made by Paul Gosar, Marjorie Taylor Greene, and others, but it has also become a party that openly views violence as a legitimate way to secure its desired political outcomes — to seize power and destroy democracy. Rather than being alarmed by violence, the Republican Party has created the conditions that suggest it wishes for even more. As Charles Blow observes, trading in fear and paranoia, the Republican Party terrorizes the public by claiming that “criminals are coming to menace you, immigrants are coming to menace you, a race war (or racial replacement) is coming to menace you and the government itself may one day come to menace you. The only defense you have against the menace is to be armed.” The only solution is to not only accept the American way of violence and death but to affirm it, be complicit with it, and in doing so legitimate it.

The killing of children turns this invisible scourge of power and its poisonous instruments on its head, if only for a moment, because of the shock of the unimaginable, gesturing at its roots the workings of current political and economic formations that function as a lethal force that turns everything into ashes. Such horrors cry out for connecting the endless threads of violence that mark the brutality waged against women, transgender youth, Black people, Indigenous people, undocumented immigrants, youth of color, disabled people, the environment, and all those considered disposable in this neo-fascist social order.As society is increasingly militarized under neoliberalism, violence becomes the solution for everything.

Against this authoritarian death machine, we all need to mobilize to turn despair into militant hope, critical analysis into action, and individual anger into collective struggles that refuse the seductions of gangster capitalism and its rebranded fascism.

On multiple fronts, youth are already at the forefront of this organizing. After the mass shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, in 2018, youth rose up against gun violence in unprecedented ways, creating the March for Our Lives and connecting the issue of school shootings with police violence, racial justice, and other urgent issues.

Youth are also speaking out and rising up in monumental ways regarding the climate crisis, racial justice, immigration justice, war, prisons, and more. Adults would do well to recognize, bolster and amplify these forms of youth activism to help them grow and gain momentum.

History is open, and the signposts of the current moment are waiting for a radical change in consciousness, institutions and action. How much more blood will flow in schools and other places where young people and adults live their lives before a sufficiently powerful mass movement arises to put an end to this capitalist architecture of ideological and institutional violence?

Resistance is the only option, and it has to be educational, structural, bold and disruptive — far removed from the weak call for a revitalized electoral politics or moderate gun reforms. Resistance has to breathe anger, outrage, and mediate a sense of moral righteousness through a mass movement for economic, environmental and social justice.

Frederick Douglass was right when he stated: “Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will. Find out just what any people will quietly submit to, and you have found out the exact measure of injustice and wrong which will be imposed upon them, and these will continue till they are resisted with either words or blows, or with both. The limits of tyrants are prescribed by the endurance of those whom they oppress.”

How many more deaths can this country endure, how many more innocent children will be killed before a mass movement arises that can bring this brutal social order to an end?


Henry A. Giroux currently holds the McMaster University Chair for Scholarship in the Public Interest in the English and Cultural Studies Department and is the Paulo Freire Distinguished Scholar in Critical Pedagogy. His most recent books include: American Nightmare: Facing the Challenge of Fascism (City Lights, 2018); The Terror of the Unforeseen (Los Angeles Review of books, 2019), On Critical Pedagogy, 2nd edition (Bloomsbury, 2020); Race, Politics, and Pandemic Pedagogy: Education in a Time of Crisis (Bloomsbury 2021); and Pedagogy of Resistance: Against Manufactured Ignorance (Bloomsbury 2022). Giroux is also a member of Truthout’s Board of Directors.
New Book Explores Why “Inclusion” Can’t Bring an End to Anti-Trans Violence
A demonstrator speaks in support of Black transgender lives at 
a rally in Foley Square on July 30, 2020, in New York City.
SCOTT HEINS / GETTY IMAGES
PUBLISHED May 30, 2022

In their new book Atmospheres of Violence, organizer and University of California Berkeley gender studies professor Eric A. Stanley describes how the United States political system depends on violence against trans people.

Stanley argues that to stay in power, U.S. institutions and the people behind them — including politicians, their corporate benefactors, and the armed guard forces that police the rest of us — consolidate power and wealth through the constant precarity experienced by marginalized people.


In the past year, 22 state legislatures introduced and in several cases passed laws to ban transgender health care access for youth while banned books lists at libraries were engorged with titles featuring queer characters. South Carolina criminalized trans youth participation in school sports and legalized discrimination against LGBTQ people by medical practitioners. “Don’t Say Gay”/”Don’t Say Trans” laws meant queer public school teachers were fired or almost fired but for mass actions like student walkouts in Florida and Texas.

The attacks continue to creep out of capitol buildings like spilled oil, contributing to jumps in mental health emergencies and death: A Trevor Project study released in May 2022 found 45 percent of TLGBQ youth had seriously considered attempting suicide in the past year.

While conservatives scapegoat trans people to rally their bases, liberals spit out toothless speeches supporting trans people at the same time as they push spending bills to enrich police, the military and various other policing departments too numerous to name. These, the country’s most well-funded institutions, are notorious for reinforcing gender binaries and stereotypes, high rates of assault and rape, and near-immunity from repercussions for harm they cause.


March 31 marked the first time the White House celebrated the annual Transgender Day of Visibility. In the press briefing room, a prerecorded message from President Joe Biden played, and officials announced more funding for the Transportation Security Administration to install gender-neutral surveillance scanner technology at airports. The White House’s other announcement: It will start issuing nonbinary passports in April, a positive change, but one that will mostly affect a narrow slice of trans U.S. citizens who plan to travel internationally soon. (It’s also a late change, given that almost half of U.S. states already offer nonbinary IDs.)

Atmospheres of Violence
Structuring Antagonism and the Trans/Queer Ungovernable
DUKE UNIVERSITY PRESS

Atmospheres of Violence details stories of pain and resistance from the past half-century that have mostly been lost to history. Some are shocking in their cruelty and proximity to the U.S. political machinery — as when the government used the chaos of HIV/AIDS to sap energy from radical trans liberation movements of the 1980s and 1990s while it propped up the nonprofit-industrial complex and pharmaceutical companies. As these system-enabled tragedies unfold, the book offers moments of relief as it describes trans people working against and around the system’s rules.

By its end, the book provides a figurative version of the mace “bomb” that the Black trans revolutionary Marsha P. Johnson described carrying before her still-unsolved death in 1992. It’s one of the book’s inscriptions: “If they attack me, I’m going to attack them, with my bomb.”

