Life's Defining Moments: Part 2

I would like to tell everyone that after that incident that I walked away and never saw him again.  Actually, I would LOVE to tell everyone that is what I did, but I did not… In fact since it wasn’t the first time I ever got beat up by him, it wasn’t the last either.

So why would I write about it as a life-defining moment and why do I think about it everyday? That was that moment in my life where I could have left, I knew I should have left and I chose to stay even though he didn’t care. That day I made what would be, physically, the wrong decision, but twenty years later, may have been the path I chose to take so that I would be strong enough to handle adversity and to recognize co-dependency, addiction and narcissism.

I think about that time when I begin to waiver from the path I’ve chosen because it seems difficult.  It is a reminder that when I chose what would be the easiest, it was the wrong way and would have lifelong consequences.

I stayed with him for eight more months and I can’t tell you it got better because four months after this I finally hit rock bottom and although it was a bad time I quickly learned that you can’t rate evil. It is or it isn’t. I became so desensitized to the pain that I was numb – on the inside and out.

What made me finally leave? I realized I didn’t like myself very much. I found out I was pregnant and couldn’t bring myself to tell my family about it, so I hid it…  I was 20 weeks pregnant when it happened… My second miscarriage… I came home one afternoon – and he wasn’t home. He had gone out with the guys, which was fine with me, because I was hoping he’d have just enough of a buzz that he’d be in a good mood… it was a crapshoot.  I don’t gamble because the odds are always against me. He came home in a rage over something he wouldn’t tell me about and he said I was in his way. He had that look and even though I covered my stomach, he kicked me and I fell down the stairs and it must have been too much.

I didn’t know what to feel. I was numb. I remember laying on the gurney in the OB-GYN unit and nurses and techs were swarming around me with IV lines, equipment and with comfort.  They called my family, which was a cross between humiliating and fear. I was so embarrassed for them to see me like this and for them to find out  about my pregnancy this way… The nurse in charge was heartbroken to tell me that they didn’t think they were going to be able to save my baby.  I just laid there not knowing what I felt or if I felt anything.  My cousin asked me how I got to the hospital and I had to admit that my boyfriend dropped me off in front of the hospital and left, in my car. When they called him to tell him I may have surgery and he should be with me, he wasn’t home. He wasn’t around until the day before the funeral.  I delivered a little boy, Robert.  The nurses asked me if I wanted to see him. If I wanted to hold him. I regret it to this day – I said no.  I felt like such an epic failure that I thought I didn’t deserve to be a mom, if even for a minute. The nurse must have known I would regret it and she brought him to me. I did not understand that he would live for only a few minutes. Robert didn’t survive, and I believe he died so that I could live. 

I pray for his soul everyday and thank him for the strength to leave. I loved this young man more than I loved myself, but not more than that little life. At that point, I began to hate who I was with this person. It was as if a fog had been lifted from me. Things were clear. I realized that I needed to leave. I sought refuge with my cousin and her husband (a deputy). She had been with me through all of the hurt and I knew she wouldn’t let me go back…

The rage I had inside of me was palpable and it propelled me into a world so surreal that I don’t know who that person was when I looked into the mirror. I snuck away to see him and he was just coming home from a date. I remember feeling so sorry for that young woman, she had no idea who she was fooling with. I told her she needed to walk home… He thought the “Tina” he knew had shown up. Wrong. He was drunk and high on himself. He pulled out a 30/30 shotgun and held it to my head all night – the next day he woke up and began drinking while he kept that gun laid across his lap. I wasn’t allowed to leave. I remember thinking at that very moment, that this was no life. I refused to live like this…  Robert didn’t die for me to put up with this. I’ll never forget it… all the abuse, all the foul words, that’s all that passed through my consciousness – like rapid fire. When he passed out, I took that gun and beat him with it. I bit him. I fought him and most importantly, I left.  That was twenty years ago.

I will never go back there. I will never allow myself to ever see that woman in the mirror again.  That woman who lived through that era is gone. The one who is writing this is no one’s victim. 

Life's Defining Moments Part 1

It gets cold at night during the winter in Florida… At first, I thought the bone chilling cold was what caused my body to uncontrollably shake… at first.

