A Cree In NY

Intro: As a promise to my family here is the first in a series of stories I will write as told to me by my dad… your uncle…your moosum.

2011-06-05T19:11:53Z

IN THE WORDS OF MY DAD circa 1950

A story told by a Dad to his Son… in 1991

I thought I was dreaming. I pinched my arm, it hurt. It wasn’t a dream. I was really much younger then. I was hiking through the bushes. I walked past someone’s old camp – I could see no one had been there for awhile. The snow was fresh from the night before. As I kept walking I saw a clearing just past some small trees, through the branches. I could see a big pond in the clearing. It was covered over with ice.

I stopped in some brush and I put my backpack down. I sat down. After awhile some snow started to fall down. Not too much, I could still see the pond. I ate some bannock. I didn’t want to make too much noise. It was getting a little colder.

Just before the sun went down I heard something coming through the bushes. Was it a deer or a moose? I knelt down and watched. I took out my rifle to get ready. The first thing I saw was his rack. It was a bull moose. His shoulders were nearly as tall as me. He stopped just before the pond. He looked around for a minute. I watched as he started to hack at the ice on the pond. I stood up and aimed my rifle. When I was ready I took the shot. I’m usually really good – a straight aim – but I think something spooked him and at the last second he turned. I didn’t hit him where I needed to.

He reared up and he was really mad. He saw me standing there. He was bleeding. I was trying to get another shot but my gun jammed, He charged at me. I threw my stuff down and started to run. That’s when all the fun started.

I was running as fast as I could and all I heard was him right behind me. I saw some two-by-fours lying there on the ground. I picked one up and kept running. I saw a trail ahead of me and I started to follow it. I heard the moose behind me.

The trail lead me back to the pond. I knew there were no trees high enough for me to climb. The only thing I thought of was I better get on the ice and take my chances. I wanted to see what the moose would do.

He stopped. He saw me standing on the ice. We looked at each other – eye to eye. I could see where he was still bleeding. He stomped his good foot into the ground and began his charge. I watched as he made it across the ice for awhile until he was pretty close to where I was standing. I kept backing up. The ice finally gave out under him. He went down. I saw him go in. I crawled on to the ice with my two-by-four and started hitting him on the head as hard as I could. He was splashing around and I was getting scared I’d go in with him too. But a few times after hitting him, he didn’t make any noise. I was tired. But I was glad. I thought to myself it was a close one.

The funny thing later on is when he and I were looking at each other…I swear he had a tear in his eye...that he was crying. When I finally got him to the trees, I stopped to thank him for giving his life, so I could feed my family.

Moose track photos by Roz Dotson, 2006

Albert George

2010-09-23T04:03:00Z

Albert George Cowley
2/5/1918 - 9/17/2010

kihci-kisēwātisiwin

(Amazing Grace)

kihci-kisēwātisin

ē-kī-pimācihit

kisē-manitow nikī-miskāk

mēkwāc ē-wanihoyān

nikī-kostēn ta-nipiyān

ēkwa nimāmisin

kisēwātisiwinihk Jesus

nikī-nipōstamāk

kihci-kostātisiwin

ē-otihtikoyān

Jesus māka niwīcihik

ē-nīsohkamawit

kākikē kihci-kīsikohk

nika-mamihcimāw

Jesus ē-pimācihit

kā-nipōstamawit

Rest in Peace Dad.

Mother's Late

2010-09-11T23:22:00Z

I'm wondering where she is. It's the end of the day. I have one student left. Everyone else has come and gone. It's getting late. I walk over to a box that's in the middle of the large room, this is not my classroom. I wonder what's in it. I look inside. The box is half filled with wooden blocks. The blocks are different colored, covered with prints of animals, objects, numbers, and patterns. It's getting late.

I bend down and take a handful of the blocks. I see my student, he's sitting on his legs, and he’s about four or five. He has a large smile on his small face. He looks at me for a quick minute and then goes back to piling blocks; they are littered all around him. He is building a city. I begin to help him. At this minute the boy doesn't care how late his mother is.

I am. I look up at the clock on the wall. I want to go home. It's been a long day. He is piling blocks, one on top of the other. The student continues this work until there are no blocks left. He looks at me. I look over at the box in the middle of the room. I get up. I bring the box back and dump the blocks. My student and I get back to work. The little guy has a grin on his face. He is piling the blocks high now. Working faster. He stops from time to time to adjust his glasses. He is happy in his world. I'm wondering to myself if I should call his mother, to make sure everything is alright. She's rarely this late.

Then we're out of blocks. The work has stopped.

My student has gotten up and he looks over his city for a minute. Then he turns into Godzilla. He is smashing blocks, he is lifting his feet to squash buildings, he lifts his little arms in the air, waving. As he is about to pick up some of the toy cars he placed in his city of blocks, we hear his mother. She cries out his name and begins to apologize profusely for her son. For the mess. For being late.

I try to calm her and tell her its okay. She tries to help by beginning to pick up the blocks. I ask to her to stop. I tell her I was just glad she was okay. My student goes over to pick up his backpack. He adjusts his glasses again. Then he runs over to her. He grabs her hand and they leave.

I was a substitute art teacher for a day care center located on the first floor of the north tower of the World Trade Center. There were alot of parents of our students who worked in both towers. My thoughts today were about them that day.

"The Towers: taller than trees, bigger than life."
Photo by Roz Dotson, circa 1988

In Memory Sydney Kirkness

2010-08-01T20:20:00Z

Our family suffered the pain of losing our brother in law Sydney.

A very talented artist, Sydney's work will be appreciated for years to come. I'm sure there is more than enough works to put togther an exhibition in the near future.

Roz scanned one of his works from a t-shirt he gave me - I'm posting it below. What I will remember most about Sydney is his talent but he was also a strong family man, and he did most of all the cooking for everyone - how rare is that, eh? I remember also attending college with him for a year - my friends would ask, "Who's the old guy?" I would tell them that's my brother in law, that's Syd. We'll miss you.

