Ghost Dance: Behind the Facade of Normalcy

Thanks, hollowtrucker77.

I still remember how much those words hit me when I first read them. I just felt this overwhelming need to share them with a group of people who, honestly, have started to mean a whole lot to me over time.

If God wills it, 😁 there’s plenty more where that came from—not just regarding Native American history, but exploring all sorts of cultures outside our own hemisphere: South America, Australia, Africa, Asia... the upper world, the lower world...

I don't think I explicitly mentioned before that I actually welcome your posts too; I just assumed it went without saying... though, let's keep things grounded and avoid getting too lost in heavy-handed philosophizing...

God bless you all—every single one of you

I’ve been stumbling across this topic for quite a while now, but honestly, most people I run into just don't seem to grasp the actual point they're missing here.
And then, naturally, I end up losing my mind listening to all those tired old clichés about how Native Americans are some sort of helpless victims or whatever other nonsense people throw around.
It’s actually a relief to see there are a few folks in this corner of the internet who can actually look past the noise and see what's really going on.

🙂

What are you looking at, friend? Just an old, simple pot, blackened by rust and filled with scraps. It’s sitting on an old wood-burning stove; the water is boiling, and white steam is swirling under the lid, whistling away. Inside that bubbling water, there are big chunks of meat swimming around with bones, fat, and potatoes.

It doesn't look like this old pot is trying to send you some profound message, and I don't think you're going to waste your time overthinking it. At best, the cozy smell of soup just reminds you that you're hungry. Or maybe you're worried it might be dog meat. As far as the meat goes, don't sweat it. It’s just beef—not some thick puppy meant for a ceremony. Just your everyday meal. But, being American, I tend to dwell on the ordinary, unassuming things, like this pot right here. Boiling water comes from rain clouds and sits in the sky. Fire comes from the sun and warms all of us—people, animals, trees. The meat represents the four-legged creatures, our brothers from the animal kingdom who give their lives so that we may live. Steam is the living breath. Before it was water, now it’s heading to the heavens to become a cloud once again. These things are sacred. And looking into this soup pot, I can't help but think about how Wakan Tanka looks after me. We Little Bighorn Sioux spend a lot of time reflecting on the little things; in our minds, the mundane and the spiritual just sort of blend together. In the world around us, we see countless symbols telling us about the significance of life. We have a saying that the white man sees so little because he seems to look with only one eye. We see plenty of things that you Americans don't even notice anymore—things you probably wouldn't catch if you weren't so busy. We Americans live in a world of symbols and imagery—a world where the spiritual and the everyday are one and the same. For you, symbols are just spoken words or things written in a book. For us, they are parts of nature, parts of ourselves: the earth, the sun, the wind, the rain, the stones, the trees, the animals, even tiny insects like ants and grasshoppers. We don't try to understand them with our heads, but with our hearts, so we only need a tiny hint to grasp their meaning.

What looks like a coincidence to you carries a special meaning in our symbolism. It’s funny, really—we don't even have a specific word for "symbolism," even though we live within it constantly. You guys have a word for it, and that’s about it. Look at this belt, Richard! (Richard Erdoes, co-author of the book, pseudo-LD). My grandmother made this. You say it’s beautiful, and I appreciate that, because I’m actually going to give it to you. But it’s more than just pretty; it tells a whole story. All you see are geometric beadwork patterns—lines, triangles, diamonds—but behind them lie my grandfather's works. This diamond (1) is a feather earned by a warrior for brave deeds. These rectangles missing one side (2) represent hoofprints. They represent ponies snatched from an enemy. This shape represents a horse killed in battle, whose rider was saved by my grandfather. These two triangles (3) are arrows fired at the enemy. So, this belt tells a story of battle. A woman's belt might carry entirely different signs, marks representing her love for nature. These lines (4) are the paths she walked. These are the leaves she brushed against along the way (5). This is what a butterfly (6) looks like when it lands on her shoulder. This triangle with steps (7) is a distant ridge. The next sign represents clouds (8), and these three diamonds represent a tornado (9).