We all have one, or in some cases, several, life-defining moments that are burned so deeply into our memory that a day doesn’t go by when we don’t think about it.  We remember what we were thinking, what we smelled in the air, what clothes we were wearing, and what we were looking at, maybe even the song playing on a car radio.

That’s how it is for me. I would do anything to replace that moment with one of the many others in my life. In fact, as a means of coping, I have learned to go to my happy place, a time when my life physically changed maybe.. the birth of my daughter, Dakota Desiree.  I go to that day whenever the bad memories seem to get stuck on instant replay in my brain.

My earliest memories include crawling up on my parents antique sofa with my bottle of juice.  I used to love that couch because the material was smooth, cool and the cushions nice and soft. I would have my blanket in tow, bottle in hand and pajamas zipped up tight – I felt safe. I had no fear. I knew how to trust. I trusted my parents would never allow anyone into our home that would hurt us. I could safely slip off to slumberland and not worry about what was going on when my eyes were closed.

I knew that my mom would always have a snack made even before I said I was hungry and I remember the sound of her walking through the house – she kind of shuffles her feet and since she never wears shoes when she’s in the house, you could hear her feet patter across the linoleum floor in the kitchen. 

I grew up in the same house with my little brother and my parents until I turned 16. I loved that house. It was a single level, flat roof, grey house with three bedrooms, two baths, and a playroom for our air hockey table, 3164 Connecticut Avenue. The house we moved into was brand new – like a blank journal waiting on us to write our memories in it. New furniture… new dishes… new everything… I always missed our old house and the memories it held.  I had the most awesome room with red shag carpet and my own little walk in closet… That was my safe place… I would hide in that closet and travel to worlds only I would ever know. I miss that closet…

I think that closet saved my life on several occasions.

Like time travel, I hid in that closet on that night. I imagined drawing on its walls in pencil… I imagined building a safe bunker with a pillow, a warm blanket and my fuzzy pajamas with feet. The red ones with Winnie the Pooh embroidered on the left breast.

It started off like many other Fridays. I was 24 and had spent the morning running errands. I would cash my paycheck, go pay a few bills and hit the grocery store to buy groceries. I was living with my first “real” boyfriend and I loved to cook a big meal and have it ready for him and his friends when he got off from work. He worked hard in the hot sun all day and I absolutely loved seeing the look of relaxation and satisfaction on his face… His sigh of relief made me happy.

We would sit on our sofa watching funny videos and he wouldn’t go to bed without having me lay with him. I made him feel safe.

We lived in the cutest house in a wooded part of our county. It was my dreamhouse – an A-frame wood home and it had a fireplace and a loft level. It smelled like wood just like the house I grew up in.  I made it our home. I had decorated it for Christmas, I had purchased furniture to make it a home instead of a young couple’s party house, even though it was…

Anyway, like any other Friday, I had cooked a smorgasbord of food and that A-frame smelled like shrimp scampi and garlic toast. He had come home with his brother and a few friends. I made sure everyone had something to eat and that the refrigerator had plenty of cold beer. He hated warm beer and he hated having to wait.  I didn’t want to start off the weekend badly so I made sure I had all of that done. 

This is where things start to go bad… like every other Friday…  At this point in my life and our relationship, I learned not to breathe deeply. Taking a deep breathe may make too much noise. It may prevent me from hearing what was going on. I may miss a cue. I hated it when he became angry.  He would leave me alone, sometimes without a car, and not come home for a few days if I made him mad. I wanted good memories with him, not bad ones. I never knew what “too late” meant. 

The weekend before he had become angry at me for talking to one of his co-workers for too long in our kitchen. His friend became so uncomfortable that he left our house – and he followed. When he had come home two days later, he hadn’t showered, he had to be helped inside and he had hickies all over his neck.  I didn’t discover those until I had him in the shower to wash the dirt, grime, beer and smoke off of his body.  I was too scared to say anything so I just cried. His eyes were as closed as his heart, so he didn’t notice.

Fast forward back to that night – While he and his friends were unwinding and eating, the same friend he became irate over showed up at the house. I let him inside and went upstairs to our bedroom so I didn’t get accused of anything.  For a week I held back all of my emotions – I was afraid he would leave again… I loved him.

