White people with American Indian heritage need to be able to express our culture freely.
Our American Indian culture is deeply rooted in light, open, celebratory spirituality. One of the most visible pieces of indigenous art is the pale wheel spokes shaped like skeletal tusks, on bikes, rickshaws, cars and houses. This symbol represents a direct connection to the earth’s energy. Our culture reflects our connection to spirituality.
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Light is also a key element in our spiritual dress. Clad in Indian head paint, or animal skins as a display of beauty, we go out into the world to celebrate. In doing so, we are simply seeking more light in our lives.
Light has many meanings. I like to think of it as the energy for love, connection, celebration and being embraced.
In a green light, the energy of the car can be felt. In a red light, light is the emotion or feelings of anxiety, anger, anger and anger. In a grey sign post, light is also expressed as fear, sadness, sadness, and sadness. All these colors in varying levels of energy constitute the extent of human emotions and emotions, and have played a role in shaping human nature. Each light signifies certain types of fear, tension, sadness, anger and sorrow.
For many of us, this reflects our overall relationship with other people, whether Indigenous or not. When I ride my bike or take the subway or train to the city, I’m aware of the traffic cops, the yellow sign posts, and the people gathered in the railroad tunnels. Because I am someone who self-identifies as a non-Indigenous person, these signs often bother me, particularly because we are always being reminded to be kind to each other, and not be sexist, racist or racist toward other people.
Sometimes, these signs can be devastating. While I have never actually been sideswiped or hit by any American Indians, I am always struck when I see American Indians being stopped for offenses that, in their presence, might seem innocuous. My own family lived in Williamsport Pennsylvania, along the Susquehanna river, during the early 1900s. In the high school library, my fourth-grade teacher, with deep and sensitive eyes, used to patiently point out to us American Indians we had spilled rain water on, chucked or ignored the occasional Indian arrow, or ignored our own broken bones and broken hearts.
It was this kind of behavior that drove us from Williamsport into the towns of some northern states. Since the 1970s, the people who were supposed to protect and protect our culture have directed the police and police departments to target us, their neighbors, for what we are doing, who we are, or even even who we are not, without us having a formal role in the relationship.
I don’t want to repeat that third grade teacher’s rhetoric, but I was driven from Williamsport to St Louis, Missouri and Detroit, Michigan. And my culture was discriminated against. I’ve gone to some (not all) powwows, bought American Indian wares and raised money for American Indian groups. If I could take back a few of the things my grandparents and ancestors had to go through, I would.
Fellow Indigenous peoples: you deserve the best treatment from this country. And American police departments owe you a lot of that, if you’re an American Indian.