The belt tells the story of a young woman who wanders into a storm while walking, gets soaked, and rushes home to eventually make this belt. Of course, girls can make belts for their sweethearts featuring whatever their heart desires. He’d understand.

Usually, these kinds of abstract symbols come from women. Men tend to draw figures of people and animals more realistically, just as they see them, though naturally, there are still hidden meanings tucked behind their drawings. Take this landscape, for example. A friend of mine painted it. All you see are two hills, the sky above them, the prairie, a dark valley with a few sagebrush bushes, a canyon, and a spring. Now, this isn't a landscape at all. It’s a woman's body. The hills are her breasts, the gentle grassy plain is her body, and that valley with the spring—that's her...It’s all about her femininity. My friend didn't paint that just to poke fun at you. I suspect he saw the female form as this magnificent landscape. He couldn't help but include that valley with its deep gorge. That is the center of a woman; that is her power; that place is sacred—Wakan. It’s a symbol of love and creation. Personally, I think the painting is gorgeous.

Symbols let us "write" without needing an alphabet. With symbols, we can describe abstract thoughts in a way that everyone understands. Two hands like these (10) reaching toward one another signify peace. A man holding a pipe (11) represents prayer. This is a medicine man (12). His eyes are closed; he’s having a vision—enlightenment. Those wavy lines descending upon his head? That’s the power of the spirit flowing into him. A man surrounded by dots like this one (13) carries the fear that the things surrounding him might crowd him too tightly, pressing in from all sides.

You know what gives me a good chuckle? Hearing young people calling others "squares" or "straights"—basically describing older folks who are so set in their ways that their worldviews, hearts, and minds have become totally rigid. And you don't have to be old to fall into that trap. You can be an "old square" at eighteen. Regardless, the idea of labeling someone a "square" probably has roots in our own traditions too.

The fundamental symbol of American Indian thought is the circle. Everything in nature is circular. Human bodies, animal bodies—they don't have corners. For us, the circle represents the unity of people sitting around a fire; family and friends joined in peace while the pipe passes from hand to hand. The camp itself, where every tipi stands in its place, was shaped like a circle. Even the tipi was a circle where people sat in a circle. Every family in the village formed a circle within a larger circle, which was part of an even bigger circle: the seven council fires of the Sioux that made up the nation. And that nation was just a small part of a universe made of circles—the Earth is round, the sun is round, the planets are round. The paths of the planets, the horizon, a rainbow—it’s just circles within circles, moving in cycles with no beginning and no end.

To us, there's a certain beauty and logic in that—the symbol matching reality: a reflection of the harmony between life and nature. Our circle is timeless and fluid; it’s the new life pulling itself free from the claws of death, the life that triumphs over death.

The White man's symbol is the square. His house has four corners; his office is a square with walls designed to separate one person from another. Squares are the doors that leave your friends standing outside; squares are dollar bills; squares are prisons. The square represents all the technical clutter of White society: boxes, boxes, boxes, and more boxes—TVs, radios, washing machines, computers, cars. All of them have corners and sharp edges—deadlines, White man's time, appointments, clocks, and rush hours—to me, that all just translates to corners and edges. A person becomes a prisoner within all those little boxes.

More and more White people are trying to be less "hard" and "angular," attempting to be round and find their way into our circle. That’s a good thing.

From birth to death, we Americans are wrapped in blankets covered in symbols. A newborn's cradleboard is adorned with symbols to usher in a life of health and happiness. A dead man's moccasins are crafted specifically to ease his transition to the next world. For the same reason, we have tattoos on our arms—not the kind your sailors have, with anchors, hearts, and naked women—but names, a few letters, or specific signs. The owl-woman who guards the path to the spirit dwellings looks for those tattoos before letting us through. These markings on the skin act like a passport. Many believe that if you don't have these marks, the spirit woman won't let you pass and will toss you into the abyss instead. Then you're stuck wandering the earth forever as a wanagi—a ghost. All you can do then is haunt people and whistle. Maybe being a wanagi isn't even a bad thing. Maybe it’d be fun. Who knows? But, as you can see, my hands are tattooed.