I took a nap and woke up when my body hit the floor. His hand wrapped around my ankle and he ripped me from our bed and threw me on the floor. I was confused and a bit dazed from having my head land against the dresser. He was tall and strong. I loved his arms and shoulders… they were tan and strong. I didn’t love those same arms that night. He jerked me off the floor into a standing position, only to throw me down once again. He managed to throw me out of the bedroom and as I scrambled to get up, he kicked me headfirst down the first flight of stairs. He stood over me daring me to get up… He stood over me daring me to try to save myself… He called me a “whore” and a “fat bitch!”  I can still see the curl of his lip and his nose curl as if he were looking at something stuck on the bottom of his shoe. He hated me. My worst nightmare. As my body absorbed the final blow down the stairs I wondered what was wrong… was the food cold, beer warm? I would never know.

As I landed in a ball of pain on the living room floor, I looked up and saw his older brother rubbing his forehead… wondering what to do or if he should do something. I looked at him through the tears and hoped he would stop him. He didn’t.  I stood up and ran for the door, not having a chance to get my keys to the car.  I was afraid but hurt too much to get very far. I remember crouching down on the ground next to the car hoping to hide.  As I fell over on the ground, I heard his boots crush the gravel beneath his feet. Afraid to look at him head on, I remember peering up at him like a beaten puppy… he was smiling. He kept kicking me in the stomach until I couldn’t move… It was then that his brother came out and got him away from me. It was too late, the damage was done.

As soon as he turned to walk away, I crawled as far as I could, our neighbor had a chaise lounge in his yard and I managed to lay my body down on that until I passed out from the pain.  I remember being startled awake by the sound of a car horn. I had no idea where I was but it hurt too much to move. I remember looking up and seeing our yard full of cars.  He was having a party. After all he had plenty of food and beer, I had made sure of it…

I laid my head back down and started to shiver… it was then that I imagined myself inside my closet in my pajamas with fuzzy feet. It was cold on that Florida night. I laid there listening to the party, watched him make out with an unknowing girl on the same gravel road that I was laying on just a few hours before. I heard him laughing as if I weren’t alive, as if I didn’t matter.  I laid in the bottom floor of my imaginary closet until the sun came up. I was safe. 

It's What is on the Inside that Counts....

It’s What is on the Inside that Counts….

I remember being elementary-school aged and going to my first birthday party with schoolmates. I know I should be able to tell you which grade I was in, but I can’t… For most of us who went to St. Ann Catholic School in sunny Naples, it is understood that not only did we attend a 1^st thru 8^th grade school, but moving around from school to school wasn’t a common practice, so most of the faces I saw on my first day of school in first grade, I also saw on my last day of 8^th grade and again on our last day of high school in 1985. 

Anyway, I know that I must have been in about 4^th or 5^th grade and we went to the movies. I was so excited to go to my first “school-friend” party. I know this seems to be a little “old” to go to my first party, but it wasn’t because I was an introverted kid, in fact, although I may have been a little shy with kids my own age at school, I was already a junior entrepreneur and had my own business going to help pay for private school tuition due every month. My business was making beaded jewelry to sell at art shows, pow-wows and festivals on the weekends. Our family sold fry bread, arts and crafts and my cousins and I danced almost every weekend of our lives.

Back to my story – I was so excited to go to this birthday party and the movies that I stayed up late making my friend a necklace and ring set that I just knew she would love because I used her favorite colors.  I remember that this girl wasn’t my “best-friend” but I remember listening to her talk about her room and all of her favorite things… I have always listened to people and have always remembered the smallest of details about what they like… favorite colors, music, food… I always knew that I was different, after all my brother and I were the only Seminoles. However, I thought that those differences made me cool… Being different and not the same as everyone else was cool as hell… That doesn’t mean that I didn’t wonder what it would be like to be able to really be part of the crowd, so I would listen to their stories of their weekends and think how cool that would be…

So… I wrap my present for my friend and pick out my best outfit. After all, my grandma just made me a new patchwork skirt – all I ever really wore, were my skirts that my grandma or aunts made – and I had gone to our new K-Mart and bought new knee-hi socks, a new shirt, and birthday card for my school friend. I was waiting in the front room for my friend’s mom to pick me up so I could go see what it was like to just be a kid… I was so excited.

