Showing posts with label Missions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Missions. Show all posts

Sunday, December 30, 2012

Slapin's review of Deborah Miranda's BAD INDIANS

Editor's Note: This review may not be published elsewhere without written permission from its author, Beverly Slapin. Copyright 2012 by Beverly Slapin. All rights reserved.


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Miranda, Deborah A. (Ohlone/Costanoan-Esselen, Chumash), Bad Indians: A Tribal Memoir. Heyday, 2012.

“Story is the most powerful force in the world,” Deborah writes, “in our world, maybe in all worlds. Story is culture. Story, like culture, is constantly moving. It is a river where no gallon of water is the same gallon it was one second ago. Yet it is still the same river. It exists as a truth. As a whole. Even if the whole is in constant change. In fact, because of that constant change.”

For better or for worse, young Deborah never had to endure the daily humiliations of fourth grade in California, where children are taught the dominant discourse about the California missions. Where non-Indian children (and their parents) construct “mission” dioramas with beneficent padres instructing and supervising willing Indian neophytes as they learn how to work. Where Indian children—especially California Indian children—shrink into their seats, trying to disappear.

The real story—people massacred, children violated, land and languages stolen, cultures broken beyond recognition—is rarely told.

After asking her young son’s teacher to let him pass on the project—and being refused—an Indian parent I know allowed him to construct the required model mission. “So Nick built his mission and brought it home,” she told me. “And we built a fire and we talked about it again, how Indian people were enslaved and died building missions and living in missions. Then we put it in the fire and burned it and I promised Nick that I would always stick up for him and challenge anyone who would keep opening up these scars.”

“All my life,” Deborah writes, “I have heard only one story about California Indians: godless, dirty, stupid, primitive, ugly, passive, drunken, immoral, lazy, weak-willed people who might make good workers if properly trained and motivated. What kind of story is that to grow up with?”

Bad Indians is this story—the story of the missionization of California. In constructing Bad Indians, Deborah creates “a space where voices can speak after long and often violently imposed silence.” For Deborah, the stories seeped “out of old government documents, BIA forms, field notes, the diaries of explorers and priests, the occasional writings or testimony from Indians, family stories, photographs, newspaper articles.” Together, these disparate voices belie the dominant discourse; they are stories of tenacious survival. And they are Deborah’s “mission project.”

But Bad Indians is more than these voices; it’s Deborah’s family’s story as well. In it, I’m reminded of something that Friedrich Nietzsche wrote that has recently been channeled through Kelly Clarkson: “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” Actually, Nietzsche wrote it with more elegance: “That which does not kill us makes us stronger."

Deborah’s life’s twists and turns have brought her to this place, to find her ancestors’ stories, to tell her own family’s stories, to connect them—and to heal. Some childhood memories, some faded photographs, some snippets of stories written down word for word by an anthropologist, some paragraphs from old textbooks. A lesser author might have crafted a novel spanning the generations, a linear novel, maybe a chapter for each character. But Deborah didn’t and wouldn’t do that; it would have dishonored her ancestors. Rather, she looks at what is—the pieces, the shards of a broken mirror—and interprets, imagines, wonders. If she doesn’t know a thing, she says so. Throughout, she is in awe of the voices, drawings, photos, whatever she can find—all treasured gifts, entrusted to her by the elders and ancestors she never got to meet.

“Who we are is where we are from,” Deborah writes. “Where we are from is who we are.”

On a Saturday morning, Deborah and relatives slowly and mindfully circle the grounds of the Mission Soledad, picking up bone fragments: “Here is a finger joint, here a tooth. Here a shattered section of femur, here something unidentifiable except for the lacy pattern that means human being. Our children run to us with handfuls of ancestors they keep calling ‘fossils’ because youth and privilege don’t let the truth sink in yet.” As they gently bury the tiny pieces of bones, “Xu-lin, we say to our broken ancestors: xu-lin, sprinkling sage, mugwort, and tobacco over the small grave. Xu-lin, we whisper as the earth takes back. Xu-lin, a plea and a promise: return.”