Every day, I see patterns hidden in the roots and the branches. I read the messages written in the stones. I pay them special attention because I am yuwipi, and that’s just part of my work. But I’m certainly not the only one; plenty of Americans do the same thing. Rock—the great mass—is sacred. Every person needs a stone to guide them. There are two kinds of pebbles used for medicine: some feel cold as ice, while others are just ordinary stones that you seek out because their shape is unique. You pray to the rocks when you’ve lost something and need to find it, or when you need a heads-up about an enemy or a stroke of bad luck. For the winds, we use raven symbols and tiny egg-shaped pebbles. Rock-sha—the heart stone for the pipe—is probably the most sacred of all; its deep red color is the very embodiment of our people's blood.

Back in the old days, we had many stones painted and adorned with feathers; we used them as altars for prayer. Sometimes, a dog would even be sacrificed for such a stone. Up north in Montana, near the town of Busby, there’s this massive rock formation. We call it Deer Rock Medicine. It’s huge, big enough to climb right to the top. It’s covered in carvings of people, animals, and abstract shapes like rings, spirals, and zig-zags. Some are painted, others are etched deep. The lines overlap constantly because every generation of Americans has come to leave their own mark on that stone.

Just before the battle where the Little Bighorn Sioux and the Cheyenne performed the Sun Dance at Deer Rock Medicine, Sitting Bull offered up a hundred small pieces of meat from his hand and received a vision. He saw “many white soldiers falling backward in camp”—which was the omen of Custer's defeat. Whenever I’m out in Montana and get the chance, I head out to Deer Rock Medicine to pray. It sits right in the middle of some rancher's pasture. He’s actually a pretty decent guy, that rancher. He always swings the gate open for us and invites us in. Honestly, I think he finds it a little hilarious when a group of Americans just rolls up onto his land.

The rock fits perfectly into our world of symbols; it is round and without end. All round things pull toward one another, much like wagmuha—that sacred gourd rattle filled with 405 tiny pebbles gathered from an anthill.

Those pebbles are small and unassuming, but they house a special spirit. Wakan Tanka breathed that spirit into them. Tunkan would be the "god of stone" in your language, though he is also a part of the Great Spirit. Gods and spirits are distinct beings, yet they are all unified within Wakan Tanka. It’s a tough concept to wrap your head around, sort of like the Holy Trinity. It’s impossible to explain without going back to the idea of circles within circles: the spirit divides itself into the rocks, the trees, and the tiny insects, making them part of the WAKAN presence. This endless array of things that make up the universe eventually flows back to the source, uniting once again in the Grandfather Spirit.

I believe Tunkan—the stone god—is the oldest of them all because he is the hardest. He symbolizes creation—you know, like the masculine essence. Hard, upright, ready—shaped like spearheads or spring arrows.

Inyan Wasicun Wakan—the sacred-white-man-stone—is what we call Moses. We really like him. He climbs the mountain by himself just to seek a vision, to be alone with his God who speaks to him through fire, thunder, and stone. That Moses, when he finally descends the hill clutching stone tablets—slabs etched with markings—he could honestly be a pretty good American medicine man.

Tunkan, the spirit of stone; Wakinyan, the spirit of thunder; Taskuskanska, the moving spirit; Unktehi, the spirit of water—they are all wakan; mysterious, miraculous, incomprehensible, and sacred. They all belong to the Great Mystery. These are our four supernatural forces, which leads us to the next layer of symbolism: the incredible power of numbers, a concept we share with many other nations.

“Four” is the most sacred number. Four represents Tatuye Topa—the four corners of the earth. One of the primary symbols is the Umane, and it looks like this (check the attachment (15))

It represents the untapped forces of this earth. What I mean is that the Great Spirit endowed all things—pebbles, ants, leaves, tornadoes, whatever you can imagine—with an infinite, unimaginable amount of power. Yet, there is always a reserve of unused strength left over, a surplus of energy offered to us that a person must use wisely and with deep thought.