As I walked out to the driveway to get into their car, I looked back at my house, in a part of town only a few of us lived in and had a twinge of fear.  This was something I had not done before. I had danced and spoke in front of hundreds of people and gone to celebrate other tribal cultures throughout the country, but had never been to a school friend’s birthday party. I remember precisely what it felt like at that moment and what was going through my head… I remember thinking if it was going to feel like this on the day I leave for college years from now. My close-knit world was becoming a little bigger that day.

I wasn’t prepared for what was about to become a defining moment in my life… As I stepped into the van with my knee-hi clad legs and high heeled clogs that I had bought from Buster Brown with my tip money, I was beaming with pride… When we all gathered outside of the theatre to go into the party, all the moms gathered to look at my grandma’s masterpiece, my new skirt.  One of the moms looked at my socks and said, “Oh Tina, I love your socks! Where did you get them?” I proudly responded, “I bought them from our new K-Mart! My mommy and daddy took us there last night.” She looked around and quickly responded, “Oh then I don’t think we’ll be getting those.” Then she laughed hysterically…  I remember standing there, in my knee-hi socks, feeling puzzled… and unsure of which emotion to feel… was she laughing at me? 

To be honest, my naiveté combined with and strong sense of pride, wouldn’t let me get my feelings hurt, but it certainly would lead to me getting to the bottom of things. I remember not being able to concentrate on the task at hand, enjoying the party. I just wanted to go home and ask my mom what that mom could possibly be laughing at.  For those of you who have not meant my mom, well… let’s just say she has a bit of a temper and when combined with a maternal instinct to protect her young she could be considered rabid when one of her own was in danger, hurt, or being bullied.

When I went home I stood in our living room in front of the mirror-tiled wall my mom, dad, brother and I had installed. I remember staring at my knee-his, shoes, skirt and long braided pig tails, buck teeth and a chubby belly thinking that maybe it wasn’t my socks…  LOL!  So when my mom asked me how the party went, I immediately asked her, “Mom, Mrs. So and So said that she wanted to know where I got my new socks but when I told her K-Mart she started laughing. I asked, “Mom, what is wrong with K-Mart? Is there something wrong with buying your socks from K-Mart? Do you think she can’t afford it? Should I give {her daughter} a pair?”  This was one of those life defining moments.

I never knew we were considered to be poor because regardless of which day of the week, my parents and grandparents always provided food. In fact, in lean times, we would just combine our resources with the rest of the family.  We worked for everything we wore, ate, played with, drove… I refused to let her ridicule make me feel like I was less of a person. Who makes fun of a child anyway? Hrrrumph….. 

I have never looked at what a person drove, wore, ate or did with any emotion other than admiration, curiosity, sympathy, or anger.  Admiration for those who are proud, giving people and do well for themselves and others. Curiosity when I want to hear about a life or culture foreign from my own. Sympathy when there are those who can’t seem to catch a break and look downward thinking there are others making fun of them, or anger when they look downward knowing there are others making fun of them.

None of the above has anything to do with how much a person pays for something or how much they have. A person can be of small character and have a big bank account or can have small character and have a small bank account. The inverse can be true as well.  None of this has anything to do with how much a person has or doesn’t have in material things. But it does have something to do with how much a person has in terms of strength of character.

To be fair, it is important that I share that more than thirty years down the road, that I have a much larger view of the same problem, because it has become a stereotype to think that this misguided mom I encountered is the problem with society. That it is those “Real Housewives” of Reality TV that are the problem in this world.  That it is always those with money that make fun of those without.  But I have personally witnessed the inverse as well…  I see many people who have nice things in terms of cars, houses, clothes, etc… be ridiculed by those without… and within Indian Country I witnessed strong Indian women criticized for looking good and wearing nice clothes be accused of being less native. Again, I respond with a hand on my hip and a hand in the face... Hrrrumph... I'm proud of all my native people who fight the fight on behalf of those who can and on behalf of those who don't even give a crap. 

I have a part 2 that I will write later… just wanted to share this life defining moment and the reason why you will never hear me envy or covet the belongings or life of someone else.  By the way... during my 12 years of Catholic School I believe I heard of a commandment or two that talked about coveting as being sinful... just sayin'!

Motherhood - To Me....

