Dec. 8, 05 to Nov. 92, to Rez Kid years

MIAMI

The Deaville Beach Resort, Miami Beach. I was performing in the same place that the Beatles played for their second United States show in 1964.

I knew I was in Miami when I stepped off the plane, wearing my Wisconsin winter jacket, and was greeted by an ice cream vending machine.
It was so hot and humid but I had to keep my hot jacket on since my hands were already full of luggage.

SWITZERLAND SIDETRACK

It reminds me of the first time I went to Switzerland. It was ’92 and I hadn’t ever really traveled too far from the rez’ yet. My friend, Waubano and I were invited to go on tour with this Cheyenne/Arapaho/Hopi singer/songwriter dude by the name of Mitch Walking Elk. At that time, the word Switzerland only conjured up images of cold frozen mountains and St. Bernard dogs always coming to the rescue. I left Wisconsin on a frigid November day wearing big snow boots and was bundled up ready for the cold Swiss winter. As we flew down into Switzerland I was a bit surprised seeing no snow. I sheepishly descend the ramp from the plane wearing these big arctic boots that I had spent all of my money on for the trip. I had to carry them big things with me for the whole tour. I remember that I even saw palm trees in southern Switzerland (Lugano) on that tour. I guess I used to watch too much TV back then.

MORE ON MIAMI (or moron in Miami)

Speaking of palm trees, let’s forward back to the present in Miami. I came here to do an Art Burst paid performance for the National Performance Network and to also attend their conference. It’s not often that you get paid to go to Miami in December, and coming from 0 degree Fahrenheit weather in Wisconsin, it’s quite a treat. I just wish I would have been paid enough to bring my family.

NOKOMAEH

I opened the conference performing a piece called, Nokomaeh/Nenah Kemanon Nokomaeh. It is a piece that I feel awkward putting my name to, because it seemed to write its self, or be written by my ancestors (namely my grandmother’s spirit). I feel like I was just the tool that was luckily sharp enough at the time to be used for getting it out. When I perform it I also try to step out of the way and let it perform itself.

The performance turned out great. Throughout the weekend, a lot of people commented on being emotionally touched by the piece. One lady said she felt the spirit of Flying Eagle Woman in the room. I didn’t know this lady prior to this trip, I was confused and wondered if she was tripping until she said she had been a friend of Ingrid Washinawatok (Flying Eagle Woman) and if I had known her. This blew me away because Ingrid was a very good friend of the family and also Menominee like me. I thanked the nice lady for sharing that with me and felt goose bumps on my arm. Another person commented that when I stopped performing my piece, they could still feel and hear the music continuing on.

You become the music, not it’s dictator.
My best performances and most powerful songs seem to happen when I seem to be less involved in the process and become an instrument rather than the musician or composer. It’s as if the ancestors and the Creator just work through you because you took your selfish and critical self out of the picture.

Possibilities for the future from this conference are gigs in Ecuador, Peru, Dallas, and Houston.

THE SMELLY FEET

I had a roommate assigned thoughout the Miami conference, I had never met him before and didn’t really see him during the first few days because he wouldn’t get in ‘ till after I had gone to bed, and wouldn’t wake up until after I had gone. Saturday morning I woke up and it smelled like someone had some pretty stinky feet. I went to the side of the room where my roommate was sleeping to get something off the table and the smell became stronger.
I thought man it’s too bad the windows don’t open up here on the 10th floor.

The day before, while walking along the beach, I had found this cool piece of coral that was shaped like half dog and half dragon. I brought it back to the room to let it dry out and get hard so I could bring it home for my kids. Later, several hours after the smelly feet morning, I found my find wrapped up inside a plastic bag in the bathroom. It was then that I realized from the smell coming from the bag that the source of the stinky feet smell was not my roommate. It was the decomposing dragon-dog. I decided to leave it there since it was almost impossible to dry it out in a humid Miami hotel room before I left. I later caught up with my roommate and confessed of my evil thoughts concerning the stinky feet that he didn’t have. He thought it was me the whole time. We had a good belly laugh over that one.