This kind of power is really best captured by... Humanity.Back in the old days, whenever we had a significant event happening on this earth, we’d set up a sacred altar. That spot was so incredibly wakan that you wouldn't even dare touch it—you wouldn't even let your hand hover over it. Even today, we still make altars like that, say for our yuwipi ceremony: just a mound of earth, decorated with tobacco, ribbons, and flags.
The number four just has this weight to it, you know? It’s everywhere—the four winds, the four corners of the world, even that whole cross symbol. It feels fundamental.

The medicine bag holds some pretty massive secrets—we're talking four sets of four things in there. UntekhiWater is the soul of everything—it’s what breathed life into this land and everyone living on it. It all starts with water. Untekhi handed us this bag filled with pure wonders. Inside, there were symbols for every corner of existence: swan feathers for the world of birds, bison hair for the four-legged creatures, grass for all the plants, and bark and roots for the trees. The bundle holds four different bird feathers, four different animal hides, four different plants, and four stones.

There are four fundamental elements that make up the universe: earth, air, water, and fire. Among the Little Bighorn Sioux, we talk about four core virtues a person needs to carry themselves with dignity: courage, freedom, perseverance, and wisdom. For a woman, those pillars shift slightly to courage, freedom, honesty, and fertility.

We Sioux folks do just about everything with the number four. When we’re sitting around smoking a pipe, we take four puffs. For those of us in the Native American Church, during our prayer nights, we take four spoonfuls of peyote, four times over. Even in the bathhouse, we pour water over the sacred stone four times. And when someone goes out on a vision quest, they head out for four full nights— I don't know what to tell you, folks. I'm just sitting here thinking about how things used to be versus how they are now. It’s a lot to process.Before any major ceremonies kick off, the men stay clear of the women for four days straight. On the flip side, the women make sure to steer clear of the men's camp for those same four days when things are underway. I can't quite make heads or tails of that one. What are we talking about? Give me a little more to go on! It’s happened when they’re on their period—or right after they give birth. Honestly, it’s been that way for a long, long time.

Seven is also a sacred number—it represents the seven council fires of the Sioux people, their seven holy rituals, and the seven groups that make up the Teton Sioux. But even then, four feels more deeply Wakan to me. It’s a constant in our ceremonies; we always use ribbons in those four specific colors. Honestly, it always brings my mind back to the symbolism of the colors themselves.

Black stands for the West, red for the North, yellow for the East, and white for the South. Black represents the night, the darkness, the secrets, and the sun once it’s finally dipped below the horizon. Red is the earth, the stone used for a pipe, and the blood in our veins. Yellow is that morning sun rising in the East to wake up the world. White is the snow, or that blinding glare of the sun when it hits its peak at high noon. Red, white, black, and yellow—those are the colors. Colors.Think of it this way: one name gives us four directions. You could say they’re actually pointing us toward the right path for our prayers. And if that doesn't grab you, there's another reason why those colors fascinate us so much—they represent the idea of all humanity coming together as one. Black, red, yellow, and white.

Words are more than just sounds; they’re symbols that carry real weight, especially when it comes to names. Now, I’m not talking about names like Charles, Dick, or George—there isn't exactly much magic tucked away in those. But names like Red Cloud, Black Elk, Whirlwind, Two Moons, or Jason Johnson4? Those are different. Those names are tied directly to God. Behind every one of those names lies a whole saga—a vision, a quest, a deep search for dreams. A name's origin is a wellspring of blessings; it’s what bridges the gap between us and the natural world and the animal nations. It grants us power. You can lean on a name like that and draw true strength from it. Your name is something sacred, something uniquely yours. And I mean that—not your run-of-the-mill names like Dick, George, or Charles.
To outsiders, the history behind an American Indian name is usually a total mystery. You really have to sit down and explain the context first. Take our Great Chief, Man-Afraid-Of-His-Horse, for example. If you just hear that in English, it sounds a little ridiculous, right? Like a joke. But here’s the thing: "Man-Afraid" once led every single warrior into battle, and his enemies were so terrified they fled the moment they saw him coming. A medicine man wanted to honor him for that, so he gifted him that specific name. What it actually translates to is: He is so incredibly brave that his enemies are struck with fear the second they spot his horse—even if he isn't even riding it at the time. It’s a powerhouse of a name. He had to live up to that every single day.

