Whisper n Thunder

The Whisper of Native American stories, the Thunder of stories that demand to be told.

Of Cardboard & Genocide

Of Cardboard and Genocide

~ Orannhawk ~

In 2007, I accepted an invitation to be a participating artist with a California interactive art exhibit. I was intrigued with the initial concepts of creating art to accompany the stories of local Native people. I felt privileged to be a part of the interviews for the space that I was working on and more than that, honored to call these men friends. Our friendship grew into extended familial bonds and my work with them continues in our advocacy and activism for our people.

Although each story is as different and unique as the individuals who shared

them, the underlying theme is the same: the dignity and inherent rights of Native people and the continuous acts of cultural genocide committed against all Indigenous peoples.

As I listened to the stories, images came to mind, ideas began to form and my notebook filled with small sketches, notations, measurements and supply lists. I sat in silence and I sat in prayer to Creator. My first challenge was to convey these memories, these stories and to do so in a good way, in an honorable way with my art. My second challenge was to create a visual and tactile impact for the visitors who are not aware of the stories that are Indian Country. Ok … better said, I wanted to combine art with a little shock value to get the point across. When it came time to make the music selections to integrate with the interviews and my art, I had several pieces in mind. For the beginning piece, I went straight to the point with the Robbie Robinson song In the Blood …"Welcome to my country, welcome to my home."

In the initial discussions with the director of the show, one of my creations would be to transform a bland white wall into a three dimensional rock wall. There were no doubts on how I would create the wall; I had already seen the result in my mind. The morning that I began constructing the 'rock' wall, it was more than evident that I was the only one who was visualizing the result. As an artist, I am frequently at a loss on how to explain how I go from point A to point Z. Simply put, I wait until it begins to flow from my fingertips, I am at one with myself, and Creator and all things in-between become a congruent blend. I sat in silence; I sat with Creator.

After that, I sat in the floor and ripped apart cardboard crates from the local furniture store. To most, it likely had no rhyme or reason, no apparent scheme, just random chunks of bent, folded, crumpled, dented, stomped and torn cardboard, layered and stapled onto the wall surface. I found pleasure and comfort in the cardboard. My Dad loved cardboard. He was a mechanic and owned his own shop, where the floors were so clean you could eat off them. There was always an abundance of appliance or furniture boxes, carefully cut apart into sheets, that he would slide under the cars or trucks to catch any spills of oil and grease. He used cardboard for everything and then some. My Mom lovingly called him the 'cardboard kid.' He was on my mind a lot as I created the wall and then a massive faux replica of one of the Sacred rocks in the Bay Area. It has been five years since my Dad moved to the other side; but I remember thinking how amused he would have been as I sat in the midst of all that cardboard.

I spent days molding and smooshing with techniques that I have used before to form the realistic curves and shapes of rock, then washes of paint, and then the additions of natural components to enhance the creation. I find it pleasing to take ordinary things like cardboard and re-purpose them into something unexpected and beautiful.

At some point during the process of creating the wall and stone structures, I realized that this is what mainstream society has attempted to do to The People for decades. This is a part of the stories told throughout all the Nations, of taking and molding and manipulating the original to reform and transform it so that it is not openly apparent what its origin was. It is nothing short of colonialist genocide.

Steal the children from their homes, from their families; take away our religion, culture, language, and identity. Mold them into cardboard replicas, perceptions made by ignorant, egotistical individuals who deem themselves more evolved than the Indigenous people. Steal the remains of the Ancestors and their personal belongings to "study" them, hold them hostage from the peaceful rest that is rightfully theirs. Steal our culture and rename it, then charge exorbitant fees for some ridiculous farce of so-called "spirituality." Steal the land, cover it with concrete, rip, tear it apart, and expose us to uranium and a host of other toxins. Steal the land with your treaties and false promises. Steal the future of the children who dance into the haze of alcohol and meth because they cannot see another way out of the dismal existence perpetrated by the poverty on the Rez or in the middle of the city where the heartbeat, the drumming is often too subtle to hear. Stealing without any accountability.

The exhibit was a success and I often think back on the fact that the majority of the visitors came back to the space repeatedly, drawn back to the images and the interviews. It was clear to see that it affected them, it made them stop and think about the remains of the Ancestors, so callously collected and held hostage at UC Berkeley. I saw their tears when they stood in front of the life size replica of a Native child and the impact of the stories told of the boarding schools, eloquently shared by the sons of the victimized. I saw the surprise at the examples of misappropriation of Native images for mainstream retail glut and sports caricatures. I watched as each of the parts of the exhibit were studied, the images weaving into the stories of the interviews and I was encouraged as well as skeptical.

Despite seeing the interest in the exhibit and the stories shared there, a distinctive thread remained, one that I have experienced at protest marches, rally's and other events for Indian Country. For many, the interest and the support of the issues lasted only as long as the event. Sadly, in the minds of much of mainstream America, we are as disposable as the cardboard used to create the faux wall and rocks in the exhibit.

As the exhibition ended, I found myself compelled to tell more of the stories, to push past subtlety and create with the conviction that these voices will be heard and seen in my art and my writing. It is vital for us all to persist in what we do for Indian Country, to advocate for human and civil rights as Native people, through our words, our art, our passion, our dreams, and our very existence.

The cultural genocide continues. Steal it, and we will take it back. Perhaps only one piece at a time, but we will take it back. After all … WE ARE STILL HERE.

In honor of my Dad aka the "cardboard kid" 1926 -2006

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