Johnson was prepared for the everyday war that continues against Black trans people. The book gives readers more reasons to organize against the U.S. empire, and to do away with attempts to incrementally bring progress to a country built on the bodies of trans people. As the fog of the mace subsides and the rubble of the empire settles, Stanley points readers to futures that are independent of concentrated physical and psychic violence. Truthout interviewed the author in May.

Toshio Meronek: During an online launch for Atmospheres of Violence, one of your mentors, Angela Davis, was on the panel. She said she was especially moved by the book’s insistence that we “unlearn ideas” that reproduce or strengthen the forces we are fighting against. Can you speak more on “unlearning” assumptions most of us have internalized from when we were young? What assumptions do we need to unlearn?

Eric A. Stanley: Learning must also be a practice of unlearning, this is something Angela continues to model for us. I think specifically she was referring to one of the major claims of the book, that inclusion is not evidence of freedom. To begin, I should also say that this book is as woven from collective struggle as much as it is from more traditional texts. Much of the organizing that I’ve been involved with has been pushing back against the logic that assimilation for trans/queer people will provide us with the world we want and need. It was also organizing, mostly around housing, HIV/AIDS and various prison abolitionist projects that led me to understand that inclusion does not provide the relief we are taught it does, but even worse, it’s one of the ways harm is reproduced under the name of safety.

Eric A. Stanley
COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR

Perhaps a way to think about this is through the push to include gender and sexuality in federal hate crimes enhancement laws. While many mainstream LGBT organizations have long argued for such expansion, trans/queer prison abolitionists have shown how the law itself is foundationally racist, as it is transphobic/homophobic. So, while hate crimes laws claim to be deterrents to the very real violence people endure, they grow the state’s capacity to terrorize the very same people they purport to protect.

Through this, and other examples, the book demonstrates how racialized anti-trans/queer violence is foundational to the United States. I make this argument through analyzing attacks against trans/queer people and also forms of structuring neglect, like inaction around HIV/AIDS that destroys people and their communities. While these, and many other forms of brutality directed toward Black, Brown and/or Indigenous trans women persist, the law appears as the sole avenue of redress. What we have then is a circular trap. Structural violence, like policing, is offered as the remedy to personal harms.

Right. The government and its biggest cheerleaders — Democrat-leaning organizations like the Center for American Progress — put their energy into studying how to make the justice system “more just.” They offer solutions like shifting tax money to go to “transgender sensitivity” training for police, or funding for lawyers’ fees for people who can’t afford specialized lawyers.

Several conversations in Atmospheres of Violence point to the storytelling of the book and the way you write with care around people and topics that are potentially soul-deflating, which asks how society allows and even abets so many tragedies of violence against trans people. For a book published by an academic press, they mention the writing as a way in for non-academic readers. Do you purposefully write to reach non-academic audiences?

I think writing produces audiences as much as it finds them. What this means is that when I write, I don’t know in advance who will be drawn to the work. When writing is accused of being “too theoretical,” which mine sometimes is, it’s more often than not an accusation made on behalf of an imagined other. As a person with an intellectual disability, I’m acutely aware of the ways we are all captured differently by language. For me, writing, not unlike other expressive practices like dance, poetry, or conceptual art, is an invitation for both form and content to forge a path toward new understandings. Of course, not everyone might be into it. Just like we might not all be into noise music or science fiction, and that’s OK. But one thing I’m emphatic about is that we need more ways to explain the unexplainable world we are trying to survive, not less.

Something I’ve noticed with this book so far is that most of the feedback I’ve received has been from high school debaters and Black trans/queer people who have formed reading groups in prisons. I think this is rad, and I feel lucky that people are engaging with the text. In the end, as our friend Tourmaline reminds us, theory is simply another name for people fashioning words to describe their lives. We are all making theory, all the time.

On March 31 of this year, the federal government observed Trans Day of Visibility for the first time. In a previous book you co-edited, Trap Door (2017), you and your co-editors, Johanna Burton and Tourmaline, argued against the allure of mainstream cultural visibility, and against the idea that visibility is a shortcut to easier lives for gender nonconforming people.

In the anthology I had a conversation with Miss Major and CeCe McDonald, who said that more inclusion in mainstream media hasn’t benefited the community at large. That was five years ago. Has your view of representation changed?

As a filmmaker and organizer, I know the transformative possibility of representation. That said, mainstream visual culture’s flirtation with trans/queer characters does not necessarily change the material conditions of our lives. Holding these contradictions forces me to examine how film’s form, following scholars like Jemma DeCristo and David Marriott, is not only anti-Black, but it is also anti-trans. This seems important to explore as we live in the reality where increased representation is not providing the transformation we need, so staying with these questions is vital.

I’m also interested in tracking how radical demands for an entirely different social order get flipped into primarily wanting more trans people in movies. It’s not that I’m against trans people in movies, but I think we must hold open this question if we are to produce liberatory images. What this means for me is that we rethink the entire production, distribution and consumption of visual culture. That’s an overwhelming task, and yet it can also mean the difference between life and death.

Luckily, lots of other people have also been thinking through these questions and dreaming up ways to weaponize their practices toward collective liberation. We are not alone, and we have generations to connect with, but that these histories are hidden is not an accident.

What’s the significance of the photograph on the cover: a picture by Every Ocean Hughes of the remains of New York City’s Chelsea Piers?

Every’s image is a beautiful mix of sorrow and possibility, which reflects the tone of the book. It’s a black and white photograph of what remains of the Christopher Street piers in New York City. The pierces were an otherwise hidden place on the edge of the city where trans/queer people cruised and mostly Black and Brown young people built underground networks of care. Not far from there is also where Marsha P. Johnson’s body was found, further anointing the sacredness of the space.

I’m also drawn to Every’s photograph as it’s in conversation with Alvin Baltrop’s work. Baltrop was a Black gay man who documented the queer sexual cultures of the piers in the 1970s and ‘80s. I am moved by the image’s referential history, how it brings this past into the present. Its view of the horizon also offers a bit of hope, or something like it. Even after much community organizing by groups like FIERCE and others, the piers have mostly been destroyed by the relentless gentrification of Manhattan, and yet, trans/queer life continues. The photograph holds these contested realities.

I became close with Miss Major through working with her on your film with Chris Vargas, Criminal Queers. You met her years before in the Tenderloin, the neighborhood in San Francisco that was a lot more welcoming to trans and queer people than the Castro district, which is the city’s famous gayborhood.