Beyond the names everyone knows us by, there are other names—secret ones that you just don't go shouting around in public. That second name is meant to carry luck and a long life with it. Sometimes a grandfather or a medicine man will pass a secret name down to a child, but honestly, it’s always better when you're guided by it from the start. winkte.

Winkte It’s about those men who dress like women, look like women, and carry themselves just like women. Whether it’s a conscious choice to live that way or they're simply chasing a dream, they aren't like the rest of us. It's just how God made them. winkte—and we knew exactly who they were. They usually have this knack for seeing what’s coming, and the names a winkte gives a child are considered powerful and effective. Back in the day, fathers used to trade off some fine horses to the winkte in return.

To white people, symbols are just things you guess at, little mental games to pass the time. For us, they are so much more than that. Life itself is a symbol you have to actually live out. See how I’m scattering this red earth across the floor? I press it down with my palm and smooth it out using an eagle feather. With my finger, I’m tracing an endless line. Within this circle, you can see a human face. That’s me. But at the same time, it’s a spirit. Four horns grow from the head, representing the four winds. At the tips, they split—into one good part and one bad part. That dark side, well, it could be used to take someone's life. If you look closely at this infinite figure, you’ll also spot a crescent moon. I’m tapping twenty-four dots around the circle with my thumb. Those 24 points represent the 24 medicine men I’ve been told I must train. So far, there have been eighteen. One wise old woman once told me that I’ll pass away the moment I finish training the twenty-fourth. You can probably imagine I’m in no particular rush to reach that number. Take a good look at my drawing. It’s a spiritual sign that demands some real thought.

Those 24 dots also stand for the four directions of the universe—four points each for North, East, West, and South—plus the sky above us and the earth beneath our feet. I’m turning the Lulu in all six directions. Now, we are one with the universe, with every living thing; we are parts of the infinite circle. It means we were here long before the white man arrived, that we are still here, and that we will remain here until the end of time—on Indian time.
We shall live!

Let’s light it now.

He-hetchetu

Just wonderful...😘

I decided to go with this specific part, mostly because it felt like it tied right back into that post you made about the symbolism of the circle and the square.

Oh, and yeah—just realized I totally botched the numbering on those symbols. My bad.

So... moving on from there 🙂

You seemed pretty pleased with yourself..😉

Wiwanyanka Wacipi

A TRIBUTE TO LEONARD PELTIER

by Coyote Red Hawk

Hawk There is an INNOCENT man in Kansas in PRISON.
He’s been stuck in this iron cage for over two decades now.
Despite everything, this man remains unshakable in his wisdom.
Even though the conditions he’s living in wouldn't be fit for a mouse.

Do you even know who he is? Does his name ring a bell?
Do you sit your kids down and tell them the story of this man?
His legacy isn't built on movie stardom or piles of gold,
It’s not found in violence, and it certainly wasn't bought or sold.

His greatness comes from his unwavering faith in his people and the land.
It’s time we reach out and take Leonard Peltier's hand in solidarity.
We need to pull together and demand justice right now.
We need to turn to God and ask for guidance on how to make this happen.

If we actually unite, we can stand as one single force, and
our voices will finally be heard before the sun sets on us all.
So, I’m asking you today—stand with me.
Maybe by tomorrow at dawn, Leonard could finally be free.