An Artist's Farewell

brother sleep well
thank you Creator
for the time he gave you
to spend with us
we will meet once again
this is for certain and until then
we can look at a painting
at a drawing

and we will look through
your eyes one more time brother
with your smile
with your laugh
we will not forget you
brother
sleep
well

9/2/1950 - 7/26/2010

First Nations University of Canada to Close

2010-02-11T02:52:00Z

February 9, 2010 - I felt like someone cut out a big piece of me today when I heard the disturbing news that the First Nations University of

Canada

will most likely be closing its doors as early as this fall. FNUC will be no more.

FNUC is the only accredited that administers undergraduate and graduate degrees – to predominately Native American Indians.

I am feeling this sense of loss because I am an alumnus. I graduated from the in 1988, FNUC’s predecessor. SIFC was still a very young college when I arrived there in the winter of 1984. It was established in 1976 through a federated partnership with the

A part of me was aware of the baby steps that we students were making attending SIFC. We didn’t have the million dollar facility that currently houses FNUC. In our day, we had to make do. We held our classes in small rooms, in old basements, any space left over by the and parts of its older campus.

I believe all the students at SIFC did it with pride and class…because we had no choice.

I won’t get into the blame game currently going on about what caused FNUC’s demise, about who did what or who didn’t do this or that. I’m sure this dialogue will continue ad infinitum over the next few years. I’ll leave that to the pundits.

However, I will speak about my memories when I attended SIFC that are a huge part of my make up, my being. My time there is a huge part of who I am today. It’s the friends I made there. It was the environment we created. It was the professors who taught me to see the bigger picture. And it was in those small class rooms that I was taught about who I was, where I came from. I remember how it used to send chills down my back….All that history, music, art, the stories.

We were being taught entire peoples’ histories, of cultures not only our own, but others across Canada, the United States, Central America, and around the world. We were being told truths, from our own people. Most of the professors were Native American.

I knew the uniqueness of it, the newness of everything. I remember in high school we did a few measly classes on Native American history, usually around Thanksgiving. I almost felt like I should be ashamed. But at SIFC, it was like learning about something almost foreign and I was inspired.

I took SIFC Cree language classes – as an elective. I knew our grandmothers and grandfathers were punished for speaking their native languages when they were forced into boarding schools. I knew the SIFC instructor of our Cree linguistics classes. He was a family friend. And I also knew he attended the residential school near my hometown.

I learned about Chief Poundmaker, one of the negotiators of Treaty 6. When a Canadian Government representative suggested they would ‘give’ land to Poundmaker’s people to farm, the chief protested, according to sources, “This is our land! It isn't a piece of pemmican to be cut off and given in little pieces back to us. It is ours and we will take what we want."

The peace chief wasn’t protesting treaties; he just wanted the best treaty. It was about equal rights for his people, against discrimination and about human rights.

It was in those treaties that education was included as a provision for all Native Americans that were negotiated by our chiefs and leaders. They were making the ultimate sacrifice under extreme conditions. They were facing genocide, yet they still negotiated this for their children and their children’s children.

Then there were our gatherings…every Thursday night, sometimes Fridays, we would gather. We met at the student union building, the heart of the campus. We felt like we belonged to something bigger. And we were eager to make it fun.

I was a kid off the reservation when I arrived. This was my first experience in an urban environment. Many of us were in the same canoe. A lot of us came from remote isolated reservations from across Canada. This was all new to us. But that’s what made it great. We were all in this together.

It was one for all and all for one. We carried this college spirit to the extreme. One night a few of us from SIFC took on a city street gang. I remember as we were leaving an off campus space after a student mixer, finding myself with a hockey stick in my hands, in a dark, back alley, armed and standing my ground. We were empowered by our college experience; we looked out for one another.

My fondest college drinking memory involved a dirt baseball field on a hot Sunday afternoon, a lot of gopher holes, and a softball. Everyone on the field was pretty much inebriated. There was our friend, playing way in left field, who was willing himself not to spill his drink while running for a long fly ball. I remember how he looked so serene lying there on the ground, the ball in his glove and a huge silly grin on his face.

I passed the same friend the following week in the hallways as we made our way to class. He had a big welt on his forehead. We had fun but I felt most of us were serious about why we were there. It was all about learning.

When I moved off campus I remember the daily transit bus rides along Wescana Parkway as it wound its way to campus. I remember the geese who always took their time crossing the road while we waited. I remember the times I spent waiting for that darned bus… it was always late. It was either too hot in the summer or too cold in the winter. I remember how in the winter, standing at a bus stop, the Saskatchewan prairie wind would freeze my face off.

And I’ll forever remember the Greyhound bus rides during my breaks, back and forth between my northern hometown and Regina. Blistering thunderstorms, white-out blizzard conditions, were the common. I never thought about it at the time. It was just something I did.

But I remember how I looked forward to our mother’s home cooking. I would picture the bannock, smothered in butter or jam, the moose meat, duck soup; and at holidays, the huge turkey, with all the fixings and especially, the deserts.

The day I wore my baby blue graduation commencement gown and cap I saw my biology professor with her family, she was receiving her Master’s degree. She saw me and I saw her. We were people from two different nations. She used to encourage me and my studies and made small comments on my papers for me. We saw one another; we nodded our heads at one another, waved and smiled.

Now I feel pain.

I will forever be indebted to my professors, for teaching me everything they knew. To the students that were there, I still remember your faces. I probably won’t remember all your names but I will remember the times we had together. I will remember the talks I had with the elders on campus who served as our surrogate mothers and fathers. They understood that we were so far from our homes. Thank you to each and every one of you. I know many are now in the spirit world and I continue to thank you.

Today, I said a prayer, burned my medicines and thanked the Creator for my education. I have come so far. I prayed for the Seventh Generation. May each and every one of you find your own truths. And may our grandmothers and grandfathers forgive us this day.

