Cultural Continuation- Reflections from South Dakota to Santa Fe

A few months ago, mitakuye oyasin, I attended the Legacy of Survival re-union of the Dakota Oyate in Flandreau, South Dakota.  I went there, a Chinese Jewish, non-Indian, to explore issues of social justice with real living Indians.  Old and new friends, including J.B., a tribal officer, Elaine Magree, an out of town actress from California performing in the Minnesota Fringe Festival, and Maggie, a friend and fellow alum, and also my boss who gave me time off and good blessings on the journey.
This re-union happened to remember the history of survival lived by the Dakota people- within the context of European, colonialist attempts to remove their culture and people from the land- as well as to develop a platform for restoring Dakota culture and developing an accurate picture of Dakota life and struggle from the past and present.
Truly, I don't know why I ended up in Flandrau, South Dakota during this time.  I am a city boy from Boston, son of a loving pragmatic mom, a wild, unstable father, and I take risks entering new communities and places often developing deep relationships, but also sometimes causing harm to others and myself :(.  I want to know more about my own cultural, sexual, and gender identity, but at the same time, my identity is inseparable from my relationships to All living and still life, to all communities,people,and circumatanes and present.  Hence, I say mitakuye oyasin!  A Lakota prayer phrase spoken at the beinning or ending of addresses, exprssing mutual appreciation and dependence with all relatives and historical, present, and future creation.
I am writing now, from Santa Fe, fresh off a party with Pueblo and European people,talking and singing with each other.  Considering what does it mean to continue culture, how it will happen, and why it is so fucking important to replace a global ethos of violence and destruction with an indigenous-European ethic of reconstruction and co-creation.  From, the Indian-Japenese-Korean-Chinease-Vietnamese-American Zen Buddhist tradition that I am a part of there is a story about a master who teaches a student the essence of the tradition by holding up one finger in silence.  The teacher could have sang a prayer, bowed, or maybe posed a question, but he holds up one finger.  The student wanting to communicate this teaching to a visitor again holds up one finger in displaying the experience of his master's teaching.  For this, the student loses a finger.  Whatever the message of the teaching, share wholeheartedly and make it your own!
I've thought about this as I try to communicate my experience in Flandreau as well as my push for intimate community that strives for justice and co-creativity in partnerships, schools, familias, pueblos, and inter-nationally.  So, at this event, speakers, singers, and dancers shared a lot: shared personal stories of trauma,memories of connection with ancestors who were killed during the Dakota war,  critical research on genocide committed against Dakota people; the Dakota shared medicine, in the form of plants and roots, medicine for broken connections, reconnection via documentaries and a massive intergenerational, co-ed Lacrosse match, shared in solidarity, prayer, protest, and return home as walkers crossed state boundary lines back into Mni-Sota (the Dakota name for the state of Minnesota) defying the Winnebeago and Sioux-Dakota exclusion Acts, which were created after the Dakota war to forcibly remove tribes of "defeated" nations from Minnesota; this legislation still stands.
As an outsider, I have critiques of the event.  There could have been more dialogue and more female and youth voice.  Rather than sustinance consisting of cigarettes, soda, and meat, there could have been Dakota-sewn, healthier options.  Events and times should have been more clearly posted!  But, I have more questions than criticism- how can culture be preserved and adapted at the same time?  How can continually manifesting  forms of oppression whether they be colonial, patriarchal, or human, be transformed?  And how does this type of gathering supplant current systems of isolation, individualism, mono-colonial-culturism, unvoiced and perpetual trauma, eco-$ide (capitalist generated genocide of the environment), and violence?  It does!  We love, we create, we live!  How diverging communities negotiate cultural preservation and adaptation given social changes and pressing needs is a struggle.  As Apache artist Bob Haozous writes, "I would so much prefer describing my own sunset instead of attempting to create parallels or descriptions of the beauty to my father's father's sunsets.  My sunset as with my culture exists with me today.  I would prefer to explain with my art what is of my own experience rather than portray a romantic Western historic or tribal historic experience that has been reduced to superficial layers of Contemporary Indian identity... We need the constant reminder that are cultural inheritance must serve as the cornerstone of any meaningful change."  We are products and producers of our times; this cultural impetus, is awareness and inspiration for being who I am amidst all my relations tarnished and evolving.