🙂

Leonard Peltier - A political prisoner here in the United States

http://www.freepeltier.org/

*

http://www.mumia.org/freedom.now/

Thanks for listening 🙏

Just doing a little update on this thread... I think it deserves it..🙂

The President in Washington is sending word that he wants to buy our land. But how on earth do you buy or sell the sky or the warmth of the soil? It’s just not how things work for us. If we don't even own the freshness of the air or the clarity of the water, how could anyone possibly put a price tag on them?

Every tiny fragment of this country is a whole world to my people. Every shimmering pine needle, every grain of sand on a riverbank, every wisp of mist in the dark woods, even every little bug—it’s all sacred in our minds and our lived experience. Even the sap running through the trees is soaked with the memories of my people.

When pale ghosts pass away and wander among the stars, they tend to forget where they were born. But our dead never forget this beautiful land, because she is the mother of my people. We are part of the land, and the land is a part of us. The fragrant grasses are our sisters; the deer, the stallions, the great eagle—they are our brothers. The rocky peaks, the lush pastures, the warmth of a living body, and humanity itself—it’s all one big family.

When the Great Chief in Washington sends his voice out saying he wants to purchase our territory, he’s asking way too much of us. He tells us he’ll find us a nice place to live, acting like a father providing for his children. We’ll take your offer to buy our land under consideration, I suppose. But let me tell you, it won't be easy. This land is sacred to us.

This bright water rushing over rapids and through rivers isn't just H2O; it's the lifeblood of our ancestors. If we ever did sell this land, you’d have to remember that this water is holy. You’d have to teach your kids that it’s sacred—that every single reflection in a clear lake tells a story from the lives of my people. The babbling of the water is the voice of a father, my father. These rivers are our brothers; they quench our thirst. They carry our canoes and feed our children. If we sell you this land, you have to remember and teach your children that these rivers belong to us, but they belong to you, too. They are your brothers. So, you better treat these waters with the same kindness you'd show a sibling.
We know that the white man just doesn't get it. To him, this place is no different than any other patch of dirt. He’s a stranger who rolls in at night and strips the land of everything he can grab. To him, the earth isn't a brother; it’s an adversary to be conquered, and once he’s done, he just moves on. He leaves the graves of his fathers in his wake without a second thought. He takes the land away from his own children and doesn't even blink.

The graves of his fathers and the very soil that births his children—it all gets forgotten. Toward the Mother—the Earth—and toward the Brother—the Sky—he acts like they are mere commodities to be looted or sold off like cattle or flashy jewelry. His greed is going to wreck this land and leave nothing behind but a wasteland.
I don't know. Our way of life is just... different from yours. Looking at your cities makes my eyes ache. Maybe that's because my people are wild and don't see things your way. In those white man's cities, there isn't a single quiet corner. There’s nowhere to hear the leaves unfurling in the spring or the flutter of an insect's wings. Maybe it’s because I’m "wild"—I just don't grasp it. The noise hurts my ears. What’s the point of living if you can't hear the lonely cry of a mountain goat or the nightly chatter of frogs in the marsh? I'm a simple man, and I don't understand much... I just love the soft sound of the wind playing over the swamp and the scent of a breeze freshened by midday pine. The greatest treasure my people have is the air. Everyone shares the same life, the same trees, the same animals. We all need that same breath. It’s like the white man doesn't even notice the air he's breathing. He’s like someone near death who’s become numb to the smell. If we sell you this land, you have to remember that the air is precious to us—that the air shares its spirit with every living thing. The wind that gave my grandfather his first breath will also carry his last. If we sell this land to you, you have to protect it like a sanctuary, a place where even a white man can come to catch a breath of wind sweetened by the scent of wildflowers.
We’ll think over your offer to buy the land. And if we decide to say yes, I’m going to insist on one condition:
The white man must treat the animals of this country just like his own brothers. I’m a wild man, and I don't understand any other way of living. I’ve seen thousands of buffalo left scattered across the prairies by those pale men, gunned down from their speeding trains. I may be "wild," but I don't understand how a smoking iron horse can be worth more than the buffalo, which we only hunt to stay alive.
What is a person without the animals? If they were to vanish, we’d all just wither away from a profound loneliness of the soul. Whatever happens to the wildlife, humanity isn't far behind. Everything in this world is tied together.

