”That until there are no longer

First-class and second-class citizens of any nation

Until the colour of a man’s skin 

Is of no more significance than the colour of his eyes 

Me say war” Bob Marley

I don’t know how many times I have written I don’t know where my next story is going to come from. Mistakenly, I’ve always expected it to come from within, an immaculate conception, so to speak. After so many of these things, I realized yesterday how it happens. It’s a collusion between my mind and anything that comes in my direction from anywhere at all.

Yes, I know you don’t give a shit, but its has everything to do with this story. I got a text from a very good friend and he told me about a Hawaiian God by the name of Lono. It seems that every year between November and March, those long ago warriors put down their weapons and peace ruled the land. Now, I am not going to go an inch further into this story. I am not about to join the chorus who speak about this place, while not being from this place.

Two things rattled my haole brain, war and the plight of indigenous people everywhere. First, I want to redefine what I mean by the world, haole. There are non-Hawaiians, who have been here for generations. Many came here with good hearts and in their own way, became a part of this place. There were some who came here, with avarice in their hearts and they still come. There are others, like me, now from this place, with nothing, but gratitude in my heart. One word doesn’t fit all, but it will have to do.

It was only one sentence in a paragraph, birthing this story. 

When I moved to Santa Fe, NM in ’87, I had never seen a Native American before and it kind of stunned my consciousness. Having spent a little over forty years in NYC, growing up in Queens and then working in the broadcast advertising business, it is not a shocking revelation. After the exchange of a handful of beads for Manhattan, indigenous people disappeared into the mist of tomorrow, not to be seen again in the five boroughs. 

Just like here, there were people in Santa Fe, who moved there, taking its persona, wearing beads and feathers and turquoise. Some even changed their names, to monikers like Laughing Gas. Obviously, kidding about the name, but not the theft, regardless of whomever ever “blessed” the name change.

I made many friends in my fifteen years there and a small number were from the dozen or so pueblos that surround the town, often miles away. Poverty is rampant on many of the reservations. I attended ceremonies open to the public. I have producer genes in my make up and even got to produce major events in town. In ’89, I produced a huge concert series, called Music in the Pines. I tried to figure out what would work for these people if I had a magic wand.

I couldn’t get passed the idea that all these indigenous people got screwed and not that it makes a difference, I couldn’t figure out what goddamn recourse they had. First People all over the world have suffered the exact same plight, POW’s in wars they didn’t start and lost. I don’t think I’ve written about this before, although it may be in my book to grandson, Halloween in Portland. It has just been something that has quietly stayed within for years.

Without a doubt, the very first thing the “conquerors” did was to separate children from their families. They were placed in “schools”, often run by a variety of churches. They cut their hair. took away their clothes and forbade their languages from being spoken. Punishment was brutal and there are still bodies hidden underground of those little people, who refused to get in line, drawn up at the whim of those in charge. Each new discovery is met with almost, naive astonishment, while back then it was routine.

It didn’t take a genius to realize the fight was over, but a kind of pyrrhic victory is still possible and it goes by the name of survival. The dominant societies provided the answer, punishing the one power indigenous people had left. I was also fortunate to visit the Hopi in AZ, living on these mesas, gigantic tables of earth, sitting high about the ground below. It’s the culture, the history, the language, the dress, things that can never be taken away from the people. I was just some schmuck from NYC and it was and still is, none of my business. However, if someone asked, that would be my answer.

I can feel it here and just the thought and I am totally overcome with emotion…………… Just like back there, there is stuff that goes on here that is none of my business, because it is not for me to know. 

Going forward, the winners of the wars are going to pay the price for trying to dominate people and nature. We don’t know what native people know and that is a kind of power you don’t learn, it is in your blood and your way of being. I started learning that in Santa Fe and I feel it here. The First People could end up being the Last People.

The other thing that go me going was that during this period, there was no war. It was necessary to declare a time for peace, making it seem like peace was just a short break from war. War has always been the way forward, a kind of demented progress. 

We are where we are today, because violence has been our way of life, since the beginning of our time on this planet. So, while I applaud Lono’s cultural impact and the power he wielded, why not peace all year round? The answer is, it would have been impossible, in blatant defiance of our prehistoric predilection to hurt others, who had whatever it is we coveted. No society has ever survived without fighting at least for its subsistence, the sad truth. Even the idea of laying down arms every year for a period of time is unbelievable to me and a tribute to the Hawaiian people, make no mistake.

In the beginning of our two-legged time here, we went by many names. In defense of our forefathers, I don’t think they were all that bright, busy inventing the wheel and making fire a friend, etc. More than a few thousand years ago, there were signs that humanoids were getting pretty smart, drawing pictures on cave walls and creating symbolic communication. Somehow, hitting each other was never viewed as stupid or primitive, rather it always remained absolutely necessary.

I hope I didn’t screw this story up too badly, but one tells the story of the other, literary schizophrenia by yours truly. We are each a tribe and we look for members with similar attributes. In my tribe, violence and bigotry don’t belong. We have one home with one spirit. We have abused one and been numb to the other. 

It is never too late. It is never too late.

LISTEN TO IT HERE:

https://www.buzzsprout.com/admin/1292459/episodes/16318768-who-wins-war