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The smoky sweet wind curled through the air and reminded me,
I’m not in New York any more. The vast open space of the
desert invited my psyche to unfurl, as mountains in the
distance made a comforting cradle out of what would
otherwise be an endless stretch of open land. |
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The calm sense of expansion was reflected in the kind
openness of our hosts, the students and faculty at the
Indian American Institute of the Arts. I felt a bit uneasy
and intrusive to be one of the only “white” girls around,
but all my anxieties were swiftly put to rest, as I was
welcomed warmly, without ceremony. |
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Near bedtime I got to talking with my host, Deleana. She’s a
prolific, published writer, beader and the head of student
activities. When it became clear that my knowledge of Indian
American history was sketchy, she was compelled to recount
shocking stories of boarding schools, conditions on
reservations and the beauty of arts and crafts in her native
culture. She pulled out beaded moccasins that she made
herself, and invited me to a Pow Wow, where she’d be selling
some of her beadwork. “This is what we do” she explained,
“this is how we live.” There was a deep sadness in her when
she spoke of violence, and a bright sparkle when she turned
to art. I felt inspired by her connection to her history and
culture – it made me wonder about my own cultural heritage
that is all but lost to me under a veil of American
assimilation. |
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“And what about your family, your people?” She was curious.
So I told her about my family’s history as Eastern European
Jews, the Holocaust, and my absent father that I’ve never
met. We discovered glaring misconceptions about one
another’s history, and yet we shared a very basic
understanding– as we both felt the far-reaching effects of
oppression and fractured families. |
Surprisingly, it was not the issues and events in our
stories that were so different, but the way that we each
told our piece. My family’s history and tradition was
stagnant and separate from me- a box of facts that I’d pull
out from time to time and then shut back up. I wasn’t raised
with an awareness of tradition, and I’ve always taken for
granted the belief that one can either get mired in history
or push forward with an individual vision. But Deleana as
well as others in our storytelling workshops had an
alternative way of exposing both themselves and their
collective past in a balance that did not obscure either
one. The people in the workshops had the ability to remain
connected to their culture without doubting their
individuality; in fact their culture seemed to foster the
integrity of individual creation.
I discovered that this attitude helps people stand on and by
their history however beautiful and painful it may be.
Instead of crumbling beneath them or crushing them from
above, history provides fertile ground, a place for each
unique individual to plant garden, where creativity can grow
and bloom - like a single flower in the desert, independent
and connected all at once. This makes me wonder what riches
might lay beneath the untilled soil of my family’s history
and fear the reasons why it has been kept without sun and
water for so long. This hard dry land is resistant and will
require a lot of work, but I know that if the people at the
IAIA can bear their stories with such courage, then of
course I can too. |
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Rebecca Bateman |
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