SECOND ANNUAL SWEET CHARIOT CONCERT A SUCCESS

2009-10-01T00:45:41Z

By Steve Cowley

Hoboken, NJ (February 24, 2009) – For a second consecutive year the St. Matthew Trinity Lutheran Church played host to the Annual Concert of Spirituals, Sweet Chariot this past Saturday to celebrate Black History Month. The concert starring Soprano LaTanya Hutchins, who was also the Executive Producer and Creative Director, featured the Stevens Choir conducted by Bethany Reeves, and other guest performers.

As the audience entered, pianist Alvin McCray, percussionist Lorenzo Holloway and organist Richard Brode played an overture of spiritual selections. Mr. McCray, who’s been a music director at several churches over the past twenty years, enhanced many of the melodies he played during the show and complemented Ms. Hutchins’ singing beautifully as well as the rest of the guest artists he played with.

Pastor Mary Forell warmly welcomed the 100 or so people who braved frigid waterfront winter temperatures to attend the show and opened it with a prayer.

Keeping with the theme for the evening, the audience sang the patriotic hymn, “Lift Every Voice and Sing”. Written by brothers James Weldon Johnson and J. Rosamond Johnson, it was adapted as the official song of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People and has since become the Black National Anthem.

Of particular interest was the concert’s 12-page program. In addition to the usual “About the Artists” section it described the history of Spirituals, the difference between spirituals and Gospel, a short piece on Slavery in New Jersey and the history of the song “Lift Every Voice and Sing.”

Returning from last year’s inaugural Sweet Chariot event was narrator and host, “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”, sung with panache by Ms. Hutchins accompanied by the Sweet Chariot Community Choir.

On the next two spirituals Ms. Hutchins was once again accompanied by the Sweet Chariot Community Choir. On “You Better Min”, various members from the choir took turns on the chorus. Ms. Hutchins was then joined by her long-time friend, Mrs. “Scandalize My Name.” The exchange between them on the song was charmingly performed and lent an air of frivolity to the concert. They soon had the entire congregation laughing at the scandal of it all.

Ms. Hutchins then introduced the always magnificent Stevens Choir. The choir sang three selections: “Duond Akuru”, “Going Over Home”, based on the combination of an Appalachian spiritual, ”Poor Wayfaring Stranger” and the African-American spiritual, “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child”, and finally, “Dide ta Deo”, a Nigerian Folksong.

Conductor Bethany Reeves said of the song “Duond Akuru”, “Those are Kenyan words, specifically the Luo language, or the Duoluo language. The Luo people of Kenya. Which is the same group that President (Barack) Obama’s father is from. So in a certain sense it’s a tribute.” Percussionist Peter McCauley played a genuine African drum called the Djembe. Stephanie Safko played the piano.

With the last selection, “Dide ta Deo”, arranged by Uzee Brown, Jr., Stevens Choir brought the song to an inspirational crescendo, blending their voices beautifully in rhythm with McCauley’s tribal drumming. It brought the audience to their feet for a standing ovation.

For the closing of the program were songs from Sisters of Freedom, a Cantata based on the lives of Harriet Tubman and Sojourner Truth. It is Ms. Hutchins’ goal to present the Cantata in its entirety at next year’s Black History Celebration. This year’s selection, “Changed My Name”, “The Old Ship of Zion”, and “I’m Going Through”, was written by Linda Twine.

Ms. Hutchins shined on “Changed My Name”. She was in full tonal control on the melodies easily reaching the higher scales and turning the song into a haunting hymn at times. Throughout the singing, host The Old Ship of Zion”, as the community choir behind her welled up and burst out energetically with the song’s chorus. Everyone in the audience seemed to inhale as one when her soprano filled the church at the end of the song.

Ms. Hutchins sent everyone home with the infectious “I’m Going Through”, the program’s finale.

About the author:

Steve Cowley, Cree, from Manitoba, began his career as a journalist in early 90’s in Canada. As a New Yorker since 1993, Steve is currently the CEO of Tâpwê Production Projects.

SUMMER - A NYC MOMENT

2008-07-17T21:39:00Z

This is one of those 'you have to be here' types of things. The weather here has been hot, hot - tropical. The humidity is the worst. When the temperature hits the 90's, even without the sun, it makes even breathing tough.

It’s been like this for the past few weeks. It’s rained a little but it just makes everything damp and muggy. Talk about a bad hair day. Then the clouds clear, the sun comes out and the cooling Hudson River/East River currents come in.

It’s hard to tell people who haven't been here what happens. We call it a New York moment. A wind funnel is created along Broadway from north to south and blows outward to the streets east and west. It’s a wind that makes you stop and just stand there. You'll see a lot of balcony or terrace barbeques. People on their stoops - people- watching.

I used to spend a lot of time in the Robert Wagner Park along the Hudson River beside the World Trade Center - the park is in Battery Park City, a city built on landfill created from the excavation to build the towers. The park is still there. Sun worshippers. Along the Hudson River is a walking path, hundreds of people jogging, rollerblading, just hanging.

On the path along the park you get the full affect of the river breezes. You can stand there and photograph, film the Statue of Liberty - it’s in full view. The walking path goes all the way around the southern tip of the island. If you walk south along the path you'll eventually get to the South Seaport - Manhattan's lowest southern point. This is where I would sit and sketch the Brooklyn Bridge for hours or just watch the ships and boats on the river…just appreciating the currents blowing in. You hear people on the island, talking about these currents say "here they come".

This is also the best time to hang in Central Park. The breezes float through the park from east to west. This is the best time to jog or bike in the park or take on Suicide Hill (at 110th St.) or even rent a boat and explore the lake in the park; then wait until the evening when the park has their Central Park Summer Stage concert series or Shakespeare in the Park at The Delacorte Theater, a great performance space in the middle of the park.

These are my favorite times in the city. Until we hit another patch of bad hair day weather. But those currents always come back.