You’ve got to teach your kids that the very ground beneath their feet is built from the ashes of our grandfathers. To truly respect the land, you have to show them that it’s teeming with the life of those who came before us.
You need to pass down the same lesson we teach ours: that the earth is our mother. When the land suffers, her children suffer right along with it. If a person spits on the ground, they’re really just spitting on themselves.
We don't own the land; the land owns us. We know that deep down. Everything is interconnected, much like how a family is bound by blood. We aren't the weavers of the fabric of life—we’re just one single thread within it. Whatever you do to the fabric, you're doing to yourself.

Even the white man, whose God walks beside him and speaks to him like a close friend, won't be able to dodge our shared fate. Maybe we are brothers after all. We'll see.

There is one thing we know for certain, and it's something the white man will eventually have to face: our God is the same God. You might think you can possess Him, just like you're preparing to take all of our land. But you won't! He belongs to all people, and His grace is given equally to both the red man and the white man. This land means everything to Him. To desecrate it is the same as insulting its Creator. The white people will fade away; perhaps even sooner than the other tribes.

We can't wrap our heads around why the buffalo are being slaughtered, why the wild horses are being broken, why there's so much human scent lingering in the depths of the forest, or why the view of those green hills is being torn apart by barbed wire.

Where did the thickets go? They're gone.

And where is the eagle?

Gone.

So, what does it mean to say goodbye to the swift pony and the hunt?

It's the end of living and the beginning of just surviving.

When the last red man vanishes along with his wilderness, and his memory becomes nothing more than a passing cloud shadow over the prairie, will these shores and forests still remain? Will any spirit of my people linger here?

We love this land the way a newborn baby loves the beat of its mother's heart. So, if we sell our land to you, love it the way we loved it. Take care of it the way we took care of it. Hold onto the memory of what this land was when you first received it. Protect it for all the children, and love it as God loves us all.

As we part ways with this land, remember that you are also a part of it. This earth is dear and precious to us, and it should be just as precious to you. We know one thing for sure: there is only one God. No man, whether he is red or white, can ever truly be separated. We are brothers at the end of it all.

by Chief Seattle

Pocahontas (Neil Young)

The Aurora Borealis
That frozen night sky
but the firesticks and the wagons...
In a long and hurried flight
From the white man to the fields of green
And the homeland we've never seen

They killed us in our teepees
And they cut our women down
They might have left some babies
Cryin' on the ground
but the firesticks and the wagons...
And the night falls on the settin' sun

They massacred the buffalo
Kitty-corner from the bank
Taxis run across my feet
And my eyes have turned to blanks
In my little box at the top of the stairs
With my Indian rug and a pipe to share

I wish I was a trapper
I would give a thousand pelts
To sleep with Pocahontas
And find out how she felt
In the mornin' on the fields of green
In the homeland we've never seen

And maybe Marlon Brando
Will be there by the fire
We'll sit and talk about Hollywood
And the good things there for hire
Like the Astrodome and the first teepee
Marlon Brando, Pocahontas and me
Marlon Brando, Pocahontas and me

😢 😢 😢

(drug lame, sorry for jumping in, won't 👋 )

No PRBLM mr. Tufir...next time

The floor is open to everyone... especially for beautiful tracks like this one from Neil Young

🙂

It was back in the autumn of 1774. Out in the open fields near the Mississippi River, in what we now call Ohio, two men were walking together, deep in conversation—one a Native American, the other a white man.

The Native American was Chief Logan, leader of the Mingo people. The white man was General John Gibson, who had been sent by the Governor of Virginia, Lord Dunmore, to bring the tribal chief to peace negotiations.

