Hace una semana, en España se celebró el ‘día de la hispanidad’ para festejar como Colón inició siglos de masacres y destrucciones de pueblos y culturas… o, en versión más aceptable, ‘descubrió America’. Celebrarlo en el país que hizo su fortuna con esta pulverización de una parte de la humanidad, vale, los ’ganadores’ escriben sur mitos, pero que se festeje también por todo el continente ‘descubierto’ me parece otro nivel de fucked up.
Descubrí ese festejo hace unos años, pues en Francia no se celebra –no porque consideramos que no se debería celebrar sino porque todo nuestros intentos de acapararnos de algo allá fueron fallos. Al parecer existe un día de la francofonía pero nada que ver – a Francia le gusta esconder su pasado bajo tapetes. Me encantaría volver a leer mis libros de Historia del colegio.
Estos libros han manufacturado una Historia sencilla, en paquetitos aíslados, fácil de tragar para lxs niñxs, quienes luego se convierten en adultos que piensan que eso pasó hace mucho ya se resolvió la colonización se acabó el racismo. Pero hay que hilar los fragmentos y entender el mundo de hoy como consecuencia del de ayer. La inestabilidad política, los experimentos con la democracia que eeuu lleva decenas haciendo, el racismo ubicuo… Todo parte de ahí… No se habla el español por ser más bello, sino porque una cultura, generación tras generación, destruyó a muchas otras.
Pero la destrucción completa no se logró, thank fucking g*d. Y ahí voy con este post que ya no sirve para ser ‘news’. Música. La manera de moverse y expresarse con ritmos y bailes. Te paras ahí y en unos minutos los golpes sobre los tambores resuenan en tu pecho, la flauta te da piel de gallina. Y entiendes mejor que con cualquier libro. Que se reescriba la Historia y que se cante cada día más fuerte.
Esto texto no tiene mucho punto más allá de ser el stream of consciousness de una chica que tiene raíces tunecinas pero pasó su infancia explicándole a la gente que, aunque su padre había nacido ahí, como en aquel momento Túnez pertenecía a Francia, pues era francesa.
De la negación insidiosa de las identidades como practica colonial, post-colonial y de la hegemonía blanca.
wigwam peaked lodge bark house tipi log house tar-paper shack frame house u.s. rehabitilation house. sister hilger you counted each one— seventy-one tar-paper shacks, eight united states rehabilitation houses two wigwams bark houses at rice camps— you graphed photographed measured dimensions calculated cubic air space ennumerated every construction detail— 23 with broken windows; 99 without foundations, buildings resting on the ground; 98 with stove pipes for chimneys. house, dwelling, place, structure— home. Endaayaang.
June to November the year my mother turned five, Mary Inez you walked these lands the fervor of your order tucked under one billowing black-sleeved arm, amassing details of crowded quarters, common-law marriages, miscegenation, illegitimate children, limited education, economic dependence on the WPA and CCCs for charts that have outlived those Anishinaabeg of the one hundred and fifty chosen families.
Now you perch in my history at one of 71 homemade or 79 factory-made tables sitting tall and precise on one of the 84 benches, 49 backless chairs, or 81 arm chairs, or standing, Mary Inez, in the homes of one of the 16 tar-paper-shack families or 8 frame-house families for which you record none under the heading of chairs.
Methodically you recite like prayers of deliverance each prepared question: Why are these so many unmarried mothers on the reservation? Why are there so many common-law marriages on the reservation? What do you think can be done to stop the drinking to intoxication among the Indians? I hear you interrogate each family daily gathering indulgences or ink smudged statistics on what you label in caps SOCIAL PROBLEMS. Any unmarried mother in the home? Any intoxication in the home? So dutifully you prompt each betrayal— Father? Mother? Son? Daughter? and then remind yourself, in print, in a parenthetical aside of the unreliability of the interviewee— (Check this information with some outside person.) As if anyone then or now could forget with whom resides the authority for your social accounting
Ah, sister, I pity you the prickly mystery of those questions whose answers could not be checked nor changed by some reliable outside person. So confidently you asked Would you like to leave this home? But seventy-three per cent of the occupants of tar-paper-shacks on White Earth Reservation in northwestern Minnesota in 1938 said no. No matter, you wrote, how dilapidated and inadequate the homes were, the tar-paper shack families were quite unwilling to leave them.