Bad Indians is not easy reading. Deborah draws connections between the violence of the California missions, the violence perpetrated on the descendants of the “Mission Indians,” the violence she witnessed at home, and the rapes she endured as a child: “Imprisonment. Whippings. Betrayal. Rape.” And she doesn’t mince words: “Erasure is a bitch, isn’t it?”

At the end of Bad Indians, Deborah quotes Tom King (Cherokee), who wrote in The Truth About Stories: A Native Narrative (Toronto, Publishers Group Canada, 2003), “Take it. It’s yours. Do with it what you will. But don’t say in the years to come that you would have lived your life differently if only you had heard this story. You’ve heard it now.”

If you’re a fourth-grade teacher who has ever taught a “mission” unit, if you’re a parent of a fourth-grader who has ever helped her child construct a “mission diorama,” if you’ve ever admired the architecture of a California mission, if you’ve ever harbored the thought that Ishi was the “last of his tribe,” you no longer have an excuse for perpetuating the horrors. Don’t say you didn’t know.

In Bad Indians, Deborah Miranda has created an achingly beautiful mosaic out of the broken shards of her people and herself, gently glued together with heartbreak and scars, memories and perseverance and hope. Her writing is crisp and clear and eminently readable, with passion in place of polemic. Deborah is a strong, brave, compassionate spirit, and I am honored to call her “friend.”

—Beverly Slapin

Friday, February 11, 2011

Indians in Leo Politi's SONG OF THE SWALLOWS

Among the Caldecott Medal books I studied for my presentation at the Children's Literature Symposium at Florida State University-Sarasota last week is Leo Politi's Song of the Swallows. It won the Caldecott in 1950.

Cover and publisher's synopsis:

Every summer, the swallows leave San Juan Capistrano and fly far away, to a peaceful green island — but they always come back in the spring, on St. Joseph's Day. Juan loves las golondrinas, and so does his friend, Julian, the gardener at the mission.

This year, Juan plants a garden in his own yard. There's nothing he wants more than for the swallows to nest there. And on St. Joseph's Day, his dream comes true.




Based on comments and reviews at Amazon, Library Thing, Goodreads and similar sites, readers respond positively to the story. In fact, the story of the swallows is something that I, too, could respond positively to, but I'm continually pulled out of the story by what I know about the history of the missions.

Below, my analysis is in italics. Summary and quotes from the book are in plain text.

On the first page we see Juan (shown on the cover) on his way to school. To get there he goes through the gardens at the Mission and stops to speak to Julian, the Mission's bell ringer. That conversation takes place in the garden, and is shown on the second double-paged spread in the book. Juan and Julian stand in front of a statue, looking up at it. Julian tells Juan "the story of the Mission" as follows:
"Long, long ago," Julian told him, "the good brothers of Saint Francis came to this country from across the sea. Father Junipero Serra and the brothers walked along the wild trail through the wilderness. With the help of the Indians they built many mission churches." 
For me, several of Julian's words leap out:

The "good brothers"
The "good brothers of Saint Francis" were Spanish missionaries who traveled to an area of the United States that became California. "Serra and the brothers" weren't the first ones to walk along that trail in 1776. In fact, they were there in a second attempt to set up a mission. The year before, the Indians rebelled and drove "the good brothers" out of the area, forcing the brothers to abandon their missionary work. Indian men in that area had, for several years, been fighting soldiers who raped their women. Edward D.  Castillo quotes Serra who, in 1773, wrote (emphasis mine):
In the morning, six or more soldiers would set out together, with or without the permission of the corporal, on horseback, and go to the far distant rancherias, even many leagues away. When both men and women at sight of them took to their heels--and this account comes from the father, who learned of it from the many declarations and complaints of the gentiles--the soldiers, clever as they are at lassoing cows and mules, would catch Indian women with their lassos to become prey for their unbridled lust. At times some Indian men would try to defend their wives, only to be shot down with bullets.
Castillo notes, too, that male and female children in the missions were victims of sexual assaults. His article is "Gender Status Decline, Resistance, and Accommodation among Female Neophytes in the Missions of California: A San Gabriel Case Study," published in 1994 in American Indian Culture and Research Journal. So... calling them "good brothers" is, for me, problematic. 