THE EARLY YEARS...

2008-07-17T21:03:00Z

The following 3 blogs were written to document my early years as a CREE IN NYC.

A CREE GROWS IN NY

One of the first things I did when I came to NYC in the early 90’s was jump on the subway.

Not really headed anywhere I went up to a toll booth and said to the woman sitting behind the window, “yo.” I learned my first lesson about New Yorkers right away. She stared right at me, curled her lip and looked like she was going to jump through the window. She sat up in her chair, calmly said into her microphone, “Look, I’m not your yo. Do I look like a yo to you? If you want anything from me you better treat me the way your mother should have raised you cause if you’re new here that isn’t going to get you anywhere.” I stepped back and said, “Yes maam.”

The woman sat back in her chair and said, “Okay. Now we’ll start over. What can I do to help you sir?” I told her I needed a subway map. She asked me if I knew where I wanted to go and I told her no. She smiled and told me it was the best way to find out about NYC if I was new. I got my map, a cheery goodbye and I put my token in and walked through the turnstile.

I spent the rest of the day riding trains through all the four boroughs. At the time I really didn’t know which was which but I especially liked it when the train would pull out of the tunnel into daylight and travel on trestles tracks. Through the window I saw the differences from one neighborhood to the next.

It was uneventful, except for a guy who was sitting across from me. He was staring at me for the longest time and I was too new to know that it was the last thing to do when you’re in a subway car – to stare back. I did. At some point, the train we were on was coming to his stop because he got up and came up to me. “You’re new here right?” I said yes. “You aren’t scared?” I said no. “I’m from Mexico”, he said, “and I was scared *@8%less on my first subway ride. You’re going to be okay.”

He patted me on the back as he walked to the door. He turned around to say one last thing, “You’re Indio right?” I looked at him liked I didn’t know what he was saying which I was. “You’re an American Indian, right?” I said yes. He grinned and said, “Cool man” and left.

The train I was on pulled into the City Hall station. I got off the train and walked out to the street level. When I got up there I saw the World Trade Center to my right and to the left was the Brooklyn Bridge. I began walking to the bridge. The sun had come out. There were hardly any clouds in the sky. I began walking up the promenade and started to feel the first cool breezes coming from the river. It felt good.

I made it to the middle tower structure of the bridge. There is a viewing area around the tower and I got a 360 degree view of New York City. I saw Manhattan, Brooklyn, the Bronx, Queens and Staten Island. I stood there and took in the view. After a few minutes a homeless man came up to me and asked me for money. I gave him a cigarette instead. He grinned and took it. He shuffled off and I went back to taking in the view.

The next day I ended up in the Bronx. That’s another story.

HALLOWEEN IN NYC

On October 31, 2005…Halloween, I was rushing to catch the # 6 subway train on my lunch break at work…taking two steps at a time. I was surprised I was able to do this because it’s usually pretty crowded at lunchtime; thousands of people rushing to do this and that. I saw an empty bench on the platform and sat down. I was there not three minutes before I spotted someone pacing back and forth.

Each time she passed she got closer and closer to me. I finally looked up as she stood adjusting a headdress. On her dirty-blonde hair were two large blackbird wings, one on each side of her head. Her gloves were cut at the knuckles and she was wearing fatigues – pants, jacket and combat boots. Tied from her waist were small pans and pots and she jangled as she walked. Her sleeves were rolled up showing a canvas of tattoos, she had more tattoos around her neck.

She stopped near me. (I swear she was posing like the famous Victory of Samothrace statue.) She extended her arms behind her, arching her back, just so…or she was trying to fly. She walked over to the edge of the subway platform and she looked down the tunnel. Nothing.

She jangled her way back to where I was sitting and looked at me. “Where is that F***in’ train, man?” I shrugged my shoulders. She walked to the edge again and then back to the bench. “I’m so F***in’ late!” she said as she adjusted her feathers again.

She asked me, “You American Indian?” I nodded. “Where you from?” was her next question. I told her I lived here in New York City. “No, man. Where you really from?” she asked. I decided to tell her…this was too interesting. “I’m from northern Canada.” She looked at me intently. “I was there not too friggin’ long ago, man,” she exclaimed, “nice F***in’ country!”

She walked back to edge of platform and looked for the train. Nothing. So she came back to where I sat. “Nice feathers,” I told her. She started to explain the meaning and spirituality of her bird feathers. She bounced up and down as she spoke. “I’m really so F***in’ late, man,” she said again. “My old man is going to be so pissed…we’re gettin’ married!”

We saw the light of the train finally coming down the tunnel tracks. The young woman jumped up and giggled. “See ya ‘round,” she yelled out to me. I told her I was taking the same train. She said, “Let’s go, man!” She hopped to the door, Yes, she hopped. And as we walked in the train’s speakers blared out, “Stand clear of the closing doors.”

We found space against the door and continued to talk. “I love you people so much, man,” she said. “It’s too F***in’ bad we had to come and F*** up everything,” she said, apologetically. She looked at me and asked, “Where’s this F***in’ stop where I get off to get F***in’ married?” I told her I was going in the same direction and I’d show her which way to go. She said, “That is so F***in’ cool, man.”

I was waiting for the right time to tell her. I said, “I don’t want to jinx you. But I’m actually going down [to city hall] to pick up my divorce papers.” She screamed “Get da F*** out!” People on the train looked at her. I just nodded my head.

“Didn’t work out?” she asked. I told her it was just a formality now…“We’ve been apart for years.” We talked some more until we reached our station. She said, “Well it was real F***in’ nice meeting you, man. I wish ya luck… see ya ‘round.” We shook hands and got off the train.

As we parted I saw two (pleasantly inebriated) Mexicans walking toward me as she hurried away. One of them put his open hand to his mouth and started doing a ‘heh yah, heh yah’ chant. As I passed, the one doing the chant laughed, “Geez, esse [sounds like essay], look at those feathers.” He saw me and said, “Not you bro.’ You see her, huh?” He pointed with his chin at the woman sprinting across the platform. I nodded my head. We all watched her flying up the stairs. She was taking three steps at a time. The Mexicans still laughing, cheered her on… “Go Birdwoman!”