The Tenderloin holds a somewhat mythic place in both my personal biography and the larger stories of trans history in the United States. Of course, it’s where the anti-police Compton’s Cafeteria riots were in August of 1966, and it’s also where I first encountered Miss Major when she was working at TARC. The neighborhood has long been under siege by the tech-fueled gentrification threatening to destroy it from every side.

Even under such duress, it’s still a place of much trans of color life, where people who are mostly low income and/or unhoused continue to scavenge a life out of the ruins of “latest capitalism“ (a term Angela Davis once used when I was her student at the University of California, Santa Cruz, to describe the constant transformation of how we describe “late capitalism“). This is not to be overly romantic, but to name the forms of ungovernability, or what I call living in refusal, that might otherwise fall out of social movement histories. That is one of the commitments of the book, to archive these practices as forms of riotous theory.

The Tenderloin, like the piers, is a spatial reminder of the racialized anti-trans/queer violence that is everywhere. And yet, life remains there. The book ends not with a prescription, but with another set of questions: If we know that the law (and by extension the settler-state) cannot end anti-trans/queer violence, then what forms of solidarity might be intensified so that we find more than survival?

Toshio Meronek  has reported for Truthout since 2013; his work also appears in Al Jazeera, In These Times, The Nation and the anthologies Captive Genders, Trap Door and The Long Term. His collaborative book with the iconic Black, trans activist Miss Major will be out spring 2021.

A Powerful Novel Featuring a Métis Teen Girl

The Summer of Bitter and Sweet is a complex and emotionally resonant novel about a Métis girl living on the Canadian prairies. In her debut novel, author Jen Ferguson serves up a powerful story about rage, secrets, and all the spectrums that make up a person—and the sweetness that can still live alongside the bitterest truth.

Ferguson says she chose to write The Summer of Bitter and Sweet because, “By my 30s, I’d read exactly two books that made me feel seen: Claire Kann’s Let’s Talk About Love which features a demisexual main character having her love story and Cherie Dimaline’s The Marrow Thieves, where I saw a Métis main character in a starring role. Yet as a demisexual mixed-race Indigenous woman, I’d never read a novel where a character could be both Métis and queer. So I wrote one.” 

In the novel, main character Lou has enough confusion in front of her this summer. She’ll be working in her family’s ice-cream shack with her newly ex-boyfriend—whose kisses never made her feel desire, only discomfort—and her former best friend, King, who is back in their Canadian prairie town after disappearing three years ago without a word.

But when she gets a letter from her biological father—a man she hoped would stay behind bars for the rest of his life—Lou immediately knows that she cannot meet him, no matter how much he insists.

While King’s friendship makes Lou feel safer and warmer than she would have thought possible, when her family’s business comes under threat, she soon realizes that she can’t ignore her father forever.

Praise for The Summer of Bitter and Sweet: "In a layered first-person portrayal of a young Indigenous woman navigating the edge of adulthood, Ferguson tackles necessary issues—of identity and sexuality alongside colonialism, generational trauma, racism, physical and sexual assault, and substance reliance—through well-wrought, complicated characterizations and prose that sings with poetry."—Publishers Weekly, starred review

The Summer of Bitter and Sweet is available now wherever books are sold, and you can start reading an excerpt here

About the Author: Jen Ferguson is Michif/Métis and white, an activist, an intersectional feminist, an auntie, and an accomplice armed with a PhD in English and creative writing. She teaches fiction writing at Loyola Marymount University. Connect with her on Twitter @jennyleeSD or online at jenfergusonwrites.com

The Summer of Bitter and Sweet is brought to you by Heartdrum, an imprint of HarperCollins Children’s Books that centers a wide range of intertribal voices, visions, and stories while welcoming all young readers, with an emphasis on the present and future of Indian Country and on the strength of young Native heroes. In partnership with We Need Diverse Books.

‘You go all in’: Diné composer from Chinle wins Pulitzer for music


Courtesy photo | Clare Hoffman Raven Chacon works with Native students at Grand Canyon Village in Arizona. Since 2004, he has served as composer-in-residence for the Native American Composer Apprentice Project.


BY RIMA KRISST - NAVAJO TIMES MAY 29, 2022

WINDOW ROCK - Diné musician, artist and educator Raven Chacon’s long list of achievements and honors now includes the esteemed Pulitzer Prize for music, awarded on May 9 for his ensemble composition titled “Voiceless Mass."

The composition is a rousing, discordant, and sometimes eerie invocation of the unheard – past and present – whose voices have been silenced.

The Pulitzer Prize Board called the piece “a mesmerizing, original work… that evokes the weight of history in a church setting, a concentrated and powerful musical expression with a haunting visceral impact.”

Chacon said he was surprised to learn that he won the award when he was on travel and his phone blew up with messages of congratulations.

“People were saying I won the Pulitzer,” he told Navajo Times. “I was unaware that an announcement was coming.


Adam Conte Raven Chacon somewhere in New Mexico. (Courtesy Photo)

Chacon, 44, is the first Native American to be awarded the Pulitzer for music.

“Not only was I not expecting myself to win – not in my wildest dreams,” he said, “but I would have been equally excited and grateful for there to ever be a Pulitzer music winner who was Native.”

Commissioned by the United Church of Christ and Present Music, Chacon composed “Voiceless Mass” for the pipe organ at the Cathedral of St. John the Evangelist in Milwaukee, where it was performed on Thanksgiving, Nov. 21, 2021.

“As an Indigenous artist, I make a point not to present my work on this holiday but, in this case, I made an exception,” said Chacon. “This work considers the spaces in which we gather, the history of access of these spaces, and the land upon which these buildings sit.”

The piece features wind and string instruments but has no singing voices that might make up a typical church mass choir, adding to its other-worldly aura.

“In exploiting the architecture of the cathedral, ‘Voiceless Mass’ considers the futility of giving voice to the voiceless, when ceding space is never an option for those in power,” said Chacon.

‘The world was quiet’

Like many of Chacon’s previous collaborative works that have earned critical acclaim, including the Manifest Destiny opera “Sweet Land,” a “future creation story” “The Journey of the Horizontal People,” and monumental art installations like the two-mile “Repellent Fence,” Chacon uses artistic expression to disrupt and deconstruct false narratives in history, especially for Indigenous and other peoples who have been marginalized in the path of conquest and colonization.