Father Junipero Serra
Serra is a controversial figure amongst American Indians, especially in California. In the 1930s, the process to have him canonized began.  In "Junipero Serra's Canonization and the Historical Record," historian James A. Sandos writes that in December of 1948 in Fresno a historian and two priests testified before an ecclesiastical court about Serra's record. (Note: Sandos article is in The American Historical Review, Vol. 93, No. 5, Dec 1988, pp. 1253-1269).

That, coincidentally, is the same year that Song of the Swallows was published. Sandos writes that, as "Father President" of the missions from 1769 to 1784 when he died, Serro "gave directions for his Indians to be whipped" (p. 254) when they failed to live according to church precepts. Sandos also states that Carey McWilliams wrote a popular history of California in which he said that the missions were like concentration camps. McWilliams' work was based on the work of a physiologist named Sherburne F. Cook at the University of California, Berkeley. 

The Catholic Church was, understandably, not happy with any of these publications and their efforts to see the missions from the point of view of Indians. I wonder if Politi followed any of that controversy?


"With the help of the Indians..."
What kind of help was it? By then, there were Indians who had become Catholics and did help build the churches, but the missions were constructed primarily through forced, unpaid labor, and not through the methods suggested by "help of the Indians." 

Still on that same double-paged spread are these words:
"The Missions were like little villages," Julian said. There the Indians learned to make shoes and harness, blankets and hats, tools and pottery--many of the things they needed in their daily life."
Does Politi mean for us to think that the Indians learned how to do all of that from the "good brothers" in the Mission? That they were shoeless and without blankets, hats, tools, and pottery before the "good brothers" arrived?! As Sandos writes, ideas about Indians as primitives had long been set aside by historians who knew that was not the case. 

Yet, Politi gave his readers primitive Indians and the Caldecott committee either agreed with his portrayal of them, or, didn't think it was important enough to sway them from selecting the book for the Caldecott Medal. 

In all honesty, it is hard for me to enjoy the story about the swallows. The content on the first pages gets in the way. I wonder how the book is used with children? Does anyone point to the inaccurate information at the beginning? Does anyone pause to wonder about the accuracy of that information? Do you?

There's more to say about Serra and Indians... In the 1980s, Rupert and Jeanette Costo published Missions of California: A Legacy of Genocide in an effort to stop Serra from being canonized. It was filled with the writings, scholarship, and testimony of California Indians who did not think Serra was worthy of saint status. The pope ignored it and advanced Serra to beatification on December 11, 1987. 

Further reading:
"Retired Bishop Apologizes for Mistreating the Miwoks"
"California Indians Critique Lesson Plans on California Missions"


UPDATE, Feb 12, 2010
Leo Politi wrote Little Leo two years later. On the cover, Leo is in an "Indian chief suit."

Friday, January 01, 2010

California Indians Critique Lesson Plans on California Missions

A colleague, Deborah Miranda, publishes a blog called When Turtles Fly. A few days ago, she wrote about the California Missions and how they're taught. I'm copying her first four paragraphs below as a sample of what you'll find if you click on over to "4th Grade California Mission Projects: A Thought Experiment for Parents, Educators, and Students."

Deborah's site has links to books you should read if you're interested in developing a critical understanding of American Indians in California. One example is Rupert Costo and Jeannette Henry Costo's 1984 The Missions of California, A Legacy of Genocide. The information accompanying the book reads:
For two hundred years the native people of California have borne the stigma of "Mission Indians." The names of their nations and tribes are Hupa, Kumeyaay, Chuilla, Pauma, Malki, Cupa and Pamo to name a few.
Do you refer to the indigenous peoples of California as "Mission Indians" or do you use specific names? Deborah's site has much to offer. Do add When Turtles Fly to your reading this year.  