STAR POWER

A cool summer day - I had just finished some business and I was walking south on Park Avenue. I had just watched Erin Brockovich on cable a few nights ago and there she was – Julia Roberts. She had sunglasses on but I could tell it was her. She was with that guy, Benjamin Bratt. I thought about saying something to him since he’s Indian but as I approached them I could tell they were in a heated discussion so I didn’t say anything. She was taller than him. They separated a few months after that day I saw them.

Another summer afternoon – I was headed to an appointment; I was in the subway at the Astor Place station downtown. I went through the turnstile and walked to the platform. In the corner of my eye I recognized someone. It was a small thin woman with dirty blonde hair; she was wearing a sweater that was two sizes too big for her. She was acting weird. She kept putting her hand up to her forehead like she was trying to hide herself. Then she started walking back behind the columns near the platform – going from one to the next. I stood there waiting for the train. The train came and I got on, I looked through the window as the train pulled out. I saw the woman standing there at the platform beside a column. It was Lauren Hutton. Must have been a bad hair day.

Spring day – I was taking a walk for my break at work. I walked around the corner of our building and I saw a blonde guy with his girlfriend. They were talking and fighting over a camera. They tugged the camera back and forth between them – they were playing. He was laughing. It was Macaulay Culkin. Think he was around twenty-something. He had to be two feet taller than he was when he was making the Home Alone movies.

I was rushing through the Times Square subway station – this is the only way to do it. Too many people. I saw the L train pulling in – it’s a shuttle train that goes back and forth between Times Square and Grand Central Station. As I made my way over to the train I saw a small woman all dressed up for the theater. She had on a black jacket that sparkled as she walked. She was regal and oblivious to the crowd of rushing people. It was Rue McClanahan; A Golden Girl. So cool.

It was cool summer evening – I was getting some coffee at a deli around the corner from the theater I was going to. I stood at the counter and fixed my coffee. I really like those delis that make the coffee for you. I was finished and as I turned around I saw an elderly man. He was skinny and bald. His belt seemed to be done over his belly button. He went over to the salad bar. I went to the counter and paid for my coffee. The guy took my money and then he yelled out, “Hey, Abe.” The man at the salad bar turned around and smiled. It was Abe Vigoda (from Barney Miller).

Cool summer evening – I was walking back to my place. I saw a lady with a fancy handbag, she was wearing large sunglasses. This was the time right after the Clinton impeachment hearings. I watched the woman walking toward the supermarket in our neighborhood. I saw a black car slowly following the woman. She was walking then stopped to look at some flowers outside the market. She looked up to stare the black car at the curb and lifted a flower as if to show it to whoever was inside the car for approval. It was Monica Lewinsky. I wondered who was in the black car.

A warm summer day – I was talking a break from work and walking to the deli to get a sandwich. I passed Canal Jeans and I saw a smallish woman sitting with her legs crossed on the bench outside the store. She had on sunglasses and a colorful scarf around her neck. She was on her cell phone. There was a small crowd of people standing around her but she seemed used to it and kept talking on her phone. I went and got my sandwich and as I made my way back to work, I passed the same woman still sitting there, still talking on her phone. But now there were more people around her, some were sitting on the sidewalk around her. It was Juliette Lewis. That’s star power.

From the Tapwe website Archive

2008-07-15T22:22:00Z

It is indeed sad to announce the passing of Manuel Seferion Candeleria aka Rino Thunder (Ute) on September 27, 2003. A long time resident of New York City, the Lower East Side, Rino was one of the first successful contemporary Native American Indian actors in Hollywood and New York. Rino broke ground as a non-traditional actor playing many diverse roles in film, television and on stage. He was tremendously popular in Europe and was often specifically requested. His contribution to the film world of portraying contemporary Native American roles will never be forgotten.

As friends of Rino's, we will miss him terribly.

IN TRIBUTE TO RINO THUNDER

by Steve Cowley

I experienced a New York moment one cool autumn day. I met a movie star. Moreover, I got to spend the whole day with him. Mind you, I had just moved to New York City at the time and was still adjusting to the incredible pace. It was so fast, fast cars, faster moving people.

I never felt the rush I experienced the day I stood outside one of the exits at Grand Central Station. I was amazed and wondered how it was humanly possible for that many people to move so fast. They just kept coming and moving.

Later that same day, still reeling from the experience, hoping no one noticed me, I walked down 8th Street in Alphabet City, the Lower East Side---I was going to meet a friend.

During the early 90's, before gentrification, the neighborhood was checkered with every kind of character. There were drug dealers, prostitutes, Gothic night crawlers, gangs, corrupt cops, wild dogs, and the homeless. It was a predominantly Dominican and Mexican neighborhood; they were apprehensive about outsiders and strangers. It was a hairy proposition to wander through Alphabet City at any time of day back then - but I did.

I was approaching Avenue A when I saw him. He was a small man. He had on a Hawaiian-patterned fiery shirt and he walked in cowboy boots. What made me notice him the most, was his straw Western-style cowboy hat. Long graying-silver ponytails slung down from either side of his hat. He smiled at me.

The man smiling at me had a calming effect; this just after having an unbelievable time at Grand Central. I walked up to him and as we approached one another he said a greeting in an Indian dialect I was unfamiliar with. I said "Hi" back to him.

He said his name was Rino Thunder and he said "Welcome." After a few minutes of small talk, he told me he was on his way to see his 'doctor.' My teeth are hurtin' somethin' awful and I finally got one of them f**kers to see me," he told me. "But hey, welcome. Come by my place later if you want. Have to stop by the store to get some food for the little ones but when I'm done, we'll sit, eat and shoot the s**t."

