Some time back, I saw this beautiful thing that was taking place. In the cities throughout this country, in the middle of asphalt and steel, are gardens. Set up by the community and cared for by the community. Everyone benefits from the garden, but it is also everyone’s responsibility to take care of the garden. I've thought about that for a long time. What a beautiful idea. Then I realized, we have our gardens too. The dominant society, notice I said dominant, not superior, made them ugly. But we, the First Nations People, have a way of turning ugly into beauty.
As of now, our gardens are overgrown with weeds, over run by rats and parasites. Yeah, I said it. They are going to kill me eventually anyway, so I may as well make sure I give them every good justifiable reason to murder my crazy ass. Back to our garden. There are many. Scattered throughout this country. And in our garden, there are still a few roses. Not many, fewer each year. Some die off, never found. Others are choked out, ripped out. Still others morph into weeds. I think that’s the one that hurts the most. We are the community. As it is now, we want to benefit from our garden, but no one is doing the maintenance.
Every year, a new crop of us descend upon the reservations. With dreams and visions, a burning desire to reconnect to our Ancestors. We are descendants. We can prove it. Old photos, paper trails, our family names on the roles. We have been separated from our People by three, four and even more generations. Yet, the blood burns just as hot in us. We all eventually hear that voice, feel that pull, to go home. So we load up our vehicles and head for the rez, desperately trying to answer that yearning inside us. No clue as to what or where, we just have to go. And we take. The rez, that’s where the culture is, the history is, the knowledge is. We arrive to these places of utter devastation, to take that culture, that history, that knowledge. We leave a few scraps of cloth, some tobacco, a few days meals. Then return to urban society, full of all we have stolen.
What most don’t begin to realize, usually until much later, is they have been played. There are those who know you are coming. They wait for you. They know exactly what monuments and places your are going to visit. For generations they have fed off you, and every year we never disappoint. We arrive, and they descend on us like a pack of wolves. Its how many survive until the next year, the next crop of urban breeds. Many, most, have nothing more than the culture to sell. They use it to feed their families. Except what they are selling is a watered down version. Just enough to satisfy our lust, but not enough to actually satisfy hunger. They have to keep us coming back every year.
We know the stats. 90% unemployment. 90%. What that means is 9 out of 10 people don’t have a job. 9 out of 10. And the 1 that does is working minimum wage, trying to support a family of 30 on $7.25 an hour. Our relatives have been isolated, separated from society. A entire group of people, caged with imaginary fences. No work, insufficient health care, ineffective education. No where to go, nothing to do and no way to get there if they could. Corrupt tribal governments keeping them that way. Taking loans from the bank, using reservation land as collateral, then defaulting on the loans. And little by little, the land is eaten away at the edges. Then here we come, trotting along in our vehicles that are all one color, with four matching tires and a recent oil change. Come to take the only thing that’s left. Come to take the fat.
So, what do we have our relatives don’t? We agree they have the culture, the history, the knowledge. What we have are jobs. A paycheck. As of May 2011, the unemployment rate in the country is 9.1%. More of us are working, verses more of our relatives that aren’t. We need a bridge between the two. A way to connect us to them. But what? How do we build this bridge? Where do we start?
We find a rose in our garden. Because the reservations are our garden. And the weeding needs done. Trapped in the middle of concrete and steel, islands amidst the asphalt. We are the community and it is our responsibility to care for our garden. We are out here, and for now we are running around like free range chickens. Hundreds of little groups here and there, all attempting to maintain our garden and every one failing. Like trying to soak the beach by reaching into a bucket and flinging droplets on the sand. Only to run back into the ocean to get another bucket. Futile empty attempts. And the damn firehouse is just sitting there. We, the urban mix bloods, have the capability of creating a deluge. We have the ability to grab that hose, and wash away the debris.
For years we have been seen as a commodity, something to be drained and fed upon, because there are always more where we came from. As long as we remain scattered and separated, this pattern will continue. Its well past time to break the pattern, to weed our gardens. But first, we have to find that rose. Just one rose, in the middle of waste and destruction. That rose has been shown.
The Buffalo Boy Foundation. This is our rose. This is our focus point. These are people we can trust, who know who needs help and where. Who know the predators, the drunks and druggies working us for their next fix. How many of us have met up with someone, been given just enough to keep us coming back, only to get that phone call, “hey, I need some money”. We think we are helping to pay the bills, but what we are really doing is providing them with money for the casino. We're buying the beer, and we don’t even realize it. And yes, we are being laughed at.
This is how this is going to work. We have the jobs, our relatives have the culture. This is our garden. Every one of us urban mix bloods are going to focus on the Buffalo Boy Foundation. We will unify under the Buffalo Boy foundation, as one entity. And there are millions of us. Give a million people a dollar, you effect nothing. Everyone has a buck. Conversely, take all those dollars and put them in one hat, now you have something to work with.
Every month, each of us, together, unified as one, will send a few dollars to the Buffalo Boy Foundation. $5, $10, $20, whatever. They will be our repository. All our power, our resources, focused in one place. Distributed to those who need, not those who feed on us. We will come when called, helping to build homes, create an economic base, rectify the health and education. Its our responsibility. It is our garden. We are responsible, and we will take responsibility. Imagine, millions of dollars, untouched by corporate greed. No government fingers. No corrupt officials and nepotism. Millions are sent to each reservation by this government every year. Where does it all go? Because our relatives sure as hell aren’t seeing it. Well, to hell with that idea. It doesn’t work. This will.
We can go back to what we were. I'm not talking about teepees and campfires. I mean go back to our pride, our dignity, our honor. Show this world who we really are. Stop taking the fat and start giving the fat. Those of us out here, living in this society. We have the jobs, the means, to do this. There is not one single reason we cant. Not one. All of us, together, contributing to one source. Because right now, we are part of the problem. Whatever excuse you are thinking of, its lame. Whether we are on disability, social security, pushing a broom or running a business. If you are getting a check, it is your responsibility to put into the pot. Then we pass this responsibility on to our children. So they know, when they get a job, a piece goes back to the garden. There are a few wealthy First Nations People. When they see what we are doing, they will join us, and the pot will get bigger. This can only grow. It cannot fail. All we have to do is do it. Right now. Today.
In time, when we show up, when our children show up, looking to connect again with their relatives, no one will be there waiting to feed on them. Our gardens, created out of wasteland. Once again flourishing. Our entire community, benefiting from our garden. Because our entire community is doing the maintenance. Now, give me one good reason why not? Just one. Together, unified as one, the strength of every one of us. What a beautiful garden it will be.
Jim Cortez
The Buffalo Boy Foundation
PO Box 1005
Mission, SD 57555
http://thebuffaloboyfoundation.org/Help-Native-Americans/Tipi.html
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