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4TH GRADE CALIFORNIA MISSION PROJECTS: A THOUGHT EXPERIMENT FOR PARENTS, EDUCATORS AND STUDENTS

In California schools, students come up against the "Mission Unit" in fourth grade, although the same children have been breathing in the lies most of their lives. Part of California’s history curriculum, the unit is entrenched in the system, and impossible to avoid.

Because this assignment is typically started over Winter Vacation, I’m posting this note for parents and children who are starting their research now. Please be aware that I have other blog posts about the missions as well; please take a look at them too.

The Mission Unit is a powerfully authoritative indoctrination in Mission Mythology against which fourth graders have little if any resistance, and intense pressure is put upon students (and their parents) to create a "Mission Project" that glorifies the era and glosses over both Spanish and Mexican exploitation of Indians, as well as American enslavement of those same Indians during American rule.

In other words, the Mission Unit is all too often a lesson in imperialism, racism, and Manifest Destiny than actually educational or a jumping off point for critical thinking or accurate history.

Sunday, December 30, 2007

"Retired bishop apologizes for mistreating the Miwoks"

On December 26, 2007, the Marin Independent Journal ran a story about what I view as an important moment in the history of relationships between the United States and American Indians. Missionaries and their missions figure prominently in our histories. Religious denominations set up schools and sought to Christianize us. Today, there are many children's books about the missions, especially those in California.

Some years back, I was asked to review a children's book (non-fiction) about the California missions. It was a biased book, devoid of the harsh conditions and brutal treatment of American Indians. In preparing my review, I drew upon Native scholarship on the missions. The review was rejected.

I'm hopeful, therefore, that the event described in the Marin article will be repeated in other churches across the country, and that more people will learn an unbiased history of the missions, and that books about the missions will become more accurate.

You can read the entire story in the Marin paper by clicking here. I am pasting the opening paragraphs below:

You could have heard a pin drop when Bishop Francis A. Quinn, during a Mass at the Church of St. Raphael in San Rafael, apologized to the Miwok Indians for cruelties the church committed against them two centuries ago.

Indians who were present seemed stunned.

The retired bishop, in green brocade robes, lofty miter and carrying a shepherd's crook, lent heart and historical gravitas to the Mass, part of the 190th birthday celebration of Mission San Rafael Arcangel the other day.

Coast Miwok Indians once occupied the lands from the Golden Gate to north of Bodega Bay. When Spanish padres launched the San Rafael mission in 1817, the Indians built it, maintained it and helped it survive, according to anthropologist Betty Goerke, who has studied the Indians for 30 years.

But they paid dearly for their participation. Bishop Quinn conceded that the church authorities "took the Indian out of the Indian," destroying traditional spiritual practices and "imposing a European Catholicism upon the natives."

He conceded that mission soldiers and priests had sexual relations with Indian women and inflicted cruel punishments - caning, whipping, imprisonment - on those who disobeyed mission laws. He acknowledged that the Indians had a "civilization" of their own - one that valued all of nature - long before the Spanish imposed an alien, European-type life upon them.
The article goes on to quote the tribal chair of the Miwoks, Greg Sarris. Sarris is the author of some terrific books (not written for youth), but depending on one's view on what is appropriate, they'd be fine in a high school English class. One is Grand Avenue, and another is Watermelon Nights. I'll leave further discussion of Sarris for another day.

The point of today's post is to ask you to look over books on your shelves---books about the missions, specifically those in California, and consider the content of those books. Does the book gloss over the treatment of Indians? Does it make the mission look like a wonderful thing for the Indians?

Bishop Quinn's apology stands out because the United States government has not yet acknowledged what the Canadian government has acknowledged and apologized for. That is, the history of the boarding and mission schools that were designed to "kill the Indian, save the man."

We are all aware of the sexual abuse experienced by non-Native youth. Nightly news has covered it quite a lot in recent years. In addition to sexual abuse, however, Native people were on the receiving end of a concerted effort, a government-funded effort, a Christian effort to erase Native identity, culture, values, language.

I don't expect that any work of juvenile nonfiction about the mission schools will include description or even mention of sexual abuse. But what do we do with the books full of half-truths (speaking generously)?

And, what will be the impact of Bishop Quinn's apology?