A place called “no-name”
I’ve been homeless three times. The first time was out of stupidity and the other two were simply because while the world said I had no right and no business to be here, my dreams told me otherwise. The common denominator you will find with me comes with a label, and should probably include a warning label. It asks “is he worth the risk?” Most who have been smart enough answer the question while on the grind in the 9-5 routine, then turn off the light, lock the office, and leave it at that.
There are numerous angles and approaches that one may come to view my life in. The spectacles are multi- colored, in 3D, and draw the comparisons and criticism of that of a blockbuster. Stories are written about me, I’ve made the headlines a time or two, my so called success has gracefully outweighed my failures. Yet this is not the vision I have sought. This is not the life I envisioned or the one others have envisioned for me. I’m not sure if this would be the right prescription a medicine man would offer me. This kind of medicine has always been tricky and more times than not, it has proved to be lethal and disastrous.
It was once written that I “began moving toward a middle ground”[1] I wasn’t sure of how to exactly respond to that at first. The more and more I thought about it, the less the confusion held sway. When I first came to Montana State University I sought something. It can be called refuge, but beyond that, there isn’t anything I could say. This place was supposed to be anything but spiritual. And that’s how I liked it. The thought of being rebellious and somehow feeling righteous in the voluntary exile from my land, my people, my culture, my heritage, and my inheritance triggered a half hearted grossly misplaced sense of altruism. That isn’t much of a middle ground.
The one thing I didn’t count on though was consequence and fate. Consequences because all the pain, the heartache, the miserable disappointment, the constant and intense fatigue, the draining and swinging pendulum of guilt, despair, and hopelessness and fate because of the violent struggle and transformation that, to this day, I am enduring. The simple question is why?
This takes history, eschatology, and cosmology into consideration. The first bit is the history, namely my family history into consideration. The cherished nugget of visits that I do pursue back home often times has led me invariably to one man- my uncle. A hard ass, a recovering alcoholic, a logger, who at times was prone to angry outrages at the world and whoever, took me in and I got to learn the oral tradition and what that looks like in the twenty first century.
It was nothing meant to be romanticized unless you saw it that way, but by telling me stories about life, I learned a great deal about the character of my family. Told with the precise measure of words, diction, delivery, and gifted sense of humor, I would laugh into the night with my uncle as he told stories. The one that comes to mind involves a broken up Toyota pickup with no windshield in which my uncle and his brother were bombing around a mountain side with goggles on, smoking pot, jamming ACDC and shooting a hole in the floor board of this dirty little Toyota pickup with a 30/30 rifle[2].
The eschatology and cosmology really come close to home. I sometimes try to re-imagine my grandmother’s last day one earth. After years of severe health complications, a literally decaying and dysfunctional body- it was hard to watch her struggle. I imagine that she woke up that last morning, opened the blinds, looked to the east, said a prayer, sung a hymn, and proceeded to her few cups of tea. The newspaper had been delivered but it would be some time before her granddaughter would be awake to bring it to her, so I imagine she had a lot to think about. Throughout the day I see her walking back and forth through the house, taking in every little detail from this world; the layout of the house, the pattern of decorum, faded and stained in some areas on the wall, the arrangement of all of her houseplants, the prayers she offered, the tears she cried, the uncertainty and joy of her loved ones awaiting her arrival. Then I imagine she went to sleep peacefully. Please let her be in heaven.
I asked my oldest living grandmother a question once. I asked her why her little sister- the one who raised me didn’t believe in Jesus Christ. She told me it was too hard and too strict for her and that she preferred the traditional ways of our people[3]. This concerned because my conversion experience is well documented and is seen as a monumental shift in the cultural geography of Native people. This dynamic isn’t new, but the pedigree from which it comes is unique. I was raised in the Longhouse singing and dancing to the songs and drums of my land and peoples and yet I have chosen to accept Jesus Christ as my lord and savior. I know of heaven and hell and I always ask myself “will my grandma be there to welcome me home into heaven?” They didn’t teach too much about it in church and they still don’t. For now though I take everything into my mission.
My uncle’s stories put a voice and breath into my makeup as Yakama man and as a believer in Christ. They are practical and are my proverbs. My grandmother’s life gives me the sense of direction and curiosity I need to continue on with my own life. She reminds me of the temporary alien I am. I live with no regrets and remorse. Since the beginning of time and creation, we as human beings have failed to coexist with our evil and unbalance. It is we who, after all, the unnatural. Yes I reflect back on the homelessness, the nearly 2 times I’ve lost my life, and all the people who have taken a risk in just believing in me and I come away with this- faith is beautiful, it offers relationships, adds color to the canvass, stresses imperfection, and most of all, cultivates and nurtures purpose.
