On the path to a Master's Degree

I have returned home from an intensive two week residency at Ashland University. The residency is the gate through which I must enter to achieve an MFA in Creative Writing/Poetry. Ashland offers a cross genre study of Creative Non-fiction and Poetry, a degree which will advance my writing.

I want to write about Urban Native Americans, travels on and off the reservations, grappling with traditional Native religion and Christianity and connectedness to culture. All of these topics revolve around the larger issue of identity. The questions mankind has asked since the beginning of the human species, Who am I and what is my purpose in life? remains a motivation inherent to humanness. I ask this age old question in an increasingly complicated world that does not necessarily recognize the time required for such introspection. It's a pity that a collective lack of downtime is the meager reward for the payoff of constant and immediate technological connectivity, as if that were any valid substitute for the blood and guts of identity.

I say this because it has come to my attention that people have an increasingly shorter attention span. If immediate gratification is not met, the mind wanders. Worse yet, anger and frustration spread like dark ink on white fabric leaving the indelible mark of squandered time. Time that is better spent examining identity rather than electronic gadgets. Where, among this, is our connectedness, our unique reasons for walking on earth at this time? I think of whistling in the dark, if I can just stay busy enough, then there is no time left for those unanswered questions that I would rather not have answers to. This was one of many thoughts unearthed at the residency.

Where is the "I" in my poetry? I assumed since I was the one writing the poem, that question was a no-brainer, but not so. Not so at all. I wondered how or why or when I had put myself in the passenger seat of writing recording what I observe and then distancing myself from the process. How many other times have I distanced myself from whatever event unfolds in my day as if it were just part of the a unending newsfeed containing a few sentences interwoven with other people's newsfeeds. Our lives are a miasma of generalizations that naturally go along with distancing ourselves. It's an insidious form of disconnection on a deeper level.

I'm sure there's a poem in there.

If I lived on the rez, I wonder if I would stand in the same educational shoes? How could I? Certainly, I would have been a different person molded by daily life. I have spent the past six years questioning what does being a Yankton Sioux mean? So much so, I have traveled back and forth between the Yankton Rez and the home where I was raised, forging new territory which, at times, was gut-wrenching. As I talk with others about my lifework, I discover the thirst people have for taking part in the journey in some way, if only to read about it. I have cast my net in search of identity, deep and wide. Join me, won't you?

Honoring Creator

Because I have been raised off the reservation, outside of my culture, I have spent many years leaning from my family, researching, and examining how expansive the role of American Indian identity is for urban Natives.

One branch of identity is familiarity with Native Ways. Since there are over 500 federally recognized Indian tribes in the United States which means certain criteria have been met to fit tribes into a category, identity must be important to more than Native Americans.

Add Native spiritual practices into this mix, unique to each tribe because of geographical location, plants and food available such as wildlife used for sustanance, different stories of Creator (not to mention different names), and it's easy to see why identity is tantamount to understanding each other.

Such a place for understanding was the setting for the All Colors Together Gathering in Millersburg, Ohio this weekend. The gathering was a hub of dialogue and teachings on how different we are, yet we are all human. For the most part, we were a group of Native Americans or indigenous people who follow Jesus, listening and learning from each other how best to minister to our own tribes.

We spoke of and learned about historical events and how they shaped the nation we live in today. We learned the tribal history for the state of Ohio and together we considered where to forge new territory, to create new connections of support for our own people who are hurting and in need of healing.

One beautiful time of healing for myself happened on Saturday. For the first time, in my regalia, I danced my prayers to Creator. My face was turned up to the sky. The drum was beating, words of praise for Creator were sung, smudge curled in whisps, and my native brothers and sisters with non-natives as well, planted our feet on the earth and moved clockwise around the arena. The fringe on my regalia swayed with each step, each movement, and I felt alive, every nerve ending, every brain cell, every breath I took was sweeter and more authentic than any other time. I was finally whole. It only took four decades. I have been praying for this moment for many years. In my spirit I had my mother with me and all my brothers and sisters back home on the rezand in other places of the country. Talk about praising and worshiping the Lord in spirit and in truth!

There are some people in the world who will lable me as non-native because I follow Jesus. It is sad the division still occurs today. I know I am Yankton Sioux, Creator fashioned me that way. He doesn't make mistakes. I have known this in my head and now for the first time, I believe it and know it in my heart.


Next week: going deeper