Chacon said when he worked on “Voiceless Mass” during the COVID-19 lockdown, the world itself had become still and fragmented in the wake of the pandemic.

“I was definitely thinking about this global shared experience that we were undergoing,” said Chacon. “The world was quiet when I was writing this.”

At the same time, attention was brought to injustices through protests like Black Lives Matter and more information was coming out about the suppression of information pertaining to residential boarding schools.

“It also got me thinking back to Standing Rock when there was an urgency that was being called out to the rest of the world about this ecological encroachment,” he said. “And the world not taking notice until there was a critical mass of people to spread that word.”

The dissonance heard in “Voiceless Mass” is a hallmark of Chacon’s style which, regardless of medium, denotes unresolved injustices, incongruencies, misdeeds and their consequences that live on in the silence of the collective conscience.

“As it relates to ‘Voiceless Mass,’ we think about how history gets suppressed or altered or perverted,” he said. “It is not the true story and as it gets more and more diluted or whitewashed, that itself becomes another way that people aren’t able to voice what happened.”

‘It’s who I am’

As a child growing up in Chinle, Chacon says he was exposed to a variety of music.

“In the homes, there was always music being played,” he said. “I remember my parents, aunts and uncles would have the radio on constantly.”

Courtesy photo | Jamie Drummond Raven Chacon performs in a basement in Albuquerque.

He said he was inspired by everything from metal music to the traditional Navajo songs that his grandfather sang.

“I feel strongly that every music you’ve ever listened to will end up in the music that you write,” he said.

Asked how his Diné upbringing has influenced his music,Chacon simply said, “It’s just who I am.”

When he was about seven years old, his family moved to Albuquerque where he started taking piano lessons, his first entrée into formal music education.

Over time, he learned to play guitar, drums and cello, flute, write songs, built his own instruments, delved into electronic music, outdoor “field recordings,” noise music, and classical chamber music.

“I was lucky to grow up in a city that had a lot of Native people, but at the same time had other things – access to live music, music education,” he said.
As he grew older, he engaged with the vibrant and diverse performing arts community in Albuquerque as an organizer and performer.

“When you see other people making music, it’s inspiring,” he said. “There was a time when a group of us were gathering and making experimental music together.”

He led a collective of musicians that would gather and put out each other’s recordings, put on concerts, including “on rooftops, or out in the desert,” he said.

“That’s the music community that has inspired me, maybe more than anything, being a contributor to that group of people there,” he said.

‘Shared experiences’

Chacon is careful to credit all of the other artists and musicians he worked with along the way.

“I’ve been told that I’m prolific, that I do things in a lot of different areas, but I also credit the people I collaborate with,” he said. “I don’t do all these projects alone.”

When he writes something like “Voiceless Mass,” at a certain point it’s in collaboration with the people who commissioned it and all of the musicians that are playing it.

“When it’s all done, I can just sit and listen and watch,” he said.

He said many of his music compositions are actually designed to be shared experiences for the people who are playing them and sometimes his scores are in the form of a problem or puzzle that’s seeking to be solved.

“I like to make sounds and I like to compose situations for people to gather to make something together,” he said. “Then others will gather to experience that thing that was made.”

He said he’s most interested in the dynamics between the players and what kinds of unexpected sounds and timing might come from their interactions, and his compositions deliberately leave space for that.
“They’re very malleable and they might be a completely different composition in the hands of different performers,” he said.

As a member of the Native American arts collective Postcommodity, Chacon has also developed multi-media installations that have been exhibited internationally.

“Whether making an artwork or gathering to make change in some kind of venue or landscape, it can produce results that are unexpected and greater than intended when you have an organized group of people working together on that goal,” he said.

‘Doing the work’

Chacon says he regularly goes back to Navajo to visit his family and work on a youth mentorship project called the Native American Composer Apprentice Project with fellow composer Michael Begay.

Founded in 2001, project is an outreach program of the Grand Canyon Music Festival dedicated to teaching students on the Navajo and Hopi reservations who want to learn how to compose concert music through an immersive experience.

“That’s brought me often back every year to teach these kids in Chinle, Kayenta, Tuba City and the Hopi High School,” said Chacon.

Each year, Chacon and Begay work with students in partnership with their school music programs to produce original scores that are premiered by professional ensembles.

Chacon is also a member of the faculty at the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe, where he provides mentorship to master’s program graduate students.

If there is a key to his success beyond his fortitude and talent, Chacon says he works around the clock and barely sleeps.

He said that work ethic comes from his parents, Dr. Gayle Diné Chacon, a former surgeon general of the Navajo Nation, and Lorenzo Chacon, an attorney from Mora, New Mexico.

“My parents told me and my sisters, if you want to do this thing, you go all in,” he said.

In addition to learning by doing since he was a child, Chacon earned a bachelor’s in music from the University of New Mexico and a master’s in music composition from the California Institute of the Arts.

Chacon said even in the times when he needed to work a “day job,” every spare minute was put into his music.

“I think ideas can come out of nowhere,” he said. “You need to be ready to jot them down on a notepad. Then you write a piece of music. That hasn’t stopped.”

He advises that youth on the reservation who are interested in becoming an artist or musician should tell a teacher or a family member.

“I realize some of our schools out there are lacking in funds and equipment, but I think a young person should express their interest in making art or music,” said Chacon. “When people work together, they can find a way to get some kind of instrument or get some paint and brushes to a young person.”

From there, he advises, “Work very hard and live with it – practice every day like I still do today.”

Chacon says he never stops learning.

“It’s on to the next project,” he said. “Every extra minute I have goes into doing the work and that’s all that’s needed.”

Chacon is Todích’íí’nii and Kinyaa’áanii.

Information: www.spiderwebsinthesky.com



Oklahoma Republican Governor Stitt talking about Oklahoma's "super liberal" Tribes
 and more on FOX News.

In the wake of signing extremely restrictive anti-abortion laws, Oklahoma Republican Governor Kevin Stitt has made unsubstantiated claims about the right to abortion on sovereign tribal land.

Calling the Oklahoma Tribes “super liberal,” Stitt continued by saing, “We think that there’s a possibility that some Tribes may try to set up an ‘abortion-on-demand’,” Stitt told FOX News on Friday, May 20. “They think that you can be one-one-thousandth tribal member and not have to follow state law.”

To date, however, there are no Oklahoma tribes that have expressed intentions to build clinics offering abortions.

The Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma responded to Governor Stitt’s comments: “Speculating on what tribes should do based on a leaked US Supreme Court draft decision is irresponsible. Just as irresponsible is the Governor of Oklahoma and his disguised media campaign which is really meant to attack tribes and our sovereignty.”

Stitt’s FOX appearance came after the U.S. Supreme Court leak of a draft opinion that would overturn the 1973 ruling of Roe v. Wade, which protects the right to abortions on a federal level. 

Stitt had already signed Senate Bill 612 on April 12, which classifies those who perform abortions, such as medical providers, as a felony crime punishable by up to 10 years in prison and a $100,000 fine.

“We want Oklahoma to be the most pro-life state in the country,” Stitt said during the signing ceremony for Senate Bill 612. “We want to outlaw abortion.”

"Oklahoma is trying to be the poster-child when it comes to taking away a woman's rights," Democratic candidate for governor and former Oklahoma state senator Connie Johnson told Native News Online

Johnson, a longtime advocate for women’s rights, also noted that Oklahoma incarcerates more women than any other location in the world. "We criminalize things here that other states don't," she said. 

If Roe v. Wade is overturned, Senate Bill 612 would go into effect 90 days after the state legislature adjourns on May 27. Known as a ‘trigger law,’ the bill bans most abortions in the state, except if the mother is at high risk of death while pregnant. Thirteen states, including Oklahoma, have passed such laws anticipating the overturning of Roe

However, if pregnant by rape or incest there are no exceptions for abortions if Roe v. Wade is overturned.

Oklahoma has had another ‘trigger’ law that has banned most abortions since 1910, except in life-or-death situations. Under the old law, performing an abortion also would be classified as a felony, punishable by between two and five years in prison. However, since the landmark Roe v. Wade decision that legalized abortion, the state has not enforced the law. 

Stitt also recently appeared on FOX News Sunday to discuss a new bill that makes abortions illegal in the state at six weeks of conception.

Stitt’s appearances on FOX News have spread misinformation about Tribal sovereignty and whether or not a Supreme Court abortion decision would apply on Tribal land. 

Stitt is an enrolled citizen of the Cherokee Nation, and a vocal opponent of the 2020 McGirt v. Oklahoma decision that determined much of eastern Oklahoma is an Indian reservation, and that the crimes committed on tribal lands by tribal members cannot be prosecuted by state or local law enforcement–rather they must be prosecuted in Tribal or Federal court.

The U.S. Supreme Court is currently considering another case, Oklahoma vs. Castro-Huerta, which will determine whether the state can prosecute non-Native Americans for crimes committed on tribal lands if the victim is a member of an Oklahoma-based Tribe. A decision is expected early this summer. 

Regardless of the outcome of Castro-Huerta, it is unlikely that Tribes would open a clinic that provides abortions. The chief medical provider on Tribal lands for citizens of tribes is the Indian Health Service (IHS), a federal agency within the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. Abortions are largely excluded from health care delivered by IHS because of the Hyde Amendment, which prohibits the use of federal dollars on abortions except in the cases of rape, incest and if a mother’s life is in danger due to the pregnancy. 

If clinics and providers were to provide abortions on tribal lands, they would have to be funded privately and need to navigate local, state, and federal laws. Since Tribal doctors are licensed by state medical agencies, it’s also unlikely that they’ll perform abortions within the state. 

On May 17, Cherokee Attorney Mary Kathryn Nagle tweeted that the discussion of land and jurisdiction in Oklahoma isn’t just about safety, but about politics and power. 

In 2006, former Oglala Sioux Tribal president Cecilia Fire Thunder announced she would facilitate plans to build a Planned Parenthood on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation after the state legislature banned most abortions in the state. She was impeached by the Oglala Sioux Tribal Council in a 9-5 vote for speaking out against the state's abortion ban in July 2006

When asked by Native News Online if she had an opinion on Roe v. Wade potentially being overturned, Fire Thunder responded with a meme that read, “Ejaculate responsibly.”

Although data is sparse in regards to abortions, many women living on reservations have to seek abortion clinics off Tribal land. To date, there are no abortion clinics on Indian reservations. 

Indigenous women in the United States are slightly more than twice as likely to die from conditions caused by pregnancy than white women, according to a study published by the CDC in 2016.

The Native News Health Desk is made possible by a generous grant from the National Institute for Health Care Management Foundation as well as sponsorship support from RxDestroyer, The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society and the National Indian Health Board. This grant funding and sponsorship support have no effect on editorial consideration in Native News Online.
About The Author
Darren Thompson (Lac du Flambeau Ojibwe) is a freelance journalist and based in the Twin Cities of Minnesota, where he also contributes to Unicorn Riot, an alternative media publication. Thompson has reported on political unrest, tribal sovereignty, and Indigenous issues for the Aboriginal Peoples Television Network, Indian Country Today, Native News Online, Powwows.com and Unicorn Riot. He has contributed to the New York Times, the Washington Post, and Voice of America on various Indigenous issues in international conversation. He has a bachelor’s degree in Criminology & Law Studies from Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

Violence of Settler Colonialism Stretches Across Generations of Native Families
Photos of a Murdered Native woman, Anna Marie Scott, are shown at the First Annual Red Dress Powwow, which was held to bring awareness to Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, Girls and Two-Spirit People.
TY ONEIL / SOPA IMAGES / LIGHTROCKET VIA GETTY IMAGES


BY  David Correia
PUBLISHED May 30, 2022

PART OF THE SERIES
Progressive PicksThe following is an excerpt from An Enemy Such as This: Larry Casuse and the Fight for Native Liberation in One Family on Two Continents over Three Centuries, out now from Haymarket Books.