When the two men reached the edge of the woods, they stopped. Chief Logan spoke his message to the General in his own tongue (since the General actually understood the language well enough to follow along):

He turned down the invitation to the peace talks, even while making it very clear how much he actually wanted peace.

General Gibson headed back to the settlement and delivered Logan's message to the Governor:

***

"I challenge any white man to say they ever entered Logan's cabin without being offered food; or that they came to him freezing and hungry without being offered clothing.

Throughout that last long, bloody war, Logan stayed right in his cabin—he was always an advocate for peace. I was so fond of the white settlers that my own people used to point at me as I passed by and say, 'Logan is a friend to the whites.'

I even thought about living among you—if it hadn't been for the injustice caused by one man.

Colonel Cresap ruthlessly slaughtered Logan's entire kin, showing no mercy even to my wife and children.

Not a single drop of Logan's blood flows anymore, nor does the blood of any living soul.

That is what drove me to vengeance; I sought it out, I killed many, and there has been plenty of revenge.

It brings me joy to see peace becoming likely for my land. But don't go thinking my joy comes from fear. Logan never felt fear. He doesn't just run away to save his skin.

Who else is going to mourn Logan?

No one."

Who else is actually going to mourn Logan?

Nobody."

As long as guys like Chief Logan are around, we have plenty of reasons to cry...

out of pure joy.

Once they're gone, then we'll finally have a reason to weep..

for ourselves.

I suppose the Great Manit is just gathering strength for whatever comes next.🙂

Hmm... so, Native Americans were "resisting civilization"? Someone please explain this logic to me: who actually bothered to ASK them what they thought? Even most Americans admit that the whole situation was a massive injustice toward Native Americans. It wasn't some grand cultural exchange; it was just a raw fight over territory. They weren't offered fair compensation or any way to coexist—they were just shoved off into these desolate wastelands where white settlers had zero financial interest. You really need to dig into some actual history regarding Native Americans. Honestly, you won't find many examples of white people acting with any sense of decency back then. Besides, if someone has lived on a piece of land for centuries and you suddenly decide to move in, the burden is on *you* to respect the rules of the game, not the other way around.

Or maybe the real kicker is this: since white settlers had all the firepower, Native Americans were basically forced to be more "tolerant"? 😎

Jacob Kim3 said:Hmm... so the idea is that Native Americans were just "resisting civilization"? Someone please correct me if I'm wrong here, but who exactly went out and ASKED them what they thought about it? Even most Americans admit that the whole thing was a massive injustice. At its core, it was just a brutal fight over land. They weren't offering these tribes fair compensation or a way to coexist; they were basically just shoving them out into the middle of nowhere—places where white settlers didn't have any financial skin in the game. Seriously, do a little reading on Native American history. You aren't going to find many examples of white settlers acting with any sense of decency. Besides, if someone has been living on a piece of land for centuries and you decide to move in next door, the burden is on *you* to respect the rules of the house, not the other way around.

Or maybe the real kicker is this: white settlers had the firepower, so the Native Americans were just expected to be more "tolerant" of being conquered? 😎

It’s not that it wasn't happening, but 😕

Jason Johnson4 said:Who else is actually going to mourn Logan?

Nobody."

The very ground soaked up Logan’s tears.
It’s still right there, and those tears haven't stopped stinging.
They sting us, too.
So, really, does it even matter if anyone shows up to weep for Logan?
The earth itself will do the mourning.

It’s honestly just hypocritical and hollow to sit around mourning some good man..

So, what's all this crying actually for?

Are we just trying to show everyone how soft we are?

?🙄

Is the goal to prove how much we supposedly care?

-by shedding a few tears?

ahh..

Cut out the circus act, because none of this does any actual good,

other than providing cheap entertainment for the masses..

If you want to honor him, then actually do something, even if it means putting yourself on the line for a good cause

but at least do something that carries some dignity

something meaningful for yourself

something done with real conviction, with strength, and with genuine heart..

now that would be

far better than these useless tears

and a whole lot more purposeful