Smoke Signals
Native journalist -shares -personal
experiences 'through writing1.
6
Bring a diverse group of people
together to talk about race and
you might get a rainbow of reac
tions. Bring a group of journal
ists together to talk shop and you
might get standard reactions to
. professional practices. But what
happens When you bring a di
verse group of journalists to
gether to talk about how race
affects their profession?
Last month, 18 journalists
found out at the. Poynter Insti
tute for Media Studies.
Newspaper and TV journalists
from around the country and
even one from Sweden met in St.
Petersburg, Florida for the "Cov
ering Race in Your Community"
seminar. .
A broad mix of African, Asian,
European, Latino and Native
American reporters, editors and
producers participated in the
week-long seminar.
'" Participants grappled with
professional issues such as dif
ferent ways to report on race re
lations; recognizing when race is
embedded in seemingly innocent
news stories; and how to avoid
perpetuating racial stereotypes
in the media. This was expected.
However, what may have
caught many participants off
guard was the way they and oth
ers explored and exposed their
own personal experiences of race
and racism. Many of these
thoughts and experiences were
expressed in individual essays
that were read aloud on the last
day.
On that day many people's
guards were down. Honesty and
frankness prevailed.
As some read, their voices
cracked. Tears were shed.
"Tending the Fire" is a personal
essay written by Rob McDonald.
After he read his essay to the
group, he asked that it be shared
with as many people as possible.
Rob is a Nez Perce Indian from
Montana's Flathead reservation.
He now works as a reporter for
the Spokesman Review in Spo
kane, Washington.
He said it was important for
people to hear his story because
when racism is talked about the
Indian perspective is rarely
heard. He gave Smoke Signals
permission to print it.
Tending tCi-e E
I clench my teeth, my upper lip
sneers, the throat tightens and I
say, "What is this?" ..
Just moments before, as I sat at
my messy desk in a cluttered news
paper office, I had been relishing
the quietness. During the early
evenings at' my afternoon paper,
everyone, clears put.' This was my
time to paint with words. Then I
heard quick footsteps and a police
scanner.
Dawson walks quickly. Short,
dark hair, cop reporter, new friend.
He started a few months ago.
As he whisks by, 1 look up.
"Hey," he said, and flicks some
thing at me. Maybe a bottle cap,
or a mini Frisbee like the -one we'd
tossed around in the office the
other night. It sails toward me,
bounces off my .hand and when I
reach for it on the carpet, I see it's
a wooden Coin. And on one side is
a classic Indian silhouette with a
full headdress. A local record store
hands them out, wooden nickels.
Collect 10 and save $5 on your
next purchase. An Indian-head
coin. Might as well hand me a
wooden Indian from a cigar store.
.All I see is fire.
Dawson, new friend, Cleveland
Indians fan the guy with a pin
of Chief Wahoo on his desk
flicked this at me. We talked about
the mascot for his favorite major
league baseball team the other
day. He asked me if the goofy grin
of Chief Wahoo bothered me.
"Not as much as the Tomahawk
chop, or the Hollywood Indian
chants or the -
He nods and says nothing as I
go on. This coin in my hand is one
of the daily reminders - it's OK
to belittle Indians, hone are alive
anyway. I think of the Indian
journalism party line on mascots
cartoonish images led to de
struction of Indians historically,
and today continues to discredit an
Indian perspective.
1 I'm so tired of the mascot issue.
Braves, .Wahoo, Chief Illahee,
Blackhawks, Kansas City Chiefs,
Redskins. I hate talking about this
issue. This year I didn't.
While a pennant race raged, I
stayed quiet. For the past three
years, I would walk over to the copy
desk or sports desk and explain why
this mascot is offensive to the Na
tive American population. Each
year, they'd run it, but only in low
profile. This year I stay quiet. My
payoff, I see the grinning idiot on
Page 1, above the fold.. I don't act
this time. Maybe I'm a little gun shy
because of what happened last time.
It started when the sports guys
had an interesting story to write.
Two high school, football teams'
battled for honor, a classic rivalry,
Southside Raiders and the Northside
Redskins. At stake, a wooden to- .
tern pole dating back 65 years, and
for each year, a little tin tomahawk
engraved with the victor's name dan
gling down, I'd like to see the Saints
use a stature of Jesus with little en
graved crosses.