After Gallup, New Mexico police killed Larry Casuse on March 1, 1973, they dragged his body out of the sporting goods store where they’d shot him three times and onto the sidewalk along Route 66, where they took turns taking photos of themselves posing over his dead body. They framed one of those photos and hung it above the bar at the Gallup Fraternal Order of Police. The shootout with police that killed Larry, a 19-year-old Navajo activist, began when Larry and a comrade named Robert Nakaidinae kidnapped the Mayor of Gallup at gunpoint from right out of the Gallup mayor’s office. The Mayor, Emmett Garcia, was also the co-owner of the Navajo Inn, the most profitable bar in the state of New Mexico and also its most notorious. Gallup calls itself “The Indian Capital of the World,” but Larry and Indians Against Exploitation, a group comprised of young Navajo and Pueblo activists that Larry organized with, called it the “City of Exploitation”. In 1973, Gallup had 39 bars and liquor stores, 32 more than allowed under a 1956 law limiting liquor establishments to one per every 2,000 people. Most were known as “Indian bars.” Alcohol was illegal to possess or consume on the Navajo Nation. Just shy of 80,000 people lived on the reservation in 1960. Between 1958 and 1960, Navajo police arrested just under 25,000 people on alcohol-related charges. By the time Larry graduated from high school in 1971, Navajo police were making 500–700 arrests per month on various liquor violations on the reservation. Gallup, which built the largest drunk tank in the U.S. during these years, arrested even more. The penalty for driving drunk off the Nation was less than the penalty for possessing alcohol on it, so the safest way to bring alcohol back to the reservation was in one’s stomach. The Navajo Inn was miles north of Gallup but just south of the Navajo reservation, perched along a lonely and deadly highway. Each winter people froze to death walking home, or they were hit by drunk drivers along Highway 264, or they were found beaten to death in ditches. “Exposure” deaths the coroner would call them all. Gallup police and McKinley County Sheriff’s deputies called the frozen dead they found in arroyos and alleys behind the Navajo Inn “popsicles.”

Larry Casuse spent years trying to shut down the Navajo Inn. He worked just as long with other young organizers confronting the commodification of Navajo ceremonies and traditions. Everything about Gallup was designed to produce Navajo misery and suffering and then to profit from it. Garcia was the mayor, the owner of the most violent and notorious bar, the self-appointed director of the city’s alcohol treatment center, and, in February 1973, the Governor’s nominee to join the Board of Regents of the University of New Mexico. Casuse had had enough.

In the days after his violent death, Larry’s brother Donald tried to make sense of it all and thought immediately of Gallup. “You didn’t talk about the Gallup that everyone saw, the Gallup of the drinking and the violence and the poverty. You didn’t talk about it because it just was. It was just how it was. And Lillian, [their mother], accepted it, most everyone accepted that, in a way that Larry never could. Lillian accepted that the drinking was an Indian problem, not a political problem. The violence was an Indian problem, not a problem that had something to do with poverty or with misery. Larry made a commitment to be part of making life better for Navajo people in Gallup. Who does that? Who does that? How many people are willing to give their life to help people they don’t know?

In the weeks after Larry’s death, amid the protests, the marches, the student walkouts, and the demands for investigations, Larry’s friends and family offered possible answers to Donald’s question. Some blamed Larry’s legal troubles. Less than a year earlier he’d hit and accidentally killed a young Navajo woman while driving on the road to Gamerco, north of Gallup. He felt profound guilt and it made him “excitable and high strung,” they said. He couldn’t talk about it without breaking down in tears. Others suspected that he’d grown discouraged in his failure to shut down the Navajo Inn and stop the suffering and misery the bar produced. They wondered if maybe he’d stopped seeing organizing as an answer. Maybe he’d decided he needed different tactics. According to one friend, “he thought he would have to utilize the white man’s way of doing things to get anything done—just to shake people up enough to get a few lines in the paper, to grab people in midair and say, ‘Wait a minute! Listen to me!’”

Maybe an answer could be found in the Casuse family’s move to Gallup when Larry was a teenager and where he witnessed the in-your-face misery of the bordertown. The KIVA Club issued a statement the day after police killed him. Larry, they wrote, “was tired of seeing everyday drunkards lying in the streets, lying in jails, of Indians trying to survive in a conquered oriented society.” He’d come to Gallup that day to cleanse the city of that evil, they guessed, and hoped to “make his death a symbol” for something better. Some pointed to his work feeding people at the many protests and actions he helped organize. He’d listen to the people talk to him as they ate the fry bread and mutton stew he served. How can you do work like that, some said, and not come to hate the enemies who governed them? Others agreed with Donald that Larry sacrificed his life to help Native people and did it because of a deeply felt need to connect to a world he’d been robbed of as a child. Born in Santa Rita, New Mexico, far south of the Navajo Nation, raised among the English-speaking and Spanish-speaking children of copper miners, Larry didn’t grow up on the Navajo reservation, didn’t learn the language, didn’t participate in the ceremonies, didn’t learn the stories, wasn’t part of the traditions. Some, however, found no solace in explanations and no answers in his death. Whatever Larry’s reasons may have been, they died with him on that sidewalk in Gallup on March 1, 1973. “To this day,” his friend Phil Loretto said, years later, “I can’t figure out why he did that.”

An Enemy Such as This” attempts to answer Donald’s question by telling the story of the Casuse family, a family born in the blood of colonialism, torn apart by the wars and occupations that marked the birth of a world hostile to their own. To follow the generations of Casuses introduced in this book is to enter their world, a world made and remade by war and occupation. The story of Larry Casuse and his family is a story of a long, unbroken line of generations that links the shootout with police in the sporting goods store in 1973 that killed Larry to the Johnson Massacre of 1837 that killed Juan José Compá, another Native leader killed by vigilantes or police. The Johnson Massacre (examined in the book’s third chapter) established US control of the world’s most profitable copper mine, where a century later Larry would be born, where his father, Louis, would work as a miner, and where the most radical labor union in the US would organize mineworkers. The story of the Casuse family links the rough streets of Gallup, where Larry would live and die, to the war-torn streets of occupied Salzburg, Austria, in the 1930s and ’40s, where Larry’s mom, Lillian, was born into a crumbling empire and raised in another, and where Louis would patrol as an occupation soldier during the postwar occupation of Austria. Theirs is a story that links the reservation trading posts on the Navajo Nation, an industry that sentenced generations of Navajos into debt servitude, to the company stores of the copper mine in Santa Rita, where Larry was raised.

The arc of the Casuse family follows the arc of US colonial war and occupation. The important moments of their lives overlay like a map onto the world-historical events of the nineteenth and twentieth century. Larry’s great, great grandfather, Jesus Arviso, the subject of the fourth chapter, is famous and revered among Navajos. He was kidnapped from his Mexican family as a child, traded from the Apache to the Navajo as a boy, raised among the Navajo, to whom he became a legendary leader. Larry’s maternal grandfather, Richard Hutzler fought in two world wars. The Bavarian Royal Army of the German Empire drafted him into the military on the same day it declared war on France in 1914. He fought as a lowly private in the wars that ended empires in Europe and was discharged from the army the day after Kaiser Wilhelm II abdicated and the German Empire collapsed, and the day before the doomed Weimar Republic was declared. Larry’s mother, Lillian, celebrated her third birthday watching Nazis march through the streets of Salzburg, Austria, her hometown. She celebrated her eighth birthday hiding from Allied bombs that nearly destroyed Salzburg. She was almost ten when the Soviets invaded from the north and the Americans from the west, ending the war and beginning the postwar occupation of Austria. Lillian’s personal story is part of the apocalyptical story of war and occupation in midcentury Europe. War and occupation are apocalyptical for all, but more so for girls and women. Allied troops raped tens of thousands of women during the occupation. After the war, thousands more migrated to the US from war-torn Europe as war brides, including Lillian.

