Following Instructions

In March of 2006, I came to Western Pennsylvania. Been living on the road, ceremony to ceremony, powwow to powwow, socials, gatherings. Believe me when I say the last place I wanted to be was Pennsylvania. I had been in and out of this area since the late 80's. Didn’t like it here, and many of the mix bloods in the area certainly didn’t want me here. Much too much of a hard ass for them. Too rigid. I never could abide by the pixie dust and love and light brigade, and I wont hesitate to call a twinkie a twinkie. Tends to piss off the “lets play Indian crowd”. Didn’t care then, and still don’t. When I was told to come here you can believe the first thing I thought was “oh shit”. “Dammit all to hell” followed shortly thereafter.

Having lived thru what would kill most people, and certainly almost killed me several times, I've learned to do what I am told. There are consequences to our decisions. There is always a price to pay. A price for doing what is asked, and a price for not doing it. In my travels, I've learned the price for not doing what I'm told is usually worse. I knew coming to Pennsylvania would suck out loud, but its what I was being told to do, so I did. No knowledge or understanding of why. “They” aren’t under any obligation to tell us why. Only what. Its up to us to do it.

There I was, in a place I didn’t want to be, in an area I wasn’t wanted. Months passed, nothing happened, and I began to question my instructions. No one wanted me here, I'm being attacked from every direction, and life here, by then, had become unbearable. Obviously I missed something in the translation. I was out of here. The hell with this crap. I could go anywhere in the country and be shit on. I wasn’t staying here. I was going back to where the culture is still alive, in the right way. Set up an apartment, changed my bank account for my disability check, packed what little I had. Two days before I was supposed to leave, bang. A 16 year old kid, paying no attention to what he was doing drove into me head on at 70 miles an hour. As I'm laying in the street, smoking a cigarette, my first thought was “I am finally off this rock”. Not even close.

The accident left me with a broken neck. Spent an hour and a half in the ER, waiting. They wouldn’t treat me, because no one survives what had just happened to me. They figured I was a corpse with a pulse. Waiting for me to die. And agony? Oh god, you cant imagine the pain. Back is already broken in five places, now add a broken neck as the perfect accessory. I spent that hour and a half writhing in absolute agony. Nothing short of torture. When they finally realized I wouldn’t die, they transported me to another facility, fused my neck and told me it would be six months before I walked again. Four days in the ICU, two days in the recovery ward. On that sixth day I walked out of that hospital. To this day the doctor thinks he is a genius. I told him,”you don’t pray like I do”

Returning to the hospital for a checkup some days later, there was a newspaper laying on the chair, open at the front page. “White buffalo calf born in Farmington”. The light bulb went off. Now I knew why I had been sent to Pennsylvania. It took “them” breaking my neck to get my attention. And they had my full attention now. A few phones calls to some elders, a few real medicine people. Each laughing at me of course. Did I get it now? Uh, yes I did, thank you. Painfully, but comprehended.

Until May of this year, 2011, I kept that responsibility. Never once did I do anything that wasn’t honorable, with complete integrity. I understood, best as I could, every decision I made effected every relative on the planet. No drinking or drugging, which I had quit years before. No womanizing, chasing skirts, snagging. Something I had also quit years before. Always remembering the Sacred is not for sale. Not once did I sell out.

When I was instructed to leave in May 2011, actually more precisely “You have 48 hours to get out”, my first thought was “I'm done”. Going to find a little place in Mexico, and its cerveza and fish tacos for the rest of my life. Right, like “they” are going to let that happen. No, "they" have other plans for me. As usual, “they” aren’t saying why, just what. And here I am doing, immediately. Tired of breaking bones. That shit hurts.

This is my next chapter, in this ordeal lovingly referred to as my life. Bring the urban mix bloods together, as one force. Each of us, a light in the darkness. Together, we burn brighter than the sun. Like herding cats, but hey, a lot less painful than breaking something else. This then is what we will do. We will come together. We will unify. Under The Buffalo Boy Foundation, we will do the impossible.

The minimum amount an employer can legally pay someone today is $7.25 an hour. Social Security and Disability is at least $800.00, or there about. Now, explain to me why individually we cannot cut $5 or $10 a month out of this and send it to one organization we know we can trust, The Buffalo Boy Foundation? Why? Here's a thought. Keep your change from every purchase. Just the change. Every month, there is your contribution. Its hard to see where one person, living on only $700 or so a month, can possibly make any difference in this world. What many fail to realize is they can make a huge difference. When that difference is made together, as one.

This obviously begs the question, can we trust The Buffalo Boy Foundation? I wouldn’t know Jim Cortez from a can of paint. Have never met him. I do know Eli Tail. Sat through many ceremonies with him, and I have the utmost respect for him. He is everything you think of when you think “Grandfather". Why The Buffalo Boy Foundation? Because “they” told me. I've come to trust “them”. I've learned, albeit painfully, to listen to “them”, follow "their" instructions.

Who, exactly, are “they” and “them” mr. hawk? Listen closely, I'll tell you. About a year ago “they”came for me. Five I spoke with, while others watched. Ancients, who covered me with a dark blanket. They said “we have been watching you. How you care for the Elders, the young, the sick, those who need with never a thought for yourself. Regardless the suffering and sacrifice we have asked of you. You are now one of us”. How do I know this wasn’t a fitful dream? Because "they" wouldn’t let me awaken until I remembered "their" names. Names I have no reason to know, yet are now burned into my consciousness.

Therefore, by “their” instructions, this is what we are going to do, because “they” told us to. We, the scattered mix bloods of this country will come together, as one, unified under The Buffalo Boy Foundation. Each month we will send to The Buffalo Boy Foundation $5 or $10 dollars, more if we can. We will trust The Buffalo Boy Foundation. Give them a year. 12 months. We all have the potential. The trick is living up to that potential. If The Buffalo Boy Foundation screws it up, I have no doubt “they” will point us in another direction.

This is our time. We are the 7th generation. Our people, our culture, our way of life will rise again from the ashes of destruction wrought by the Doctrine of Discovery and Manifest Destiny. Colonization has seen its dying day, and we, the mix blood children of the First Nations People, are going to kill it. I'm out here, traveling amongst us. Anyone got a gas card I can borrow...indefinitely? Got places to go, relatives to see, idiots to piss off. I do have a Paypal account under my email (hawkgoodfire@yahoo.com). Anytime anyone wants to help me with gas, I ain’t saying no. Now, know this my relatives, I am coming. This is my responsibility, my next set of instructions. I am the car “they” are driving around. I will take this message of unity to each and every one of us. We will do this. We don’t have the tribal problems, although we do seem to enjoy attacking each other. No more fighting over scraps. Our table will be over laden. Our bounty plentiful. Here “they” come relatives. I hope you're ready.