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Colonialism and residential schools were pure evil and their harms persist to this day, but we can't just go around unleashing the colonizer's own medicine upon them because we can't become monsters while fighti-  https://twitter.com/WOLFSTRIKEZ/status/1345839357282967552  Queer Indigenous Feminist Stalinism is the light.
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Jan 3, 2021 23:02
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| # ? May 8, 2024 07:04 |
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staticman posted:Colonialism and residential schools were pure evil and their harms persist to this day, but we can't just go around unleashing the colonizer's own medicine upon them because we can't become monsters while fighti- 
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Jan 4, 2021 00:49
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progress 
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Jan 4, 2021 01:38
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staticman posted:Colonialism and residential schools were pure evil and their harms persist to this day, but we can't just go around unleashing the colonizer's own medicine upon them because we can't become monsters while fighti- please, as long as we aren't intentionally modelling them on the british boarding school system and letting the elite funnel their worst pedophiles to them we're going to do better just by default
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Jan 4, 2021 02:06
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When Violet Sage Walker stares out at the calm waters butting against the shoreline of her hometown, she sees what was once the largest northern village of the Chumash people, who fished from traditional canoes in the open water, viewed sea creatures as their ancestors and believed in a “Western Gate” farther south where their spirits went after they passed away. “All that is where we all lived,” Walker, one of the leaders of the Chumash tribe, said recently. That coastal California shoreline and the water it touches are at the center of a reclamation movement led by the Indigenous Chumash tribe to revive and restore its heritage, culture and land. There are about 10,200 people with some Chumash ancestry left, according to the U.S. Census. Their effort is part of a nationwide “land back” movement by Native Americans to reclaim sacred sites. The Biden administration has established national landmarks for native people and appointed the first Native American to a Cabinet secretary position in history, Interior Secretary Deb Haaland. Haaland, as well as other members of the Biden Cabinet, has spoken in favor of a Chumash marine sanctuary proposal. “We’re in a real period of cultural revitalization for native tribes across the country,” said Shannon Speed, director of the American Indian Studies Center at the University of California Los Angeles and a member of the Chickasaw nation. “It is a moment of change.” The Northern Chumash Tribal Council wants federal protection for 7,000 square miles of territory along 156 miles of central California coastline and stretching for miles into the Pacific Ocean. If approved by federal regulators, Chumash tribes would gain a unique leadership role over an expansive marine sanctuary, including the ability to block unwanted commercial development on the land and water within its bounds. The proposed sanctuary “gives us a platform to grow our culture and history in a safe place,” Walker said. “The more people know about us, the less stereotypes and less misconceptions they have about us — the more they learn about us.” The tribe’s biggest challenge may be the clock as it aims to get the hard-fought designation in place before the 2024 presidential election, when a new administration could take over and force them to restart their decades-long effort. A wind energy company is also pushing to install four floating wind turbines, which members of the Northern Chumash, one band of the tribe, oppose. “It’s a sacred site, it’s an absolute no,” said Walker, who objects to that project as well as others she says could harm marine life in the proposed sanctuary. Cierco Wind Energy, which is planning to build the turbines, says it supports the designation of the federal Chumash marine sanctuary, despite the criticism leveled by some tribal members. The state already has a rigorous environmental review to ensure the effort doesn’t cause significant ecological harm, said Mikael Jakobsson, chairman of Cierco Wind Energy. Not all of the tribe’s members oppose their wind turbines project, he added, pointing to the Santa Ynez band of the tribe, which confirmed to The Washington Post they do not oppose the project. The Chumash’s campaign for the federal designation dates back at least three generations as tribal members struggled to raise the money and political support needed for the huge endeavor. They also faced resistance from some local fisherman who expressed concerns that the sanctuary could harm their businesses, though the Pacific Coast Federation of Fishermen’s Associations now says it wishes the Chumash well in its endeavor and that the sanctuary’s effect on the fishermen’s business depends on how well it is managed. “It’s expensive to fight that kind of fight,” said Speed, the UCLA professor. “You need resources and you need lawyers and you need, generally, a team of folks to help wage a successful campaign to get that kind of thing done.” A breakthrough came in 2015 when the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration accepted their application. But during the Trump administration, the request sat idle for years, leaving tribal members in limbo. President Biden’s election gave the movement new hope. The tribe’s application, which had languished for five years, moved into the next bureaucratic phase — designation — and NOAA began outlining the terms of the potential sanctuary. Many tribal members rejoiced, but movement leaders say they remain cautious as the clock ticks closer to 2024. “We have done everything they have asked us to do plus more. We are running out of time,” Walker said. The Chumash’s effort to secure a federal marine sanctuary comes as many members are also attempting to reclaim other elements of their history. Before European colonists arrived in the 1700s, the Chumash were a tribe of more than 20,000 