What He Do

I love to dance.  I like to twist-shake-androll.
To be a fully embodied, spiritual creator though-
I need 2 write.
I need for my chest to expand,
And for sentences to flow out.
I need for lyrical explosions, poppin
from my soul cavity.

My pen's an extension of touch, when holding
in words gets too much, I ink them out in morse code:
tip tip, tap, s-w-i-r-l.  Choreography
happens on this unmarked surface.  Storyscapes arise,
and yo' linguistic ears follow the topography.
Sign in, you've arrived.  In this class we'll learn to speak territories,
and map our bones' infinite geography.



-LoveWon

Fresh off the Full Court French Press; new grounds

Sometimes, I act irresponsible
and absent-minded
In trying to be responsive,
I appear despondent, and nonchalant.
But in reality, recognizing my responsibilities,
I enhance my abilities to be tuned in to the key
of Abe.
That is, RAP at its best, to the off-beet of me.     

At last turn, i was sprinting up staircases,
Advancing, dancing, learning
Spitting, teaching, yearning in new spaces.
But here I find myself, suddenly seeking,
In a moment of revelation, when I feel
so mistaken.

I see newness in this re-union, a magic meeting
Letting the moonlight soak through to my mind,
Mine becomes the shine,
My heart is primed for new traditions and different positions
Intertwined with a community’s stories,
And a side of tortillas with rábano and lime,  
I’m open like hand dropping the full bottle; this is my decision.
My tongue pushes down on the throttle.  
Tequila, please, this ain’t a Jose Cuervo
country song.  This is the Abe song.
And it goes on and on and on.  

Adapting like a car phone charger
The electricity flows through me,
Fluently like a second tongue.
The work is never done,
Until it stops being fun.  
To assimilate you must see your own
As residing in a new home, always vanishing.
Give yourself freedom to roam without being
charged as crossing into the danger zone, or being banished to area 50 none..   
Whenever I’m trapped I pull from my roots
And recognize that I’m always growin,
And never fully grown.  

Amen I say, And also
Ay man, what’s honda “guey?”
There is spirituality in bad breath,
And I’m feelin so badly,
I got the blues like a doorstep- with no clue
of why it’s being stepped on.  
Friends hold a mirror directly in front,
So I can be reminded of my accomp-lish-ment
And also the gaunt-let it, all on.
As when Anansi the water spider, swallowed
The Whole Sea,
To be me, I feel it’s necessary to Eat.  

Pilgrimage takes me to the Minnesota Fringe

 Cancelling the trip I initially planned, a bike tour showcasing historic sights related to the Indian-American Dakota War of 1862, proved to be a trying process.  I guess I should take a step back; why care about a war that occurred 1862?   1862 is a pivotal, tear-releasing, year in Minnesota’s as well as America’s history.  After being pushed onto ever-decreasing parcels of land and having been denied allotted rations and facing starvation, Chief Little Crow made the decision (after refusing to go to war but being called a coward) to lead his people, the Mdewakanton Dakota Sioux (a derogatory Ojibwe term meaning snake) into war against the US army.  This war marked the beginning of the attempted annihilation of Dakota culture and genocide against Dakota people, the flame hitting tinder, the death march in a cold winter, the massacre a day after Christmas, this...

After fundraising for this event that would bring me to the battlefields where Dakota and Europeans fought, and making a commitment with everyone supporting me to complete a journey representative of my values and aspirations, I felt a loss of destination but not direction.  I trusted in my drive to continue forming connections with those working on similar initiatives to uncover history in the Indian community as well as faith in Universal Serendipity.    