As Mother's Day approaches I am reflecting on my life with my mom, my grandmothers and my children... but also on my life with my children and their dads.  To me, being a mom is about being what I learned from my mom, grandmothers and other women in my life who all taught me something about being the woman/mother I am today. Not sure if it's good or bad, right or wrong, but it's who I am... The only true measurement is in my children and whether my daughter will live her life avoiding being me or whether my son will live his life avoiding women like me...

My mom - She taught me everything.. How to be a mom and how to be a grandmother. That love is selfless... She has been a mom to me and to my two children. She feels that is her role as a grandmother... to help with my children so I can work and not feel like I am abandoning them. I love her.

My Grandmother, Juanita Cypress Osceola - Well, she taught me strength, pride and integrity. To never forget where I come from and that I have a calling - a purpose. Grandma was unselfish and would take care of anyone who came to the village. She found great joy in providing food, shelter and clothing to those who did not or could not get it on their own. She didn't pass judgement on those with problems. She taught all of us that if we wanted something out of life we had to put something into it... She has been gone since 1987, but I still hear her voice and feel her presence. I love her.

My Grandmother, June Yannaco - I consider myself extremely lucky to be 44 years old and to still have my grandma with me. Unlike my relationship with my Grandma Osceola, I did not see Grandma Yannaco everyday. She wasn't a part of my daily life growing up and her voice didn't run through my head. Her teachings didn't guide my decisions... but her blood flowed through my veins. Her decisions and strength affected me without her intent. Her unspoken responsibility to provide for her family and her work ethic is unmatched. Her struggle to survive during the Depression, World War II and through the death of my grandpa and her mom, Great Grandma Eli, lends testimony to her sense of self and courage. I was fortunate that I was able to get to know my Grandma on my own terms. I love her.

My sister/cousin, Barbara Osceola - She will tell you that she always told me, "Learn from my mistakes."  She says that with so much humility that I have always listened to her... I don't consider her mistakes as failures or bad decisions... just as a part of her journey. She has been there to pick me up when I was down. She was there with me in the hospital holding my hand when I was beaten up so bad that I lost two babies. One on her birthday in 1992... Little Robert....  She gave me the gift of life when she walked away and made me stand on my own. It wasn't until she made me stand up and fight for myself that I was able to escape the violence that almost took my life.  Seriously one of the most important women in my life... I love her.

My friend, Staci Eagle Elk - Friend, native sistah... she knows what I mean. That is it in a nutshell! This woman has taught me what true friendship really is... I don't have to explain myself or say anything. She just knows. She tells me what I need to hear, not what I want to hear. When I thought my world was falling apart she was able to put me in check and bring me back to reality. I love her.

My friend, LaDonna Harris - Native woman, leader... icon! This woman's reputation precedes her. She balanced being a mom to her children, a politician's wife, as well as a tribal leader in her own right. She walks the halls of Congress, through the White House doors, as easily as she walks through the Plaza during the Santa Fe Plaza during Indian Market. No other woman has taken my breathe away like LaDonna! I love her!

My daughter, Dakota Osceola-Wheeler - She is why I exist. If it weren't for her arrival in my life, no telling where I would be.  From the day she was born, it was her and I against the world. It was about taking on challenges, being different, embracing diversity and never saying we can't do something. Although I know she thinks that her life's troubles are a disappointment, they are not. I am learning from her every day. She is stronger than I am, she just doesn't see it yet. She will. I am certain of that. I love her.

My son, Brody Osceola Hagen - I know I said women, but I must mention my son. He is my Little Man. He teaches me how to laugh. How to see the bright side of everything. How to enjoy nights on the couch and how a piece of pizza is really a slice of heaven. His smile keeps me going! His being insures that I am homesick everytime I leave home. His random acts of kindness and love keep me ALIVE! I love him.

When I became a "MOM" I made a choice to have her but not her dad. I knew that I wanted this little life growing inside of me and that her dad and I didn't have a healthy relationship and that wasn't good for her. Although we made several attempts at making it work, it just didn't.  But that wasn't her fault... I refused to let her grow up in a dysfunctional environment. I wanted her to know her mom and dad loved her and that she had a huge family who wanted her in their lives. Now that my husband and I are divorcing and we have Brody to think about, I refuse to let our failed relationship affect him.