Larry’s father, Louis, fought in the two bloodiest European battles that American troops fought in World War II, was captured by the Wehrmacht in the Battle of the Bulge, and was held in a Nazi POW camp until his liberation. Louis rejoined the army after the war. He met Lillian in Salzburg, where he patrolled the prisoner-of-war and displaced-persons camps during the US occupation of Austria. After he was discharged, Louis returned to New Mexico and worked in the same mine made possible by the genocidal Mexican war against Apaches of a hundred years earlier. He was one of only two Navajo mineworkers ever to join the radical union made famous in the film Salt of the Earth, which chronicled the strike by the International Union of Mine, Mill, and Smelter Workers against Empire Zinc. No history of that union or that strike tells his story.

So, forget Plymouth Rock and all the other stories of American Exceptionalism that celebrate colonization. Look instead at Santa Rita, New Mexico, where settler colonialism was born in the blood of Apaches murdered by American mercenaries, where it was raised by settlers in copper mines that existed only because of the bloody murder of Apaches, and where it came of age in grim and violent bordertowns such as Gallup, New Mexico, those horrible machines of Native misery, suffering, and resistance.

Copyright 2022 by David Correia. 

David Correia is a Professor of American Studies at the University of New Mexico. He is the author of Properties of Violence (University of Georgia Press, 2013), co-author with Tyler Wall of Police: A Field Guide (Verso, 2018), and co-author with Nick Estes, Melanie Yazzie, and Jennifer Denetdale of Red Nation Rising Nation: From Bordertown Violence to Native Liberation (PM Press, 2021). He is a co-founder of AbolishAPD, a research and mutual aid collective in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
US Federal Indian Boarding School System Intentionally Sought to Destroy Native Families


"Chiricahua Apaches Four Months After Arriving at Carlisle," black-and-white photographic portrait of a group of Apaches at the Carlisle boarding school. Image courtesy of the Richard Henry Pratt Papers, Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library. (Photo: Wikimedia Commons, public domain)

BY LEVI RICKERT MAY 22, 2022

Opinion.

 The 106-page Federal Indian Boarding School Initiative Investigative Report released on May 11 provides a glimpse into the deliberate intention of the federal government to disrupt the Native American family structure through assimilation. The report says the government’s plan involved the permanent breaking of family ties.

A section of the report, Section 7: Federal Indian Boarding School System Framework, reads: “The Department has stated it was ‘indispensably necessary that [the Indians] be placed in positions where they can be controlled, and finally compelled, by stern necessity, to resort to agricultural labor or starve,’ later adding that ‘[i]f it be admitted that education affords the true solution to the Indian problem, then it must be admitted that the boarding school is the very key to the situation.’”

Reading that section of the report brought back memories of the day I first met Dr. Suzanne Cross (Saginaw Chippewa Indians) in the late 1990s when I served on the Native American subcommittee of the Michigan Department on Aging. Dr. Cross is an assistant professor emeritus at Michigan State University and served as a consultant to the National Native American Boarding School Healing Coalition (NABS). She came to our subcommittee to discuss the work she had done on her doctoral dissertation on historical trauma. The conversation quickly moved to the historical trauma associated with Indian boarding schools.

Several adults told stories of abuse they suffered at Indian boarding schools, and others shared how boarding schools affected their families. One Ojibwa woman shook and wept, telling us how her mother never hugged her during her life. The mother had learned during her years at an Indian boarding school that she should never hug or show physical affection.

Last week's release of the report on the purposeful and deliberate plan by the federal government to destroy Native families also brought back memories of an interview I did with American Indian Movement co-founder Dennis Banks (Ojibwa) in the fall of 2009 at Grand Valley State University. During the interview, Banks recounted his experiences attending various Indian boarding schools. He told me the experience caused him to maintain an indifferent attitude towards his mother because he felt she had abandoned him during the years he attended Indian boarding schools.

Banks recalled on certain occasions, school officials would announce a mail call so that students could get mail from home. He would show up, but he never received any mail. He felt as if his mother did not love him. 

Years passed by and he eventually was able to go home when he was in his late teen years. He said the first day home was awkward, but on the second day home, his mother made him a blueberry pie because she knew it was his favorite. He felt then perhaps things could return to normal. So, he began talking to her and asked her why didn’t she ever send him any letters or try to bring him home. She told him she did.

He did not believe her.

For the rest of their lives together, he told me, he would look at his mother and have a sense of indifference towards her. This feeling lasted until she died.

Decades later, while he was in his 70s, Banks saw an Internet advertisement with information about how he could obtain his own Indian boarding school records. He followed through on the offer and received several boxes with his school records. 

In the boxes, Banks found 14 unopened letters from his mother. He took them to his mother’s grave, where he sat in a lawn chair reading them one by one. Inside of one of the letters was a money order to pay for a bus ticket home for him. 

In that moment, Banks, one of the greatest Native American warriors of the last century, wept at his mother’s grave and asked her for forgiveness. He had been lied to by the Indian boarding school officials, not his mother.

As I interviewed Banks at the university in my hometown, I recognized that his inner child, which had been wounded for decades, still resented the policy set forth by the federal government to destroy the very fabric of Native American families.

Banks’ story is just one among a multitude of survivor stories about how Indian Boarding Schools tore Native families apart. 

“There's not a single American Indian, Alaskan Native, or Native Hawaiian in this country whose life hasn't been affected by these schools,” Assistant Secretary of Indian Affairs Bryan Newland said during the press conference about the investigation and report last week.“That impact continues to influence the lives of countless families, from the breakup of families and tribal nations, to the loss of languages and cultural practices and relatives. We haven't begun to explain the scope of this policy until now.”   