I guess I made the staff nervous
when I picked up the totem pole set
ting in their midst and held it up over
my shoulder like Sammy Sousa
standing over homeplate. I asked
them if they think it'd work as a bat.
Nervous chuckles. But I'm hot; I
smell my smoke.
Oh, the Indian guy's mad now, I
imagine them thinking. And I'm
feeding off it.. Feeding because I
know they feel guilty, they know
this is. wrong, but they won't do a
damn thing about it that's the job
they leave for me. So I take action.
I hold the totem in one hand and '
set back on the table. I look for the
sports guy, he needs to know waal's
at stake in this story about high
school rivalries.
But I come across the Northside
team captain who just walked in.
He's standing around waiting for a
photographer to take his picture. I
say hi, get his name, chat a bit and
ask him what he knows about this
totem thing.
He. explains it, helping me with in
formation I'll need to make an im
pression on the reporter. But the
reporter has already seen me; he's
been watching the scene. He walks
up quickly, grabs the athlete and
totem and zips out to the photo stu
dio. I don't see either again that
night. Odd, I think.
The next morning, I find out just
how odd as my editor calls me into
his office, and shuts the door.
He rubs his face, leans forward
and almost whispers, "what did you
do last night?"
I felt blood running from my face.
"The sports guys say you were ha
rassing a high school kid about the
mascot. The executive editor wants
you suspended immediately."
't. The blood floods my face. My ears
could bum a little on a slice of Won
der bread. The editor holds uJ his
hand, "I told them that if they did
that, you'd quit on the spot. So tell
me, what happened."
I tell my story. I guess it was a
draw, now clear decision here. The
sports guy and I are asked to sit and
talk over pizza, which we do.
: We talk politely and we never talk
again.
But Dawson had been talking to -the
sports guys lately, quite a bit, in
fact. I overheard just the other day
that Dawson had dinner at a sports
guy's place last night. They prob
ably talked about n;-.vrccr.i politics,
battles and taboos.
I roll that wooden nickel over .in
my hand, over and over. I hear a
heartbeat in my ears, a drumbeat
in my chest, it says take action, don't
take this. Afire inside blasts my face,"
rry chest, ray thoughts.
My memories roll: the gas station
clerk who'd ask for three forms of
I.D. from my dzi to cash a check and
then called bin a good Joe.
Fcr the urivcrsity newspapers tbit
ran photo essays On drunk Indi
' ans fighting outside bars.
For the editor who said, "I know
your people and their problems
with alcohol, and you seem to have
a problem too."
And those government creeps
who progressed through the years
from kill the Indian, to kill the cul
ture and family, to kill the r eser-
vation, to kill tribal government.
To thousands of fans who sing
along in the stadiums, the Holly
wood Indian song, Whoo, Ooooo
hoo hoo. Hoo hooo, ooo hoo hooo.
The same government that
names towns after butchered In
dians and puts their heads on
coins, like the one in my hand, like
the one I'm holding up in my right
hand, facing Dawson, the one he's
staring at, the one about to go up
- in flames in my fingers.
And I say, "WHAT IS THIS!"
I know he's picking a fight with
me, he's discovered a soft spot and
he's antagonizing mc, I'd be a. fool
to respond, but I do. I must. It
stops here!
He looks at me, pure confusion
on his face.. .
.. "I thought you bought your CD3 .
at Wooden Nickel and could use it."
That's it. My embarrassment
douses the flame.
"Just chill out, alright," he says,
walking by to write about that
night's crime. And it's quiet ein.
Just me and my terminal and my
naked embarrassment. My fingers
grow chilled. I can't writa let alone
think. . I toes the nickel away. My
psyche's been hit by a train, my
train. And I'm used up. At least
. for the rest of the night, I've got
nothing left to burn.
I flip on the radio, talk radio
"The Cleveland Indians blah
blah blah ... Now these, messages
blah blah blah ... in the news, an
Apache helicopter crashed tonight
... bhh. Eh Elah."
I'm so tired.