So they were asked again asked another way because it was thought knowing the alternative might change their mind: Would you like to move into a rehabilitation house; one of those fine new houses the Indian Bureau built for the Indians? But the negative answers grew. Fewer still would think of leaving their home. Not thirty-five-year-old Anna, fifty-year-old Mary, not a widowed mother, sixty-one years of age, living on the outskirts of one of the highway towns, not Old Man Mink, seventy-eight years of age, nor his wife, ten years his junior, who agreed they liked their one-room shack, not Mike, twenty-nine and a regular League of Nations, nor his white wife Jane, twenty-eight, nor their ten-year-old son. Gaawiin. Gaawiin niwii-naganaasiin. Like Jim, forty years of age and Ella, thirty-eight, they wanted to stay in the old ramshackled, tar-paper-covered homes.
And did you hear the bullrush psalms of Gaa-waabaabiganikaag as you painstakingly recorded each softly intoned explanation? And does the land remember you Sister Inez, of the tar-paper-shack dwellers? As surely it remembers Mary who felt well acquainted with the woods, or Anna, who believed she was living more like the old Indian ways? Somewhere in that rolling land of rich loam is the adorned body of Old Man Mink and perhaps somewhere roams the spirit of the Midē wiwin elder who vowed I’ll stay right here. I won’t leave here. I’ve lived here too long. I wonder, Mary Inez, did your BIA-commissioned sojourn in the land of white clay somewhere lay its soul mark looming crow dark at the ruled edges of report ledgers spilling into cautious recollection even as the measured drip of black ink might draw tabulations upon white pages?
Before Minnesota winter winds rattled the 162 full-sized, 104 half-sized, and 47 less than half-sized unbroken windows, before that biboon nodin blew through those 23 houses with cardboard-covered broken windows or blew through your tight-lipped post-allotment spirituality you returned to the Order of St. Benedict and to the list of standards set out in 1935 by the National Association of Housing Officials, those standards against which all our measurements fall short, become sub–sub-standard, sub-human. You left Mary Inez, the Latin Mass and rosary zipped safely in one pocket— the names of each Midē wiwin elder drumming and chanting in the other.
*All italicized words are taken from Sister M. Inez Hilger’s Chippewa Families: A Social Study of White Earth Reservation, 1938.
Why do Americans celebrate Columbus Day on October 12 ? Some Americans celebrate his arrival to America and believes he is the true hero. But, it is not true.
Columbus wanted to find a new route to India, China, Japan and the Slice Islands. If he did find these routes, he would be able to bring back the silks and spices. But he did not.
Many already believed the world was round when he claimed himself that he was the one who discovered it. But, it was an idea that had been established by the Ancient Greeks in the 5th century BC. It was possible for Columbus to sail it around it.
Additionally, when he first set out foot on Hispaniola, he encountered indigenous people called the Taino and forced them to slavery as they had “very handsome bodies and very good faces. They should be very good servants” He eventually forced them into slavery and punished them with the loss of a limb or death if they did not enough gold.
From the video I’ve watched, the narrator mentioned about other famous figures who didn’t get attention such as Frank Sinatra or Al Pacino.
It is ironical how Columbus has a name under American’s celebration day wthere are so many other important figures who should we celebrate instead of Columbus. deserve better than him. John Cabot is a figure who actually found landed on United States. Crazy Horse, who was the Native American chief, fought to preserve the traditions and values of the Native American Culture.
“You can never cross the ocean until you have the courage to lose sight of the shore.” -Christopher Columbus-
Take the courage to explore and discover the potential inside you.
Have a great day!
God Bless and Stay Safe!
Today seemed like a good day to explore an unfamiliar park. Once the kids are in bed, I plan on enjoying a glass of chianti in honor of my Italian friends.
Today we celebrate Indigenous People's Day (or Columbus Day). This is the Columbus statue located outside DC's Union Station at sunset on the evening of 23 February 2018. . . . . . #diversifyournarrative #Indigenous #IndigenousPeoplesDay #ColumbusDay #Native #NativeAmerican #visitDC #yourshotphotographer #sunset #natgeotravel #photooftheday #instagram (at Washington D.C.) https://www.instagram.com/p/CGQsnLjjgFv/?igshid=plsqfjh79s6l