During last week’s press conference, Interior Secretary Deb Haaland (Laguna Pueblo) said, “The consequences of federal Indian boarding school policies, including the intergenerational trauma caused by forced family separation and cultural eradication, which were inflicted upon generations of children, as young as four years old, are heartbreaking and undeniable. When my maternal grandparents were only eight years old, they were stolen from their parents, culture, and communities and forced to live in boarding schools until the age of 13. Many children like them never made it back to their homes.”

The Interior’s report calls for the continuation of the investigation of boarding schools with many more survivor stories to be collected as part of Secretary Haaland's yearlong tour called "The Road to Healing." 

For countless boarding school survivors and their families, the road to healing will be paved with pain. Telling their stories will be haunting and painful, but hopefully it will give them the same type of release that Dennis Banks felt as he sat by his mother’s grave in a lawnchair, reading her long lost letters and confronting the past.  

About The Author

Levi Rickert  (Prairie Band Potawatomi Nation) is the founder, publisher and editor of Native News Online. Rickert was awarded Best Column 2021 Native Media Award for the print/online category by the Native American Journalists Association. He serves on the advisory board of the Multicultural Media Correspondents Association. He can be reached at levi@nativenewsonline.net.

SEE https://plawiuk.blogspot.com/2022/01/did-canadian-government-build-schools.html

Opening of Chicago Field Museum’s Native Truths Exhibition Marks a ‘New Beginning’

The Field Museum
(Photo/Monica Whitepigeon)

BY KELSEY TURNER
 MAY 19, 2022

CHICAGO —This Friday, the Chicago Field Museum is opening its new Native Truths: Our Voices, Our Stories exhibition to the public, revealing its first renovation of the museum’s Native North America Hall since its initial installation during the 1950s. The exhibition is centered around five core content permanent sections called “Native Truths” that present essential information about Native experience and culture, along with six rotating story galleries.

The exhibition came together after four and a half years of collaborations between Native elders, community members, artists, educators, scholars, and museum staff. Representing 105 different tribes and displaying an estimated 400 items, it explores current issues like tribal sovereignty and climate change while honoring Native history and culture.

“I’m awestruck,” said Dakota and Diné artist and comedian Dallas Goldtooth as he walked through the exhibition. “I’m so used to these spaces feeling so foreign, because it’s like we’re on display, Native people and cultures are on display. This very much feels like we are in charge of the narrative.” A clip from the FX series Reservation Dogs featuring Goldtooth as the character William Knife-Man plays in a loop inside the hall.

As visitors enter the exhibition, they pass bold, black letters on the wall reading, “You are on Native land.” A recording of a poem written by the Indigenous-futurist artist X sounds throughout the entranceway, read aloud by Chicago-based Potawatomi artist Monica Rickert-Bolter. Further inside the exhibition is an acknowledgement in glowing yellow text: “Museum collecting and exhibition practices have deeply harmed Native communities. This exhibition marks a new beginning.”

In addition to displaying traditional art forms and cultural items, the exhibition also highlights more contemporary mediums like digital art, video, photography, and modern music. The labels for each display are written in the first person, allowing the artists to speak for themselves.

“The old hall just really disconnected Native people as humans from our items, because it was very object-based,” said the museum’s Native Community Engagement Coordinator Debra Yepa-Pappan, a citizen of Jemez Pueblo. “With this [exhibition], you’re actually hearing voices, you’re seeing images of children. It’s bringing us back into the present.”


Previously, the Field Museum’s Native North America Hall included over a thousand cultural items from different tribes with little context regarding the stories behind them. Due to cultural insensitivity and a lack of consultation with tribes when the exhibition first opened in the 1950s, the museum had incorrectly attributed certain items and displayed some pieces that were not meant for public viewing.

For the renovated exhibition, the museum spoke directly with tribes about how best to honor their cultural objects. To appropriately display a sacred stand-up headdress made by a Blackfoot ancestor, for example, museum staff spent three years conversing with Blackfoot women and elders to gain their permission and guidance on the exhibit. The museum invited several of these women to attend the exhibition’s opening ceremony on Saturday.

“In the past, museums often would not even talk to anybody in the community about how they were going to present what are often called ‘artifacts,’” said Rosalyn LaPier, an enrolled Blackfoot tribal member, historian, and collaborator on the stand-up headdress display. “We spent time, as I think everybody did, on making sure that the history that was being shared was appropriate and correct.”

The exhibit mixes art, videos with narratives.
 (Photos/Levi Rickert for Native News Online)

The idea for the renovation began after local artist Chris Pappan, a citizen of the Kaw Nation and husband of Yepa-Pappan, displayed his work in a temporary exhibit within the old Native North America Hall from 2016 to 2019. Pappan inserted contemporary artwork depicting Native cultures into the exhibition, a commentary meant to make viewers confront the museum’s outdated portrayal of Native people.

“There was no information regarding who the people were,” Pappan said of the old exhibition. “I was able to intervene and create work to liven up the space and make more of an impression that we’re a living culture.”

When his exhibit went up, a “light went off” for the museum staff as they recognized the changes that needed to be made to the Native hall, said Alaka Wali, curator emerita of North American Anthropology. The museum then began raising money for a renovated Native American exhibition that would properly honor Indigenous people’s stories.

The museum put together an advisory committee of Native American scholars, museum professionals, artists, and community members from across what is now the United States and Canada to guide the project. The committee helped ensure every component of the exhibition reflects and supports Indigenous communities, right down to the hall’s building materials – Menominee Tribal Enterprises, a sustainable lumber supplier that manufactures products on the Menominee Indian Reservation in Wisconsin, provided maple wood for the flooring, while birch bark wall panels serve to ground visitors within the Great Lakes region.



Yepa-Pappan also successfully advocated for the use of copper, a metal that holds significance for Great Lakes tribes, as a decorative element in the walls. The exhibition designer originally planned to use stainless steel, she said. “It looked nice initially, but at the same time, for me personally as a Native person, it still felt somewhat industrial.” The copper used in the exhibition ranges in color from bronze to blue to red, giving the space a more natural feel.

Yepa-Pappan has been encouraged by the positive feedback Indigenous visitors have given the exhibition, which opened to the Native American community last weekend. “I had always hoped that this exhibition would be for Native people – of course, by Native people, but for Native people also,” she said. “This is Native space. We made this our space.”

Details about the Chicago Field Museum’s opening ceremony of the Native Truths: Our Voices, Our Stories exhibition on Saturday can be found here.