I thought he was speaking about his family. I later realized that he meant this in a different way. He said "Bye" and clomped down the avenue in his dusty leather boots. I spent the next few hours waiting on the sidewalk outside the building of the friend I was in Alphabet City to visit. He never showed up. Instead my newest friend appeared; he was carrying some bags and winced when he tried to say "Hi."

"F**ker took a tooth. Ah...didn't need that many anyhow. Let 'em have it. Hope they choke on it" Rino said.

He asked me to grab a bag or two, and I did. We walked to his building and up ten floors to his penthouse. He didn't have a key. He gave his front door a heavy heave to push the door open. I heard dogs barking as we made our way up the stairs. They got louder as we got nearer. Rino and I finally walked through the door. There were at least twelve that I counted; twelve dogs. In a crescendo of affection, all of them jumped up and down, barking to greet him. Rino told the dogs to smarten up and to get away form the door and from him. Surprisingly and obediently, all of the dogs dispersed.

Rino described just finishing filming a movie in Italy. He was so glad to be home in his penthouse and was especially glad to get back to his dogs. "I got back from Italy a few weeks ago, he told me. "I swear, there's been some hanky-panky. Like bunnies these kids. I told the store to double my usual order."

When he said that, my curiosity was piqued. Who was this man? I knew my Indian actors and actresses but I couldn't place him. I decided, though, not to act like a groupie and avoided asking him if he knew this person or that person. He had invited me into his home and he was happy to be visited by another Indian.

I quickly found out that it was a rare occasion in New York life to run into another Indian in Manhattan on any given day. Days stretched into months for me. Rino was only the second Native American Indian I met, until I finally discovered the American Indian Community House in lower Manhattan on Broadway....much later.

I was glad to visit with him I did not hassle him with questions about the film business. Rino fed his dogs. Then...he started to drink. He gulped down some whiskey straight from the bottle.

"That should f**kin' kill anything swimming around there" he said and gurgled. He smiled at me again. "So what the hell are you doing here?" Rino asked me. I answered by saying 'you invited me in.' Rino laughed out loud.

"No man, that's not what I meant. What do you do? What's your f**kin' deal?" I told him I was from Canada. I had finished college and was here as a writer.

"Oh. Learned-ed f**ker," he said. He grinned to himself, muttering something I couldn't hear. As we talked more, I began to notice that Rino had a real affinity for profanity. It was "f**k this, f**k that," and a whole lot of "s**t." And---he did it as normally as putting on one's pants. Cussin' was something he just did without thinking. Like breathing. I got used to it real fast.

A small white scruffy dog jumped into Rino's lap and began to lick Rino's face. Rino became emotional. He took some more shots of whiskey. His eyes went red and I could swear I saw a tear drop.

"I know, but we have a visitor" Rino said to the dog." When he leaves we'll go for a walk."

Rino talked to me about how hard it is to live Indian in New York. "No one gives a s**t if you're alive or dead here," he stated. "Better get used to it, cause Cuz, you die here and nobody will know. Better f**kin' believe that. So you better f**kin' scream loud when you croak."

This was the way conversation went with Rino and I the rest of that day. He gave me 'the business.' After a few hours he quietly went to sleep. His favorite scruffy dog had made it's way to a spot under his arm, and was asleep as well. I left them and went up to the roof of the building. It was dark as I looked up at the sky and saw the stars. The sky was clear and the stars bright. I was awestruck.

"F**k!" I heard Rino scream. I ran back to see what was happening. His dog had pissed all over him. That's how I left Rino Thunder that day.

I would bump into him now and then over the next ten years. Every time we ran into each other, he would smile at me and say he had "to go to town."

"Have to take care of business," he would say.

RUBY DEE'S STAR SHINES IN the film: NAMING NUMBER TWO

2007-10-30T22:51:00Z

By Steve Cowley

New York, NY (May 11, 2007) - Naming Number Two premiered in New York City at the National Museum of the American Indian's George Gustav Heye Center last evening to a standing ovation. Initially completed in April 2005, the small film with a big heart pulls all the right strings. The film which was originally an award winning one-woman stage play opens in theaters, tentatively this month.

The film starred the incomparable Ruby Dee, who was honored at an invite-only reception as a special guest for the NMAI premiere. The special pre-premiere screening of this film was presented as part of NMAI's new works showcase from Hawai'i and the

Playwright-turned-director Toa Fraser adapted his 2000 play into an award-winning family film about a Fijian matriarch living in who undertakes the task of naming her successor. Naming No. 2 explores the universal values of family morals, traditions and legacies. It's an exuberant story about singing, loving and fighting; everything that binds families through life and death.

The family matriarch Nana Maria (Ruby Dee) awakens one morning from a dream that inspires her to call for a traditional feast during which she will name her successor. Not only does she order a feast to be prepared in one day, she adds that only the grandchildren will be involved with no outsiders invited.

She demands that her long missing grandson Tyson be in charge of the planning; except Tyson is far removed from the clan. Although the film adaptation doesn't quite explain Tyson's absence, in the whole scope of the film, it is irrelevant. He's not interested in tradition but reluctantly appears at the house…with his girlfriend.

There are a number of scenes where Fraser's direction is intensely concentrated on the star, Ruby Dee, Nana, in this drama. The scene in the bedroom where Nana hands her will to…I won't tell…will leave you breathless. we can feel all of her emotions; you can't take your eyes off her.

At one point Nana is so distraught at her grandchildren's inability to follow her directions that she announces that the day's feast is called off. Nana retires to her room and we watch as she reminisces (through beautiful flashbacks) on a time when her family was rich in Fijian tradition. Because of Nana's heartfelt insistence her family continues planning the feast. At the film's resolution, Nana names her successor, the family is reunited, tradition will continue and family order is restored.

Among Naming No. 2's list of honors: World Cinema Audience Award: Dramatic, at the Sundance Film Festival 2006; Official Selection Panorama at the Berlin Film Festival 2006; Audience Award at the Brisbane International Film Festival 2006; Best Actress Award - Ruby Dee at the Atlanta Film Festival 2006.