people whose territory stretched from Paso Robles to Malibu, with traditions and spirituality that revolved around the water. They fished using traditional plank canoes, called tomols, ate clams, mussels and abalone, and passed down their history and spiritual stories through song and dance. The tribe’s size started to dwindle after members were killed by diseases brought by European settlers and during grueling work building Spanish missions. More tribal members lost their lives in the 1850s after then-Governor of California Peter Burnett said of the state’s native people: “That a war of extermination will continue to be waged between the races until the Indian race becomes extinct must be expected.” Many native people in California began passing as Mexican American to avoid persecution, Chumash members say. The family of Slo’w Gutierrez, 76, a tribal chief, was among them. He discovered he was not Mexican American but Chumash when he was 19. His aunt shared the family secret, he said, and it changed his perspective on his identity. He learned his grandfather spoke Chumash but chose to speak only Spanish or English to his grandchildren, probably out of fear of the consequences of being identified as Indigenous, Gutierrez said. He changed his name to Slo’w, which means eagle in Chumash, and joined a group reviving the tribe’s traditional practice of building tomols and putting them out to sea. The canoes, among the oldest examples of watercraft made to traverse the ocean in North America, can be up to 30 feet long and are built from planks of wood, typically redwood trees, then sealed with a homemade glue or tar called “yop.” Gutierrez says he was one of the first to put a tomol in the water since the practice was ended 150 years ago. “My purpose in life right now is to teach all the young ones dancing and our songs,” said Gutierrez, who teaches Chumash traditions at local schools. “It’s going to be lost if nobody teaches it.” Outside a Mexican restaurant in Pismo Beach, Gutierrez and his family recently began to sing the Chumash song “Chechio,” which means “bear.” Alilkoy Cardenas Gutierrez, 15, his granddaughter, shook her to-go box of tortilla chips to create a beat. It’s Gutierrez’s favorite native song and also the name of his late brother. Alilkoy, whose name means “dolphin” in Chumash, has been performing traditional dances since she was nine months old, she said. She spends her weekends making crafts for her regalia, using feathers and shells and other natural elements meaningful to the Chumash. “The dances can carry stories of what has happened in the past, and it can also teach you about where you came from and what other things mean,” she said. Other members of the tribe are also working to revitalize Chumash traditions. In inland Santa Ynez, where the Chumash band — or faction of the tribe — is federally recognized, a $32 million cultural center is being built. To the southeast around Santa Barbara, a group of tomol makers — known as tomoleros — are teaching their craft at local schools as a growing number take group trips along the nearby Channel Islands for spiritual rituals. And the Northern Chumash awarded their first environmental student scholarship to a tribal member who is working on revitalizing the language, using Smithsonian archives to make Chumash languages more accessible. But the sanctuary represents the most ambitious effort yet to preserve the tribe’s history. In the rolling mountains and wine country of the central coast, Reggie Pagaling, a tribal elder in the Santa Ynez band, dusted off his handmade tomol in preparation for their annual spring trip around the Channel Islands. The marine sanctuary would mean “finally letting us have access to the whole picture of what we’re about, not just the land but the water itself, the ocean itself, the creatures above and below the water,” he said. “Having that opportunity to regain that and to take steps to revitalize that whole maritime caretaking and participation is invaluable.” When Fred Collins died in October 2021, his daughter placed his ashes on a tomol and pushed them into the ocean off Spooner’s Cove of Santa Barbara. He had spent years fighting for the sanctuary and attempting to persuade more tribe members to support the effort. Walker promised her father that she would continue this work and clocked more than 30,000 miles on her car last year making the rounds to the dinner tables of local politicians, other tribal members and local nonprofit leaders. To succeed, she says she needs to show federal regulators that the proposal had the support of the tribe’s members. “It took all hands on deck to convince our own people that the government wasn’t conspiring to take away our rights,” Walker said. The Office of Management and Budget and other agencies are reviewing and editing NOAA’s draft regulations detailing the proposed terms of the sanctuary. In the next couple of months, regulators will make the documents available for 60 days of public comments. But that wouldn’t be the end of the process. If approved, NOAA could take a year to incorporate the public’s suggestions, and Congress and California’s governor would also have a chance to weigh in. “This is just another step in the long journey that started … with the Chumash as the guardians of mother earth and grandmother ocean,” said P.J. Webb, tribal adviser for the Northern Chumash Tribal Council, who wrote the sanctuary’s application in 2015. If the proposal is ultimately approved, NOAA could begin bringing the sanctuary to life in the next couple of years. That would come with increased government resources for ecological research, public education and outreach, and operating a visitors’ center to teach the public about the importance of conserving ocean waters, said Paul Michel, regional policy coordinator for NOAA sanctuaries’ west coast region. NOAA is also looking for unique ways to incorporate the tribe into its efforts, he said, including having Chumash translations on sanctuary signage and including tribal history in educational programming. The significance of the proposed sanctuary would be told “through the eyes of the stewards of this coast for 10,000 years,” Michel said. “You put it in that perspective, and it gets people’s attention.” And that may not be the end, he said. The tribe’s work on the proposed sanctuary has sparked interest from other tribes seeking to protect the land that was once theirs.