            As fate would have it, on the day that my original journey was set to begin, I wound up at a monologue called, “Why I’m not an Indian.”  This monologue was part of a theater festival called “Minnesota Fringe,” whereby trained actors and amateurs alike and would perform an extra-wide variety of pieces, from “The Hungry Games” to “Psychology of a Bully,” throughout the day over a course of two weeks.  This play captured my interest because I was like, is this gonna be offensive or revealing- turned out to be ladder; it is one woman’s story, Elaine, for which I am deeply grateful to have become part of. 

Here is the description:   

Elaine, intrepid lesbian, turkey-baster Mom and childhood abuse survivor, untangles the Story of her Mixed Heritage. And what's up with the Ex-Nun and the box of ashes?..

The Ex-Nun turns out to be her love partner who drops those standing in the way of Elaine’s journey to retrace her Indian heritage like a bad habit, hits em with the truth like a sister named Whoopie in Act II, and the ashes, it’s her mom with every pack of cigarettes smoked reduced to a box. 

At one point in the play, her mom, with cigarette in hands says, you remember when I said I could never love you anymore because you were not going to marry a man.  I’m sorry for that.  You didn’t deserve that.  Marg didn’t deserve that.  Stepping back into present time, Elaine turns to the audience and states emphatically, “My mom said ‘I’m sorry,’ and that’s more than the American government has ever done. 

I waited outside the Gremlin theater after the play, hoping to speak with this actress.  I had begun to walk away but then I recognized, distinctly, her voice.  She was speaking to an audience member who had become choked up in talking about how necessary it was to hear this story and how more folks have to hear it.  After exchanging business cards, I set up a time to get a hot drink with Elaine.  We talked about family, socialist witch conferences, what to do when your dad sends you 22 voice messages, getting kids to open up and connect with each other, and the challenge of getting over shame.  I think I gotta stop here, will pick up the next time.

Peace in over-under lapping roots and digging deeper.      

Walk the Dog!

yo, my yo yo, straight from the heartstrings

pulse goes up and down, as I'm pulled taught- zinggg!

Amidst relationship madness, listening's attuned to good vibrations,

I'm, pluckin my own petals: do i like her? 

And what is this knot i, i think i am, or rather i am not. 

Flippin myself upside down, doing headspins on shakey ground
Singing "Be, Boy!"

Running with my tongue in the wind-

A young pup, finding balance with new tricks,

Learning lessons wouldn't be this hard, if I could just sit!
Still for a minute

Until then I'll munch on broken biscuits and give you the paw.

Leading us back in time

Like Lassie re-runs 

Touching each of the 7 heavenly sins, 

where i take my cue- look out pool sharks, these words guard life, 

And I offer them freely, so you can put down the knife

And share a slice of adolescent strife

¿Listo? I'm diving deep

Already sunk the 8 ball,
and I still haven't shown my teeth.  

1. (First grade) She's got blond hair and sings a melody,
i swear makes me tear through rows
of kindergartners lookin for my muse.
in tune with her golden pitch- I don't flinch

just melt like, I can't believe it's butter. 

i am but a bubble, a plankton in her ocean

2.) (2nd grade), don't remember whether it was fractions
or fractiles or finger paint, i do remember
fainting with joy that time our hands touched-

speechless, just went the verb, 

though I trust my heart said, oh, word!

3.) Her name's Ilenna:
I'm in third grade and because i'm too young to think about humps,
i ride the curves of her name.  And each time she shouts
mine- my goosebumps go...  oh,
If I could just reach out to let you know
Yo! I like you!
No lumps in my throat

as I would defy the unspoken gravity that keeps

us asian-american brother and sister from embracing
-goosebumps don't lie.

4.) In fourth grade, reminiscing on the time we played the recorder

making a symphony heard in all frequencies

5.) Fifth grade, she's got a N.W.G.a normal normal white goyim.  

And this homework seems more important- yeah right!