After more than 36 film appearances, numerous stage and televisions shows, Ruby Dee's star has never shone brighter.

Hostos Hosts An Historical Event: Apache Contemporary Art In NYC

2007-10-30T22:35:00Z

By Steve Cowley

Bronx, NY (October 3, 2007) - Curator Nadema Agard, Winyan Luta/Red Woman, was very pleased that the opening reception for The Fort Apache Connection art exhibit at the Longwood Art Gallery was bringing in all people of all ages, races, and educational levels. Located in the Hostos Center for the Arts and Culture at the heart of this borough, Agard said, “Everybody that’s coming [into the gallery] can relate.” The exhibit will be open through November 10, 2007.

For Agard, the opening is the fulfillment of a dream, born ten years ago, to showcase contemporary Apache artists. In her curator statement, Agard recalled a visit to Fort Apache, Arizona with a group of Native American museum colleagues.

At one point she turned to them and said, “I believe I have the distinction of being the only one [in the group] who has been to Fort Apache in Arizona and Fort Apache in the Bronx.” Agard wrote that her professional friends half-heartedly laughed at her but that the germ was planted. Later on in the evening of the opening Agard remarked with a chuckle, “It’s ironic that most of these artists are from the Southwest and had to come to NYC for their first group exhibit.”

She singled out two people in particular for helping her make her vision a reality - Wallace I. Edgecombe, Director of the Hostos Center for the Arts and Culture and William Aguado, Executive Director and President of the Bronx Council On The Arts (BCOA). Their organizations co-sponsored the group exhibit.

Edgecombe said he started having serious conversations with her four years ago about putting on the kind of exhibit that she dreamed of...but with the Hostos Center schedule being “so hectic and so many things going on,” he explained, “there was always something preventing it from happening.” He said the Longwood Art Gallery which is a BCOA project was displaced from their location around the same time. “I suggested to Bill [Aguado] that he join me here. I was here all alone. That’s one of the reasons why we could never put it on [Apache exhibit]. I was guest curating all the other shows.”

To Agard’s delight the rest is now history. “I think it’s a wonderful exhibit,” Aguado said at the opening. “Certainly to demonstrate the quality and creativity of the Apache artists that so rarely has been seen. Nadema Agard had the vision to bring together an extraordinary group of artists…we are proud we have been able to bring them to New York City…to Fort Apache here in the Bronx.”

Deirdre A. Scott, BCOA board member said, “I’m so excited for this (exhibit). I want this to be out there in a big way. This is the official opening. This is our celebration and it’s also in conjunction with our first big Wednesday celebration.”

First Wednesday's Bronx Culture Trolley is a project of the South Bronx Cultural Corridor that has become a “must do event” on the calendars of First Wednesday regulars from all five boroughs and beyond. Making a cultural loop through the lower Grand Concourse in the Bronx, it provides an innovative way to travel free while giving its passengers the opportunity to sample several of the area’s hottest cultural attractions, dining establishments and entertainment venues.

Scott said, “So we wanted to be able to maximize it and make sure that as many people as possible had the opportunity to see the exhibition.” She said she was thrilled to have Agard as the curator and to bring her expertise uptown. “Not that it wouldn't matter downtown. But because we have such a tremendous mix of ethnicities here in the Bronx, I think that it’s really important that we are participating by having the opportunity to host the show.”

Agard invited the artists to explore the falsehoods and realities of Apache images that have been historically conjured up and perpetuated by American popular culture. The exhibit particularly responds to the implications of the 1981 movie, Fort Apache, The Bronx that according to the curator despite the passing of time has left a lasting memory and a legacy of ignorance.

With a special digital media presentation of photographs by Joe Conzo, Jr. as a historical introduction, the diverse group of Apache contemporary artists was involved because of their reputation and experience: Douglas Miles, renowned sculptor Bob Haozous, the emerging socio-political installation artist Jason Lujan and the photography of Carm Little Turtle and Pena Bonita. Many of the works on display were from the artists’ private collection.

Pena Bonita, Apache/Seminole, and Jason Lujan, Chiricahua Apache, were not in attendance and unavailable for interviews for this article.

Carm Little Turtle, Apache/ Tarahumara, from Bosque Farms, NM, explores her world around her through the lens and selectively paints onto her black and white photographs. There’s not a hint of romanticism in her work. In Shut Up Bitch, 1995, Black and White Silver Photograph, Sepia Toned/Oil Paint; it’s a photograph of a scene you might see at any rodeo in the southwest except in her photograph, Little Turtle has illuminated the words on a young man’s shirt while everything around him appears normal activity for a rodeo.

“He’s a young native man wearing a t-shirt that says ‘shut up bitch.’ And I thought of being a matriarchal society - of many different cultures, of many different tribes and it just shows that there’s another story to it. We never talk about abuse,” she said.

Bob Haozous, Fort Sill-Chiricahua, who lives and works in Sante Fe, NM, is a star on the contemporary art scene renowned for his metal steel sculptures. His installations can be seen in most major US cities. Haozous often works in large pieces so for this exhibit, there was a special media retrospective produced by Leenda Bonilla playing on a monitor in the gallery. He had nine drawings in the group exhibit.

Often his work is characterized by a biting sarcastic humor. One of his drawings especially stood out. In The Smell of Death in Heaven, 2006, Pen, Ink and Gouache on paper, this is no more evident. It’s a drawing of a camel above upon a dark field of what appear to be scribbled circles.

A few years ago Haozous recalled attending a group in Santa Fe, NM to discuss philosophy. “I started asking them questions like ‘do dogs go to heaven?’ And Christians go…we’re superior to animals, animals don’t go to heaven. That idea that we’re superior excludes other things that we determine are inferior. So towards the end of our group I say well that brings up the question ‘can you smell death in heaven?’”