I thank both of their dads for letting me have two healthy children. I thank both of their dads for letting me be .... well... ME. Dakota's dad is truly a great friend and confidante. Arlo... well... thank you for trying to be fair. Divorce isn't easy. Maybe I didn't try hard enough, maybe I didn't know how... but all I really want is to be the best MOM I can be... I'm not a good wife. I am sorry for that. Maybe I haven't met that person yet... But it doesn't matter... my purpose in life is for these two children who were born to me. Dakota and Brody.

Too many people bring children into this world and forget their role. They don't owe us anything... they didn't ask to be born. My mom, my grandmothers, my sister/cousin, my friends and my children have taught me how to be ME... hope that isn't a bad thing...

WHAT THE?!

The cycle of addiction brings with it a tangled web of terms, labels, monickers… Co-dependency, enabler, pick up, relapse, recovery, 12-Steps, rehab, detox, half-way, tough love, blues, opiates, LSD, alcohol, addiction, addicts…. 

The emotions are even more tangled and confused… scared, hopeful, hopeless, angry, sad, worried, anxious, bewildered, afraid, mad... 

From day one, I have tried to suppress the urge to make this about me. We all do that. I want to tell everyone not to believe the façade… I avoid any kind of emotional conversation because my feelings are right at the surface. They are on not buried deep.  I am a practiced suppressor. I am good at holding my feelings in and I have been holding this in for so long that the veil I am using to hide behind is wearing thin… it’s sheer.  I want to hide too, but can’t… I don’t know where to go because I’m not an escape artist. Never have been good at running… suppressing and hoping it goes away… that’s my style.

Watching the family worry and grieve at the loss of innocence is hard. Listening to their need to read hope into an addict talking the talk saddens me… I have held back feelings of worry, anxiety and sadness inside for so long they have churned inside of me at such a rate that they have bred an unimaginable amount of anger.

I am pissed. I don’t like to see how addiction has come into my home and robbed my daughter of her innocence. That she embraced the demon to the point of protecting it as I protected her.

I am mad when my addict looks at me in the face and lies to me. I am angry that I can’t suppress the acknowledgement of dishonesty anymore.  The addict I knew was always brutally honest about her problems. Now the addict is talking the talk and I know it.  If I confront it then what… I’ve heard it all…  As I struggle to keep this household solid and drive two hours every chance I get just to say hi, I deserve more than a lie.

It all comes to the surface….  And it isn’t all about my daughter.  Now it’s all coming to the surface. Most of my relationships all end in a pile of lies that I knew were there but chose to ignore. I assume that they’ll cheat on me and that sex is sex and that regardless of where I am or he is that it’s beyond my control… so I focus on controlling myself. I am a control freak over my life.  But it all became extremely real now… I deserve the truth and I am worth more than what I accept from my family, my “friends,” and my relations.  I’m over it. I’m sad…. I’m mad…. I’m angry…. I’m confused… and dammit…. I’m tired. 

I'm tired of accepting being second best or being the buddy...  I'm a good person. I want my daughter to know she is better than talking the talk... we don't do that! Never have.  So notice is given... 

What the?

As I dropped my 18-year old daughter off at a detox facility, I was battling many demons inside of myself, and tried as best I could not to cry in front of her. As the door closed behind me, the daughter I was leaving behind was not the 18-year old who was just arrested for three misdemeanors and one felony drug possession. Was not the daughter that was led out of the house by narcotics investigators and SWAT team members in handcuffs.  The daughter whose beautiful hazel eyes were staring back at me while saying that she was going to be okay, was the five year old girl who held on to the door frame of her Pre-K classroom refusing to go in for the first two weeks and who threw up every day for the first month of school. Those were the same eyes looking back at me. 

This entire episode in our lives has just begun and there are so many various components that have yet to reveal themselves, but the most obvious are those I didn't expect...  Other than the journey of addiction, rehabilitation, relapse, incarceration, and court that she will be facing, she will also face prejudice.. I have no other way to describe it.

The following statements have rattled me more than anything else, frankly because there isn't a family out there who hasn't experienced addiction and all that comes with it... 