6.) Sixth grade- I will will myself to lust- 

Against judgment and self-mistrust

I worship her shadow like a religion!

And history is history,

no need to crucify 

the present

Our timeline is a gift

7.) 7th grade, I need a recess, from myself.
My ego is awake, but I’ve known only doubt
in what work or test can I find a A+ in pride?
Envious of all other eagle scout, girlfriend badge

earning, earthlings I'm feeling less included in the tribe

And find myself hovering on the outside
Trapped like Tom wrathfully chasing
his ever elusive mouse.

I feel like a cockroach hiding from the light 

in my own house.  

8.) Eighth grade,
Not time for slothin teachers say
got nothin to do with gluttony either way
I'm just a silly boy with a lot of love to say.

Take a journey and open your third eye
We'd stay fly like Aladdin and Yazmin on a G-6
Leap from the school carpet
out of the male-dominated, hold-myself-back, matrix.

And find ourselves in a place where stars live

  

I've seen that sometimes i internalize disney
and white men’s artificial legacies frozen
cryogenically by textbooks and culture

But I swear, for you, I'd defy all of the norms

And soar through every internal storm, 

Come out together like the “little Indian,” big and brave- breaking

free of a 200 year old cupboard, under hollywood lights…
  

Truth be old, school crushes are written all over
my walls and on crumpled up notes.

I flirt like bees buzz.  Paint murals from the

pollen that floats from winter till autumn,

just like music,
betwixt lovers-

In classes I teach, students teach me

They are honest about who and how they like- 

Never crushing they feelings like cans, 

Showing every moment, their real fiber ain't in actin plastic
or being rigid.
Rising through unsorted white settler refuse and

being recycled into women and men

Like Obama told himself prior to proposal-

Michelle, Yes I can!!!

A Message to Parents, Even at the age of 23!

Mom, love me off the guilt trip
I’d much rather be strollin on a field trip
my own adventure
Dad, let me live mine
You’ve made your mistakes now I’m gonna make mine!

Space to breath and see

Space to breath and see-



So politicians spend time, looking for Brown people forced to hide in caves.
So honed in on bombarding Arab homes that we choose to bomb shelters rather than
Build new ones or even meet together in a public space.
Whether on myspace, facebook, or reading War and Peace at the library,
I’m wondering, when will be present to our own reality?

I have been to a dark cave, and dwelled there as if it were my only refuge
Sat in consternation, trapped by the invisible, rising and falling, bars of a scale
We play so frequently we lose sight of our own frequencies.
I played the role of solitary, stoic, analytic, thinking endlessly about my predicament,
My inability to break free from society and the pain in me.
You see, we create cloistered spaces-Young boys are taught to soldier on, rather than seek a shoulder to lean on.  
Young black and brown boys learn justice not in liberation but in law enforcement.
Young women are expected to fit in a size and shape designed by the male imagination,
Young, I looked, but old and tired I felt.


Little did I know, inside of me, I was always free to be sensitive.  
Sensitive to waterdrops falling from icycles
Sensitive to the thrill of riding a tricycle
Sensitive to the wheel spun by greed, hatred, and delusion
Sensitive to right and wrong, and what is beyond
Sensitive to spring, fall, winter, summer
Sensitive to the needs of my mother, my sisters, and my brothers-
Courageously sensitive.  



I have been to a dark place, and I have been called out-
Over and over, leaping through boundaries of space-time
With arms open and eyes wide, just to see faces.  
We are ashamed of our appearance, ashamed of our own feelings
And until we recognize each other, and confront our war
Victims and villains will remain faceless.  
Friends preciously teach me to face this reality, to defy the seeming gravity of aggression to thoughts of self and other
To quit obsessin, stop professin, and be moved to confessin,
My will to make a home illuminated by your light,
My wish to overcome this fight wherein we remain hidden
My vision of a vast unsheltered night made visible as we grow vulnerable-
Where do you want to go, and how will we get there?




-Lov Won