Haozous explained that in the natural world, in the indigenous world, Native Americans have a belief they are a part of everything. So he did the drawing. “They’re killing people in Iraq. I put in a camel standing over all the people that are dead. It’s now the smell of death in heaven.”

Douglas Miles, San Carlos Apache/Akimel O’odham, who lives on the San Carlos Apache reservation, said he was honored to be part of the exhibit. His skateboard art appears initially simplistic in construction and design. Yet there is this duplicity he creates by the stylized graphic images of Apache warriors he paints onto their surface which make them mesmerizing. Two of his boards were showcased on the exhibit invitation card.

Remarking on the phenomenon he has created with his art, “It was made out of necessity. My son needed a skateboard and I recall looking (for one) with him and I didn’t see anything that represented native people.” It takes Miles two or three days to create one piece. “Even though it’s very small surface, they’re really acrylic paintings. And to design…the skateboard is a strange shape. It’s not as easy as people might think.”

By connecting with mainstream’s youth skateboard and hip-hop culture Miles said he believes it’s inevitable that corporate America will come calling but to be economically sound he continues to manufacture everything himself.

“In my artwork I do, we’re basically supporting ourselves. Through the sales of my artwork, I, in turn, am able to print the limited edition skateboards.” Miles said he sells those prints or in certain cases gives them to native kids.

Miles said if people are responding to his artwork, he believes it’s a good thing. Miles is always proud and honored to know other Native Americans like his art. But he never knows how it’s viewed. He’s also not worried about any public negativity that may come with his success. “More and more people are seeing what Apache Skateboards is about. People all over the country are asking us about the skateboard story. The time is right for native peoples to tell their own stories.”

Deirdre A. Scott was also impressed with Miles’ work. “What is so interesting is him being able to translate symbolism that is so meaningful to something that is just like an everyday toy. And also the kind of double entendre that is involved in that as well, culturally, just in terms of the activities we do. And that’s what makes it so much more intriguing, by bringing the news right to the street!”

One of Miles’ skateboards immortalizes an actor from the film, The Warriors. It was one of the pieces on the exhibit invitation card. New York City-born, Apache Ramos was one of the members of the Orphans gang in the film. He is well known for his line, ‘We are going to rain on you Warriors!’

Staring up at the skateboard, he said he was ecstatic to see his likeness. “I think it’s a great honor, especially coming from Native Americans. It just transcends and brings the plight of the people in the Bronx, especially the Native Americans [who live there] to the public.” He was at a loss on how to thank Miles for being honored like that. “To take the time to put me on this beautiful artwork, ‘Mucho gracious, Doug’.”

Literally leaving the gallery show to go to the airport to go back home to Hamburg, Germany, Gerrit Schulz-Bennewitz, said the show was “Exciting.” He said, ‘We don’t have this, as you can imagine, this multi-cultural natured art. This is what I always like when I’m here. From the European point of view you never see this deep political art from natives.”

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About the Curator: Nadema Agard
Winyan Luta/ Red Woman

Nadema is an artist, illustrator, curator, educator, lecturer, storyteller, writer, poet, published author, museum professional and consultant in Repatriation and Multicultural/Native American arts and cultures with a Master Of Arts Degree in Art and Education from Teacher's College, Columbia University. As a Cherokee-Lakota-Powhatan who has been educated and traveled internationally, she is a bridge between urban and traditional cultures.

Ms. Agard’s professional career has included numerous years as an Art Educator and Museum Professional for the Museum of the American Indian where she received a NATIONAL ENDOWMENT FOR THE ARTS Fellowship to eventually publish her SOUTHEASTERN NATIVE ARTS DIRECTORY at Bemidji State University in Minnesota as an adjunct professor of studio arts and art education. She is the former Community Services Outreach Specialist at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Indian (NMAI) where she supervised and further developed their Native Arts Program. She is currently the Director of RED EARTH STUDIO CONSULTING/ PRODUCTIONS based in New York City where she advocates for contemporary Native arts and cultures. As such, Red Earth Studio C/P is an NGO to the United Nations Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues where she was a former consultant and in recognition of this work, received the INGRID WASHINAWATOK AWARD FOR COMMUNITY ACTIVISM.

Nadema Agard was born and raised in New York City and later returned to her maternal ancestral homelands in the Carolinas and her paternal grandmother’s homeland in Virginia after she received a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship to write her DIRECTORY. Almost a decade later as the Repatriation Director of the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe, she was again re-united with her paternal grandfather’s Lakota relatives in the Dakotas who had, five years earlier, arranged for her to receive her Lakota name Winyan Luta during a naming ceremony officiated by a traditional elder. (Although translated as Red Woman, the word ‘luta’ refers to a holy red and so the true meaning of the name is not totally translated).

With her Cherokee name translated as Red Earth, she illustrated and authored a children’s book, SELU & KANA’TI: CHEROKEE CORN MOTHER AND LUCKY HUNTER from Mondo Publishing. Another publication, VOICES OF COLOR: ART AND SOCIETY IN THE AMERICAS by Farris-Dufrene, includes her essay entitled “Art as a Vehicle for Empowerment” while her work as an artist is published in Patricia J. Broder's, EARTH SONGS, MOON DREAMS: PAINTlNGS BY AMERICAN INDIAN WOMEN.

In addition to writing and making art, Nadema has chaired numerous panels both in the Arts and Humanities and continues to lecture as part of the New York Council for the Humanities: Speakers in the Humanities Program (2003-2008). She has done storytelling, lectures, slide presentations and art workshops at the American Museum of Natural History, Brooklyn Museum of Art, Columbia University, New York University, Smithsonian Institution’s National Museum of the American Indian, Wave Hill, Lotus Music and Dance.

All photographs for this article by Roz Dotson of Tapwe Production Projects.

For more on the Hostos Center For The Arts & Culture:
www.hostos.cuny.edu
For more on the Bronx Council on the Arts:
www.bronxarts.org