• "When is enough money enough for THEM?"
• "She has access to unlimited amounts of cash..."
• "She has so much going for her - you Indians have it made."
• "She's going to have to learn the hard way for once in her life... money isn't going to buy her out of this."
• "She's spoiled... You Seminoles are in trouble..."
• "I knew it... I knew she had it too easy - you should have made her work for what she has."
• "Don't you guys have enough money?"

Prejudice is a direct result of ignorance. I must remember that so that the next person who voices such an opinion doesn't end up with a Size 9 embedded in their face. 

First, let's look at this...  We live in Naples, Florida - one of the most affluent counties east of the Mississippi. We are surrounded by people whose income has come from oil, cable companies, insurance companies, banking, the defense industry... you name it, BUT I have never judged their actions or character based upon what they have in their bank account.  On the flipside... I also have many friends who have absolutely nothing and work hard everyday to find enough money to put clothes on their kids' backs and to keep them fed. I do not judge my friends and I do not care whether they have $5million dollars in cash or debt.

That being said, I have also seen many parents of incredible means bailing their children out of jail and unfortunately I have also witnessed way too many picking out their children's headstones. Their status in society and their bank account did not change their grief.  Their status and bank account did not change their bewilderment when dealing with the cycle of addiction and all that comes with it... the lying, the criminal activity...

Drug addiction is an ill that all of us in America must face, I remind you that I have seen many of your children here at my house. So hug your children and ask questions and open your eyes and deal with it. Don't put it off for another day thinking they'll grow out of it or that it is a phase, like I did... They won't. 

So as I sit back and digest the "Seminole comments" I sit back and pity your ignorance. I also thank you for keeping the fire of my spirit alive during these times. The warrior spirit of our native people cannot die and we are reminded that we live in a society ill-prepared to deal with us on our terms. I refuse to belittle myself or apologize for my daughter. It is what it is and we'll deal with this with our heads held high and the strength of our ancestors. That is why we are rich... we have the blood of warrior people flowing through our veins...  

Travel and Tourism: Building a Strategy to Tell Your Own Story Your Way

TINA MARIE OSCEOLA

KEYNOTE PRESENTATION

December 6, 2011

Intertribal Agriculture Council

Agriculture Summit

Las Vegas, NV

In Indian Country, all discussions relative to economic growth, development, or sustainability should begin with a recognition and commitment from each tribe and each tribal member to the idea and ideal of sovereignty.  Sovereignty is the key to who we have always been, who we are, and to who we can be.

One of the most precious customs that, as Native Americans, we insist be included before the start of any tribal, association, or other Indian meeting, is the traditional prayer from the tribal host.  It is precious because it reminds us that our sovereignty doesn’t come from the federal or state government, but rather comes from The Creator.  The strength provided to us as individuals, and as members of a tribe, or a people, has always come from The Creator.  It is that knowledge that should guide us as we build culturally, economically, and even politically.

If that sounds like a strange way to begin a conversation about travel, tourism, economic growth and development, consider the position from which I speak to you today.  I am a Seminole who for several years has helped build the first nationally accredited tribal museum and worked to advance the position of our tribe both within our boundaries and without.  And, I was also invited today because of my former position as president of AIANTA, the American Indian Alaska Native Tourism Association.

The first thing I tell every tribe, and I tell every Native vendor, is that the value added to everything you do and every thing you show is the story behind it.  The richness of Indian Country is that every tribe has its own unique history, culture, language, tradition, and heritage.  The thing that separates our real treasures from other roadside attractions is the unchanged, natural value of what we offer.  Behind every piece of jewelry, art, music, location, and custom is a story.  A story people from all over the world want and need to hear.

How many of you have tourism attractions on your homelands? 

Have you ever encountered a German Tourist?

Oh man… Let me tell you… I have often joked that they must hand out some sort of special merit badge upon your return to Germany if, as a German, you visit the US and see an Indian….  Or even better… touch one and get a picture of you doing it. You’ve heard of planking or the new one “fridging” it, right??? I think we can start a new trend called “ndn’n it” –This could be another social media phenomenon – get your picture with an ndn!!

On a serious side though, reports have shown that there may be anywhere from 40,000-80,000 American Indian hobbyists in Germany and anywhere from 200-400 Cowboy and Indian Clubs.  Those are Germans who claim to feel native on the inside but are German on the outside. Realistically the majority of the German population are infatuated with the romantic version of the noble Indian portrayed by 19^th Century German author, Karl May, who wrote three major works of fiction about Old Shatterhand and Kinnetou set in the wild wild west… His stories shaped a nation’s consciousness about native people.