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Jul 29, 2023 21:14
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staticman posted:Queer Indigenous Feminist Stalinism is the light.
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Jul 29, 2023 23:25
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Some Guy TT posted:When Violet Sage Walker stares out at the calm waters butting against the shoreline of her hometown, she sees what was once the largest northern village of the Chumash people, who fished from traditional canoes in the open water, viewed sea creatures as their ancestors and believed in a “Western Gate” farther south where their spirits went after they passed away. There have been several of these sorts of projects I have been reading about over the past few years in both US and Canada and I hope the grow given the early successes.
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Jul 30, 2023 03:19
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update: still no camping sites in this city
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Jul 30, 2023 03:56
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Native American tribes whom Gen. Anthony Wayne helped remove from Ohio more than 200 years now want to remove his name from the Southeast Ohio’s Wayne National Forest. The Forest Service on Monday formally proposed changing the name of the 244,000-acre forest in the Appalachian foothills to the Buckeye National Forest, “in response to requests from American Indian Tribes and local community members. ” A Forest Service press release said Wayne’s “complicated legacy includes leading a violent campaign against the Indigenous peoples of Ohio that resulted in their removal from their homelands,” and described the current forest name as “offensive because of this history of violence.” It said the tribes suggested the Buckeye National Forest name, since the buckeye is both Ohio’s state tree and the state’s nickname. Other names floated for the forest include ”Ohio National Forest” and “Koteewa National Forest.” U.S. Sen. JD Vance on Thursday asked top Forest Service and U.S. Department of Agriculture officials to oppose the change. In a letter to Agriculture Sec. Tom Vilsack and Forest Service Chief Randy Moore, Vance said the name change would denigrate Ohio history and represent “a lack of fidelity to our nation’s founding generation.” Vance said calling Wayne’s legacy “complicated” is an “all-too-common dismissive, academic handwave that is beneath the dignity of the United States government. “This sterile summarization is part of a wider federal trend that is replacing real people with abstract things and real histories with vapid anecdotes,” Vance continued. “Wayne heroically served our nation in a time when its continued existence was not a foregone conclusion. He fought wars and won peace for our government, the government you now serve, and hewed Ohio out of rugged wilderness and occupied enemy territory. Just as the United States would not exist without George Washington, Ohio would not exist without Anthony Wayne.” Wayne served as a general in the Revolutionary War and participated in the Constitutional Convention. His nickname was “Mad Anthony Wayne” either because of his bold military tactics, or his hot temper and penchant for “off-color language.” He was appointed Commander-in-Chief of the United States Army by President George Washington and dispatched to subdue tribes who lived in Ohio. According to Encyclopedia Britanica, Wayne ended Indian resistance when his seasoned force of 1,000 men routed the 2,000 warriors gathered for a final confrontation near Fort Miami on the Maumee River. His victory led to the 1795 treaty of Greenville, which ceded much of Ohio and parts of Indiana, Illinois and Michigan to the United States. It was signed by the Chippewa, Delaware, Eel River, Kaskaskia, Kickapoo, Miami, Ottawa, Piankishaw, Potawatomi, Shawnee, Wea, and Wyandot Tribes, the Forest Service says. Many of the displaced tribes now live in Oklahoma, says Wayne National Forest Supervisor Lee Stewart. Stewart says the name change is being proposed to “listen to” and “better serve” the Tribal Nations and community members who objected to its old name. He said renaming it for the buckeye would embrace its identity “as Ohio’s only national forest and the welcoming, inclusive nature of the people of Ohio.” Forest Service representatives said the Ohio name change was guided by a 2021 order from Interior Secretary Deb Haaland which created a Federal Advisory Committee to address derogatory and offensive geographic names. In 2022, they began discussing the issue with federally recognized