2. Make America Once Again Great
Of all the things Trump might do that would come back to bite her was the nationwide abortion ban. Otherwise Glynda was happy for having not voted. Don’t blame this mess on me, it was one of her jokes, being multi-national, I mean, what-do-you-call-it, dual citizenship. “So you know, I’ve already applied for deportation, but they turned me down.”
“Just leave me Ohlone,” she joked to Jason. “where do you live?” he’d asked as they drove to the memorial at Spengers. “Nearby. Albany. I park by the racetrack. It had been Jason who showed her the URLs of all the maps that the three creeks people had put together, along with the ones the tribes had that showed where the shellmound had once stood. Cool, Jason said, as if matching off liabilities. “I live with my parents. North Berkeley.”
Jason didn’t really have to lecture her about the indigenous peoples who had lived in this part of California, that was what the slanted signs were for. Those were days of plenty, the People feasting on the bounties of the bay, the great shellmounds arising from the annual harvest of the oysters. Jason turned down University in his old Subaru, toward the so-called flatlands. “At that time all of this area was coastal marsh,” Jason said, indicating Fourth Street shopping district with disdain. ”There were no railroad tracks here then, of course.” Spengers Fish Grotto itself was quite a landmark, Glynda knew, though a little before her time. That would have been before the Historic Restaurants Association got involved. “Try to be respectful,” Jason warned, though he truthfully didn’t know her that well yet.
He parked by the old seafood restaurant and they walked around a fenced in parking lot to join a small group of people on the northwest corner. “Stand back from the street or they’ll think you’re looking for work,” someone laughed. It was true, Truitt and White, the big lumber yard, was on the next block and the Mexican guys would stand outside scanning the cars. “Are you reporters?” Another person asked. They laughed too. “No,” Glynda said. She lifted her sunglasses and looked around. “Wow. No shells at all. Nobbut rubbish.” She picked up a Doritos Hot!Hot!Hot bag. Who knew where these things came from. She walked over to the nearby railway tracks—there was no sign of shell in the infill there either.
They explained that the spray-painted marks on the asphalt were the likely perimeter of the old mound. A mound of that size might have contained numerous burials and offerings to the ancestors. “The shell itself, though,” Glynda said, “I wonder where-ever they could have put that much material.” The archives Jason had produced contained just two blurry photos. “Just landfill to them,” someone said glumly. By this time Glynda had realized how close to home she was—Wow, if the tracks were here, then the end of the bay strip was no more than a half mile diagonally. Could it be? She had this funny idea, she started to tell Jason.
“I just want to say in advance, ‘Don’t do it,’” one of the group near to them spoke, an older man, “We can tell you’re some kind of blogger or reporter.” Songwriter, Glynda said, and he made a face. “Poet is okay.”
“Hi, my name’s Marquez. Maybe it was the name that made him seem more mexican than native American. “Not to steal thunder from the matriarchy of Sogorea Te’, we’re here to mark a small memory to the ancestors and to mark the transition of our brother-warrior Norman Wounded Knee De’Ocampo, a good friend of mine.”
“That’s what I was telling you,” Jason said. “A Memoriam.” It was good to know he had chosen a funeral as their first date. “Pleased to meet you, Glynda Stempel. This is Jason Pierson. Don’t do what?“
“Commit cultural misappropriation, of course. I could see it in your eyes. If I had a dollar for every rock I sold off of Alcatraz island I’d be rich too. The women here,” he hunched his shoulders comically, “have stern rules.”
“I was just saying…” Glynda explained. Marquez sighed. “My best guess is the landowners took their own initiative, probably even before they applied for permits. There was still a lot of dumping going on everywhere in the 1950s. It would’ve been easy.”
Glynda didn’t know what Marquez and Jason’s problem was, these ladies seemed fine to her. Everyone quieted and the director spoke out. She was short, with dark hair, pale skin, a strong voice. “Mark’s right, this isn’t a media event. That will take place on November 7th, the walk from here to the Emeryville shellmound.“ She paused, looking directly at Glynda and Jason. “I woke up this morning thinking about how nothing had really changed and then I realized we had lost our dear friend. But really that’s a lesson he would have wanted us to remember, that the Longest Walk never really ends. We’re all at once ancestors, Wounded, thank you for the lesson. Himmetka: In one place, Together.” It seemed natural that Glynda should take Jason’s hand in that moment.
Jason had filled her in beforehand. After years of fighting and trying to ignore it, the Berkeley City Council had given in to Corrina Gould’s stubborn demands for dignity in the treatment of the remnants of the Ohlone (Lisjan) peoples. Jason’s mom had been active in that. Anyway, in a surprise move the City had moved to sign the property over to the Sogorea Te Land Trust. “That’s why I wanted to show you—sometimes the good people do win.” He approved of their policy of rematriation as well, he confided to Glynda.
The man named Marquez had begun speaking, in a low voice, choked with remembrance. “I often tell people that we met at Alcatraz, but of course that couldn’t be true. But I know we walked together in ’78, I was with Norman for the last Longest Walk too. Miwoks, I’m forgetting, how can I forget, both of us down here from the hills a long, long time ago.” Marquez looked up suddenly and for a few moments you had the feeling he was back skidding timber on the far side of the Sierra Nevada. “Anyhow,” he said finally. “Lot of tribes, a lot of sacred ground covered. Lot of people we both knew. Goodbye, old friend.” He knelt and shattered a small vial on the asphalt surface.
She could feel Jason’s excitement. “Did you know those American Indian Movement guys too? My Dad’s from South Dakota.” Glynda slipped forward and deposited the handful of shells and glass she’d selected at the beach that morning. “Himmetka,” she repeated, uncertainly. Everyone looked around. Marquez raised his palms in a gesture of acceptance. “Heṭeeyakkas' aa?,” he replied, saying it differently. “See, that’s what I mean.” Glynda found herself blushing. “It was just what I was feeling,” she said.
One thing she learned from looking up the history of Berkeley—a lot of those people were still actually around. Like Jason’s parents, who had apparently been serious radicals back then. It was weird how things had changed in just a few years, Jason said. All the steam seemed to go out of the movement after the late 70s—Berkeley used to be crazy, man! “Oh yeah,” Marquez agreed.
“That’s why we need to be steadfast in affirming female stewardship,” one of the other women interrupted. Her T-shirt identified her as one of Sogorea Te’s “Land Workers”. “Sustainability.” We’re certainly voting for that! Glynda said, stroking Jason’s hand again.
No comments:
Post a Comment