Saturday eve over dinner I talked with a good friend from Dallas about our ancestors and the roles they play in our lives. She is my elder and though she comes from the African-American culture and I come from the (Omaeqnomenew) Menominee culture, we share many cultural similarities. We likened the New Orleans loss of culture and relocation to that of some of my own people when they were taken from their homeland and placed in the cities.

In the Miami airport I had the peculiar experience of talking to a man from Vancouver, who had the same amount of children as I, the same sexes; 3 boys and one girl, the same order boy, girl, boy, boy, and the same age grouping, 5, 4, 2, and 1 (almost). His kids were much older now, but we both had a coincidental shared experience.

TOO GOOD FOR ME, OR NOT?

Chicago airport I sit in an empty chair next to an older Euro-American lady. She was sitting quite comfortably with her legs resting over her luggage, shoes off, that is, until I sat next to her. She quickly gathered herself back together and speedily vacated the area. My first reaction was drawn from my experiences as a reservation kid. I thought maybe it was because of my color or features. I knew my feet didn’t smell too bad and I was wearing deodorant. My next thoughts were maybe she was just hungry because I broke out a salad and some cashews that I picked up in O’Hare. I finally rested on the conclusion that it was her choice and that I’m only wasting my time trying to crawl inside her head to find my own justifications.

RESERVATION KID BLUES

I remember when I was a child, walking into a store in Shawano, a nearby town to my reservation (Menominee). I was about 5 or 6 and the elder ladies would follow me sternly all over the store watching me like a hawk. I never noticed her or the other employees ever following any of the non-reservation kids like my family or myself. I also never caused any trouble (at least in that place). But I remember the ladies at the dime store making you feel as if you were doing something wrong by just walking in. This was one of several experiences, in less and more severity, as I was growing up as a kid from the Menominee Reservation.

OK, one more.

PICKING BLUEBERRIES AT GUNPOINT

I was the same age and my mom, dad, older sister (7), and toddler brother were picking blueberries on the side of the road. The area was called Legend Lake on my reservation and it was occupied by Menominees and those we called Legend Lakers. Legend Lakers were generally Euro-Americans that had enough money to own a second (summer) home on our beautiful lake on the reservation.
Well, my dad had our family rez car parked on side of the gravel road as we picked the wild blueberries in the ditch and tried to fill our plastic gallon milk jugs, that had been sliced so the upper front corner had enough room for two handfuls of blueberries to fit inside. I usually had one handful reserved for the jug and the other for painting my mouth.
A nice car with a muffler and no rust pulled up next to ours and sat there with its quiet engine idling. My dad being the friendly man that he is, put down his blueberry jug and walked up to the car with a smile on his face. Without turning around and with no evidence of a smile in his voice he shouted, “Get in the car kids.” My mom quickly gathered her little flock together and we stumbled into our 4-door. I thought it to be rather strange, so from the back seat I stood up and looked out the back window. There was my dad walking slowly towards us with his hands up in the air and an older Caucasian man with a gun pointed against my dad’s back. My heart beat hard and I wanted to jump out of the car and beat the mean old man up before he shot my dad. But I knew already that an action like that would take some very sneaky moves and I hadn’t watched enough episodes of Kung Fu, yet.
It turned out that the man owned some property and a house nearby and thought we were going to steal something. Can you see my seven year old sister, me 5, and my 1 year-old brother, crawling through a window smearing our little blueberry hands all over their pretty little walls. Then dumping all our blueberries on their rugs so we can fill our cut out milk jugs with their stash of valuable twinkies and oyster crackers. Then as we start making our get-away my little brother stashes his stinky diaper behind the toilet bowl.

The local conservative headlines would have read,
“The Notorius Baby Gang From Da Rez Strikes Again. Too small for security sensors these slimy, buggery little buggers, buggered up another bungalow!”

I can make jokes about it now but I can still feel that gun in my dad’s back.