The vivid imagery of the American Southwest including the topography and our natural environment and its ecosystems engaged the Germans who in contrast were being surrounded by the suffocating reality of the beginnings of European industrialization. The most interesting aspect of the Karl May story is that he spent most days on the inside of a German jail cell and never set foot on the American continent and never visited our homelands.  YET he moved a nation…  The power of a story.

Over the last several years, AIANTA has presented Indian Country to international audiences at the International Trade Show in Berlin, or ITB – the largest tourism trade show in the world.  Without reservation, I can tell you that the booths that introduce Native American tradition – whether art, music, or just colors – always steal the show.  Our hosts tell us every year, “Please make this bigger; please bring us even more tribes and regions.”  They know what many of us forget: that the value – the value – to Indian Country is our authenticity.  

According to the U.S. Department of Commerce, international visitors to our country spent a record $134.4 billion during 2010. And, Europeans are traveling to the U.S. at an increasing rate because of the attractive currency exchange rate vs. the US dollar. Now is the time to capture your tribe’s share of this huge market by joining AIANTA in Berlin next year.

Putting aside for a moment the ideal that we must valiantly protect and promote our tribal identities, from a strictly marketing standpoint –– our points of distinction in the international marketplace are and will always remain only as valuable as our individual tribal, cultural authenticity.  We cannot be what others want us to be, or to look like.  We have to tell our story honestly.

American Indian culture, history, food, religion, ceremonies, and natural resources have been branded by someone else, whether it be Karl May in Germany, or State Tourism Departments, who use our imagery to promote their states to the international visitors.  Where are Tribes and tribal enterprises?  Native-owned businesses? Our country’s native nations and its travel and tourism industry has a responsibility that no other industry partner shares… EDUCATION.  Taking that one opportunity to educate that one German visitor about who we were, who we are and what our visions for the future are can begin reshaping the global view of our people. BUT native nations have to capture a larger portion of the market share. Simply put, the best way to get someone to value a place, a people or a culture, is to get them out there to experience it for themselves.  We need to get them to our venues to tell them our story our way!

The partnerships with the States is important, but we shouldn’t accept just a seat at the table. The age of rubberstamping is over. We’re proud of those initial efforts but we also absolutely insist that those partnerships be based on our interpretive input, the native story, the cultural context.  Our partners recognize that those terms are, in fact, precisely what brings them the most value.

In fact, I have been studying the industry for quite some time and have been discussing the economic development side of travel and tourism with the National Indian Gaming Association. In fact we will be hosting a roundtable discussion on January 10 and 11 in Hollywood, Florida.  NIGA and the American Indian Business Network will be meeting at the Seminole Hard Rock to move discussions off that roundtable and hopefully into job creation and profits for Tribes, tribal enterprises and native-owned businesses.

I intend on discussing in detail the idea of redefining some of our tribal destinations as their own Destination Marketing Organizations.  Tribes like Navajo Nation, Mohegan, Shakopee, Tulalip to name just a few are so critical to their surrounding local communities and states, why should they be a part of someone else’s strategic plan or movement?  Tribes can be their own and those “token seats” can be offered to the states, counties or those who can afford to buy in.  It goes back to the way I was raised… I wasn’t raised to be competitive. I was raised that survival meant being out in front and at times blazing my own trail.  Taking the existing path and keeping up with the competition does not guarantee true success because that path was predetermined by someone else.

So, I come to you today to tell you to always lead with your own tribal story.  Never leave your definition to others.  And, the best way to tell your own tribal story is through tourism.  The key to protecting and promoting your sovereignty is through inviting more people learning your story, through visits, through books, your food, movies, the Internet.  The authentic story is what defines you, interests others, protects and promotes your rights, and if properly developed, will bring you tourists and jobs.  Yes.  Tourism will bring you money and jobs.  And, the key to bringing those dollars and those jobs begins with your own story.  Start there.

Although, I am no longer associated with the American Indian Alaska Native Tourism Association, I urge you to support their organization and to attend their next annual conference, hosted by the Crow Tribe in Billings, MT, next September. Personally, I can’t wait!