American Indian Tribes with ancestral ties to Ohio. During those meetings, the tribes sought a name change for Wayne National Forest. Representatives of the Absentee-Shawnee Tribe of Indians of Oklahoma, Shawnee Tribe, Delaware Nation, Forest County Potawatomi, Miami Tribe of Oklahoma, Fond du Lac Band of Lake Superior Chippewa, Pokagon Band of Potawatomi Indians, Peoria Tribe of Indians of Oklahoma, and Osage Nation actively participated in the name change discussion, Forest Service representatives said. “This has been a discussion that has been ongoing for some time now with a whole contingency of different tribes that are no longer in Ohio,” added Devon Frazier, of the Absentee-Shawnee Tribe of Indians of Oklahoma. She noted that the part of Ohio where the forest is located was the historic home for indigenous people for eons before Wayne arrived on the scene, and said she’s “very pleased” with the suggestion that it be renamed for the buckeye, which tribes used for purposes including food, medicine and adornments. “The word buckeye itself was important, as it reflects things important to Ohio today and connects to the past of the indigenous people who were removed,” said Frazier. The Forest Service is asking interested members of the public to share their thoughts on the name change by submitting comments to the r9_wayne_website@usda.gov email address over the next two weeks. After reviewing public input, the Forest Service will make a recommendation to Agriculture Secretary Tom Vilsack, who has authority to change the name. Stewart estimates changing the park’s name would cost around $400,000, mostly to replace signs. He predicts the transition would take less than a year. He declined to describe the nature of formal comments he’s received so far for fear of influencing results, but said there’s been “good public discourse.” Comments on the proposal posted on the park’s Facebook page ranged from questions about the cost of the change, to criticism of the idea as “political correctness run amuck,” to support because “Wayne did some messed up stuff to the natives.” Vance’s letter said the name change drive made him think “the USDA possesses such a low opinion of Ohioans that you believe us incapable of appreciating the complexities of American history,” and said he found it odd that Wayne’s name was regarded as “offensive because of this history of violence.” “I submit to you that our nation was born in war and there would be little left of American history if we censored out all instances of violence,” Vance continued. “You say that you sought input from the American Indian Tribes. I suggest that you give due weight to the comments of Ohioans who live near Wayne National Forest or share an affection for General Wayne that comes with being his beneficiaries.” He asked Vilsack and Moore to “reverse this misguided decision to rename Wayne National Forest. “It would greatly benefit Ohioans, and all Americans, if our government could be counted on to defend our Founding Fathers instead of capitulating to politically motivated renaming efforts,” Vance concluded. “Until such courage can be found, I humbly recommend that the federal government disband all renaming committees.” It is not the first time that native tribes have objected to honoring Wayne. In 2019, members of the Miami Tribe of Oklahoma told the Fort Wayne, Indiana, city council they were upset about a resolution it approved that designated an “Anthony Wayne Day” in the city named for the general, according to a report from wane.com. Diane Hunter, the tribe’s historic preservation officer, told the council the resolution it passed to honor Wayne incorrectly said “Wayne was merciful as he killed our people in order to take our land and that we were not merciful to invading armies.” She described that as “a skewed and offensive perspective.” In addition to popping up from time to time in controversies over his treatment of Native Americans, Wayne’s ghost is rumored to haunt an almost 400-mile Pennsylvania stretch of U.S. Route 322 because parts of his body were allegedly lost there when his corpse was moved from the site of his death, near Erie, Pennsylvania, for reburial closer to the family home in Pennsylvania’s Chester County. Pennlive.com reports that Wayne’s ghost has also been spotted in areas such as U.S. Route 1, close to the Revolutionary War’s Brandywine battlefield, and at Fort Ticonderoga, lounging in a chair by the fireplace, smoking a pipe.
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Aug 24, 2023 20:52
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Despite being a Pennsylvanian, Anthony Wayne moved to George to run a slave plantation.
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Aug 24, 2023 23:30
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| # ? May 8, 2024 07:04 |
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On June 2, the U.S. Department of the Interior blocked oil and gas leasing for the next twenty years within a ten-mile radius of Chaco Canyon — the site of a Puebloan civilization in now-northern New Mexico dating back over a millennium. Despite some support from people within the Pueblo tribes and Navajo Nation which surround the land, the vast majority of Navajo leaders have opposed these drilling restrictions. It’s essential that climate advocates hear them out. Between high-profile cases of extractive industries seizing and polluting Indigenous land and the fact that climate change exacerbates the many environmental and economic challenges facing Indigenous communities, the climate movement routinely finds common ground with Indigenous people. But recently, the two groups have found themselves at odds. The Yurok tribe recently succeeded in an effort to have four hydroelectric dams removed from the Klamath River in Northern California, where renewable energy production was disrupting salmon runs. A majority of Alaska Native communities supported the now-approved Willow drilling project in Alaska despite the project’s significant carbon emissions, harm to wildlife, and a viral TikTok movement that spurred a #StopWillow petition with 5.1 million signatures. This conflict over Chaco Canyon drilling could drive yet another wedge between climate zealots and Indigenous people. Collaboration with these tribes is vital to the climate movement — Indigenous communities have centuries of knowledge regarding environmental stewardship, and often view nature as sacred. Their leadership can help ensure the most sensible and effective climate solutions get implemented. If climate advocates want Indigenous support, we have to listen, build trust, and support their goals too. Navajos are no stranger to climate change. The American Southwest is experiencing its worst drought in 1,200 years, and peer-reviewed research in Science found human-caused climate change accounted for 47% of 2000-2018 drought severity. Navajos have been hit especially hard — Navajos use 8-10 gallons of water per day (about a tenth of the average American), and 30% of Navajos have no running water. So when they express opposition to a drilling ban on their land, we can trust they’ve weighed the pros and cons. Within the Navajo Nation, 35.8% of households have incomes below the federal poverty threshold, and about 10% live without electricity. The Chaco Canyon drilling ban would strip an energy source from the Navajo Nation, and could cost Navajos an estimated $194 million over the next two decades. Knowing these challenges, there could be opportunities for dialogue. Navajo land has an abundance of solar, wind, and geothermal resources. Rather than banning an energy source, the U.S. could prioritize offering technical or financial support for projects that allow Navajos to capitalize on clean energy, generate needed electricity, and even export to major cities to earn revenue. In 2020, 62% of newly installed renewables for power generation were cheaper than the cheapest fossil fuel alternative, so economically, clean energy might offer a win-win. But if Navajo leaders are committed to drilling in Chaco Canyon, climate advocates ultimately shouldn’t dwell on it. While individual projects are important to debate, the big picture is far more important. No Indigenous community’s primary goal is fossil fuel extraction or hydroelectric dam quashing. Most communities’ key political mission is full nationhood and self-determination. In fact, it is written into Navajo law that the “ultimate goal of the Navajo Nation is self-determination.” In addition to its moral and practical advantages, respecting Indigenous communities’ autonomy brings significant climate benefits. A 2019 Intergovernmental Science-Policy Platform on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services report found that while environmental decline is accelerating in many Indigenous communities, it has been “less severe” than in other parts of the world. Indigenous people steward about one fifth of the world’s tropical and subtropical forests, which sequester carbon and mitigate global temperature rise. Colonization, on the other hand, drove land use changes that worsened climate change. In 1840, European colonizers started confiscating land from the Māori tribes in New Zealand to chop down their forests for timber, leading present-day New Zealand to have at least 60% fewer forests than before. In the late 1800s, French colonizers in North and West Africa banned locals from practicing subsistence farming, requiring them to chop down their forests for cotton plantations and other crops. Concurrently, British colonizers cut down most wildfire-resistant oak and deodar forests in India and replaced them with large-scale pine plantations for resin. Now, these dry pine needles are responsible for wildfires every summer. And in the early 1900s, American colonizers brought nonnative drought-resistant grasses to Maui for livestock feed. These grasses spread across the island and exacerbated this month’s fires which were the deadliest in modern U.S. history. Land use change, principally deforestation, contributes 12-20% of global greenhouse gas emissions. If Indigenous self-determination could right some of these ecological wrongs, we shouldn’t resist that. Smartly, climate leaders are now looking to Indigenous communities for guidance, welcoming more than 300 members of the Indigenous Peoples Caucus to last year’s UN Climate Change Conference in Egypt. That collaboration only works if climate leaders listen to challenges facing Indigenous communities too. If the climate movement only spotlights Indigenous perspectives when it’s convenient, that defeats the purpose of listening to them in the first place. Climate advocates should absolutely voice concerns over projects and seek win-win solutions, but strong-arming Indigenous communities in the name of climate action is a different story. Big picture, the climate movement is best served by embracing Indigenous peoples’ land management knowledge and supporting their efforts for self-determination.
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Sep 2, 2023 02:51
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